The sound of Lillian's footsteps echoed quietly through the darkened corridor. It had been a week since her last night shift. Normally, these nights consisted of slow patrols through the wards, checking on admitted patients… and battling exhaustion more than anything else.
Tonight, however, she had company.
Claudia Ashley sat waiting for her in the small break room. Lillian wasn't surprised; in fact, she had expected this sooner or later. She set a cup of herbal tea in front of the other girl and took her seat across from her.
"So," Lillian asked, "are you finally ready to talk?"
Claudia straightened in her chair. Her expression was still the emotionless porcelain-doll mask she always wore, but Lillian thought she saw something flicker deep in those lapis lazuli eyes—a dark emotion, not quite malice, but close.
"I don't hate you exactly," Claudia said dully. "...Though I don't like you either."
"I feel the same," Lillian replied with a nod. "So why have you been following me around all week?"
She already had a guess, but she waited. As she lifted her cup, Claudia leaned forward wordlessly, sliding closer with unsettling fluidity until she was staring at Lillian from barely a hand's breadth away.
"…At first, I disliked you because you've bewitched my fiancé."
"...Your fiancé? Lord Maywood?" Lillian blinked. She had absolutely no idea how Claudia had reached that conclusion.
Claudia continued tonelessly, "When rumors spread about you dancing with my brother and the prince, I knew Neil was there too. I can't tolerate that. I've barely danced with him myself."
"Um… you do realize those rumors were false. Lord Maywood and I were simply helping Glenn—"
"Yes, I know that now," Claudia cut in. "But there are other reasons I don't like you."
"Is it because I've established myself as a medical professional—something you aspire to be?"
At that, Claudia's expression darkened. The truth was simple: Claudia wanted to become a doctor. But medicine was a male-dominated field, and female doctors were rare. Apothecaries were common; surgeons and physicians were not.
"Does your family oppose your dream, Lady Claudia?" Lillian asked quietly. "From what I've observed, Lord Ashley doesn't seem like the type to object because of your gender."
"Of course not. That fool would be the first to cheer me on whenever I felt like giving up," Claudia muttered. After a pause, she added, "However… After watching you, I realized something. I'm not someone qualified to be a doctor."
Lillian stared at her, taken aback. Claudia's lapis eyes fixed on her again.
"I don't notice people the way you do," Claudia murmured. "I don't just look at someone and know what's wrong or how something happened. What you did earlier—it proved that."
"How utterly foolish," Lillian said flatly, cutting off her spiral before it could gain momentum. "Do you think I was born with the ability to diagnose a patient? Absolutely not. I spent countless hours studying. I went through a rigid training program to earn my license. Then I survived years of residency."
Claudia's expression didn't change much, but something in the atmosphere shifted. Her gloomy, listless aura disappeared as if blown out like a candle.
"I may be the same age as you," Lillian continued, "but that doesn't mean I have the same experience. You don't become skilled just by reading a book or wishing for it."
Claudia wanted to say something, but at that very moment, the door to the infirmary burst open. A girl rushed in, her ponytail swaying behind her—it was Casey.
"Lillian!" she exclaimed. "I heard it's your night shift today! Are you a..."
She stopped and stared at Claudia. She was silent for a moment, then looked perplexed. "Hey, er, what's going on here?"
"...It should be plain to see. I am about to regale you with the story of how Neil's and my romance began."
"Hold on. Sorry, I'm afraid it's still not clear to me," said Casey, astonished.
Lillian offered her a pained grin.
Claudia left the infirmary early, her instincts sharp enough to catch the faint stiffness in Casey's posture. Something unspoken hung in the air around her—something private, something cold. Lillian saw it too, but she didn't comment. Instead, she walked Claudia back to the dormitory with practiced gentleness, waited for her to disappear inside, and then, feeling a strange heaviness in her chest, returned to the infirmary.
She opened the door. Casey was sitting too neatly at her desk. Like a doll posed with intention, not comfort. And the papers Lillian had organized earlier were rearranged—disturbed by hands that had been searching, not tidying.
A faint prickle ran along Lillian's spine.
"Sorry to keep you waiting," she said, masking that feeling beneath calm politeness.
Casey's smile wavered. Too tight. Too bright. "No problem. I reheated your tea. Drink some."
Lillian took the cup but didn't raise it. Something in Casey's eyes—some mixture of desperation and determination—made her stomach turn.
"Casey," she said softly, "what's wrong?"
The smile cracked.
"Haha… I should be the one asking you that."
The laugh died, leaving behind a stillness so deep that even the air seemed to recoil.
Then Casey suddenly pushed her onto the sofa.
Lillian's breath caught—not from fear, but from pure shock. Then something cold and bitter flooded her mouth. It burned like acid, metallic and violent. Her throat convulsed and swallowed before she could stop it.
Heat exploded inside her chest, racing through her veins.
"...Instantaneous. Just like they claimed."
Casey's voice rang out, eerily cheerful in the dim light. She held a small bottle of viscous green liquid between her fingers.
Lillian's mind raced even as her limbs grew heavy.She wasn't afraid of dying—but she was furious she had let her guard drop this far.
Casey crouched over her. Her voice, once harmlessly friendly, now trembled with years of pent-up resentment.
"Lillian, did you know? I've always despised you. You float through life acting pure and perfect, never dirtying your hands. People adore you so easily. It makes me sick."
She lifted a small knife from behind her neck, where she'd hidden it.
"What you swallowed will paralyze you, then wipe your memory," Casey whispered, her smile fraying at the edges. "So be honest with me. The precious girl favored by that filthy second prince… tell me everything you know."
