Chapter 1

Chapter 1

How much would this love be worth if it had a price?
As she stared at the certificate placed before her, Euphemia wondered.

It was something that would fetch tens of gelt if taken to the merchant guild—her settlement fee.
The cost to remove a baron’s daughter, a mere dispensable woman, from the life of the heir to the prestigious Peredith ducal family.
That was the value the duchy had set on this love.

“My son did something foolish, it seems.”

Even in a moment like this, the noble lady of the great duchy carried herself with grace.

She neither raged nor scorned. With elegance and composure, she looked upon Euphemia.
Only her eyes were cold as a blizzard.

“You’ve worked hard for me all this time. That makes it harder.”

The Duchess of Peredith spoke with subdued warmth. Euphemia had served her day and night, like a handmaid, gathering herbs said to be good for her health, attending her with utmost devotion.

Because Euphemia had believed this place was where she belonged. That she would be needed here.

She had escaped the barren loneliness of the barony and offered everything she could.

“You won’t be shortchanged, but if it’s lacking, do let me know.”

But in the end, even this was not her place.

“Yes.”

Euphemia answered calmly instead of showing despair. Everything was as expected—she was used to this. Her decision was already made.
Perhaps from the moment the duchess called her, she had already braced herself.

“Very well. Then leave the ducal estate. As for Cassius—”

“Don’t worry. I can take a hint.”

Her lover could no longer be her strength.

That’s what Euphemia thought.

Could the duke’s heir truly defy his family for her?
Even if he said he would, could she ask him to abandon his family for her sake?
Could a future with her truly be his happiness?
And if he claimed it would be, could she believe it?

Euphemia could not.
And because she couldn’t believe, she chose to let him go.

“Unlucky again.”

A bitter smile touched her lips.
The pearl she thought was precious had turned to stone with time.

Something that had once seemed like her first treasure lost its luster the moment she held it.

“This works out well.”

Her voice flowed smoothly.
No trembling, no choking back tears—she said only what had to be said.

“Your son had been clinging so desperately, it was becoming a bit much.”

She feigned cruelty.

Selling her love for a blood price was too easy.
Pretending it was nothing—telling herself it was fine—made the sorrow a little more bearable. That was the only way she could endure it.

“That is regrettable.”

The duchess’s brow furrowed slightly when her son was mentioned.

But this was something she had to tolerate.
And Euphemia’s words weren’t wrong.

The duchess already knew where the weight of emotion would tilt if placed on the scales.

Which is why she wanted Euphemia to speak those words.

“I’ll be gone before morning.”

At last, Euphemia said what the duchess wanted to hear.

The elderly woman’s face settled calmly, having received the answer she’d awaited.

As she confirmed that her own peace came at the cost of Euphemia’s loss, a storm of emotions roiled inside the younger woman.

She carefully hid those vivid, complex shadows deep within herself.

The night she decided to part ways was dark.
The faint light of the duchess’s parlor. The words pushing her back.
The heavy, waterlogged air.

Everything about the moment gave Euphemia a sense of déjà vu.
It was something she had lived before.

She stared fixedly at the flickering light, remembering the past.

The record of loss stood out as clearly as if it had happened yesterday.

—

Euphemia Lacerre was an unlucky woman.
She always knew what card lay behind the back before flipping it.

For more than twenty years, she had only ever drawn losing hands.
This time was no different.

A pitiful marriage proposal had once again come for her.
Not surprising anymore.

“It’s the second son of the Marione viscount family. Have you heard of him?”

“Yes, of course.”

She answered curtly to her stepmother’s gentle question.

The red glow of the lamp carved sharp shadows on her face in the darkness.

The viscount’s second son was infamous in the area—a philanderer with a violent temper.
The cause of much grief to his affluent family.

Even though he was of age, no one suitable had accepted the proposal.

His parents, worried, were ready to offer a large dowry to finally get him married. Euphemia already knew this well.

“It’s a good match. The viscount’s wife is said to be gentle. And the man himself is steady and dependable, I’ve heard.”

