SILVER CLAN
She yanked the delicate hairpin from her locks with a fierce, almost violent determination, casting it aside as if it were a shackle weighing her down. One by one, her jewelry followed, discarded like meaningless trinkets, the once-treasured pieces clattering to the floor, abandoned in the throes of her turmoil. Her thumb found its way to her lips, and she bit down hard, the pressure a futile attempt to stifle the storm of emotions raging within her. Her gaze, dark and tempestuous, locked onto the gown she wore, as though the very fabric had betrayed her. It's purpose all but washed away
The dress, once a symbol of what he and her shared, now felt like a cruel mockery, its shimmering elegance fueling the fire of jealousy that burned within her soul. Every second that passed only served to fan the flames, each breath she took intensifying the inferno of rage and frustration that twisted in her gut like a coiled serpent ready to strike. Anger simmered beneath the surface, barely contained, as her heart pounded in her chest, echoing the fury that coursed through her veins. She was on the brink, teetering on the edge of a precipice, and the gown—once so cherished—had become a symbol of everything she loathed, everything that reminded her of her perceived inadequacies.
"Miss,"
The voice of the maid cut through the haze of her thoughts, but before she could fully process it, she reacted. Her sword was in her hand in an instant, the blade slicing through the air with lethal precision, stopping just inches from the maid's trembling head. The terror in the maid's eyes was palpable, her body quaking with fear as she collapsed to her knees, her voice a desperate plea for forgiveness before she scrambled away, her footsteps echoing in the silence that followed.
"Why? Why?" she wailed, her voice breaking as she slumped onto the edge of her opulent bed. The bed was vast, adorned with the finest silks and plush pillows, its silver canopy draped in shimmering, delicate netting that hung like a cage around her. But the luxurious surroundings offered no comfort; they felt cold, suffocating, a prison of her own making. Her legs twitched restlessly, her nerves frayed to the breaking point as she bit down on her lip, hard enough to draw blood, the metallic taste mingling with her tears.
"WHY?!"
The word tore from her throat in a ragged scream, echoing through the room like a desperate plea to the universe. "Why? How?" she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, as the memories of the evening replayed in her mind with brutal clarity. The hall, the laughter, the way Roderan had spoken to her, his tone so informal, so dismissive. They had grown up together, shared countless moments, and yet tonight, he had looked at her as though she were nothing more than a stranger. The realization gnawed at her, hollowing her out from the inside, leaving her with a suffocating sense of inadequacy.
What did that woman have that she didn't? The question echoed in her mind, relentless and unforgiving. She is a mere mortal, she thought bitterly, her teeth grinding together. I am superior to her in every way, and yet…
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of another voice calling her name. Her anger flared again, hotter this time, more uncontrolled. "What do you people want?!" she screamed, her voice cracking under the weight of her emotions. "Haven't I told you to leave me alone?"
"It's me, Isolde," Isadora's voice replied gently. Isolde's fury melted away in an instant, replaced by a flood of tears that she could no longer hold back. She rushed to the door, flinging it open, and collapsed into Isodora's arms, the tears streaming down her cheeks, the storm within her finally finding release.
"What should I do, Mom?" Isolde cried out, clinging desperately to her mother. "He never even noticed me!" Her voice was laced with pain, her grip on Isadora tightening as if she could squeeze the hurt away. Isadora's eyes softened as she looked at her daughter, her heart heavy with the weight of unspoken memories. She too had once loved a man who chose another, and she knew all too well that such wounds did not easily heal.
Isolde crumpled into her mother's lap, her sobs shaking her slender frame as Isadora gently stroked her head. But after a moment, she paused, lifting her daughter's face to meet her gaze.
"Don't lose yourself, my dear. I know it's hard," Isadora said her voice firm but tender. "But don't give up before you've even begun. For now, you should be glad."
"Glad?" Isolde's voice trembled with disbelief. "How could I possibly be glad?"
"Yes," Isadora affirmed, her tone measured. "Thanks to that woman, Roderan has left the Strategic House and seems to be returning to his former self. You could see it as a blessing in disguise."
Isolde frowned, confused by her mother's words, sniffling as Isadora gently wiped the tears from her cheeks.
"All we need to do is remove her before she acquires her Immortal Bone," Isadora continued, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper.
"What do you mean?" Isolde asked, her confusion deepening. But Isadora only offered a cryptic smile.
"It's nothing for you to worry about," she assured her. "All you need to do is maintain your composure and leave the rest to me."
Isolde tried to smile, though it felt forced, and she collapsed back into her mother's embrace. Isadora held her close, feeling the weight of the past pressing down on her. Isolde was her pride and joy, especially after the miscarriage and the crushing news that she could bear no more children. The devastation had been overwhelming, but she had poured all her love and hopes into her one surviving child. And now, to see a mere mortal threaten everything she had worked so hard for, simply because of some twist of fate—it was intolerable.
She patted her daughter's head soothingly, feeling Isolde's cries begin to subside, though her hands still clung tightly to her dress.
