Chapter 2
A deep darkness had settled over the Duchy of Leshanin.
In the heart of that all-consuming shadow, even swallowing sound itself, tiny flickers of light moved.
It was at that precise moment that a faint rustle cut through the stillness.
“Hurry!”
With that command, voices emerged from the middle of the lights, and as if on cue, everyone disappeared into the underground chambers.
Time passed—how long, no one could say.
After cautiously surveying the surroundings several times, the owner of the faint presence finally revealed herself.
A girl with crimson hair and pale pink eyes.
“Strange… I could have sworn someone else was here besides me…”
She muttered to herself before sprinting toward the main hall of the mansion, her urgency suggesting that whatever she sought was far more pressing than the other presence she had sensed.
Trailing behind her, a shadow several spans taller rippled in the moonlight.
“What on earth are you thinking…?”
The shadow exhaled a breath that was somewhere between a lament and a bitter chuckle, pressing a hand to its head.
And so, the day known only as that day crept closer to the Leshanin estate.
The unexpected arrival of an uninvited guest was surprising, yes, but not entirely unforeseen.
“…Miss, Miss.”
A voice whispered nearby, barely audible, calling out to Medea.
“Miss, wake up.”
The owner of the now-closer voice gently shook her. Slowly, Medea’s tightly shut eyelids lifted, revealing eyes of violet, like the night sky itself, meeting those who roused her.
“Miss.”
“Meryl.”
The one who had awakened her was Meryl, Medea’s personal maid. Despite the hushed tone, her face glistened with sweat, suggesting she had hurried here with urgency.
“What is it?”
Even though she had an inkling of what it might be, Medea asked, silently hoping it wasn’t that. Hoping it would simply be an unusual event on an otherwise ordinary day.
“…It has started again.”
But it was inevitable. That was practically an annual occurrence in the Duchy of Leshanin. A secret, cruel ritual that would not end until her father, Duke Alec Leshanin, was dead—or perhaps until he renounced the burning desires that drove him. Desire, after all, was the purpose of his existence.
“And father?”
“He is still out. The butler said he should return around dawn.”
Meryl’s face betrayed the weight of what she spoke, each word dripping with the grim image of what Medea was about to witness.
“And this time?”
“Apparently, there were many failures last time, so there are more of them than before.”
A faint, bitter smile tugged at Medea’s lips.
This was a duel, though the primary participant remained unaware. The duel took place in secret: those who were sacrificed for her father’s desires, and herself, spirited away to safety.
How much she had disrupted her father’s schemes was impossible to measure, but this was the only thing she could do since learning of her father’s vile ambitions. Whether it atoned for the suffering of the countless souls who had passed through this mansion was another question entirely.
“Let’s go.”
Medea draped a shawl around her shoulders and turned to Meryl. The destination was the underground prison, where another confrontation between father and daughter was about to begin.
A secret passage opened at the far wall of the first floor.
Descending the endless stairs of the passage, the scent of mildew grew stronger until the sealed entrance to the underground prison appeared.
Few within the Duchy, even including the Duke, knew of this place. There, light existed only in the dim flicker of scattered candles.
“Who’s there?!”
As the prison doors opened, a voice brimming with arrogance echoed from the far end.
“Have I come somewhere I shouldn’t? My father is the master of this place.”
Medea’s calm, even-toned reply carried no emotion, yet the air itself seemed to freeze.
“Ah… Miss. I thought it was one of my subordinates.”
The approaching steps of Mosquis from the far side were slow, deliberate, and almost mocking, his smile twisted in a way that blurred the line between condescension and ridicule.
“Welcome, Miss.”
But before Mosquis, it was Gabizas—standing nearer the entrance—who spoke first. He sneered at Mosquis before inclining his head to Medea, his eyes lingering on the girl behind her: Meryl.
Meryl’s pink eyes glinted sharply in the tense atmosphere, though she said nothing aloud. Gabizas’ grin faltered just as he was about to speak.
“And what brings you here?”
“—Hah!”
In a blur, Mosquis had kicked Gabizas in the stomach, sending him sprawling to the damp floor of the prison before he could even react.
“You brat!”
Mosquis, restraining Gabizas with one hand, turned his attention back to Medea.
“What is your purpose in coming here, Miss?”
The emphasis on Miss was not lost on Medea. Despite serving as her father’s menial subordinate, Mosquis openly displayed hostility toward her.
Was it due to the humiliation her father had suffered at her hands? Or the confidence that her father would not punish her for confronting Mosquis? Perhaps it was both.
“I’ve come to take the child who will serve me.”
“You could do that while the Duke is here.”
“My father loves me. I am the only daughter of the Leshanin house. So does it really matter if I take a few children here?”
“It wouldn’t be a problem, but the Duke’s permission is required.”
“Well, you can get that permission yourself.”
Unlike the calm Medea, Mosquis’ tone dripped with mockery. It was as if he were claiming the Duke’s absence as his own dominion, clinging to her every word.
“Do you think you speak on behalf of my father? There is no reason you should grant me permission.”
Medea stepped closer.
“Or are you attempting to seize the Duke’s position?”
In an instant, Mosquis realized the shift. Medea’s violet eyes, capable of piercing even his intentions, locked on him, bringing the arrogant man to a faltering halt.
“N-no… I am your father’s loyal servant,” he stammered, though he had certainly fantasized about replacing Alec Leshanin beneath him.
“Then you must obey me, his daughter, rather than climbing over me,” Medea said firmly.
“I have never climbed over you, Miss. I am, without doubt, the most loyal here.”
The theatrical insolence of his earlier tone vanished. Onlookers sneered audibly, and Mosquis forced himself to speak louder.
“Save your loyalty for when your father is here. Show me the child who will serve me.”
“Of course.”
His performance was done.
“What about this one? She seems clever.”
“Another.”
“And this one? She is big for her age, strong…”
“Another.”
Time and again, his suggestions were cut down—until he finally quivered.
“I’ll take this one.”
“…What?”
Mosquis blinked at the diminutive child before him. Her gaze remained fixed on the ground, and she looked fragile in every way.
“I’ll take this one,” Medea repeated, her resolve unshaken.
Miss, that child has sky-blue hair and an unusual eye color. We must take her before the Duke learns of it, Meryl had said before they descended to the prison.
Though her hair partially covered her eyes, it was unmistakable: in this place, the blue-haired girl was unique.
“Yes. Understood. Tommy! Bring the child out here!”
Mosquis reluctantly signaled to Tommy, who shuffled forward like a fragile leaf in the wind.
A thud echoed from behind Medea.
“Miss!”
Meryl, who had been holding her tongue while Mosquis attempted his usual insolence, called out in alarm.
“What is the commotion?” Mosquis muttered, approaching lazily.
The child in the opposite cell had collapsed, hitting her head on the bars. She lay unconscious, limp on the floor.
“Tommy, get her out first.”
Without complaint, Tommy opened the prison door and moved to carry the child.
“And what will happen to her?”
Medea, usually indifferent, asked this quietly, stirred by the faint, shallow breaths of the unconscious girl.
“What will happen? She will meet someone who knows her. She is the first subject of the experiment. Surely it will be for her own good.”
