Rocky gasped for air, his chest heaving, pulse still wild. Sweat dripped down his temples, and his body hummed with the fading remnants of his stone affinity. But when his eyes landed on Riven's collapsed form on the ground, the fury in his face cracked into shock.
That look.
Riven's eyes were still open, staring straight at him, sharp and defiant, as if refusing to yield.
But his body didn't move.
Rocky clenched his jaw and rushed over, torn between anger and panic. He crouched beside Riven, studying his face closely. No reaction. No blink. No twitch of the fingers.
"What the…"
He pressed two fingers against Riven's neck. A pulse—faint, but steady.
"H-Hey… Riven!"
He waved a hand in front of Riven's eyes, but the man didn't flinch. Those eyes stayed fixed, empty, like a statue molded from pure stubbornness, one that refused to fall even after consciousness had left.
A chill ran up Rocky's spine.
Not fear. Not entirely. Something like… respect.
Riven—the servant he'd mocked—had fainted with his eyes open, because even in collapse, his will refused to surrender.
Rocky checked his body. Bruises covered his chest and abdomen, and when Rocky pressed lightly along his ribs, he felt the unnatural give of two, maybe three, fractures.
He scooped Riven up, trying to steady his breathing even as unease gnawed at him.
He knew the cost.
Hurting a servant, especially this badly, was a serious offense. Lord Ethan Rathsture would lose his mind over it.
And there was no excuse to hide behind. Witnesses had seen him challenge Riven first.
'I only wanted to provoke him for mocking me… and because I wanted to see his sword. I didn't think he'd push me this far. I didn't mean to use my power—'
He quickened his pace, darting through the quiet garden corridors of the Rathsture estate. But just as he turned the corner toward the main hall...
He froze.
At the end of the path, bathed in the amber glow of dusk, stood a woman.
Her presence alone shifted the air—colder, heavier—not because of magic, but because her existence itself felt like a blade at the throat.
Her hair was crimson, long and flowing like a curtain of fire. Her eyes, a deep shade of blood, were merciless and calm, the gaze of something beyond human. She didn't speak, yet the world seemed to hush for her.
Rocky swallowed hard. His breath caught. His arms trembled around Riven's limp body.
The woman stepped forward slowly, every movement deliberate and suffocating. Her gaze fell on Riven… then on him.
Rocky didn't know her. But his instincts screamed, this was no ordinary woman.
When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet and smooth, each word laced with something venomous.
"…Give him to me."
Not a request. A command.
Rocky flinched. His body acted before his mind could think. Gently, he handed Riven over. The woman—Ashtoria—received him with impossible tenderness, a contrast to the deathly chill radiating from her being.
She didn't leave right away.
Her crimson eyes stayed fixed on Rocky.
"What… did you do to him?"
Rocky couldn't answer. His tongue felt dead.
"Did you touch him?" she asked again, stepping closer. "Did you hurt him? Did your filthy hands touch what's mine?"
Her aura thickened—cold, suffocating, like the void itself closing in. The air turned heavy and sharp, almost liquid with dread.
Rocky stumbled back, then dropped to his knees. His hands shook. His legs refused to move.
"I-I didn't mean—"
"Silence."
The word wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. The calm in it was worse than a scream.
Rocky's jaw clenched. His body began to tremble uncontrollably. His vision blurred under raw, unfiltered terror.
"I'm sorry… I didn't know who he was…"
He bowed until his forehead touched the cold stone path, prostrating like a slave before a god of death.
But Ashtoria wasn't done.
She stood before him, lifted one foot, and pressed it down on his head.
CRACK.
His skull hit the ground with a sickening thud. His ears rang. The world tilted.
And still, she pressed harder.
That elegant black heel ground his head deeper into the stone until the skin split and blood dripped down his face.
"You touched him."
Bones strained.
"You hurt him."
Blood pooled under his cheek.
"You held him while he was unconscious."
And then—
CRACK.
A final, gruesome sound. Silence followed. The garden stilled again.
Ashtoria exhaled softly, gazing down at Riven in her arms. Her fingers brushed his cheek with surprising gentleness, so different from the cruelty that had just unfolded.
She turned and began walking away, carrying Riven as if he weighed nothing. Her crimson hair rippled behind her, glowing faintly under the dying light. Her face was calm now, but her eyes burned with fury yet to fade.
At the far end of the garden, several servants froze in horror. Their gazes darted between Rocky's lifeless body and the woman who had crushed his skull without a flicker of emotion.
One servant dropped a flower vase.
CRASH.
Ashtoria stopped.
Her head turned toward them slowly, her icy stare sweeping over their trembling forms like a winter wind that stripped everything bare.
No one dared breathe. No one dared speak.
She said nothing. Only watched.
Long enough for them to feel that their lives hung by a thread.
Then she walked on.
No one followed.
No one would ever dare.
.
.
.
Earlier that evening, before finding Riven in that state, Ashtoria had been walking alone through the quiet east corridors of the Rathsture castle. Her heels clicked softly against the marble floor, the sound calm and rhythmic.
But behind her composed face, her thoughts were tangled around one thing.
Riven.
He was hers now. He slept beside her, she held him every night, kept him warm. She had him completely, yet something still felt… missing.
Riven didn't love her. Not completely.
Sometimes he turned his face away when she stared too long. Sometimes he answered her softly, but without devotion. He didn't resist. He didn't flee. But he didn't worship either.
Ashtoria frowned slightly. She wanted his love—utter, absolute. She wanted him to look at her as though she were his entire world.
Then she heard voices behind a garden pillar. Servants chatting as they watered the flowers.
"Lady Daphne is truly remarkable… she actually made Lord Ethan fall so deeply in love."
"I know! He used to be so cold, never showed interest in any woman. But after meeting her, everything changed. They're even married now. He can't live without her."
"And it's all because Lady Daphne pursued him first! She went to him again and again, even when he rejected her…"
Ashtoria stopped. Her head tilted slightly. Her eyes narrowed.
"…Daphne?"
Her fingers brushed her chin as if deep in thought. Slowly, a soft smile bloomed across her face—delicate, gentle… and deeply wrong underneath.