The sun had claimed its position. Pale shafts of light fell at an angle through the gaps in the curtains, dancing over dust particles that drifted lazily through the library air—as if even the dust were in no hurry this morning.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The cold doorknob turned soundlessly beneath Marta's fingers. She entered carrying the scent of soap and a readiness for the morning's chores.
Then, she stopped.
Under the soft wash of morning light, Seraphina sat upright behind the desk, her shoulders draped in a thick blanket—not her own, if Marta remembered correctly—while her eyes were fixed on rows of text. The sight across from her was even more foreign: on the sofa, Carsel lay asleep in a position that looked uncomfortable to any observer, an open book still perched precariously on his chest as it rose and fell with steady breaths.
Marta stood still in the doorway for a long moment. Her cleaning cloth remained still. Without a word, she pulled back and closed the heavy wooden door—her movements far slower and more deliberate than usual.
✶ ✶ ✶
Hours passed.
Seraphina was gone. The blanket that had wrapped around her shoulders was now neatly folded in the corner of the chair, leaving the impression that she was merely a shadow that had just faded—or someone who knew how to leave without making it feel like a departure.
On the other side of the room, sweat began to bead on Carsel's forehead. His breathing lost its tempo; his chest heaved faster. The once-still book slowly slid from its position.
His eyes snapped open—no sound had awakened him, no gradual transition. He was simply awake. And before he could fully process it, his hand moved on its own, catching the book just before it hit the floor.
A long exhale. He set the book on a nearby table, straightened his back, crossed his legs, and closed his eyes again.
What was I just dreaming about?
His fingers clawed through his hair.
Why is it that every time I dream, I can never remember what it was?
A few strands of hair fell from his overly tight grip. He let them go.
He knew something was wrong—not out of pain, not out of fear. But because something lingered at the edge of his consciousness, like the scent of smoke from a fire long extinguished: shapeless, yet impossible to ignore.
His hands dropped. He opened his eyes.
The same library. Brighter light. The same shelves with book spines whose opinions he never asked for, yet they were always there. Seraphina was gone—the blanket folded in the corner of the chair with a neatness too precise to be called hurried. Someone who folds a blanket like that is not in a rush. Someone who folds a blanket like that is thinking about something else while their hands move.
His eyes lingered on the folds longer than necessary.
Then, his gaze fell to the table.
Thin steam still rose from the toast and a teacup, the aroma filling his senses. Beside it lay a small scrap of paper with handwriting he had seen often enough to recognize instantly.
Let the servants take care of the plate and cup later.
—S
That was all. No full name, no explanation of when she left or where she went. Two lines and a single letter—written in ink whose edges had begun to dry, meaning Seraphina had been gone long enough for the ink to lose its sheen.
She knew I'd feel obligated to take these back to the kitchen.
A smile slowly bloomed.
His hand reached for the cup. It was warm in his palm—not hot, but the perfect warmth, as if someone had calculated the travel time from the kitchen and accounted for the rest.
His fingers hesitated briefly before the toast, then he began to eat.
The room was silent, save for the soft clink of cutlery against the plate. But there was something different about the silence this morning—it no longer felt like a cold vacuum. There was a trace of presence left behind, warm and real, telling him that even though he sat alone, he was not truly by himself.
✶ ✶ ✶
He took the book that had nearly fallen and placed it back on the shelf, its spine facing out like the others. Then a second book. Then a third.
His hand stopped at the last one.
Breakthroughs & Evolution.
The chapter he had been reading before falling asleep was still open to the same page. His eyes fell to the lines he had read repeatedly without truly absorbing:
Evolution → repeated extreme conditions, sacrifice, or consumption of rare resources.
Cost → will to live, humanity, memories, or addiction.
He closed the book. Not because he didn't want to read it, but because something about the way those sentences sat in his chest told him that this was not the moment for reading.
He walked toward the large window. The curtains had been drawn—whether by the servants or Seraphina herself, he didn't know.
