Bert Marquis watched as his daughter’s beautiful blue eyes suddenly lit up, his heart weighed down as if crushed by a boulder.
He took a deep breath, striving to make his voice sound heavy and genuine.
“Otillia, my daughter… calm down and listen to me…”
He wove lies with a sorrowful tone, following the “script” agreed upon with Ian.
“Ian… a few days ago, while carrying out a Secret Family Mission, was attacked by an unknown force… We… we couldn’t find him.”
“Attacked? An Incident?”
The color drained from Otillia’s face, her smile freezing at the corners of her mouth as she staggered back a step, her azure eyes filled with disbelief.
“No! That’s impossible! Father, you’re lying to me! Ian… he’s so strong, how could…”
She couldn’t believe it.
That boy who always walked into the center of the storm without hesitation when her magic ran amok, on the verge of tearing everything apart, holding her tightly with those seemingly frail arms.
That boy who, even after being wounded beyond recognition, teetering on the edge of death after she lost control countless times, would still look at her calmly and softly say, “It’s alright, Otillia, I’m still here…”—how could someone like that be taken away so easily by an “Incident”?
“This is the truth!”
Bert Marquis raised his voice, filled with the authority and irrefutable tone of the head of the family.
“The Attackers were formidable, the scene… was brutal. We found this.”
He produced an unremarkable Accessory that Ian always carried with him.
It was one of the relics left by Ian’s birth father, something Bert had specially found in Ian’s room after he left, to lend more credibility to the lie.
The familiar object stabbed at Otillia’s eyes.
Unwilling to believe, she dashed out of the Bookroom like a madwoman, seizing every servant and knight she met, desperately asking, her voice growing hoarse as she repeated herself:
“Where’s Ian? Have you seen Ian? Tell me where he is!”
Yet, throughout the entire Marquis Residence, from the composed Butler to the timid maids, from the dignified Knight Commander to the stable hands, all had been strictly ordered by Bert Marquis to speak with one voice.
Their faces bore the meticulously rehearsed expressions of “grief” and “sympathy” as they all replied in unison:
“Miss, please restrain your grief… Young Master Ian, he met with a misfortune…”
“That day, after Young Master Ian left, he never returned…”
“We saw with our own eyes the search parties Marquis sent out return empty-handed…”
Still, Otillia refused to believe it. She even went out to the streets, the fields, the forests to ask around.
Days of frantic searching left even the little leather shoes Ian had made for her worn through, her injured yet still delicate toes peeking out, but she did not stop.
Yet all the answers she received were, without exception, ‘he’s gone…’
***
The icy wall of doubt, under the relentless repetition of “facts,” began to melt away, replaced by a chill and despair that seeped into her very bones.
Otillia locked herself in her room, neither eating nor drinking. Her once lively blue eyes, bright as the summer sky, lost all their brilliance, leaving only emptiness and deathly stillness.
Bert Marquis watched his daughter grow thinner and more dazed by the day, his heart wracked with pain as if twisted by a knife.
He used an iron fist to suppress any hint of the truth leaking out within the mansion, while assigning even more people to “watch over” Otillia, preventing her from taking any drastic actions.
On this day, after comforting Otillia once again and leaving some exquisite dishes behind, Bert Marquis took his leave.
Only Otillia remained in the room, a dead silence enveloping her.
Her empty gaze swept across the familiar room, finally resting on an old box in the corner.
Inside were some keepsakes from her childhood and youth, many of them… related to Ian.
Suddenly, a thought flashed through her muddled mind like lightning.
Ian had lived in the Marquis Residence for over a decade; traces of him were everywhere in this family.
His room, the training grounds he used, his favorite corner in the Bookroom, even the Garden Tool Shed he sometimes helped tidy up… all evidence of his existence—how could all of that disappear completely because of a single “Incident”?
Otillia stood up abruptly, swaying from weakness, yet a strange light flickered in her eyes.
She rushed out of the room, ignoring the worried calls of the maids outside, heading straight for the room at the back of the residence that belonged to Ian, now vacant.
She pushed open the door. Inside, everything was excessively tidy.
The bed was bare, the wardrobe empty, the desk free of any clutter.
All personal belongings were gone, as if no one had ever lived here.
Too clean…
So clean it didn’t seem like mourning someone lost, but more like a deliberate erasure of traces.
If there had truly been an Incident, with her father’s personality and how much he valued Ian, how could he have erased everything about him so quickly and thoroughly?
At the very least, the room would have been kept as a memorial, leaving some of his cherished possessions—like that Broken Sword left by his birth father, which Ian regarded as his life!
She then went to the Storeroom and asked the old Butler where Ian’s belongings had been kept.
The old Butler’s gaze flickered as he stammered, “Marquis was overwhelmed by grief and ordered most of Young Master Ian’s things… to be disposed of, so as not to stir up memories.”
“Disposed of?”
Otillia’s voice was soft and pleasant, but to the old Butler, it was terrifying.
“Nothing left? Even that Broken Sword was disposed of?”
The old Butler lowered his head, not daring to meet her eyes.
“Y-yes, Miss. Marquis’s orders…”
Otillia did not ask further.
She turned away, her back to the old Butler, yet a chilling arc curved her lips.
Lies!
It was all a complete lie!
Her father was deceiving her!
The entire Marquis Residence was deceiving her!
Ian wasn’t dead!
He must have left! And her father, in order to cut off all her hopes, had woven this cruel ruse!
***
An overwhelming wave of emotion swept over her.
Not sorrow, not anger, but a strange blend of intense joy and an almost… blissful pleasure.
She felt her heart pounding fiercely, blood burning through her veins.
He’s not dead! He’s still alive!
She returned to her room and closed the door.
Facing the dressing mirror, she stared at her own haggard yet brilliantly shining eyes.
She picked up her comb and slowly smoothed out her messy golden hair, her movements graceful and deliberate, as if performing some kind of ritual.
“Ian…” she whispered sweetly and dangerously, “You’re not dead. That’s wonderful…”
In the mirror, the girl’s blue eyes were no longer hollow; instead, a dark, stubborn fire blazed within them.
“So you wanted to leave me… You wanted everyone to lie to me…”
Her smile widened, beautiful yet twisted.
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