"Poor, poor Samantha," Narrator Three sighed, her voice a sharp, jagged melody that
seemed to dance over the crackling of an unseen fire. "If only she knew. If only she could
see the strings before they tangled around her throat. But her voice is fading now... receding
into the background noise of a story that's about to get very, very ugly."
The memory was still as vivid as a fresh wound.
As Samantha hurried toward Rosalind in the graduation courtyard, the chaos seemed to
mute. The closer she drew to the Princess, the more her worries and the stinging insults of
the crowd simply... drifted away. It was like dust being shaken off a heavy cloth. Her steps,
once frantic, became rhythmic and calm. She didn't even notice the transition; all she knew
was that she felt a peace so dense she no longer felt the need to worry about Rosalind's
safety.
"What a Vim," Narrator Three remarked, her voice dropping into a low, wicked purr. "So calm.
So wide. So... controlling."
The guards were already hauling the girl in black—the "witch"—away. Samantha caught the
tail end of the girl's vitriol. The words were a jar to the ear, grating and jagged, but Samantha
couldn't feel the irritation she knew she should be feeling. The calming aura of Rosalind's
Vim acted as a sedative.
How grand. How soft, Samantha thought with a touch of internal sulking. My Vim doesn't
even have a property of its own yet.
As she reached the group, she overheard Rosalind speaking to the guards in a hushed,
urgent tone. "Be careful with her," Rosalind whispered. "That witch... her Index. She's a
Primordial."
The word hit Samantha like a physical blow, shattering the forced calm.
Primordial? Samantha's mind raced through the forbidden corners of her occult studies. She
hadn't found this in the standard textbooks of the Codex Index; she had learned it from the
mouths of the demons she had summoned and bargained with during her private research.
Most people's Index entries were predictable: a reflection of their Ikos lineup, their lineage,
their bodily functions, or how society and themselves perceived them. If a human achieved a
legendary, ancient resonance, they were labeled Ancient or Epochal. If a demi-human or a
prehistoric creature reached those heights, they were tagged as Prehistoric or Venerable.
But Primordial and Archaic? Those were labels reserved strictly for species born of pure
magic: Witches, Angels, and Demons.
And there was a catch—a secret known only to those who dealt in the dark. A Primordial
Index was invisible to anyone not of the same species. A devil could see a devil's Primordial status. A witch could see a witch's. But a human? To a human, a Primordial should look like
any other high-level Inheritor.
If Rosalind saw a Primordial Index... The thought was a chilling impossibility. Is she a Witch?
Samantha shook the thought away. Perish the thought. It was impossible. Rosalind was
Snow White. She was the peak of human nobility. Samantha decided it was more likely that
the Princess was simply mistaken.
She stepped forward, her voice regaining some of its noble edge. "Your Highness,"
Samantha said, trying to be helpful. "It is impossible for a Primordial to be here, at a
graduation of all places. You shouldn't let that girl's antics rattle you. You handled it with such
grace—your mother's reputation truly precedes you."
Rosalind looked at her and smiled. It was a humble, self-effacing expression. "Oh, it wasn't
me," Rosalind replied softly. "Everything I am is thanks to my mother's guidance. I am merely
a reflection of her light."
Samantha's internal irritation flared. She hated the humility; it felt like a deflection, a way to
stay "perfect" without owning the power she clearly held. "You shouldn't deflect," Samantha
scolded, her voice sharp. "You are a Valory. You should own your mother's reputation, not
hide behind it like a shield. If you are to lead, you must stand on your own feet."
The air in the courtyard suddenly died.
Rosalind didn't blink. She didn't snap back. She simply stared at Samantha. In an instant,
the "Kind Snow White" mask didn't just slip—it vanished. The gaze that met Samantha's was
cold, vast, and utterly devoid of humanity. It was the look a gardener gives a weed before
pulling it, or a god gives a speck of dust. It was a stare that suggested Samantha wasn't
even a person, but an object—a minor inconvenience that had dared to make a sound.
Samantha felt the air leave her lungs. Her heart felt like it was being squeezed by a
porcelain hand. She never wanted to remember that feeling again.
Some Time Later — Steinvik, Kingdom of the Dwarves
The heat of the blacksmith shop in Steinvik was oppressive, but the light was even worse.
Brilliant, golden sunlight poured through the open windows, reflecting off the polished steel
and glowing embers of the forge.
Samantha stood by a heavy anvil, her phone pressed to her ear. It rang twice before a voice
answered.
"Hello?"
"Am I speaking to Thorn?" Samantha asked.
"Yes," the voice replied. It was dry and metallic. "Can you do it? Today. Before I arrive at Glen Hearthstone tomorrow."
"It's possible," Thorn replied. "As it happens, a duel is being arranged at the Atheneum as
we speak. Stadium Da Silva. The groups are currently unbalanced; it's the perfect window
for an... intervention."
Samantha's grip tightened on the phone. She didn't know about any duel, but she didn't
care. "Rosalind Valory will be there. She will pay whatever the cost. I want you to injure her.
Specifically, I want her blinded."
"Blinded?" Thorn paused. "A permanent request. The Ashen Covenant isn't cheap for such
work."
"I can't afford anything more," Samantha said, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and cold
resolve. "Just do it. To whom do I make the payment?"
"The Ashen Covenant, madam. My name is Thorn. Thank you for your service. We will
inform you once the attack is done—"
"No need," Samantha interrupted. She cut the call and, with a sudden burst of violence,
hurled the phone into the roaring fire of the forge.
She watched the plastic melt and the screen shatter in the heat.
"I don't think Dear Snow Rosalind White will need those frightful eyes of hers," she
whispered solemnly to the flames. "Without them... I'm sure her beauty will only elevate."
She turned and walked out of the shop. As she stepped into the street, the blinding, white
sunlight of Steinvik swallowed her silhouette, fading her out of the world in a wash of gold.
The Grim Theater — Present
Back in the cool shadows of the theater, a man in a deep green cloak watched the group
from afar. A mask covered his face entirely, leaving no hint of the man beneath.
"How did it go?" a fiery figure asked, stepping out from behind a stone pillar. This was
Amber, her hair flickering with low-burning embers.
"Great," the man in green replied. He watched as Mord stood up from his seat, his face set
in a grim mask of determination. Mord adjusted his coat, his eyes scanning the exit.
"Mord is moving," the man in green noted. "It seems they are ready for the duel. Let's follow."
The two figures slipped into the crowd, silent and unnoticed, trailing the group as they began
the march toward the Silva Doctrinae.