Her stepmother’s voice was sweet and comforting.
Even a brute could sound decent through that mouth.

As a barony of humble means, the Lacerre family would find the proposal tempting.

Her stepmother’s expectant gaze showed she was waiting for a positive response.

But Euphemia avoided those eyes.
She had expected to draw another bad hand.
Even if she pulled the reaper’s card, she would have to accept it—because submission had always been the virtue demanded of her.

Still, not now.
She wasn’t ready.

“I’ll think about it.”

Instead of refusing, she gave an ambiguous answer.
That was the best she could say.

“Yes, do that. You must be conflicted. I understand.”

“Yes.”

“But Euphemia, I trust you know the choice you must make. Don’t disappoint us. You’re a wise girl.”

In other words, her will did not matter.

The determination to marry her off into a miserable match was clear.
She simply closed her eyes tightly for a moment.

Her feelings meant nothing. Her stepmother smiled sweetly to the end.

“Oh, it’s late. Go on back to your room carefully. And don’t forget to prepare for tomorrow’s tea party.”

Checking the time, her stepmother neatly wrapped up the conversation with her ever-soft tone.

Euphemia rose from her seat without hesitation.
The walk from the baroness’s parlor to her room was long.

It was late, cold, and the maids had already extinguished the hallway lights.

All she had was a single lantern.
She moved forward through the mansion’s darkness, following its faint glow.

The wind rattled the windows.
The glass trembled and made anxious noises.
The black night, dyed in shadow, felt like her future.

The light before her was faint and wavering. Euphemia slowed her steps.

A moonless hour where even the stars slept.

On such nights, her mother had once stroked her frightened forehead and told her stories.
Heroes who became constellations, enchanting legends, mysterious flora and fauna—

Her voice had been light and melodious, sharing all the things no one else had told Euphemia.

Mother.
She thought of her mother.

Her mother had died when Euphemia was eight.
A long fever had taken her frail life easily.

The young Euphemia didn’t understand death well.
She only vaguely accepted that she would never see her mother again.

Her mother was of a wandering people.
She had begged Euphemia never to reveal that she carried mixed blood.

Her pink eyes had glowed strangely cold that day.
But those eyes would never open again.

On the day of the funeral, the church bells rang.
In a coffin adorned with white lilies, her mother lay with pale eyelids closed forever.
The scent of death was overwhelming.

But if she cried, it would mean accepting her mother’s death.
So eight-year-old Euphemia held back her tears.

How foolish. The dead never return.

People whispered that she was a cold-hearted child.

There was no time to mourn.
Her father soon remarried.

Even as a lowly baron, he was still a noble. He needed someone to run the household.
Bellinda became the new baroness.

She brought her daughter with her—Cecilia.
A child who looked just like Euphemia’s father.
The resemblance made it obvious: she was Euphemia’s half-sister.

The truth was undeniable, but there was no one to blame.

Bellinda soon bore a son. Her father named him Owen, full of joy.

Cecilia and Owen grew like well-watered plants.
Their father was strict but kind.
Bellinda was a nurturing mother.

It was a picture-perfect family.
And Euphemia had no place in it.

She was always behind them, outside the umbrella.
She ate her meals alone, read books by herself, watched roses bloom, traced constellations in the sky—always alone.

No one cared for the girl left in the shade while the others stood in the sun.

She was never meant to be part of the family.
Perhaps she was the bad card the Lacerre barony had drawn.

Crash!

The wind finally burst open the window and snuffed out her lamp.

It had been a small light, but now it was gone.
The world turned pitch-black.

She stood still.
A tiny ember still clung to the wick.
That small, fragile flame was the only thing pushing back the darkness.

And then—
From the dying ember, a salamander-shaped flame spirit sprang out.
Its entire body blazed, tongue flicking gently.

Then—pop!

The wick caught fire again.
The flame grew, determined not to be extinguished.

“Thank you.”

Standing in the relit hallway, Euphemia gave her thanks to the fire spirit.

It twirled happily through the air and vanished in a soft puff of sparks.