Altered Destinies.

The enormous gates of the Ravencout Manor swung open, revealing a grand hall bathed in

brilliance and majesty. Golden chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling, their light reflecting

across the marble surfaces and the finely carved details along the walls.

The echo of footsteps resonated through corridors adorned with white marble and

silver-lined pillars. One by one, nobles entered the ceremonial hall of House Ravencout,

guided by butlers and servants who announced their titles with formality and precision.

“His Grace, Duke Herrington, Patriarch of House Herrington, and his consort.”

“Viscount Larel, of the Southern Province.”

“Baroness Elise von Aster…”

The voices followed one after another, filling the air with an aura of prestige and tradition.

Nobles exchanged restrained greetings—some offering polite, calculated smiles, others

wearing masks of cordial indifference.

Though the hall held many guests, it was far from crowded. Only those directly tied to House

Ravencout—or possessing significant influence within the Empire—had been summoned to

witness this ceremony. It was a momentous event, yet private, reserved for chosen eyes

only.

Soon, three figures stepped into the center of the great hall, all dressed in ceremonial

garments, making it clear they were the descendants of the Ravencout family.

Lysielle walked with steady steps, flanked by her brothers. Her chin was raised, her posture

immaculate, as the occasion demanded—but beneath that composed exterior, excitement

simmered. After all, this day would decide everything.

Amidst the greetings and formalities, one figure caught her attention.

A distinguished man, already of advanced age, with long, neatly combed silver hair. He wore

a dark, refined coat trimmed with subtle golden lines.

His blue eyes radiated a presence both serene and commanding—yet somehow, comforting.

Leonhardt von Ainsworth.

He was not merely a respected name among the upper circles—he was the one who had,

for years, been her mentor. The man who shaped her mastery of magic, etiquette, strategy,

and discipline.

Without breaking the formality of the setting, Leonhardt made a brief, elegant gesture—two

fingers to his lapel, then a soft touch to his chin. A subtle signal, almost imperceptible, but

one she understood perfectly.

Lysielle hid a smile, straightened her posture, and in that moment, her confidence solidified.

The faint trembling of the stained glass under the wind contrasted with the hushed

conversations echoing through the hall:

“So… the new generation of Ravencout heirs finally presents itself.”

“I heard the eldest daughter is… a monster of talent.”

“Not a monster—divine. They say she was born under three celestial omens…”

At the center of the hall, three intricate magic circles—drawn in silver lines and adorned with

blue gemstones—awaited the heirs. Behind them, the ancestral altar of the Ravencout

lineage pulsed faintly, as if it already sensed what was about to unfold.

Then, from the top of the staircase, accompanied by a stern-looking butler, came the figure

that made every conversation die instantly.

Gilbert Ravencout.

The Patriarch of the family. Dressed in a black mantle detailed with silver and blue, he

descended the steps slowly. His cold gaze scanned each face in the hall—commanding

respect, and radiating a suffocating tension.

The butler stepped forward and, in a ceremonious tone, announced:

“Welcome to the initiation ceremony of the heirs of House Ravencout.”

His voice rang out—strong and precise. “Today, we bear witness as the firstborn of this

generation form their first spiritual TOON pact—a moment that will seal their paths as true

descendants of pure blood.”

He paused briefly before continuing:

“This event reflects not only our tradition but also our responsibility before the world. For…

each generation bears the burden of surpassing the one before.”

As the butler stepped aside, Gilbert advanced, stopping directly before the three glowing

circles. His gaze swept the gathered nobles.

“Let it be clear…” his voice was like steel. “The eyes of the world are upon us. My

children—Caine, Vellatrice…” his gaze tightened slightly, “…and you, Lysielle.”

The name of the eldest daughter carried more weight than any sound in that hall.

“From you three, I expect competence, strength… and excellence. But you, Lysielle…”—his tone sharpened—“…from you, I expect more than perfection. You possess a talent that

transcends understanding.

You are not merely a daughter of this family… you are the apex of our lineage.”

A restrained frenzy spread. Nobles whispered, bowing their heads slightly—as if even

speaking might be dangerous.

“The apex… did he really say that?”

“Lysielle… the prodigy that appears once in a millennium…”

“If she truly lives up to it, there will be no name above the Ravencouts in this Empire…”

The three siblings stood before the altar, dressed in white robes with cobalt-blue

accents—symbols of the purity of their lineage and the bond with primordial mana.

While Caine’s expression was rigid and Vellatrice wore a cold, confident smile, Lysielle

remained calm, her eyes fixed on the circle before her.

The family’s elder, holding the sacred grimoire, stepped forward. His voice carried the weight

of solemnity:

“Lysielle Ravencout, firstborn daughter of House Ravencout… you have permission to begin

your spiritual invocation.”

She took a deep breath, stepped forward, and raised her hands over the glowing circle. Her

gaze was unwavering.

All eyes were upon her. The prodigy. The legend in the making.

And then—her hands traced an ancient sigil in the air.

The circle trembled, pulsing faster and faster, mana flaring like waves of blue fire. Symbols

of ancient script spiraled around her as if the air itself acknowledged her presence.

Her chant continued:

“…Let the connection be forged, and the eternal bond take form… O destined entity, heed

the call of my spirit…”

A blinding light filled the hall. Many shielded their eyes; others stared, enthralled, expecting

the birth of a legendary creature.

The circle cracked—and at its center, a small sphere of flickering light appeared. When it

dimmed, the truth was revealed.

Floating gently amid golden mist… was a fairy.