As the heat curled through Lillian's muscles, she watched Casey lean closer with the hunger of someone who'd finally gotten a chance to take back control over a world that had wronged her.
And Lillian understood.
Casey wasn't simply hateful.She was cornered.Desperate.Terrified.
Someone who had lost too much and had nowhere else to place the blame.
Lillian almost pitied her.
Almost.
And then Casey made a mistake.
Pain shot through Casey's arm—too much tension, too much force—and she faltered for a fraction of a second.
A fraction was enough.
Lillian twisted sharply, freed a leg, and kicked Casey hard in the stomach.
The girl toppled backward, shock widening her eyes. The knife slipped, grazing her neck. Blood dripped down in a thin red line.
Lillian sat up slowly, letting the paralysis burn fade beneath sheer willpower.
There was a strange calm inside her now—not Lillian's gentle warmth, but something colder. Older. The part of her that carried the Islar name like a blade.
She reached out and caught the drop of Casey's blood between her fingers.
Casey froze.
Lillian brought the red smear to Casey's lips, brushing it there as lightly as applying makeup.
Casey trembled violently. She wasn't afraid of pain—she was afraid of the emotionless serenity on Lillian's face.
And Lillian smiled—soft, melodic, almost affectionate.
"Fufu… did you think I didn't notice?" she whispered. "Your hatred was obvious. And yet… I still liked you."
Casey's breath stopped.
Lillian leaned closer, her voice dipping into a whisper that seared.
"After all… I know exactly who you are, dear daughter of Count Bright."
Shock—raw and jagged—ripped through Casey.
The emerald eyes gazing down at her didn't belong to the frivolous girl she'd mocked. She was staring at someone else entirely. Her potion hadn't worked. Her one weapon—her one chance—had failed.
Fear choked her, but pride still held her jaw clenched.
When Lillian retrieved a gleaming brooch from her coat pocket and held it up, Casey felt her heart drop.
"Is this what you were digging for?"
Casey's voice was hoarse. "…You're a spy for the Duke of Crockford."
Lillian laughed—not kindly. "No. And if you think that I am lying, you're even more foolish than I thought."
Casey flinched.
Lillian's tone turned analytical, her gaze slicing like a scalpel as she listed Casey's mistakes one by one—the staring, the forced proximity, the tea sabotage.
Every word pulled another layer off Casey's defenses.
Casey laughed hollowly. "So you knew. Fine. I wanted to be empress. If making you think I was your friend helped me get closer to the prince, then—"
"Enough," Lillian cut in. "You would never have used a Spiralflame for that."
The truth serum may not have worked, but Lillian's words did. Casey's breath hitched.
"...How do you know that…?"
"I saw you," Lillian said quietly. "You miscalculated. And you nearly killed innocent people for nothing."
Casey's face twisted—not in guilt, but in grief.
"I can't let Crockford's puppet become emperor," she whispered, voice cracking. "If he does… he'll drag us into war with Landor. And everything I've ever known will burn."
Her words spilled out—years of frustration, loss, and helplessness. Dragons tearing villages apart. Nobles who didn't care. A kingdom that never came to their aid. Landor's illegal knights who saved them when their own homeland didn't.
Her voice shook with an emotion Lillian understood perfectly:
Betrayal.Fear.Powerlessness.
For the first time, Casey wasn't angry. She wasn't scheming.She was simply a girl who had been scared for too long.
When she finished, Lillian's eyes were unreadable.
Then Lillian's hand closed around her neck—not to kill, but to force her to face the truth.
"You suffered," Lillian said softly, "but your family allowed it."
Casey's eyes widened in confused hurt.
"You failed to seek alliances. Failed to build protection. Failed to act as nobles should. You let yourselves be isolated. That is why you broke."
Tears pricked Casey's eyes, soaking into her lashes.
"You cannot blame the country," Lillian whispered. "Not when you abandoned it first."
She let go.
And then, with a slow, dangerous smile:
"One more thing. The Islar family has first claim on Crockford. Don't interfere."
The name hit Casey like a hammer.
"Islar—? The great house Islar!?"
At last, Lillian removed her glasses and let her dark hair fall free—unrestrained, aristocratic, powerful.
"Pardon the late introduction," she said with a perfect noblewoman's poise. "I am Lillian A. de Islar, daughter of the Duke of Turin. Countess of Magic."
Casey's breath caught. "The Silent Witch…?"
"The very same."
"Why would someone like you—"
"I'm a pawn," Lillian said lightly. "My employer is a monstrous man I'd kill if I could—but he's clever enough to make use of me."
Then she extended her hand.
"Casey Grive, will you work with me?"
Casey stared.
Lillian—this terrifying, brilliant, unpredictable woman—was offering her a place. A purpose. A path forward that wasn't built on resentment and fear.
Casey's voice wavered. "I might use you for my own goals."
"Go ahead," Lillian said. "If you succeed, that is my failure."
Casey laughed weakly through the remnants of tears. "…Then I'll help. Even if only in small ways."
Their hands met.
A new alliance was forged—born from blood, grudges, and mutual survival.
Lillian blinked, then abruptly switched back to her airy tone."Oh no! You're hurt, Casey! Let me patch you up!"
Casey snorted. "Y-yes… 'Thank you, Lillian.'"
They both laughed—exhausted, bruised, but alive.
And the next morning, Lana sulked when she saw them together, assuming they'd bonded during a harmless girls' sleepover.
If only she knew.