Outside lay a quiet green garden. Butterflies adorned the still air. But his gaze was drawn more to the fountain in the center—the way the water rose, scattered, and fell without ever asking anyone if it was necessary.
His fingers touched the earring in his left ear. It was cold for a moment, then warm—as if recognizing him. He didn't know when he had started noticing that pattern. Perhaps only last night.
How much I can take from this earring depends on the depth of my understanding.
Carsel stepped out of the library. His pace was ordinary—but his ordinary pace was another person's hurried stride.
✶ ✶ ✶
Emerging from the shadows of the stuffy library, the bright garden sunlight found him before he found any direction. Amidst the trickling sound, he paused for a moment, comparing the concept of understanding he sought with the literal flow of water before him.
He sat on the edge of the fountain like someone who didn't realize they were sitting.
His back was hunched. His elbows rested on his knees. His chin nearly touched his interlocking fingers—the posture of someone holding something back but not knowing exactly what it was.
In his head, everything arrived at once.
The Star Affinity that didn't belong to just anyone. Seraphina, who bought his freedom and called him an investment. The name *Stellaris*, which felt like a garment tailored for someone else's body but forced onto his back. A mother who was gone. Kidnappers moving through the shadows. Dreams that always left a feeling but never a face.
And now this—the earring pulsing softly in his ear like a second heart, offering something he hadn't yet asked to possess.
What am I supposed to do with all of this?
The question had been there since he left Heartwood. But only now did he realize its weight—because he had been too busy moving to feel it. Running from one event to the next, reacting, adjusting, surviving. No pause. No room to stand and ask: where is all this actually leading?
His eyes fell to the fountain.
Not because he intended to look. Simply because the water was there and his eyes needed a place to rest.
The water rose.
He didn't think about it. He just watched it—the way the water was pumped upward, against the direction it should go, reaching a certain height and then scattering in arcs that were never exactly the same twice.
Then it fell.
Then it rose again.
Ten minutes passed. Perhaps twenty. Carsel wasn't counting.
In his head, the questions were still there. But there was something different about the way they sat—like noisy people in a room who were slowly running out of reasons to be loud, not because the problem was solved, but because they were tired of standing.
He stared at the water.
The water didn't care that he was watching. It didn't care about the name Stellaris, or Star Affinities, or kidnappers in the shadows. Water rises because there is pressure pushing it. Water falls because gravity demands it. It rises again because that is what water does—not because it decided to, but because that is simply how it works.
An hour passed.
Carsel's back was still hunched. But his chin no longer pressed against his fingers. His hands had dropped to his lap, palms open—not a deliberate gesture, just a body releasing something it no longer needed to grasp.
He didn't know exactly when it happened.
His eyes remained on the water.
Mama didn't tell me about the Star Affinity.
The sentence surfaced just like that—not with anger, nor with sadness. It was just present, like a fact about the weather.
I'm just sitting here instead of moving to find her.
Also present.
Strange dreams always come and go, and I don't know what they mean.
Present.
All the questions he had been trying to chase, to answer, to hold onto tight enough to examine—they were just sitting there now. Nowhere to go. Not demanding to be solved today.
And Carsel realized something very simple:
He didn't know the answers yet. And he didn't have to know right now.
Three hours began without announcement.
The shadow of the fountain had shifted—the sun had moved, and the shadow that previously fell to the left was now stretching in another direction. Time moved even if he didn't.
Carsel watched the water rise for the hundredth time.
Rise. Fall. Rise again.
Nothing about the water changed. But there was something different about the way Carsel saw it—like eyes that had finally finished adjusting to the light and could see what had always been there.
Water doesn't run forward. It moves according to what exists now—pressure from below, gravity from above, and a cycle that doesn't need anyone's permission to continue. It never stops just because it doesn't know where to go next.
Carsel drew a breath.
Long. Slow. The kind of breath that comes from a place that hasn't had air in a long time.
Then he exhaled.
The questions were still there—he knew that. Mama. Stellaris. The kidnappers. The affinity he never asked for. Everything was still there, and not a single thing was finished. Nothing would be finished just because he sat here for three hours.
