It had been more than six months since Tharald passed away. With each passing day, the family’s hatred toward her grew. The little flame of Tharald had now become a withered flower, dim and fragile. Elric’s loathing for her was so deep that he would not have hesitated to sacrifice her for his own greed. He began removing the servants who had once cared for Serelith, replacing them with ones who treated her like a shadow, barely human. Many of them left, unable to endure the harshness or maintain their livelihoods under his rule. Only the stable boy, loyal and kind, remained by her side, the one familiar presence in a world that had turned cruel. To Elric, even he was nothing but a worm—disposable, irrelevant, and powerless.

Even amid the hatred and torment, Serelith fought to endure it all. Every day, she reminded herself of the strength her grandfather had believed in. And through it all, Shyamu cheered for her, his presence a small beacon of hope that reminded her she was not entirely alone.

The weather was clear that day, sunlight spilling into the castle halls and reflecting off the polished floors. Serelith had just finished her etiquette lessons and found Shyamu waiting for her in the courtyard and were playing quietly, their laughter mingling with the soft rustle of leaves. For a moment, the world felt calm, as if nothing could touch them.

The peace of the courtyard shattered when the dinner bell rang, calling her back to the cold reality of the dining hall.

Inside, Marlena’s sharp voice pierced the air.

“Look at you, Serelith. Always so clumsy, so slow,” she said, her words dripping with mockery.

At the other end of the table, Celene accidentally tipped her soup spoon the wrong way, splashing the linen, yet the servants erupted in practiced applause as if she had performed a miracle. Marlena beamed.

“My Celene, now there’s efficiency. She learns quickly, follows instructions perfectly. Not like you.”

Serelith lowered her gaze, holding her hands together. The servants shifted uneasily, none daring to defend her. It wasn't until the meal ended and Serelith stepped back into the shadows of the hallway that she felt a presence. Shyamu, having waited near the servants' entrance, let his hand brush against hers.

“Don’t mind them,” he whispered softly. "You’re strong. I know you can handle this."

For Serelith, his words were a small flame in the darkness—a reminder that not everyone in the world saw her as worthless. She clenched her fists, drawing courage from his quiet faith in her. Marlena’s voice continued, cutting through the room, but Serelith did not respond. She focused instead on Shyamu’s steady presence, the one person who still cheered for her, the one who reminded her she could survive.

Even amid humiliation and cruelty, Serelith fought in silence. Her spirit bent but did not break. And with Shyamu by her side, she found the strength to endure another day.

The irony was sharp. Though Serelith was far more skilled, she remained invisible. Celene stumbled through her lessons, yet the servants erupted in practiced applause, their stiff smiles betraying the truth they dared not speak. A single honest word risked expulsion—or worse. Serelith stayed silent, her hands folded neatly, drawing strength from the quiet knowledge that her diligence far outshone her sister's.

In her leisure time, she would read books from the library. She liked reading most. Once Elric discovered which books she enjoyed, he banned her from entering the library. The only books she could read were about etiquette or how to become a good wife.

For Elric, she was nothing more than a product of a political marriage. He banned her from reading her favorite books, fearing that knowledge might give her the courage to protest against him in the future. Better to control her now, just as he always did.

This made her sad.

When Shyamu noticed her sadness while playing, he asked,

“What happened, my lady?”

“Nothing… It’s just that I was banned from the library,” she replied.

Shyamu was shocked and enraged. He didn’t like that they had even banned her from the library.

“The only books I am allowed to read are about etiquette or how to become a good bride,” she said quietly.

“If the Master won't let you in his library, then I'll bring the library to you. Every page of it!” he shouted.

“But Shyamu… how will you bring me books?”

Shyamu rubbed proudly under his nose.

"Hah, I know a peddler who moves more ink than a royal scribe! I’ll get you those stories, My Lady, even if I have to smuggle 'em in the horse’s grain bags."

Shyamu would borrow books for a few days from his friend, the book peddler, and keep them tucked away in the stable. Whenever Serelith found a free moment, away from the noise of noble life, she would slip into the quiet of the stable and read. While the mansion walls were lined with dusty manuals on how to be a silent bride, the stable hay smelled of ink and adventure—the only place where her mind was truly free.

When she left, Shyamu would carefully hide the books or carry them home, as if guarding treasure. At first, he only watched her lips move as she read aloud, the strange letters meaning nothing to him. But Serelith was patient, and slowly, she taught him. What had once been marks on a page became words, and words became worlds.

The stable turned into their secret sanctuary. While Elric and Marlena celebrated Celene’s mediocre progress in the grand hall, Serelith and Shyamu sat in the dim lantern-light. She corrected his stumbling words—not like a governess with a stick, but like a sister sharing a treasure. In that moment, the hay felt softer than the silk sheets waiting for her in the cold manor.

The boy who had never held a book upright now traced lines with clumsy fingers, sounding them out under his breath. He read about warriors who wielded blades like lightning, kings who rose and fell, and fables that made him laugh. Sometimes they read together; sometimes apart, giving each other space but sharing the silence.

Books became their bridge—between stables and mansions, between ignorance and learning, between a stable boy and a noble girl.

Sometimes they would sneak out at night, a lantern flickering between them as the stable turned into their secret library. Shyamu read slowly, stumbling over words, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“Through the... mys-ter-ious caves I... lent? No, went... through and tight-ing... fighting with dem-on-ic beasts…”

Serelith chuckled, her voice gentle as she leaned closer.

“Through the mysterious caves I went through and fighting with the demonic beast.”

Her correction only made him grin, proud just to be reading at all.

Serelith went back to her book, reading about paintings.

“I never knew a single painting could say so many things,” she murmured. “It can even become a riddle.”

She rubbed her chin, thoughtful.

Shyamu glanced at her. “My lady… perhaps you like paintings?”

“Of course,” she replied with a soft smile. “They are so colorful and meaningful.”

She sat there in the stable, breathing in the sweet, earthy scent of the hay. She was not lonely—and that was enough.