12. A Brief Story From The Past (1)

A winter chill swept through the air, cold and biting.

Crack!

A harsh, sharp sound rang out through the ornate yet frigid parlor.

Sharp. Merciless. Decisive.

"Next."

The man who had struck the blow spoke in a solemn voice, as though this were simply routine—utterly unmoved.

A boy stepped forward: silver hair threaded through with strands of black, a composed expression, and pale blue eyes.

"Gelberin."

"Yes."

"A report came from the Mage Tower. I hear your paper was rejected once."

The man murmured flatly as he began wiping his hand with a handkerchief.

"I apologize."

The man said nothing more.

He simply stepped toward the boy named Gelberin, twisted his body, and struck his cheek again—hard.

Gelberin's head snapped to the side, and blood began to trickle where his lip had split.

"Pathetic."

"…"

The man—blue banners flanking either side of him, eyes like cold steel.

This was how Rokgard Pailless, Family Head of House Pailless, began his day.

His hair had gone pale and his face was lined with age, but he had once served as a Court Mage to the imperial family, and his authority within the household was absolute.

No one dared say a word against him for it.

Some even considered his coldness the very essence of House Pailless—something to be taken for granted.

"Next."

As Gelberin withdrew, a girl stepped forward.

Silver hair. Blue eyes.

The child whose bearing most resembled Rokgard's own approached with careful steps and stood before him.

"Elline."

"Yes, Father."

"I heard. You placed third on the written entrance examination."

"…"

His own reflection—Elline.

Even her hair, which had once taken after her mother, had been dyed silver, making her a perfect image of House Pailless.

Yet Rokgard had no intention of lowering his standards for that reason.

If anything, it made him hold her to an even stricter measure.

"I apologize."

Rokgard strode toward her and stopped directly in front of her. The difference in their heights was nearly twofold.

Smack!

A sharp crack split the air, and the silver-haired girl crumpled to the floor.

"Both your brothers entered at the top of their class, and you place third on a written exam?"

Elline struggled to her feet. Against her pale skin, the swollen red mark on her cheek was already darkening into a bruise.

"It seems I've been too lenient in teaching you the weight of this family's name, Elline."

He took another heavy step toward her—

"That's enough."

The one who stopped him was the mistress of the house, standing behind him. Cleonoa.

"This is none of your concern."

Cleonoa stepped forward calmly and looked down at Elline as she spoke.

"The practical examination is in two days. If she shows up with unnecessary bruising and people start talking, what do you intend to do about it?"

"…Tch."

Rokgard clicked his tongue and swept his gaze over his three children.

"Remember this. The name of the family that stands before you, and the responsibility you owe it. Do not satisfy me—satisfy the family. Understood?"

It was a declaration too chilling to come from a father, yet no one could argue against it.

"Dismissed. My head aches."

Rokgard waved a hand, and the three children bowed their heads and filed out of the parlor.

Once outside, the three of them walked away in silence—not exchanging a glance, not a single word—each going their separate way.

* * *

Her head ached.

Her left cheek throbbed, and she could taste blood.

*Dismissed.*

Her father's voice—one she had grown used to by now.

The voice that judged, suppressed, and raged kept circling in her mind.

She didn't think she had ever been loved.

From the moment she was born, being scolded and watched over had simply been her life.

"…"

She looked in the mirror.

The swollen cheek had turned a deep, ugly purple, the burst blood vessels pulsing beneath the skin in a grotesque pattern.

Perhaps because her skin was so pale, the red stood out all the more starkly.

She slowly traced her fingers over it, and the sting made her flinch.

*It hurts.*