As the eldest daughter of the Verenth family, Eiravyne's life was bound by the most stringent and complex restrictions.
From a young age, she was subjected to relentless abuse, both physical and emotional, at the hands of her parents and even her siblings, Thomas and Isabella.
Her father, a man of harsh discipline, often berated her for the smallest infractions, deeming her every action as inadequate.
He believed that strict control was the key to maintaining the family's honor, and Eiravyne bore the brunt of his relentless expectations.
The punishments were severe: beatings that left bruises, and isolation that made her feel invisible.
Her mother, cold and indifferent, seldom offered any affection. Instead, she criticized Eiravyne's appearance, telling her she was plain and unworthy.
She would force Eiravyne to wear uncomfortable, restrictive clothing that seemed designed to accentuate her flaws rather than hide them.
"You're not pretty enough to wear anything better," her mother would say, each word cutting deeper than the last.
Thomas and Isabella, though younger, took every opportunity to belittle her. They mocked her manner of speaking, calling her "stupid" and "slow" whenever she stuttered or hesitated.
They would sabotage her belongings, tearing her books and breaking her cherished possessions, relishing in her helpless reactions.
They even ganged up on her during family gatherings, ensuring she was the constant butt of their cruel jokes.
Eiravyne's self-esteem was shattered, her sense of worth eroded by years of mistreatment.
She doubted her looks, feeling perpetually ugly and inadequate. She second-guessed every word she spoke, convinced it would be wrong or foolish.
Her thoughts were filled with self-loathing, believing that she was the problem, the reason for her family's cruelty.
In moments of extreme stress or fear, her mind would turn to self harm and sacrifice as a twisted solution.
She believed that by hurting herself, she could somehow make things better, alleviate the tension, or perhaps atone for her perceived failures.
It was the only way she had been taught to cope, the only control she felt she had over her life.
This upbringing had left her vulnerable and submissive, unable to stand up for herself or believe in her own worth.
By the time Eiravyne turned sixteen, her parents made it clear she would not be introduced to society even when years later introduced her little sister and were so happy with her engagement to a wealthy noble family.
They refused all engagement proposals from other families, isolating her further. Her father insisted she would stay with the family, while her mother cruelly told her that no man would ever fall in love with her.
Eiravyne believed every word, internalizing their disdain and accepting her fate.
She had never met a man outside of her family and the people who worked for them.
That night, Eiravyne was haunted by relentless nightmares, vivid and cruel memories of her parents' abusive treatment.
In her dreams, she relived the harsh punishments, the cutting words, and the isolating loneliness that had defined her upbringing.
Each scene played out with agonizing clarity, her father's angry face, her mother's cold disdain, and the mocking laughter of her siblings.
She saw herself, a younger version, cowering in fear as her father yelled at her for a minor mistake.
She felt the sting of her mother's biting remarks, the coldness of her siblings' indifference.
The dreams were relentless, a nonstop barrage of the torment she had endured.
When Eiravyne finally awoke, it was with a choked sob. She sat up in bed, her body trembling, tears streaming down her face.
The room was dark and silent, but the echoes of her nightmares lingered, making her feel as though the walls were closing in on her.
She couldn't escape the overwhelming guilt and shame that had been drilled into her by her family.
"I'm sorry," she whispered into the darkness, her voice cracking with desperation. "I'm so sorry."
She apologized for things that weren't even her fault.
"I didn't mean to," she sobbed, clutching the blankets tightly as if they could offer some comfort. "I didn't mean to be so useless."
"The Romani tried to drain all of my blood at once," Eiravyne whispered to herself, her voice trembling.
Sweat beaded on her forehead as the memories of their frantic rush to use her blood resurfaced.
"They were in such a hurry, they didn't care if it killed me. I had no choice but to run, to survive."
She shivered, her fear palpable as she thought of Ilkar Skivarion, the Duke of Wandova. His cold, calculating demeanor was a stark contrast to the Romani's desperation.
"But the Duke of Wandova... he's different," she muttered, her hands shaking. "He doesn't act out of haste. He's planning to sustain himself on my blood, to drain it slowly until the last drop."
Eiravyne felt a wave of dread wash over her, her heart pounding in her chest. Running away wasn't an option, not now.
She knew that any attempt to escape would only end in failure.
"At least... not now," she whispered, trying to steady her breathing.
"I have to find out what's so special about my blood," Eiravyne thought, her mind racing.
"Only a few families can use magic—the Romani family is one of them. And now, with everyone calling me a Sangrever….. Finally, I have some answers. I was never a Verenth. …That's why Mom, Dad, and everyone else treated me so badly."
A bitter realization settled over her. "I wonder why they even bothered to raise me as a member of their family. They could have just locked me in a dungeon and used my blood as they pleased. It would have been easier for me that way," she mused, a hint of sadness in her voice.
The cruelty of her past felt even more senseless now, knowing the truth.
She lifted her hands in front of her, staring at them with a mix of frustration and bewilderment.
"What is so special about this cursed blood," she muttered, "that makes everyone so desperate to claim me?"
At that moment, a surge of defiance coursed through Eiravyne. The realization that all her misery with the Verenth family had been for nothing ignited a burning hatred within her.
She stood on shaky legs, her thoughts clouded with rage and despair. The vulnerability she felt in front of everyone infuriated her.
Without thinking, she lashed out, her fist connecting with the large mirror in her room.
It shattered, sending shards of glass clattering to the floor. Eiravyne picked up a jagged fragment, her eyes almost dead with determination.
"If I can't run away," she muttered, her voice trembling but resolute, "then I won't let you be satisfied with using this blood."
With a swift motion, she pressed the sharp edge against her wrist and cut, a thin line of crimson welling up instantly.