After weeks of silence,
a letter arrived from the palace.

But the seal wasn’t the King’s.

It was Penelope’s.

The wax bore the faint imprint of her personal crest—
a rose over a sun, once so proud, now pressed in haste.

Mer broke the seal with trembling fingers.

The letter was short.

Shaky handwriting. Stained at the edges.

I’m sorry.
I don’t expect forgiveness, but I needed to say it again.
I told my father. I swore I did. I told him everything.
He said nothing back.
But now you know.
Whatever happens next… you know.

There was no date.
No closing line.
No signature.

Just the final sentence, scrawled as if her hand had trembled:

I will find redemption, even if it costs me everything.

---

The morning sun filtered through the tall windows of Cecil’s office, casting golden light over the polished wood floor.

At a gesture from the Duke, the steward quietly bowed and exited, closing the heavy door behind him.

Rox stood outside for a breath, adjusting the collar of his white shirt, the knot of his black bowtie, and brushing a hand over the front of his vest. Then he stepped in, back straight, eyes sharp—but wary.

Cecil and Mer sat side by side on the sofa, both silent, both watching him with unreadable expressions.

Cecil motioned to the chair across from them. “Sit.”

Rox obeyed, perching stiffly at the edge.

Mer folded her hands loosely and spoke first. “I can control it now.”

She turned her arm, showing her forearm.

Dark veins began to appear, inky black crawling beneath her skin. In her palm, a spiral of black smoke coiled upward like steam from a boiling cup. It writhed for a moment—then vanished, drawn back into her as she closed her hand.

The veins faded.

The room stayed silent.

Rox only nodded, calm, unsurprised.

Mer narrowed her eyes. “On the day of the villa… you called me something.”

Cecil’s gaze darkened.

“Remoira.” Mer said it slowly. “Why?”

Rox flinched.

Cecil’s voice was sharp. “Speak.”

Rox hesitated, then lowered his gaze. “Remoira is… a name whispered among the dark-blooded. A legend, Your Graces. A savior born from shadow. A powerful wielder of dark magic—one whose body is covered in living darkness… who would rise with black wings and bring vengeance to those who crushed our kind.”

Mer blinked. Her breath didn’t change. Her face didn’t shift.

But the weight in the room thickened.

The grand clock ticked behind them—each second a quiet thunder in the silence.

Cecil’s voice cut through it.

“She’s not one of you. That magic… possessed her. She didn’t choose it.”

Rox’s eyes lifted. Calm. Certain.

“She was chosen.”

“Why?!” Cecil’s voice cracked—not with fear, but fury.

Rox didn’t flinch.

“It wasn’t a curse, my lord,” he said. “It was a blessing.”

He turned to Mer.

“Remoira could wipe this kingdom from the map. Even the entire continent.”

Cecil stiffened. But Mer stayed composed.

Rox’s voice softened, reverent.

“Duchess… do you feel it?” he asked. “The pull of that power? Like when you absorbed those wizards' magic—how it filled you.”

Cecil’s eyes snapped to Mer. Absorbed?

He remembered the greenhouse. The way the mana stones had risen. How their energy had flowed to her.

Was it the same?

Mer didn’t flinch. She simply nodded once, slow and deliberate.

“I understand what you’re saying.”

She shifted her hands, folding them carefully in her lap.

“But let me make this clear.”

Mer didn’t look away from Rox. Her voice was steady.

“I have no interest in your prophecies. Or your revolution. If you’re here to drag me into any of it, I advise you to leave this instant.”

Silence thickened like smoke.

Then—Rox dropped to his knees, head bowed low, hands flat against the floor.

“I owe you my life,” he said. “Duke. Duchess. If not for you, I would still be rotting on a stake. I have no other purpose—no country, no family. I vow to serve you with everything I am. Wherever you walk... I will follow.”

Cecil stood slowly.

His voice was quiet, but the threat behind it chilled the air.

“If you break that vow… if you ever betray her trust…”

He took one step forward.

“…I will tear you apart myself.”

Rox’s forehead hit the floor, shoulders trembling.

“Yes, my lord.”

Mer said nothing. But her eyes never left Rox.

---

Every wizard bore a signature.

It was like a fingerprint—etched into the way they cast, how their spells moved, how the mana responded. No two were alike.

Cecil’s magic burned in blue flame, precise and commanding. Even his most destructive fire obeyed him like a loyal hound.

Mer’s magic was intricate. Her spells danced in altered circles, spiraling patterns others could barely follow. And now, with the darkness sealed inside her, she could do more than shape magic.

She could absorb it.

A feat few dared, and fewer survived.

Rox’s gift was rarer still.

He wielded pocket dimensions—hidden spaces stitched between moments, slipping through magical fabric like a thief through shadow. It was how he’d survived for so long. How he had brought them in and out of the palace without a trace. And now, under Mer’s quiet gaze, he began to teach.

---

It began in the west garden, beyond the greenhouse. He drew a rune in the dirt with the toe of his boot.

“Think of it like folding paper,” Rox said. “Except the paper is reality, and the ink is your intent.”

Mer crouched beside him, frowning slightly. “So it’s like layering one circle… under another?”

He beamed. “Exactly! You're catching on fast, Master.”

She smirked. “Don’t call me that.”

“I serve you,” he said, with an exaggerated bow. “It’s technically accurate.”

Mer rolled her eyes and began drawing her own circle.

Within days, her first pocket space opened.

It shimmered like heat on stone—a still, silent cavity in the air, no bigger than a closet. But it held. It was stable. It didn’t flicker or moan or bleed around the edges like Rox’s early versions often did.

Rox stared at it with admiration. “Your magic is smoother than mine,” he muttered. “It’s not fair, really.”

Mer grinned. “I’m a good student.”

He sighed dramatically. “And I’m a proud teacher.”

---

They trained often.

And laughed more often than expected.

Rox was unpredictable, clever, and unafraid to make a fool of himself. He joked during spellwork, exaggerated his movements, and mispronounced Latin incantations in the worst possible ways.

Mer laughed. Actually laughed—sharp and soft, open and unguarded. A sound that had been absent since the villa. Since before.

Sarah, however, was less amused.

The man had a habit of appearing behind her without warning. Or calling her “sunshine” in a tone far too smooth for someone technically on staff.

“Stop flirting with me,” she said flatly one afternoon as she organized Mer’s books.

“But it’s my one joy in life,” he replied solemnly.

She threw a rolled-up parchment at him.

---

Cecil noticed.

He said nothing.

But he noticed.

From his study window, he’d catch glimpses of Mer laughing, her posture relaxed. Rox standing a little too close, talking with his hands like he was spinning a grand story.

And Cecil would close the ledger in front of him a little harder than necessary.

He knew he had no reason.

He trusted Mer.

Still… the fire in his chest simmered quietly.