"You just wait, Hanzel," Isadora muttered under her breath, her voice simmering with barely contained fury. "I will make you all pay for what you've done to us." She ground her teeth, the anger seething within her, but she forced herself to remain composed. For her daughter's sake, she had to stay in control, to keep her emotions in check. The time for vengeance would come, but for now, she needed to be strong.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
The room was thick with tension, a suffocating blend of hatred, anger, and seething rage. The three grand elders struggled to maintain their composure, but the intensity of their emotions was visible. Beneath the surface, they each harbored a desire to unleash their fury, a fact betrayed by the tight clenching of their fists. The silence that hung in the air was deafening, filled with unspoken words boiling just beneath the surface.
"Imbeciles!" one of the elders finally erupted, his voice trembling with barely restrained wrath. Golden energy crackled around him, seeping through his body as his hands gripped the chair arms with such force that they splintered. The broken pieces of wood floated in mid-air, suspended by his spirit energy before they were violently hurled across the room, embedding themselves into the marble walls. The sheer force of his power sent the curtains billowing and flung the doors wide open.
"Please, calm yourself, Uncle," Isadora urged gently, her tone laced with concern. The elder, with his long, well-tied white hair and slender face adorned by a flowing white beard, took a deep breath, reining in his power as his almond-shaped eyes glinted with suppressed rage.
"We must act, Elvert," the woman elder interjected, her voice tinged with urgency. She was clad in a meticulously crafted hanfu dress, its delicate floral patterns. "We can't let this insult go unanswered."
"Do you think I'm unaware, May?" Elvert snapped, his voice rough with frustration as he slammed his fist onto the remains of his chair. "Just because they are the Dragneel clan, they think they can defy us with impunity..." His fury surged again, and his once neatly bound hair broke free, whipping around him in response to the energy he could barely contain.
"We can't act against them directly," the calm elder interjected, his voice measured, though he was clearly the smallest in stature among them. "The Dragneels hold too much power, not just within the immortal realm but across the other realms as well." He paused, his eyes narrowing. "And that man, he favors Roderan. We must tread carefully."
"It doesn't matter," the elder with the distorted eye and the scarred face sneered, a dark smirk curling his lips. "Our target is the mortal bride. She's the key to bringing down the most prestigious clan in existence." The sinister delight in his voice was unmistakable.
Isadora watched them in silence, her thoughts racing. She had always known that a day would come when she would need to eliminate Hanzel. The mere thought of the mortal woman filled her with loathing, a loathing so intense that it had driven her to contact the elders in secret, hiding her intentions from her own clan. She had to act before her daughter's fate mirrored her own. As she exhaled slowly, her gaze drifted to the large clan pendant hanging on the wall, its presence a solemn reminder of her heritage. She crossed her legs with the grace and poise expected of her station, though her frown deepened with each passing moment.
A soft chime interrupted her thoughts, and she tilted her head slightly as a voice announced, "Ma'am, a messenger has arrived."
ROWAN
Fuck!!!
I run my finger slowly across my lips, still feeling the ghost of his kiss lingering there, burning into my memory.
"Aaah!" I cry out, my voice breaking as the realization crashes over me. "My first kiss… and I gave it to him!" The words escape in a frantic whisper, and I bury my face in the pillow, muffling a scream of frustration. My hands ball into fists, pounding against the soft fabric as I try to escape the embarrassment flooding my veins. My heart races, and the image of us, locked in that forbidden moment, refuses to leave my mind.
"Eww!" I gasp, pushing myself up from the bed. The humiliation is too much to bear. I grab the nearest pillow, clutching it to my chest, then slam it down over my head, biting the corner in a futile attempt to silence my thoughts.
"Miss?" Tara's voice cuts through the storm, pulling me back to reality. She stands there, wide-eyed, clearly confused by my erratic behavior.
I turn to her, desperation written all over my face. "What should I do?" The words come out in a panicked rush, barely making sense. "I… I didn't just kiss him… I…" My voice trails off, and I collapse back onto the bed, the soft mattress catching me as I fall. My head spins as I slap a hand against my forehead, groaning in disbelief. My legs kick out in frustration, then fall limp, spread out on the bed as I stare up at the ceiling.
And then, I see him again, clear as day. His half-naked body glistened with water, his hair damp and tousled, those perfectly shaped lips hovering above mine. I can still feel the warmth of his kiss, the way it sends shivers down my spine. My fingers trace my lips again, and my heart thuds wildly, refusing to calm down.
No, this can't be happening! I sit up suddenly, the sheets tangled around me as I stare at Tara with wide, panicked eyes. My hair, now a tangled mess, falls over my face, but I barely notice. My lips tremble, and I can't stop the words from spilling out.
"Tara… I kissed him." My voice is a soft whisper, tinged with disbelief, as I slap a hand over my mouth. "And… I… I think I love…" The words choke in my throat, and I collapse back onto the bed, my body trembling as I cover my face with my hands. My legs kick aimlessly, my mind spinning with the memory of that kiss, the way my body had responded without thinking.
