Mer woke to sunlight cutting across the empty side of the bed.

The space where Cecil had been still held the faint imprint of his body, a trace of warmth that was already fading. She reached for it, fingertips brushing cold sheets, and slowly sat up.

The silence was vast.

The Lance estate stretched endlessly around her, its halls echoing with distant footsteps and the muted hum of magic woven into its bones. She stepped into the corridor barefoot, unsure of which direction to take. Every hallway looked the same—marble and shadow, statues and closed doors.

Eventually, she crossed paths with a tall butler in crisp uniform.

“Please show me where your master is,” she asked, politely.

“Certainly, madam. Please follow me.”

---

Cecil was hunched over paperwork in his office, his long fingers steepled under his chin. He looked up as the door opened, surprised. And then unsettled.

“Mer…”

“Sorry. Are you busy?” she asked, voice soft but steady.

“N-no. Is there something you need?” He didn’t rise, but his posture stiffened.

“I want to go back to Sovia,” she said.

He stilled. Then exhaled sharply. “Are we getting a divorce?”

She blinked. “What? I want to meet my parents. Why would you think that?”

“Because… you always say that.”

She took a step forward. Her heart ached at the sadness buried beneath his frustration.

She walked to his desk, reached across the scattered parchments, and gently took both of his hands.

“I’ve been hurting you,” she said quietly. “Forgive me. I love you. Truly.”

That word again. Love.

Cecil stared at her, lips parted—but he said nothing.

Her hands slipped from his. Her chest tightened.

“…Do you want us to get divorced?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

His chair scraped violently as he stood. “No,” he growled. “Over my dead body.”

She flinched slightly. Then tried again, voice trembling: “Then—”

“I’ll call a doctor,” he cut her off. “You need rest.”

Dismissed.

Just like that.

She turned away, eyes shining, and left the office without another word.

---

In the chamber, Mer cried. Quietly, bitterly.

This was not her Cecil.

Her Cecil—who held her when her shoulders trembled with exhaustion.  

Her Cecil—who brushed her hair behind her ear and kissed her forehead.  

Her Cecil—who never dismissed her, never made her feel wrong.

She wiped her tears and stood.

She would find him. Wherever he was.

---

“Sarah,” she called.

The young attendant entered hesitantly. “Yes, madam?”

“Help me pack my things. I’m leaving.”

Sarah’s hands hesitated on the wardrobe door. “Madam… are you sure?”

Mer nodded. “Please. Quickly.”

As Sarah folded dresses into a case, Mer drew a glowing sigil on the floor in chalk infused with mana. The greenish light began to pulse.

When Sarah turned around, her eyes widened.

“You’re a witch, madam?”

Mer gave a small, tired smile. “Well… yeah. Don’t you know?”

Sarah looked genuinely confused. “No, madam. I—I thought you couldn’t use magic. We’ve never seen you…”

Mer didn’t answer. She just thanked her softly, dismissed her, and stepped into the circle with her suitcase in hand.

She began to chant—words ancient and sharp, her voice clear.

Then—

The door burst open.

“Mer!”

Cecil stood there, breathless. His eyes locked on the glowing circle, on the way her aura shimmered with power.

She looked at him—calm, resolute.

A stranger wearing the shape of the woman he had once known.

“Mer, wait—”

But the spell was complete.

A flash of light enveloped her.

And then she was gone.

---

Cecil stood alone in the room, staring at the empty circle. The woman who couldn’t summon a spark had just cast a high-tier teleportation spell like she was born to it.

And he didn’t know where she had gone.

But he knew this:  

He would find her.

Wherever she was.

---

'The Familiar That Shouldn’t Be'

Light spilled softly through gauzy curtains as Mer stumbled into the room.

Her breath caught.

Blue and white hues washed over everything—the silken drapes, the embroidered cushions, the delicate vases she remembered from girlhood. The armoire stood where it always had, tall and proud. The floorboards creaked in just the same way beneath her bare feet.

It was her room.

Or a copy of it. Too perfect.

She crossed to the bed, sinking down, but the cushion’s give, the scent of pressed lavender—it all felt wrong, like a painting pretending to be a memory.

Her head pounded with echoes. Bits and pieces spun inside her mind—like falling snow, too many to catch. She needed to make sense of it. To hold onto something before it slipped again.

Her eyes fell on a notebook resting on the bedside table.

She snatched it up.

The pages were blank—beckoning.

She wrote quickly. Frantically.

Words spilled out of her like blood:

“Massive assault on the fifth barrier site. Mana stones unstable. Fourth and fifth boxes secured. Core overextension. Tactical monster surge—no natural pattern. Possible manipulation.”

Her handwriting grew messier with each sentence.

“Necklace… mana interference. Black creature pierced barrier. Magic failed. Wounded. Can’t stop bleeding. Core damage.”

She stopped.

The last three words pulsed on the page like a wound.

Her hand trembled.

She stared at her writing, then at her own hand.

“…My injuries were… fatal,” she whispered aloud. The sound of her voice startled her in the silence.

“God. Oh God…”

She blinked, breath growing shallow.

“I was worried I had died.” Her voice was shaking. “There’s no way—no way—I’m still alive if my core was destroyed.”

The truth of that statement sat like lead in her chest.

No mage survived a shattered core. Not intact. Not whole.

And yet she was here. Breathing. Thinking. Crying.

Tears splashed onto her skin, warm and hot. The notebook slid from her lap as she cradled herself in shaking arms.

Had she died? Had something else returned in her place?

It felt like she had lost everything—her past, her identity, her certainty.

She wept until her strength gave out, her body curling into itself.

And slowly, as dusk turned the room gold, Mer slipped into unconsciousness.