But there was something he understood now that he hadn't understood this morning: not every question needs an answer today. Some questions require a time that hasn't yet arrived. And all he could do—the only thing he could do—was keep moving toward that time. Like water that doesn't stop mid-stream just because it doesn't know the shape of the next vessel.
He would know when he got there.
Carsel stood up.
The movement wasn't dramatic. No resolutions were declared, no determinations spoken aloud. It was just someone who had been sitting long enough deciding it was time to stand.
His knees were a bit stiff—a body too focused on one thing often forgets to report small details like this. He straightened his back.
In front of him, the fountain kept moving. Rising, falling, rising—as it always had and always would, whether someone was watching or not.
He didn't say thank you to the fountain. That would have been strange. But there was something in the way his back, once hunched, was now straight—in the way his hands, once locked, were now open at his sides—that said those three hours did not pass without him taking something home.
He turned around.
The earring in his ear still pulsed softly—but now the pulse didn't feel like a demand. It felt more like an invitation.
His first step after three hours of sitting felt different from the steps before. Not lighter. Not heavier.
Just more his own.
✶ ✶ ✶
Seraphina's fingers pressed against her throbbing temple. Across from her, Marta maintained perfect posture—standing like someone who had long since learned that posture is a language of its own.
The center of their attention was a letter on the desk.
A personal letter from her older brother, currently at Ostrivien Academy. Edward von Heartstone. Its content was brief and required no interpretation:
> Have you forgotten your responsibilities?
— Leader of the Heartstone Faction
He wasn't speaking as a brother. He was speaking as a leader. And as his deputy, Seraphina didn't have many options in how to answer.
Her posture returned to a calm state. All plans were arranged in her head before she opened her mouth.
"Marta." Her voice was low and measured. "Watch over Carsel—oversee his new identity and background as well."
Marta nodded without question.
"One more thing: take him to his absolute limit." Every word fell with precision. "Ostrivien Academy will not welcome him kindly, and I don't want him going there with a false sense of security."
Marta moved one hand to her left chest and the other to her back—a sign of respect. A movement she had practiced until it became a reflex.
"As you wish."
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Three soft taps from behind the door.
"It's Carsel—may I come in?"
His voice was low and polite. Seraphina and Marta exchanged a brief look.
"Come in."
Carsel's first step was hesitant. He sensed the atmosphere in the room had changed the moment he entered, and both of them staring at him at once made him unsure of where to put his hands.
Seraphina's expression shifted to a friendly one. "Perfect timing, I have something to discuss as well."
"Oh. Okay."
He closed the door softly, then stood beside Marta. His hand hovered for a moment, then gave a slight wave to the woman—a clumsy greeting that didn't quite have a name.
Marta was slightly taken aback. A second later, a faint smile touched her face.
Carsel's gaze shifted to Seraphina, his eyebrows rising slightly: What is it?
"I'm leaving for the Academy."
Short. She wanted to see his reaction first.
Carsel's pupils dilated briefly, then returned to normal. He thought of the right words.
"You're a princess." A pause. "I'm sure you're important there."
Seraphina nodded in confirmation. "My role here will be taken over by Marta." Her gaze directed toward the woman beside Carsel.
Carsel stole a glance at the woman, who looked to be in her fifties, then nodded without much question.
Seraphina didn't immediately continue. Seeing Carsel accept all this without protest reminded her of something—and before she could stop her own thoughts, she imagined Carsel with rabbit ears atop his pink hair.
Cute.
Meanwhile, Carsel was still waiting, his eyes narrowing slightly—his right cheek twitching upward because he saw Seraphina smiling with her eyes closed for no apparent reason.
Marta feigned a cough.
Seraphina returned to the surface.
"Do you still remember what I told you yesterday?"
"Use the new affinity whenever possible. But if there's a true emergency and I'm forced to use the Star Affinity—"
A pause. The next sentence carried its own weight.
"Then whoever sees it must die right then and there."
"For my own safety."