The worst part? I didn't stop him. I didn't push him away. No, I kissed him back, with everything I had, holding onto him like he was my lifeline. And now… I'm drowning in the aftermath.
"Aaaah!" I scream into the pillow, thrashing around on the bed as if I can somehow escape the truth. But no matter how much I twist and turn, his images, and our kiss haunt me.
**
Bloody hell!!
My fucking head beats like a drum, each pulse so intense it feels like it might explode. The throbbing is relentless, echoing in my skull. I slightly blow the straps of hair, across my face.
"Morning…" I manage to croak out, only to be met with a deafening scream from Tara. She looks taller somehow, her scream so piercing that it feels like it's splitting my already aching head. The pain intensifies, radiating through my entire body. Tara's face is twisted in that 'what the hell' expression, which only makes me feel worse.
Lifting my hand and trying to move my shoulder sends a sharp, excruciating pain ripping through me, so intense that it makes me sob. I clutch my shoulder, trying to hold it in place, but the agony is overwhelming, making every tiny movement feel like torture.
"Ooooh!! That hurts,"
Tara rushes to me, her hands quickly pulling me up, and that's when I realize I had been lying on the floor.
"It's a dislocation, Miss," she says, her tone a mix of concern and mild scolding. "That's what happens when you sleep on the floor." She positions herself, one hand on my shoulder and the other on my wrist, steadying me. "On the count of three," she instructs.
I bite down hard on the pillow, bracing myself as she readies to act. "One…" she begins, but before I can prepare for the pain, she abruptly adjusts my shoulder. A sharp, searing pain shoots through my body, and I scream out, yanking my hand away as I curse under my breath.
"The last time you slept on the floor was after that argument with your father," Tara reminds me, her voice tinged with amusement. "You complained the whole night. So, what happened this time?" She looks at me expectantly, but I only glare at her, too irritated and in pain to respond.
I attempt to move my legs, but the sensation is unbearable, like hundreds of invisible thorns piercing through my skin. Wincing, I limp back and sit up, grabbing my feet as I try to massage away the pain. Tara, meanwhile, walks over to the wardrobe, rummaging through the piles of gifts that now clutter the room. Since Roderan brought me back, I've been receiving an overwhelming amount of them. Tara told me that the entire courtyard had been overflowing with gifts. It seems like everyone in the Dragneel clan had something to offer, and considering that the Dragneel clan owns an entire mountain—the largest portion of Etral—it's no surprise.
There's a legend that the Dragneel clan are direct descendants of the first True Deity Immortal, the strongest immortal who ever lived. And there was yet another powerful immortal from their bloodline. Simply put, they are the pinnacle of all immortals.
The house I'm currently staying in belongs to Roderan. It's called the Wraith Houseyard, a vast marble mansion with only five rooms. He stays here with Roylee, although she rarely shows herself or even sleeps here, so I practically have the entire place to myself—well, with Tara and the maid who appears during the day. I hardly ever see Roderan.
Just as I'm lost in thought, I hear a soft knock at the door, followed by Athera's unmistakable giggles.
___________________________________________________________________________________
My head spins as the Empress and Athera eagerly pull me forward. In front of us, about forty guards stand ready, their armor gleaming. A grand chariot, adorned with gold and pulled by five white horses, waits to take me to the Academy, right from the Jade Festival.
I've heard disciples are flocking to the Academy, but I still can't shake the unease I feel.
"The way to the Academy can be challenging, and the teachers there are so boring," Her Majesty says with a bright smile. "So, I'll accompany you."
"And I will too!" Athera adds, pulling me closer to her side, her body pressing against mine. I try to pull away, but the heavy, jeweled hanfu I'm wearing makes it difficult. The weight of the fabric and the gems feels like it's holding me down.
Mmmmhhh!!!
I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself.
"I get it, okay? I understand everything you're saying, but why are you tagging along?" I turn to face the Lord, his smirk growing wider as he casually drags his feet beside us. He's dressed in a golden robe that flows over a crisp white shirt, black pants, and polished white royal boots that reflect the sunlight.
"Don't mind me," he replies, the smirk deepening into something more mischievous. "It just so happens that I have some business to attend to there as well." His tone is nonchalant, but the glint in his eyes tells me there's more to it.
I sigh, ready to argue further, but before I can speak, Roderan appears. His presence is commanding, and he's not alone—Lang and Darialla stand by his side.
"Father, Mother, Athera," Roderan greets them with a firm, steady voice as he strides towards us. "Please, let's maintain some decorum. Rowan will be heading to the Academy to be assessed and selected based on her own merits, not through connections."
His voice remains calm, but there's an unmistakable edge to it, a subtle warning that makes me nod in agreement, almost instinctively. Before I realize it, I'm rushing to his side.
"Miss Rowan will be escorted to the Academy by Lang and Darialla," Roderan continues, his gaze sweeping over everyone with authority. "The rest of you, I kindly ask to return to your yards."