“Ophelia!”

A smile touched Ophelia’s lips as she turned to see her friends rushing toward her.

“Tina! Desery! Mae!”

The three girls enveloped her in a warm hug, eyes wide with admiration.

They had always known their friend was beautiful—but now, she looked ethereal.

She wore a soft, blue-tinted dress that complemented her fair complexion. Her long hair was woven into a flawless braid, accentuating the graceful lines of her face.

“How did you get here?” Ophelia asked, delight lighting up her eyes.

“Your Knight brought us! We missed you so much!” Tina said, grinning.

Ophelia followed their gaze—and there he was.

The Knight Commander stood nearby, watching her quietly, his eyes unreadable.

“Thank you, Knight Commander,” she said.

“Anything for you, my lady,” he replied, voice low and steady.

Ophelia quickly looked away.

“Just to be clear, girls,” she said, turning back to her friends, “he’s not my personal knight. He’s the Knight Commander of our Clan.”

Her words caused a flicker of something—disappointment, perhaps—to cross the Commander’s face.

He could sense it clearly: she was avoiding him.

“That’s too bad,” Tina said with a sigh. “He seems like the reliable type.”

She blinked. Had she imagined it, or had he just smiled faintly and nodded?

“Tina’s right,” Desery and Mae chimed in. “He would’ve been perfect.”

“Well, as the Commander, I suppose he is reliable,” Ophelia replied coolly, locking eyes with the man who still hadn’t looked away.

“Forgive me, young lady,” he said solemnly. “It’s not required for the future Heir to have the Knight Commander as her personal guard. A Knight is free to choose whom they serve.”

“And a Lamarca is free to refuse,” Ophelia replied, a polite smile on her lips.

He stared at her for a long moment.

“Have you chosen someone? I could assist.”

“How thoughtful of you.”

“Consider me.”

“I decline.”

Her voice was calm, but firm. Her friends stood frozen, watching the strange tension crackling between them.

There stood Ophelia, her amber eyes narrowed and cool. Opposite her, the handsome Knight held his ground, unwavering.

“Why do you hate me, young lady?” he asked quietly.

Ophelia faltered.

How could I ever hate you, my stupid Knight… she thought, staring into his face.

She couldn’t understand why he was being so persistent. In her past life, he had been assigned to her by her father. He hadn’t volunteered, yet he hadn’t refused either. He had accepted his duty—just like now.

Did he really choose me back then? she wondered.

With a quiet sigh, she finally said,

“I don’t hate you, stupid.”

The Commander’s eyes widened at her words. But before he could respond, Ophelia had already turned, walking away with her friends.

---

Krista, Ophelia’s ever-present maid, had observed everything in silence. She noticed the slight flush at the tips of the Commander’s ears—his only visible reaction.

She maintained a composed face as she gathered her young lady’s belongings:

A pillow. EarPods. An eye mask. A small blanket.

“I’ll take my leave now, Sir Knight Commander,” Krista said, bowing politely as he stood there, still staring at the items she left behind.

MEANWHILE…

“Young Master, we’ve received an invitation from the Lamarca Clan,” Lee announced, his voice careful as he extended the elegantly sealed envelope.

Silence.

The only sound in the room was the faint clink of crystal against glass as Zayron Callum raised his wine, the deep red liquid catching the late afternoon sun that poured through the floor-to-ceiling window. He stood still—back broad and motionless—as the city unfolded beneath him like a forgotten kingdom. Distant. Detached.

Lee hesitated. “The Clan Head and the Elders are requesting your presence,” he added, the word requesting carrying a weight both of duty and desperation.

Still no response.

Lee felt his heart begin to pound. The Elders had turned to him again, their voices tight with urgency, their patience thin. But facing Zayron was like approaching a storm without warning—one moment still, the next, destructive.

Zayron’s gaze drifted slowly toward the invitation on his desk. Just a glance—but sharp, like a dagger dragged across silk.

Lee swallowed hard. Since she disappeared, the Young Master had changed. Once merely feared, Zayron had become unpredictable—volatile. His silence now held more threat than a scream.

So many had suffered for less.