Seraphina nodded, silently satisfied. "I'm leaving now. Train hard with Marta—she is a Grandmaster."
Carsel's gaze shifted quickly to the older woman beside him, his eyes widening. Marta smiled proudly, her index finger rubbing a nose that didn't itch.
✶ ✶ ✶
They walked side by side toward the same training ground as before. Marta was the one who broke the silence.
"Before entering the Academy and being tested by the people there, applicants must first verify their identity and background."
"And?" One of Carsel's eyebrows went up.
"You are a distant relative of mine who is now an orphan."
Carsel's footsteps stopped. Marta stopped too, half a step ahead of him.
*Mama Clara isn't dead. She's only missing.*
Marta realized her choice of words. Her mouth opened for a moment—
"I see." Carsel moved past her, already walking again. "Continue."
Marta adjusted her pace to match his.
"In public, you must get used to calling me Auntie."
Carsel was about to interrupt, but Marta was faster.
"After all, if you call me 'Madam' in front of others, the background I've created will be for nothing."
They arrived at the training ground. Facing each other.
Auntie. The word was still strange on his tongue.
Marta planted her feet shoulder-width apart, a sign she was ready. "Draw your sword and attack me—I will not strike back. Only evade."
The words caught in Carsel's throat. Attacking a woman this age, even if Seraphina said she was a Grandmaster, still felt like something that couldn't be easily done by the same hand that had just waved a greeting to her.
"This is an order." Sharp, like a blade. "Do not hesitate."
He took a breath. exhaled slowly
"I'm sorry."
An eighty-centimeter sword emerged from his storage ring. Single-edged, the blade curved with a circular handguard separating the long hilt from the sharp edge.
Carsel bent both knees until his buttocks nearly touched his heels. His back was straight, parallel to the ground, forming a rigid ninety-degree angle. The tips of his shoes creaked over the gravel. His thigh and calf muscles tensed, vibrating under the weight of the explosive force ready to be released.
BOOM.
The ground seemed to explode as Carsel launched his body—no longer as a human, but as a blurred line slicing through the air. His curved blade was unsheathed, cutting through the wind with a high-pitched whistle, aiming for Marta's neck in a single, precise horizontal slash.
Marta merely shifted her weight to her back foot. The tip of the sword passed by, cutting the air right in front of her nose. She didn't blink. Her hands remained hidden behind her back, calm as if she were watching a falling leaf.
Carsel didn't let his momentum go to waste. As soon as his feet touched the ground, he flicked his wrist, reversing the direction of the blade and swinging it back in a circular motion toward Marta's ribs.
Marta simply pivoted on her heel. Her gray clothes fluttered, dragged by the wind created by the speed of Carsel's sword—yet the sharp metal still failed to find flesh.
Carsel's breathing began to sound heavy and short. He regulated his heart rate, which hammered against his ribs. His eyes narrowed, scanning every inch of Marta's position. He began to move—not forward, but circling the woman. His sword deliberately dragged across the stones, creating sparks and a deafening screech: a noise disturbance to mask his footsteps.
Suddenly he lunged forward, feinting toward her chest. As Marta tilted her shoulder slightly, Carsel forcibly stopped his slash mid-way, using the strength of his arm muscles to redirect it into a thrust toward Marta's knee.
A movement that should have been impossible to perform without breaking one's own wrist.
Marta simply pulled one foot back—so narrowly that the tip of Carsel's sword only grazed the dust on her shoe. Not a single fiber of fabric was damaged.
"You're pathetic."
Marta's voice was flat, nearly drowned out by the roar of the wind.
Carsel gritted his teeth. Sweat began to pour from his temples into his eyes, a burning sting. He didn't wipe it away. He attacked again—a barrage of slashes, blind yet calculated. High, low, diagonal, straight thrusts—all in one seamless sequence.
Every time his sword slashed, Marta moved as if she already knew where the metal was headed before Carsel himself decided. Swaying, ducking, and shifting with minimal movement. No energy wasted on long leaps—only a few centimeters, letting death pass a hair's breadth from her skin.
