San and Sina boarded the carriage, which carried them away toward their aunt's estate.
Meanwhile, Osana returned to immersing herself in the details of the celebration, as if stepping back onto a battlefield whose terrain she knew by heart. Rina remained behind her, unmoving—like a statue left unfinished.
Her hands were trembling.
Not from cold. Not from immediate fear—
but from a memory that had suddenly awakened.
Sina's words had not been a passing whisper.
They were a rusted key forced into an old lock.
Robinson's promise.
That name no longer carried a voice… but a threat.
He had said he would break her if he himself were broken.
He had said it with a coldness that did not resemble madness… but a vow.
And Rina, though she still didn't know what had happened to him, understood that whatever punishment had fallen upon him was not light, not gentle, and not something that could be forgotten.
She knew it from the palace itself.
From the way the servants now bowed more than necessary.
From the looks that came before their steps.
From respect saturated with fear, and appreciation born not of affection… but of terror of making a mistake.
They did not see her as the duke's daughter.
They saw her as something fragile that must not be broken.
She whispered to herself, trying to quiet the storm: He won't be able to hurt me.
But the words fell dead inside her chest.
Because her thoughts did not stop.
They collided, tangled, gave birth to more thoughts—like a vortex without a center, like a memory that had forgotten how to exhale.
…
The palace was no longer as it had been.
The change was not merely a new arrangement…
it was a rewriting of identity.
The furniture had been replaced with an older style—more dignified, less ornate—as if the walls had suddenly decided to remember who they were before decoration.
And the portraits…
they were not hung.
They were summoned.
The first dated back a decade.
Osana and Theobald stood firm and composed, with Karina as a small child between them, smiling with an innocence that did not yet understand the name she carried.
And Yuri, beside them, taller, less silent, not yet consumed by harshness.
Then another portrait.
Quieter… heavier.
Osana.
Theobald.
And Rivelina.
That woman who had passed through their lives like a warm breeze, leaving behind something that could never be erased.
Her smile in the portrait was not wide—but knowing.
As if she had always understood her presence was temporary.
And Yuri, in that moment, was still a teenager whose features had not hardened, who had not yet learned cruelty as a shield.
Then a third portrait, older… and more silent.
The Grand Duke.
Rina's grandfather.
He stood as though time itself did not dare move him.
Beside him were Osana and Theobald, younger, less rigid.
And Yuri… a small child, hiding behind his mother, laughing without fear of tomorrow.
The portraits continued.
Until the very first founder.
Faces Rina did not know by name, yet she felt their weight.
As if the walls themselves bowed in respect.
Beneath the portraits, achievements were inscribed.
Names not written for pride… but to remind of the cost.
Osana—the woman who held the duchy together when it nearly fell after her husband's death.
Theobald—the slayer of the blue dragon when it lost control, leaving a scar in the history of the land.
Yuri—the builder of the Tower of Mages, guardian of balance when magic faltered.
Arthur Vershi—the one who did not stand in the forefront, yet was always present when needed… his cultural achievements unforgettable.
And then the deeds of those before them.
Politics.
Blood.
Decisions that shaped generations.
Then, suddenly, the doors opened.
Guards entered, carrying stone statues from the old Vershi palace.
Silent faces, worn features—but their stance remained proud.
They were placed carefully, like gravestones of a time not yet buried.
Everything seemed to say:
This is not decoration.
This is testimony.
…
The invitations were limited.
The southern lords.
And the emperor.
Yet the hall did not feel empty.
The lesser lords would attend as well.
Because this was not a palace celebration—
but a celebration of land.
A celebration of loyalty.
…
And the day arrived.
Everyone wore garments of refined luxury, leaning toward older styles—before the duchy had embraced ornamentation.
Heavy fabrics. Deep colors. Embroidery that did not shout… but imposed itself.
The three stood together.
Osana—the Grand Duchess, as though she had never left this place.
Theobald—the current Duke, bearing the face of a man who knows the price of every decision.
And Rina… standing between them.
The future Duchess.
They waited.
They waited for the rest of the Vershi bloodline, to finally gather after years of absence… as one family.
In past years, no one had come.
Conflicts had run deeper than courtesy.
But today… was different.
The doors opened.
They entered in two lines.
Arthur Vershi at the front, walking with confidence tempered by caution, his twin sons beside him—so alike it was unsettling.