“A waste of time,” Zayron said at last, his voice devoid of emotion, as if every second spent on such triviality was an insult to his existence.

“The Clan Head and Madam… they’re hoping you’ll accompany them. And the Elders—”

“Silence.”

The single word cracked across the room like a whip. Lee stiffened, blood draining from his face.

Then—soft, almost a whisper—Zayron murmured, “If I killed you and spread word of your death… I wonder if she’d finally show herself.”

Lee froze.

His throat tightened. “She… she’d hate you for it, Young Master,” he managed to say, each word trembling on the edge of a plea. “You’d lose the only reason she might return.”

Please… don’t do this.

This damn tyrant, Lee thought bitterly—but he kept his face neutral. No one survived beside Zayron by speaking their heart.

“Why?” Zayron turned, his eyes like cold steel. “Are you really that important to her?”

Lee felt his breath catch.

He wanted to say no. He knew he wasn’t. But still—it hurt.

“No, sir,” he said softly. “You are more important. I’m just… a firefly. Flickering beside a sun.”

Zayron made a sound—almost a scoff. Maybe agreement. Maybe amusement.

Lee drew a slow breath. “Young Master… please. Even for a moment. Show your face. The Clan Head won’t let this go. I—” he paused, then tried a different tactic. “They say the Young Lady of the Lamarca Clan is breathtaking. A rare beauty.”

A grin curled at the edge of Zayron’s mouth.

“My little wife is more beautiful,” he said, finally turning and lowering himself onto his throne.

It was the first real emotion Lee had seen in weeks.

“You’re absolutely right, Young Master!” he said, seizing the moment as Zayron reached for the envelope.

The Demon King tore it open with a flick of his fingers. His eyes scanned the letter.

“Hm,” he said, a smirk tugging at his lips. “What an interesting lady…”

ELSEWHERE…

“Young Master, the Clan Head has instructed that you attend the Lamarca Clan’s celebration banquet,” said the aide, presenting a silver tray with an ivory envelope laid upon it.

Kazimir Night, heir of the Night Clan, didn’t even look at it at first.

His attention remained on the dagger in his hand, the edge still slick with drying blood. He wiped it carefully, almost ritualistically, the motion precise and silent.

It wasn’t Indifference—it was control.

His aide hesitated. Then added, “Great Master Allforone and his ‘Four Disciples’ are staying with the Lamarca Clan.”

Kazimir’s hand paused.

The blade gleamed as he lifted it, eyes narrowing. He looked up slowly—his gaze sharp, calculating.

Brixton, his aide, didn’t miss the shift.

“There are whispers,” he continued, voice low. “That the Clan Head and the Great Master have grown… close.”

Kazimir said nothing.

But in the silence, thoughts brewed.

If my Little Fifth’s Master is there…

“Tell them,” he said at last, voice cold and decisive, “I’ll go.”

Brixton almost smiled—but quickly masked it with a respectful bow.

“Yes, Young Master.”

--

“Achoo!”
Everyone turned toward the source of the sneeze.

Ophelia lifted her head to the sky, expression unreadable.
“What a bad omen,” she murmured, shaking her head.

“What do you mean, cousin?” Amelia asked, a puzzled frown on her face.

Ophelia glanced at her cousin, her Martial Sister, and the rest of their friends. They were in the garden, casually enjoying afternoon snacks.
“Should I cancel the banquet…” she muttered under her breath, almost to herself.

“Oh my! No way, cousin! Everything’s already prepared. Uncle and Granda would be devastated if you—”

“…I’m just kidding,” Ophelia cut in, surrendering with a sigh as she saw their worried expressions.

“Right! I’m so excited! Everyone will finally get to meet you!” Amelia clapped her hands with glee.

“It’s my first time attending a banquet here in the States Country,” Gina added with a warm smile.

“Are we really allowed to come too? We’re not nobles…” Tina said softly, her voice laced with hesitation. Desery and Mae nodded in agreement, equally unsure.

“Don’t worry. If anyone dares to mess with you, I’ll handle them myself,” Ophelia said coolly. The group swallowed nervously as she suddenly flashed them a sweet, dangerous smile.

Not far away, a man stopped in his tracks, eyes fixed on her.