The sun, which had previously heated the training area until the air seemed to shimmer, was now covered by clouds.
Carsel's right arm began to feel hot, his muscles feeling as if they were being forcibly pulled. His once-firm grip on the sword hilt was now slick with sweat. He could feel the pulse in his fingertips. His lungs began to protest, demanding oxygen that felt increasingly thin in his dry throat.
He tried one last tactic—releasing one hand from the sword hilt, throwing a flurry of small and large stones toward Marta's face. The moment the objects took flight, he lowered his body back into the ninety-degree position and launched the fastest low attack he could muster.
Marta simply tilted her head, letting the stones pass by her ears without a second glance. At the same time, she lifted one leg—letting Carsel's sword blade slide under the sole of her foot as it hovered briefly in the air.
As Marta landed back down, her standing position was exactly as it had been when they started. Not a single strand of her brown hair was out of place.
Carsel stumbled, using his sword as a brace to keep from falling to his knees. His chest heaved violently. Sweat soaked his entire outfit. He stared at the stone floor around Marta—filled with scratches from failed slashes.
He looked down at his trembling hands. The skin between his thumb and forefinger was turning red and blistering. But when he lifted his face, he found Marta standing there—her breathing steady, her gaze still sharp, waiting for the next attack that might never arrive.
"You said your mother is missing?"
The question didn't feel like a question.
"Don't expect to find her if this is the extent of your ability."
Her gaze pierced deep into Carsel.
"Yeah. I know."
He began to rise and pulled his sword from the crack in the stone, using both trembling hands.
But as he applied force to his left arm, a dull popping sound—like a snapped bowstring—echoed from within his own flesh.
A stinging, cold, and paralyzing pain instantly radiated from his wrist to his left shoulder. His tendon had given out. His left hand hung limp at his side, no longer possessing the strength even to form a fist.
He flinched—his breath catching in his throat. Instead of screaming, Carsel spat to the side, a spray of saliva mixed with blood from gums bitten too hard.
With a low growl, he let go with his left hand and transferred all remaining strength to his right. He gripped the sword hilt so tightly his knuckles turned white, and blood from the blisters on his palm smeared the cold metal.
Shh-ring.
The sword came out of the ground. Slowly, Carsel straightened his body—his knees clicked as they were forced to support a weight that should have been beyond his limit.
"Cruel."
Marta murmured, her eyes narrowing slightly at Carsel's lifelessly hanging left arm.
"You are more cruel to yourself than you are to your opponent."
This one is strange. And... Dangerous, Marta thought.
Carsel didn't answer. His vision began to blur; his world spun. His lips turned blue, beads of cold sweat drenching his face. He knew his body was breaking—he could feel the muscle fibers in his thighs and back beginning to tear one by one as they were forced to work beyond their absolute limits.
But he didn't care.
This is a repeated extreme condition. The only way I can do it.
With a groan that sounded more like a wounded animal, Carsel lunged forward again. Without the balance of his left hand, his movements were wobbly and desperate. He swung his sword with one hand—a heavy, slow vertical slash, using the remaining weight of his body to add momentum.
Marta simply shifted her body half a step to the left. Carsel's blade slammed into the stone where Marta had stood a second ago, creating a loud clang that vibrated through his right hand.
His remaining instinct screamed. He utilized the vibration to pivot the sword upward—a counterattack toward Marta's neck.
But his body's reaction speed was no longer in sync with his brain. His movement was too slow. Even before the sword reached halfway, the muscles in his right shoulder protested with a burning pain. His vision suddenly went pitch black for one second. Blood began to flow from his nose, dripping onto his training robe.
His body refused to move any further.
The sword in his hand slowly slipped, clattering onto the stone.
Carsel collapsed forward, falling to his knees right in front of Marta's still-clean shoes. His chest heaved violently, trying to inhale air that felt like fire in his lungs. Blood from his nose dripped onto the ground, soaking the failed scratches.
Is this my limit?
Marta didn't move to help him. She let Carsel prostrate in the dust, letting the youth feel every inch of his body's destruction. Silence enveloped the training area, leaving only the sound of Carsel's raspy, ragged breathing.