No bigger than the palm of a hand, with translucent wings and pointed ears. Its eyes

sparkled like tiny stars. When it saw Lysielle, it let out a soft, high-pitched “Pii~.”

Silence. A suffocating silence that stretched for long seconds.

Then came the whispers.

“…What…?”

“This… this must be a joke.”

“It can’t be… the invocation of the firstborn?”

“Wasn’t she the absolute prodigy of the Ravencouts…?”

Whispers turned into stifled chuckles. Then laughter—quiet, but sharp enough to cut the air.

Lysielle’s once-steady eyes trembled. She stared at the tiny creature in disbelief, feeling the

crushing weight of countless gazes.

Then came footsteps—quick, firm.

Her father, Gilbert Ravencout, turned without a word and left the hall. The sound of his cloak

dragging across the marble felt like a verdict.

Her mother, Lady Elowen, remained still—pale, distant, her gaze unfocused. She didn’t even

look at Lysielle.

And her siblings…

Vellatrice pressed a hand to her lips, failing miserably to hide a grin. Her eyes gleamed with

pure, malicious delight.

Caine crossed his arms, smirking faintly. “Tch… so that’s our prodigy?” he muttered, just loud

enough for nearby nobles to hear.

The hall erupted.

“Unbelievable…”

“A total failure… is she truly of Ravencout blood?”

The shame spread like wildfire. Lysielle’s heart pounded violently. Her throat tightened. Tears

burned behind her eyes—but she refused to let them fall.

Across the hall, near a column, Leonhardt von Ainsworth inclined his head slightly—just

enough for her to notice.

A silent message: Go. It’s all right.

Lysielle understood.

She took a trembling breath, adjusted her dress, and turned away. At first, she walked

quickly—trying to keep her composure—but soon, she couldn’t anymore.

She ran.

Down the side corridor, bursting through a door, her steps echoed like thunder in the empty

halls.

Behind her, laughter erupted.

“Pfft—HAHAHAHAHA!!” Vellatrice’s laughter filled the air. “Is this real?! Our prodigy sister…

summoned a toy fairy?!”

Others tried to restrain themselves, but the mockery spread.

“HAHAHA!!”

“By the gods… what a disgrace!”

“I never thought I’d live to see this day…”

The ridicule became an avalanche. Nobles laughed, whispered, and sneered.

Caine sighed, glancing aside. “Pathetic,” he muttered, his contempt barely masked.

Only when Lady Elowen’s icy gaze swept the hall did the laughter die. Even nobles of status

bowed their heads, silenced by her presence.

But Lysielle was already gone—running, crying, the world collapsing around her.

“Why…?” she thought desperately. “Why me…? Why now…?”

A lifetime of training. Endless mornings before dawn. Sleepless nights beneath the moon.

Years of sacrifice… for this.

Everything she lived for—shattered in an instant.

She slammed her bedroom door, throwing herself onto the bed, clutching the pillow until her

knuckles whitened.

Even behind closed doors, the laughter still echoed in her mind.

“Why… me…?” she whispered, voice cracking.

Her body trembled. Hot tears streamed down her face, each one a fragment of everything

she had built—and lost.

Then, in the haze of despair, she felt something small touch her hair.

Turning slowly, she saw the tiny fairy hovering above her.

Without a word, it gently patted her head—softly, as if saying: It’s okay.

That simple gesture… broke something inside her.

Lysielle laughed—weakly, between tears.

“You… you don’t have to comfort me,” she whispered.

The fairy twirled in the air, tapped her forehead lightly, and chirped again.

“Pii~!”

Lysielle smiled faintly, wiping her tears. “Auri,” she whispered. “Your name will be Auri.”

The little fairy spun happily, its wings scattering faint trails of golden light as if celebrating.

“Pii~! Pii~!”

Lysielle cupped Auri in her hands, pressing her close to her chest as if protecting the only

thing she had left.

“Thank you, Auri…” she murmured. “Thank you… for staying with me.”

And in that moment—even if the world had collapsed outside—Lysielle felt, for the first time

since her humiliation, that maybe… just maybe… she wasn’t truly alone.

But while fragile comfort bloomed in her heart, a very different tension brewed elsewhere in

the mansion.

Leonhardt von Ainsworth walked through the corridors with measured steps, his aged face

calm yet shadowed by growing disapproval.

He stopped when he saw who he was looking for—the patriarch of the Ravencouts, standing

by a column, arms crossed, his cold eyes sharp as blades.

Leonhardt approached, voice low but firm.

“So this is how you choose to handle it?”

Gilbert’s gaze hardened instantly.

“Stay out of this, Leonhardt. It’s none of your concern.”

“She’s your daughter,” Leonhardt replied evenly, letting the words hang heavy in the air.

Gilbert exhaled sharply, irritation flashing across his face.

“She was a disappointment. Nothing more,” he snapped. “And you’d do well to remember

your place here ended long ago.”

Nearby nobles—loyal to Gilbert’s faction—paused, sensing the tension. Whispers rippled

through the corridor. Some smirked. Others watched with malicious curiosity.

Gilbert turned slightly toward them, raising his voice just enough:

“This man is no longer welcome in this house. Escort him out.”

Leonhardt’s expression didn’t waver.

He tightened his grip on the silver cane in his hand, drew a slow breath, and turned

away—his eyes filled not with anger, but with bitter disappointment and quiet fury.

Without another word, he left the corridors of Ravencout Manor—followed by judging eyes

and the lingering shadow of the arrogance he despised.