“Brother?” Rushiell Evander called out in confusion when his older brother suddenly halted mid-step. He followed his gaze.

And there—
He saw her.

His savior. Tempest.

“Oh?” Ophelia’s eyes narrowed slightly. She could feel someone watching her.

Dashiell Evander’s heartbeat quickened as their eyes met. A faint smile tugged at his lips, and he started walking toward her.

Rushiell trailed behind him, blinking in disbelief. His attention flicked from his brother to the young lady of Lamarca. He was too distracted to notice the slight shift in his own expression.

“That idiot is here again,” Ophelia muttered under her breath, just loud enough for the girls beside her to hear.

“Cousin… calling the Evander heir an idiot might be a little too much…” Amelia whispered awkwardly, while the others nodded in silent agreement.

“Greetings, ladies,” Dashiell said, voice smooth, his eyes locking once again with the one girl who seemed barely interested in his presence.

“Greetings, ladies. I’m Rushiell Evander,” the younger brother added, a little breathlessly.

“Hello! Nice to meet you, young master,” the girls replied politely in unison.

“Ophelia Lamarca. That’s my name, kid—remember it,” Ophelia said, chin propped on her hand, her smirk lazy and unapologetic.

‘My savior’s name is Ophelia. Pretty!’ Rushiell thought, heart fluttering.

“YES!” he blurted out, nodding eagerly.

But as her gaze shifted to the serious man beside kid, the joy drained from her face.

The contrast in how she treated the two brothers couldn’t be more obvious.

“Can we talk in private, Lady Ophelia?” Dashiell asked quietly, his voice gentler than usual.

“Fine. Follow me.”

Rushiell stood still, watching his brother and the girl who had once saved him walk away together.

She’s the girl my brother likes... he thought solemnly, a shadow crossing his expression.

Ophelia tilted her face to the sky, letting the fading light wash over her features. Her eyes shimmered with distant thoughts, secrets untold. Dashiell watched her quietly, unable to look away. There was something in her gaze—an ache, a weariness—that made his chest tighten.

It was as if she were about to vanish at any moment.

“Talk,” she said softly, her voice like a ripple on still water.

“…Have I hurt you?” Dashiell asked, his voice low, uncertain.

Ophelia turned her head slowly, her expression unreadable.

“Why would you say that?”

“You always look… hurt when you look at me.”

“Hurt, huh?” she echoed, a faint curve touching her lips.

“…And sad,” Dashiell added quietly.

“I’m not.” Ophelia smiled, stepping closer to him.

“So curious about me… Have you fallen in love, Evander heir?” she teased—but her words tasted bitter the moment they left her lips.

“Yes,” Dashiell said simply.

Silence fell like snow between them—soft, cold, inescapable.

“I will court you,” he declared, eyes steady on hers.

“If you want me dead, go ahead,” Ophelia replied, her voice flat. “But I’ll tell you now—I have no romantic interest in you.”

“Dead? Who would dare—” he began, grabbing her hand.

The moment their skin touched, a jolt surged between them. Dashiell’s breath caught—her hand was soft, but the air between them crackled.

“Idiot,” Ophelia muttered. “Figure it out yourself. I’m tired.”

She yanked her hand back and turned away, only to sigh when she saw the man waiting for her.

Knight Commander Conradd Zivilla.

He always seemed to appear the moment she was unraveling.

“My lady, it’s getting cold,” he said, his voice smooth but restrained. He placed his coat over her shoulders with practiced care.

Can’t I just have a moment alone? She thought bitterly, lips tightening.

She said nothing. Just walked forward, leaving them behind.

But she could feel the tension surge in the air behind her. Conradd was staring down Dashiell.

“Don’t bother her, Evander,” Conradd said, his voice low and edged.

“I should be the one telling you that, Zivilla,” Dashiell replied.

Their gazes collided—sharp, territorial, dangerous.

Two men, acting like I’m something they can protect or possess… but neither of them knows the truth.

GoddessNiMaster Note:
Hi! Thank you so much for reading this story. I would really appreciate it if you could vote and share your thoughts in the comments on each chapter I upload. To all the silent readers out there, I hope you’ll be more active!
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