"Stand up."
Cold. Without mercy.
Carsel tried to brace his weight on his trembling right hand, but his muscles had turned to jelly. He fell back, his face nearly kissing the stone floor. The smell of iron from his own blood filled his senses.
"Do you think at the Academy they'll give you time to breathe after you've broken yourself?" Marta walked slowly around Carsel's frail body. "You attack like someone who has lost everything. But uncontrolled anger is just a fast way to the grave."
Marta stopped right beside Carsel's head. She crouched until they were level. For the first time, her voice softened—but remained as sharp as a razor.
"Why didn't you stop when your left hand died?"
Carsel tried to speak. What came out was only a cough that sprayed red flecks onto the floor. He forced his reddened eyes to look at Marta.
"Auntie... said... d-don't hesitate."
Marta was stunned for a moment. She looked at Carsel's awkwardly hanging left hand, then to the youth's eyes, which still held remnants of fire even though his body had become ash.
"You only call me Auntie when you're desperate," Marta murmured.
She drew a long sigh. Then she extended her hand—not to attack, but to place it on top of Carsel's head.
"Good job, Carsel. Training is over."
As those words were spoken, all of Carsel's remaining consciousness seemed to be pulled out. The tension that had been supporting his life collapsed all at once. The world went dark—but before his head hit the stone, he felt a pair of strong, warm hands supporting his body.
Marta lifted the youth's body easily, as if his weight were no more than a roll of cloth.
*He's insane. For someone with a background like his—his mental resilience and sword skills are truly beyond expectation.*
Marta saw something within this boy. A potential whose distance could not yet be known—precisely because no one had shown him the limit.
✶ ✶ ✶
Seven hours passed.
The scent of a candle wafted into Carsel's nose, pulling him back to the surface. The first thing he saw was his bedroom ceiling. Quiet. Alone—which meant it was safe to let out the things he had suppressed.
All his wounds had healed, including his left arm. Perhaps a potion from Marta—he didn't know. What he did know was that he would have to thank her later.
His gaze met his own palms.
I have to go through conditions like this more often. It's the only way I can evolve.
He turned his gaze to the window. Stars adorned the silent night sky, and without realizing it, he was imagining something he should no longer be able to imagine.
Mama Clara's cooking. Uncle Rey, who was quiet but always there. Uncle Maru, who always laughed louder than his own stories.
Twenty minutes passed before he realized it.
He turned to the small table nearby. He took a pen and all the paper there.
He began to write. Not just random writing—he wrote all the things he couldn't say directly to those who were no longer there. Even though he knew no one would read it.
Dear Uncle Rey,
I am not okay. I am not okay at all.
No words came from his mouth—instead, a cough, heavy, like something stuck too deep to be brought out the usual way.
All the letters he made, he burned directly over the lit candle beside him.
The candle had burned down almost to the end, its melt pooling at the base like tears reluctant to fall. Carsel sat by the window, pulling his knees to his chest, watching the moon hang cold and indifferent in the sky.
He had counted the stones in the courtyard wall fourteen times. Tried to sleep three times. Failed each time. The silence in Seraphina's grand house was the kind of silence that pressed against the eardrums—heavy, stifling, and noisy in its emptiness.
Mama used to hum while washing clothes. Just a quiet melody, nothing special. But it filled the silence.
His chest felt tight. He pressed his palm against it, as if the pressure could stop something that had no form to be stopped.
That was when he saw it.
A rabbit. Small, brown, sitting on the windowsill where a moment ago there had been nothing. Its nose twitched. Its black eyes reflected the nearly extinguished candlelight.
Carsel blinked. He didn't move. How could a rabbit get here—on the third floor of a noble residence?
"...Hello," he said softly, half-expecting the rabbit to be startled and run away.
It didn't.
Instead, the rabbit tilted its head—and Carsel could swear, even though he knew it was impossible, that the creature was studying him just as he was studying it.
"A lonely night, isn't it?"
