Poison and loneliness.

Four days ago.

The Meridian family manor stood still in the morning fog, like a frozen memory.

Stone walls that had seen too much. Silent. Watching. Judging.

In a room on the second floor, Illya lay on a wide bed. Her breathing was shallow, faintly trembling from illness. Her cheeks were pale, lips nearly blue. And yet, her back remained straight. Her gaze — unyielding.

Noble blood doesn’t allow surrender. Not even to pain.

The door opened. Her father entered — Roger von Meridian.

Tall, sharp like a drawn blade. His eyes, cold as fractured ice, swept across the room and landed on her.

“You must not be sick, Illya,” he said flatly. “Weakness is an error.”

“Yes, Father. I apologize,” she whispered.

He didn’t come closer. He didn’t touch her. He didn’t even linger.

He simply turned and walked out.

Tears were not accepted in this house. Only results were.

Then came her mother, Anna von Meridian — elegant, flawless, and just as cold. She placed a silver tray on the table and left without a word.

Once again, Illya was alone.

---

“Lady Illya, I’ve brought your tea.”

A gentle voice broke the silence.

Frederich Macalister. Her tutor, caretaker, family confidant... and traitor.

He had raised her. Told her stories. Hid her when she wanted to escape the world. Brought her books. Made her smile.

But behind all of that — was the snake.

A loyal agent of the Eye of Truth, a secret cult hidden in the depths of the Ador Forest.

Their dogma: purge the world of distortions.

And the greatest distortion of all? The Blood of the Ancients — a cursed legacy of ancient sorcerers, passed down through bloodlines. Power. Memory. Madness.

Three weeks ago, their spies confirmed Illya was a carrier.

“Yes, Frederich. Come in,” she said with a tired smile.

He bowed with perfect grace.

“Your health is my utmost duty, my lady,” he said, handing her the cup.

Inside — a drop of demon brew. Not poison. Something worse. A potion designed to awaken the Blood of the Ancients, reshaping the soul. It wouldn’t kill her.

It would change her.

“Would you like a story?” he asked.

“Like when I was little,” she nodded, wrapping herself in a blanket.

He spoke. About a distant land. Two sisters torn apart by fate.

She listened.

They smiled. Laughed even.

But the brew was already dripping into her mind, slow and relentless, like water on stone.

And Frederich waited.

He had waited for eight long years.

---

That evening, a healer arrived — summoned by the family.

A young mage, his palms glowing with sacred circles.

“Please,” Illya said quietly.

The magic flowed through her body. It eased her pain. But the corruption… it was deeper.

Not in the flesh — but in her blood.

Whispers stirred. Symbols danced behind her eyes. Words she’d never learned echoed in her head.

The healer left, satisfied.

Illya rose from bed and walked to the window.

The city was sleeping. Lanterns flickered like lost souls in the fog.

Somewhere far away, a guardian beast growled.

But here… it was far too quiet.

“…Marianne,” she whispered.

A face came to her — smiling, honest.

Her childhood friend. A commoner. The only one with whom Illya could be herself.

But she hadn’t chosen her. That day… Illya chose duty. Not friendship.

The Rose family was exiled. No one knew if they still lived.

“If I had chosen differently… maybe everything would be different,” she murmured.

She sank to her knees.

Buried her face in her pillow.

And cried.

Softly. Without sound.

The kind of tears born not from pain, but from a life spent alone.

---

Outside the door, Frederich stood listening.

“You have no idea who you are,” he whispered. “You carry the blood of those who built and destroyed empires. And once it awakens…”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

“…you won’t be Illya anymore. You’ll become what lies beneath her.”

He turned and vanished into the night.

Leaving only silence behind.

And a single drop of change.

---

I

llya still sat by the window.

Staring into the darkness.

And thinking:

> “If this blood isn’t mine…

Then who am I?”