The sharp, rhythmic //knock//knock// against the heavy oak wood did little to breach the suffocating wall of misery inside the room.
"I am coming in," a voice announced.
The door swung open, and Duke Rangdall stepped across the threshold. His expression, initially softened by paternal concern, faltered as his eyes swept over the devastation. The room was a battlefield of grief. Shards of shattered porcelain and glass lay scattered across the floor like glittering debris, and clothes were thrown haphazardly over every available surface.
But the true center of the wreckage was the bed. A shape sat huddled beneath a thick blanket, trembling violently as muffled, uncontrollable sniffs and ragged sobs echoed through the quiet space.
The sight made the Duke’s posture stiffen, a flash of irritation warring with the ache in his chest. Striding forward, he gripped the edge of the fabric and pulled it back forcefully, exposing his daughter to the light.
"How much longer are you going to stay hidden away like this?" he demanded. His voice was a volatile mix of sharp impatience and buried tenderness.
Irvene looked up, her face flushed and stained with tears. She was both utterly frustrated and emotionally shattered, her fingers white-knuckled as they clutched the sleeves of her gown. "Papa... how can he... how can he?"
"Why can’t he?" the Duke countered, his tone laced with a sudden, protective roughness.
He stepped closer and sank onto the edge of the mattress. For a long, heavy moment, silence dragged over the room. The only sound was Irvene’s uneven breathing as her father reached out, his large hand gently patting her head in a silent offer of comfort.
Then, breaking the quiet, he drew a formal document from his coat and flung it onto the bed beside her.
Irvene picked it up with trembling hands. Her eyes scanned the elegant script, freezing as she realized what it was: the official notice from the academy, declaring the date for Vale’s punishment.
"It is tomorrow," the Duke said casually, though his eyes remained fixed on her face. "Do you want to go?" He spoke of it as if it were a routine errand, rather than the final judgment of the person who had nearly brought his daughter’s life to absolute ruin.
Rage, hot and consuming, flared to life beneath Irvene’s despair. Her fingers tightened around the parchment, crumpling it fiercely in her fist. A dark, determined fire ignited in her eyes—she needed to see him. She needed to look at him one last time within the academy walls.
"I will come with you, father," she said, her voice steadying.
The Duke raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "Huh? When did I say *I was going?"
Wiping the remaining tears from her face with the back of her hand, Irvene locked her gaze fiercely onto his. "I know you will come, Papa."
They stared at each other in a brief battle of wills. After a tense minute, the Duke raised both of his hands in mock surrender and let out a heavy sigh. "I admit defeat. I will come."
"Oh? And were the both of you planning on going without me?"
The smooth, melodic voice popped out of nowhere. Leaning casually against the wall near the doorway was Duchess Margarit Rangdall.
The Duke’s cold eyes flickered as he turned his gaze toward his wife, his expression softening into an amused, albeit guarded, smile. "Is there any event we have ever gone to without telling you, my dear?"
"Hmph. I am eager to see the boy who dared to harm my cute little princess," the Duchess replied. The terrifyingly furious glare she directed at the wall vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a sweet, doting smile. She swept across the room, reaching her daughter’s side, and affectionately pinched Irvene’s cheek.
***
"Where are they dragging him?"
"Oh! They’re taking him to the Judgment
Council."
"Why are you just standing there? Is it really that fun to watch someone get verdicted?"
The academy was a massive, sprawling institution. On any other day, the grand hallways would be quiet at this hour, but today they chimed with the chaotic symphony of hundreds of cadets chattering, whispering, and gossiping. The stone floors practically vibrated under the heavy thuds of rushing footsteps. Everyone was moving in the same direction, eager to witness the fall of one man.
/Thud/
The heavy double doors of the grand hall swung open, and two armed guards stepped inside.
Following closely behind them was Vale. The moment he crossed the threshold, an intense, suffocating pressure weighed down on his shoulders. He swallowed hard, his gaze sweeping across the crowded gallery. The faces blurring past him were a toxic mix of morbid curiosity, cold satisfaction, and outright mockery.
His footsteps echoed hollowly through the vast hallroom as the guards marched him toward the center, placing him squarely into the open, sunken chamber—the stage where the guilty were forced to stand.
Looking up, Vale’s vision darted around the overwhelming space until it abruptly locked onto the second-floor balcony. Sitting there, looking down at him, were the coldest and wildest eyes he had ever encountered.
Duke Rangdall and Duchess Margarit sat side-by-side like reigning monarchs.
But it was the third figure beside them that made his breath catch. Irvene sat rigid, shooting a dangerous, venomous glare directly at him, her hands clutching her dress so tightly her knuckles were translucent. She was vibrating with a terrifying, controlled fury.
Vale flinched inwardly, a cold sweat breaking out on the back of his neck.
’Eeeek, what is with that gaze?!’ he thought frantically, his heart hammering against his ribs
’Stop looking at me like you want to flay me alive!’