The voice was soft. Calm. Unlike his own thoughts, yet not entirely separate.
His chest went warm—suddenly, without warning. As if something from Heartwood had followed him all the way here.
"Yes," he heard himself answer. "Very lonely."
The rabbit positioned itself more comfortably, its ears relaxed.
"What do you want, Carsel?"
A simple question. Yet his throat constricted as he went to answer.
How do you know my name?
He didn't ask. Somehow, it didn't matter.
"I want—" His voice broke. He cleared his throat, trying again. "I want to save Clara. My mother. And I want justice for Uncle Rey, Uncle Maru, and the rest of my family. They fell while I was taking a nap. They weren't supposed to die."
The rabbit's nose twitched again.
"That is your outward desire."
"What?"
"The desire you tell yourself when you can't sleep. When you need a reason to wake up." Its gaze was patient. Understanding. "But what do you want beneath that? Deeper still."
His hands balled into fists in his lap.
"I... I don't understand."
"Yes, you do."
Silence stretched. The candle flame flickered from a breeze that came from nowhere.
I don't want to say it. If I say it out loud, it will become real. And if it's real, then I have to face how wretched—
"It's safe here," the rabbit said softly. "Just us. No one else is listening."
And somehow—impossibly and irrationally—Carsel believed it.
"I want..." The words were dragged out like shards of glass. "I want to understand why. Why all of this happened to me. Why I am the one who survived when everyone—"
His breath hitched.
"Why did everyone I love have to die? What did I do to deserve this?"
The rabbit didn't immediately answer. It just sat there, a small warm presence in the middle of the cold darkness.
"And deeper still?" it asked finally. "Your deepest desire. The one you barely admit to yourself."
"I can't—"
"You can."
*No. If I say it, I will break. If I admit it—*
But the words were already surfacing, unstoppable.
"I want to feel like I belong somewhere." His voice was broken. "I want to matter. To someone. To anyone."
Tears spilled. He didn't brush them away.
"I want to be more than just a boy protected by a place called Heartwood. I want to be Carsel—not the last Stellaris Prince. Not an asset. Just... Carsel. And I want someone to look at me and think that I am enough. That I am worth keeping not because of what I represent, but because of who I actually am."
The confession hung in the air between them.
"I want to be considered precious," he whispered again, curling up tighter. "I just want to be considered precious."
The rabbit hopped closer. Its fur touched Carsel's hand—warm, soft, real.
"You are precious," it said simply. "You were precious to Clara. To Uncle Rey and Uncle Maru, even now. To all those who have chosen you."
"They're gone. Or missing. Or—"
"But you are precious to them. That doesn't disappear just because they aren't here."
Carsel looked at the small creature. The moonlight formed a faint halo around its silhouette.
"How do you know that?" His voice sounded small. Like a child's. "How can you be sure?"
The rabbit's ears twitched softly.
"Because you already know it. Deep down in your heart."
Footsteps echoed in the hallway outside. Carsel's head snapped toward the door. When he looked back—
The windowsill was empty.
No rabbit. No warmth. Only cold stone and moonlight that never cared.
He touched the spot where the rabbit had been a moment ago. There was nothing. Not even a single strand of fur.
Was it afraid of meeting someone else?
But his chest felt lighter. The pain was still there—but it felt manageable now. Like something heavy that hadn't disappeared but had found a more appropriate place to dwell.
Carsel pulled his knees back to his chest. His gaze returned to the moon. Something small and fragile bloomed within his chest—not entirely hope, nor total peace.
Just a tiny feeling that maybe, somewhere, he wasn't completely alone.
The candle went out.
In the darkness, Carsel closed his eyes and finally fell asleep.
✶ ✶ ✶
In the hallway outside his room, Marta stood before the door.
She had been standing there for quite some time, hands hanging at her sides, thinking hard about whether she should enter or not. Carsel was resting. Any minor disturbance could ruin the sleep he had struggled so hard to achieve.
In the end, her feet stepped away. Choosing not to.
The hallway returned to silence.