Is there anything hidden which isn't revealed?
I looked at my hands again. They weren't just steady; they were too steady. My skin looked paler, almost translucent, as if the blood beneath it was being replaced by that liquid ink from the Divine Library.
If I was a void, and I was currently filling myself with Aries's hate, what happens when the tank runs low? If I stop being hated, does the void start eating me instead? It was like being addicted to a drug where the dealers were my own family members.
I looked back at the loose floorboard where the Blood-Ink Testament book lay hidden. The purple glow had dimmed, but the air around the wardrobe still felt heavy, like it was waiting for something.
"She set the requirements low," I whispered, recalling the Librarian's words. "But that doesn't mean there is no cost. She just deferred the payment."
The clarity was terrifying. I realized that by choosing to go to Laila, I wasn't just "farming stability." I was intentionally poisoning the well of my own relationships to keep my heart beating.
Doing so, I would be becoming the monster everyone already accused me of being, just so I wouldn't have to die as a victim.
I reached for the door handle, but my hand stopped.
I hope everything would go as I expected. Otherwise, I didn't think she would go easy on me. Laila wasn't like Aries; she didn't just throw tantrums. Her every move seemed calculated.
.....
Outside the main building of the Aragon Palace, nestled within a manicured garden of silver-leafed trees, sat a stone gazebo. It was an elegant structure—a heavy marble roof supported by four ornate pillars, shielding its occupants from the afternoon sun.
Laila was sitting there, one leg crossed over the other, the picture of aristocratic perfection. She was holding a delicate porcelain cup, the steam from her tea curling into the air.
At her side stood a young maid, hands clasped tightly in front of her, head bowed in a posture of absolute submission.
Sip.
Laila moved with a grace that felt practiced, almost inhuman. She sat like a person who had never known a moment of doubt in her life.
I stepped quietly behind one of the marble pillars, lingering in the shade. The maid's eyes flickered toward me. Her pupils dilated instantly, and a bead of sweat rolled down her temple. She looked like she wanted to scream or tell Laila about me, but she remained frozen, her knuckles whitening as she gripped her own hands.
"What do you want?"
Laila hadn't even looked in my direction, yet she had noticed my presence with that terrifying draconic intuition. She didn't put her cup down.
Instead, she slowly turned her head toward me, her sharp, sapphire eyes locking onto mine with a coldness that could have frozen the tea in her hand.
"I don't remember inviting someone like you to my private table," she said, her voice smooth and dangerous.
It was a slow burn. Her disgust was refined, aged like a fine wine.
"I didn't realize I needed an invitation to walk in my own home," I said, stepping out from behind the pillar. I kept my voice light, casual, purposefully leaning against the marble with a slouch that I knew would irritate her sense of decorum. "You looked lonely, sister. I thought I'd bring some... flavor to your afternoon."
Laila finally set her cup down. The clink of porcelain against stone sounded like a gavel.
"Flavor?" she repeated, her gaze raking over my thin frame and pale skin. "Someone who looks like is dragged out of mud can't bring any flavor in my life."
[NOTICE: EMOTIONAL FEEDBACK (DISGUST)]
[RESONANCE STABILITY: 3.5% -> 3.7%]
The warmth began to spread through my chest again. The "Void" was eating well. Every insult she threw was like a fresh log on a dying fire.
"Is that so?" I leaned in, crossing the boundary of her personal space. The maid took a sharp step back, nearly tripping over her own feet, but Laila didn't flinch. She just sat there, looking at me as if I were a particularly repulsive insect that had dared to land on her sleeve.
"You call it mud," I said, my voice dropping to a smooth, mocking drawl. "I call it the weight of the truth you're all too scared to look at. You play at being a Dragon, Laila. You train, you drink your tea, you look down on the 'trash' of the family. But we both know who is Superior than the other."
I paused, letting the silence stretch until the only sound was the rustle of the silver leaves. I could see the muscles in her neck tighten—just a fraction, but it was enough.
"You're making sure everyone sees how 'perfectly' you sit," I whispered, shifting my weight so my shadow fell directly over her porcelain cup, tainting the reflection of the sun. "Because you're terrified that without your titles and your polished rapier, you're just as empty as the air between us. You aren't superior, Laila. You're just a very well-decorated statue."
The air in the gazebo didn't just get heavy; it turned frigid. Laila's sapphire eyes sparked with a dangerous, draconic light. The porcelain cup on the table developed a hairline fracture, a spiderweb of cracks spreading from where her thumb pressed against the rim.
[ ALERT: INTENSE MALICE DETECTED ]
[ RESONANCE STABILITY: 3.7% -> 4.1% ]
I felt a jolt of pure adrenaline. It was like a shot of lightning straight to my heart. My vision sharpened to a terrifying degree; I could see the slight tremor of fury in her jaw.
"Superior?" Laila said, her voice dropping to a low, melodic hiss that carried the weight of a physical blow. "You dare talk of superiority while you struggle to keep your own lungs moving? You are a mistake that refused to be erased."
She stood up slowly, her height imposing. She was a silhouette of silver and blue against the sun, radiating a pressure that made the maid finally collapse to her knees, trembling.
"You think words make you my equal? You are a hollow shell. If I were to snap your neck right here, no one will question me."
She reached out, her fingers gripping my chin with the strength of iron pliers. She forced me to look at her, her eyes searching mine for the fear that used to live there.
But she didn't find it. Instead, she found a reflection of her own coldness—and a hunger that made her pulse skip a beat.
"Your eyes..." she murmured, her grip tightening until I heard a faint, sickening pop in my jaw. "I don't like them."
'…Good,' I thought.
Her hatred poured into me like fuel… warm, stabilizing… addictive.
But for a split second—just a second—I felt something else mixed in with it.
Not hatred.
Not fear.
…Something heavier.