Until Ilya gently withdrew her aura, the pressure receded like a tide.
The first time was a “warning.”
This time, it was “punishment.”
She was so frightened that her entire body trembled, her knuckles turning white as she gripped her skirt, looking as though they might snap at any moment.
Ilya’s voice was as light as a breath: “Flora.”
The moment Flora heard her name, she felt as if all her strength had been sapped away. Her grip on the mirror frame nearly slipped, and her voice was thin, like a suppressed sob: “…”
Her knees grew weak, nearly unable to support her.
Flora slumped beside the mirror, her breathing unsteady and her eyes moist, not daring to raise her voice again. It was not true submission, but genuine fear.
Ilya took a step closer, her movements still gentle as she tucked a stray lock of hair behind Flora’s ear. “If you stay like this, you’ll get hurt. That kind of screaming earlier will only harm you.”
Flora bit her lip, her eyes reddening, but she did not dare talk back, only breathing heavily. Her voice was so small it was almost inaudible: “…”
Ilya paused for two seconds, her tone still tender: “I won’t hurt you.”
Flora flinched as if a sore spot had been touched.
Ilya gently lifted her chin, making her look up. “Don’t be afraid. Just be yourself.”
“…Then what exactly do you want from me?” Her voice was much lower now.
Ilya heard the tremor in her voice, and her tone softened slightly: “First, accept your name.”
“I won’t — “
“There’s no rush.” Ilya stepped closer, not touching her, staying only half a step away. “You don’t have to accept it yet; we can take it slow. But you cannot lose control like you just did.”
Flora looked up, her gaze stubborn but clearly tempered by the fear she had just experienced. “…I understand.”
Ilya raised her hand and gently stroked the top of her head. Flora shivered slightly but did not pull away. Her hair felt impossibly soft under Ilya’s palm, like a cloud.
“Very good.” Ilya’s voice was so soft it was almost a whisper. “Your current name is Flora.”
Flora still looked away, stubborn and quiet. “I won’t necessarily listen.”
Ilya smiled slightly, as if looking at a stubborn, cute child. “Then I will keep saying it until you are willing.”
She turned toward the door, speaking softly as she opened it: “Call me if you need anything.”
Flora’s hands hung limp, her voice thin as a thread: “…I won’t call you.”
She let go of the door, stood up, and headed toward the exit.
Before leaving, she spoke softly, her voice warm and quiet:
“Flora, get some good rest in your room for now.”
Flora looked up at her back, her breathing still ragged.
Ilya turned her head, her gaze and tone like a gentle caress:
“I’ll bring you some food in a little while.”
The door closed softly, leaving Flora leaning against the mirror, head bowed as she hugged herself.
Quiet returned to the room, and the only sound left was Flora’s shallow, erratic breathing. She sat leaning against the mirror frame, her long hair spreading across the floor, so soft it made her feel dazed.
Her fingertips were still trembling, as if a sharp pain still lingered within her joints. She took a few deep breaths with her eyes closed but could not loosen the tightness in her chest.
That pain from earlier… it felt as if all her senses had exploded at once, like cold chains tightening around her skin layer by layer. That irresistible pressure still vibrated deep within her nerves.
“…What exactly do you want me to do…” Flora muttered under her breath, her voice squeezed thin by her throat.
She finally supported herself against the wall and stood up, walking to the bed to sit down. Her body felt exhausted, as if it had been taken apart and put back together; even her breathing was a bit labored.
Her throat was tight and dry; she pursed her lips but said nothing, simply hugging her knees and staring at the wood grain of the bedpost.
After an unknown amount of time, light footsteps sounded outside the door, like wind stepping on a carpet, nearly silent. Flora tensed instantly, sitting bolt upright like a startled kitten. A second later, the door was pushed open.
Ilya walked in carrying a silver tray.
The scent was lighter than she expected, carrying a hint of warm sweetness and a faint herbal aroma. Mixed in the air, it was not pungent, but it made Flora’s stomach twitch slightly.
She immediately looked away, forcing herself not to smell it.
Ilya placed the tray on the table, her movements as light as ever; even the sound of the porcelain bowl touching the table was almost inaudible.
“Eat something,” she said, her tone as calm as if she were stating the temperature of the air.
Flora pursed her lips, not looking at her, staring only at the window frame: “Take it away.”
“Eat.” Ilya’s tone remained tender, yet possessed a certainty that brooked no refusal.
“I said take it away.” Flora’s voice trembled, but she tried her best to make her tone sound firm. “I don’t need anything from you.”
Ilya was not angry. She simply stood by the table, looking at her from the side. Her silver eyes were like a lake in the quiet night, soft without a single sharp edge.
“Taking care of you is my responsibility,” she said softly.
Flora’s chest tightened painfully.
“…It’s not like I asked you to take care of me.” Her voice grew quiet, as if the air had been sucked out of her. “I don’t need it.”
Ilya tilted her head slightly, looking as if she were checking to see if Flora still had a fever. Then she reached for the bowl of food, stepped closer, and crouched down in front of Flora, no more than an arm’s length away.
Flora immediately shrank back a little.
Flora saw the contents of the bowl clearly. It was a pale liquid food, emitting a faint, warm fragrance that made her body instinctively relax.
Flora glanced at it and immediately looked away, as if she had been burned: “…I’m not eating.”
“This is to stabilize your bloodline,” Ilya’s tone was still calm. “Your body is currently unstable; this will make you feel better.”
Flora bit her lip and did not reply.
Ilya did not rush her. She just scooped a small spoonful, gently blew away the surface steam, and held the spoon out to Flora.
The movement was too natural and too gentle—so gentle that it made Flora even more flustered.
“I can eat by myself.” Flora finally could not help but say, raising her hand to push the spoon away.
But her movement was too hurried. Her fingertips brushed the handle, and the temperature transferred from the metal to her finger, causing her to recoil as if pricked.
Ilya glanced at her. “Then eat it yourself.”
She placed the bowl by Flora’s side, neither too far nor too close, just at the right distance for Flora to reach.
The room fell silent once more.
Flora stared at the bowl as two voices fought in her chest:
‘You need this, Flora, it will make your current body feel better.’
‘No, have you forgotten who you are? You are Owen, a human! How can you eat something she gave you!’
After a fierce argument, she still shook her head: “…I said I’m not eating.”
Ilya watched her for a long moment. The tenderness in her eyes slowly receded, becoming extremely light and faint, yet carrying a hint of irresistible power.
“Flora.”
She called her name softly.
Flora’s breathing clearly skipped a beat.
“Whether you eat or not,” Ilya said softly, “is not for you to decide.”