That night, the silence within the City Governor's study was shattered by the harsh sound of tearing paper. A letter, sealed with a gold wax stamp bearing the emblem of a Lion, had just landed on the mahogany desk. Lunate read it, and in an instant, her eyes bulged until red veins became visible against her white sclera. Behind her, Brane Vohln stood as rigid as a statue, awaiting instructions in a measured silence.
Meanwhile, at Lunate's feet, Alaric Vane curled up. He could feel the woman's breath quicken—a dire omen for his back, which had only just begun to dry from yesterday's wounds.
"A PARTY?!" Lunate shrieked, her voice piercing through the room.
A dense flash of red light exploded from her palm. Within seconds, the invitation from Oakhaven Palace was scorched, turning into black ashen flakes that fluttered down onto Alaric's face.
"This old fossil of a King... why is he so obsessed with parties?!" she barked in a rage. To Lunate, parties were a bureaucratic hell. Suffocating formalities, fake smiles, and tedious protocols. A kingdom-building celebration could last for one or even two full months, and the preparations took just as long. For someone as indolent as Luna, leaving her "hunting grounds" for four months was mental torture.
Furthermore, she could not bring her "Toy" to the palace. Flaunting her sadistic hobbies before the high nobility of Oakhaven would be political suicide.
Lunate gripped her head as if holding back an outburst of rage that could bring the villa down. Suddenly, she stood up. With a movement fueled by pure hatred, she slammed her heel into Alaric's back, pressing her entire body weight into him.
"ARGH!" Alaric let out a sharp cry of pain, his body arching violently.
Strangely, upon hearing that scream, Lunate's breathing gradually steadied. Alaric's cry was instant medicine for her stress. Like a tonic that restored her murky mood. This obsession was not without reason; to her, only by crushing the dignity of others did she feel truly powerful.
"Brane, prepare everything I need. We will be staying at the Palace for four months," she commanded in a lazy yet cold tone. She strode toward her private chambers without casting a single glance at Alaric, as if the youth were merely a stain on the floor that could be wiped away at any moment.
Alaric wheezed, rising slowly with trembling hands. His stomach and back had now become a canvas for Lunate's madness. I must build iron muscles immediately, he thought wildly. If not, four months from now when she returns, that heel will truly pierce through my lungs.
---
The following morning, Alaric stood at the edge of the mansion's backyard field before dawn. This 100-square-meter field was the training ground for the household guards every weekend. Outside of those times, it was his own private battlefield.
Yesterday, he had completed 5,000 sword swings. Today, his target was 7,000 swings and five non-stop laps around the field. Alaric began to run. Every step made the wounds on his back throb, yet he ignored it. Pain was fuel.
A few hours later, a luxurious horse-drawn carriage bearing the Kenet family crest stood ready at the main gate. Lunate appeared stunning in an elegant travel gown, but before boarding, she took the time to beat and stomp on Alaric in the lobby until she was satisfied. Alaric simply submitted, staring at the floor with hollow eyes, storing every drop of his hatred in the deepest depths of his soul.
At that moment of parting, Alaric finally saw the two figures who had occupied the top floor all this time: Lunate's sisters. The eldest was around sixteen, Lyra Kenet. She possessed a gaze just as sharp as Luna's. And the youngest, Elara Kenet, a twelve-year-old girl with pink hair and clear yellow eyes. Red hair and yellow pupils seem to be the signature traits of this family, Alaric thought silently.
Alaric was momentarily stunned to see them embrace and kiss each other's cheeks with such deep affection. The sight was so human, so warm, that it felt utterly revolting when he remembered that the hands giving the hug were the same hands that had just torn the skin of his abdomen.
Lunate departed. Her carriage vanished beyond the gates of Kenet, taking with it the storm that had been crushing Alaric. Once the two sisters returned upstairs, Alaric immediately rushed to the field. There was no time to relax.
New target: 10,000 sword swings in one hour and 10 laps around the field in fifteen minutes.
Alaric began to swing the wooden sword. One... ten... a hundred...
On the second floor of the villa, behind a large glass window overlooking the field, a small figure stood still. Elara Kenet. The girl watched the shirtless figure below who swung the sword with terrifying speed. She observed him for five minutes without blinking before finally turning away for other business.
Two hours later, Elara returned to the same window. She flinched. The youth was still there, in the same spot, swinging the same sword. Sweat soaked Alaric's entire body until he shimmered under the scorching sun, yet his movements did not slow in the slightest. Elara watched him for three minutes, her eyes beginning to narrow, and then she left again.
Midnight arrived. A pale moon hung over Kenet. Elara, unable to sleep, walked back to the large window. Her heart nearly leapt out of her chest when she saw the shadow on the field.
Alaric was still training.
Under the dim moonlight, the youth looked like a demon forging himself. His breath came out like hot steam, his lean yet taut muscles twitching every time the wooden sword cleaved the air.
"Th-this... is impossible...?" Elara whispered, her hands pressed against the cold window pane.
She didn't understand. How could a human—a slave who had just been beaten senseless—possess such abnormal endurance? Alaric could do this because he had long ago killed his own fatigue. Since the orphanage, exhaustion was a luxury he couldn't afford as long as his siblings were hungry. But for Elara, this was a sight she had never seen in her entire life.
Elara Kenet was known as the most "sane" member of the family. She was gentle, quiet, and disliked overt violence like Lunate's. However, as she gazed at Alaric's scarred back, something dark and dormant within her Kenet blood began to stir.
Elara's breathing began to quicken. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. Her clear eyes now shimmered with a strange obsession as she watched Alaric's tensed muscles. A sudden hunger flared in her stomach—not a hunger for food, but a thirst to "seize" and "possess" that extraordinary fortitude.
Below, Alaric Vane continued his training, completely unaware that a new predator had just been born on the second floor, and she was watching him with a lust ready to devour him whole.