"An arrogant act," I began, my voice steady yet dripping with disdain, "is to offend someone you don't know, with no evidence or reason to back it up, simply to satisfy your shallow, fragile ego. It's the kind of act you make when you need to delude yourself into believing that you have some sort of justification for hating me. But in reality, you have no justification at all. None. You have absolutely nothing. Or do you think it's arrogant to defend yourself when someone launches baseless provocations against you, all with the sole intent of damaging your public image? These provocations are nothing more than the product of childish misbehavior, with no intent to understand the actual situation or make any effort to unravel the truth behind it. It's the kind of attack designed to make you look bad for the sake of someone's petty vendetta. So, tell me, Your Highness, what do you consider truly arrogant?"
Her gasp was sharp and filled with offense, but it was more than just her. I could feel the tension in the room thicken, like a wave washing over everyone who stood witness. The space between us seemed to shrink as the air became heavier with anticipation. Everyone, it seemed, was waiting for her response.
"No reason to hate you?" she hissed, her voice seething with venom as her eyes narrowed with a sharp, icy glare. "You killed my sister."
The words hit me like a slap to the face, but I didn't flinch. Instead, I met her gaze with cold determination. I snapped back without a second thought, my tone razor-sharp. "Am I God?"
The silence that followed was thick, oppressive, and for a moment, I saw the shock ripple through her expression. Her eyes widened, a flicker of confusion and anger flashing across her face as she whispered, "Excuse me?"
I didn't give her a chance to gather herself before I repeated the question, this time more forcefully. "Am I a God?" I said, my voice cutting through the air with undeniable authority. "Because if I am, please, enlighten me. I'm completely clueless about possessing the power to cause the Rosé disease in anyone. Not in my worst nightmares would I even think I had such a gift. Let alone the power to curse my best friend with it. If my memory serves me correctly, twelve years ago, the Gods' temple issued an official statement regarding the disease. They clarified that it comes unknowingly, only according to the Gods' judgment, and that it takes three years before symptoms even appear. They also declared it a chronic and incurable illness."
I could feel my anger rising, my fists clenching tightly at my sides. I took a slow, deliberate step forward, closing the distance between us. My muscles tensed, my voice now sharp with the sting of frustration. "But please, do tell me—am I a God? Because if I am, I've somehow missed that memo. I've missed the part where I get to decide who suffers from the Rosé disease. According to all of you, I killed the Princess, right? But according to the official physicians at the Gods' temple, her death was caused by the Rosé disease. So are you suggesting that I caused it? That I'm the one responsible for it? Do you honestly think I have that kind of power? Please, answer me—am I a God? Or are you, Princess Ismene Zara Maximilian, now contesting an official statement made by the Gods' temple itself?"
I watched as her breath caught, and I could feel the anger boiling in her, rising like a storm ready to explode. Without warning, she charged at me. Her hand came up, and I felt the sharp sting of her slap across my cheek. The force was so strong that it caused my blindfold to slip down, falling to the floor. And for the briefest moment, everything stilled. The world seemed to freeze, and in that frozen instant, our eyes locked. It was like a surge of raw energy coursed through my veins, as if my very soul was overwhelmed by the power within me. Blood tears began to roll down my cheeks, staining my skin, as I lost control of my body to the force that overtook me.
※※※※※※
"Grandma, please, don't leave us," a grown man, blonde and visibly distraught, cried out, his voice thick with emotion. He stood at the side of a massive, ornate bed where the elderly form of Ismene lay, a sight that hit me like a punch to the gut. The room around her was filled with people—about fifteen adults, their features varying from black and blonde hair to red and lilac eyes. I could feel my spine shiver as I looked at them. They weren't strangers. They couldn't be. These people were my family now—my extended family, by the twisted workings of fate. It dawned on me with a sinking feeling that Ismene had married my brother, Rai. These people were my nephews, grand-nephews, and possibly more distant relations.
The thought of Ismene as my sister-in-law churned in my stomach like sour bile. I couldn't bear the idea.
Around the adults were another twenty-three young adults and teens, all with similar features—some variations, but enough to make it clear they were all connected by blood. To the side, a group of more than thirty children—toddlers, tots, and younger faces—stood together, each one a reminder of the family that had grown, whether I liked it or not.
"She lived a long life, kids," the doctor said softly, his voice weighted with the grief of the moment.
"She's been struggling since father died years ago," a man with blonde hair and lilac eyes added, his voice laced with sorrow.
"What was the cause, Dr. Karos?" A black-haired woman, older than most, but with red eyes like mine and Rai's, cried out desperately. Her voice trembled with the pain of the loss, and I couldn't help but feel a twinge of envy at her visible sorrow.
"The Princess passed away from a heart attack while she was sleeping," the doctor explained, his voice gentle yet firm. "She didn't feel a thing. It was a peaceful death. She lived to ninety-nine."
"She's with father now," another older man, with black hair and red eyes, spoke up, his voice thick with sorrow. His eyes were swollen, his face marked by the signs of a heavy and relentless grief. The sadness was palpable, and it only deepened the melancholy that hung in the room.
Ismene had been two years younger than Rai, which meant she was a year younger than me. Rai was always one year older than I was. I knew that. If Ismene had lived to ninety-nine, it would be Rai next. He would die at eighty-eight, thirteen years before the vision. The thought was unsettling, to say the least.
"They are together in heaven," an older woman with blonde hair and red eyes, who looked strangely like me, said softly, her voice full of sorrow. Her words, though meant to comfort, only deepened the weight in the room.
※※※※※※
When I finally regained control of my body, I felt a shiver run through me, a deep, unsettling tremor that coursed through every fiber of my being. My limbs were stiff, my muscles trembling from the aftermath of the chaos I had just endured. Someone was holding me, their arms around me, offering protection in the midst of the madness that had ensued. My mind was foggy, and my head pounded as if a thousand hammers were striking my skull. I blinked, trying to clear my vision, the dizziness still clouding my thoughts.
When my eyes finally focused, I realized that it was Rai holding me. His arms were strong, wrapping around me like a shield. He had caught me as I fell from my chair, and I felt the warmth of his presence grounding me in the midst of the storm. Gently, he used his handkerchief to wipe the blood tears from my face, his touch soft and reassuring in the chaos.
The noise in the room was growing louder, and it felt like a suffocating weight pressing down on me. My head throbbed, the sound of voices, gasps, and cries merging into a cacophony that made my pain unbearable.
"I... mommy... I didn't mean it," Ismene's voice broke through the noise, desperate and filled with regret. Her words came out in frantic sobs. "It was... accidental."
I turned my gaze toward her, my voice hoarse as I tried to push past the pain. "No one slaps someone else accidentally, Your Highness," I said, my words cutting through the air, bitter and filled with a sorrow of my own. Every part of me hurt, the physical pain a sharp reminder of everything I had just experienced. The ache in my body was nothing compared to the turmoil in my soul.