Nearby was Clara Vershi, her features pale, the mark of recent divorce still fresh in her eyes.
Behind them, Luigen Vershi.
And Claude Vershi beside his wife Roilan, whose gaze swept the hall like a woman who forgot nothing.
Greetings began.
Then handshakes.
Theobald fulfilled his role calmly.
As for Osana…
she smiled only because protocol demanded it.
In her memory, these faces were not unfamiliar.
Their fathers—her brothers-in-law—
had been the first to try to break her.
They called her tainted blood.
Said she did not belong.
That her existence was a mistake.
But the Grand Duke, Iron Vershi, had stood against them all.
He fought.
And secured her name beside his.
And when Osana gave birth to Theobald…
she could no longer be erased.
As the gathering continued to take shape, Rina watched in silence.
This day did not feel like a celebration alone.
It felt like a test.
For the family.
For history.
And for her… more than she wanted to admit.
…
Arthur stepped forward across the marble floor, each step echoing faintly as if the palace itself weighed the name he carried. He stopped before Osana and bowed with noble precision—a man who knew how to represent the weight of the duchy without raising his voice.
"Greetings, my lady… it has been a long time. Allow me to offer my apologies for this long absence."
His apology was not submission, but ritual—
a refined performance of dignity learned since childhood.
The others bowed in turn, heads lowered without words, as if silence were safer than anything that might be said.
Karina stood beside her grandmother, posture straight, eyes watching with cautious anticipation. Osana, meanwhile, softened slightly—not forgiveness, but control—and gestured for them to rise.
At that moment, Theobald moved, signaling for Rina to step forward.
She did, her steps quick but composed, her expression steady—no hesitation, no rush. Her heels struck the marble with a clear rhythm, a sound that echoed through the hall like an undeniable declaration of presence.
"This is my daughter," Theobald said firmly.
Rina placed a hand over her chest and bowed lightly, her voice clear and measured:
"My name is Karina Vershi."
A faint smile appeared on Arthur's face, touched by distant memory.
"I remember you when you were much smaller… you've grown, Princess."
---
Nearby, Clara leaned against a chair, pressing her lower back with visible fatigue. Her gaze slid toward her nephews with open disdain as she muttered sharply:
"Ugly… just like their father."
Rina blinked, uncertain if she had truly heard it.
The twins stuck out their tongues at Clara in crude mockery, and she let out a short laugh before straightening as if nothing had happened.
"Stop babbling. You're boring," she said coldly.
A tense silence fell—then shattered.
"Shut your mouth," Luigen snapped.
Clara turned to him, eyes blazing.
"I'll shut yours… and open it with a serrated blade."
"Enough!" Claude cut in sharply.
Voices clashed, chaos rising—
Until—
"Silence."
Theobald's voice cut through the hall like a blade.
Instant stillness.
Rina stood frozen, shocked, unaccustomed to this side of the family.
Osana, in contrast, did not move. She knew well that this bloodline was built on petty conflicts hiding far older grudges.
Clara stepped forward, trying to regain control:
"They started it."
"Lies!"
"Slander!"
Theobald raised his hand.
"One more word… and I will cancel the celebration."
The words fell like a final judgment.
Silence returned.
Even Arthur lowered his head slightly… and said nothing.
…
Outside, the streets were adorned in their finest, as if the entire city had chosen to bow to the memory of Vershi's founding. Fabrics draped across buildings, ribbons intertwined above pillars, even the simplest vendors decorating their carts with flowers and modest flags—sharing in the family's glory with quiet pride.
Then… the announcement echoed within the hall.
The arrival of the Vershi family.
The crowd parted—not just physically, but in attention—as Karina stepped forward at the front. Her steps were calm, measured, neither hurried nor hesitant, as if the ground itself recognized her.
Behind her, Theobald stood tall as a marble pillar, Osana beside him, her features steady with the weight of years of endurance.
Behind them came Arthur, slower, with Luigen at his side.
Then Clara, tense as a drawn string, followed by Claude and his wife.
At the very end—the children. A light presence, yet a reminder that the bloodline did not end… it continued.
For the first time in years…
the entire lineage stood together.
Not in mourning.
Not in crisis.
But in a celebration that belonged to them alone—one that redefined their name.
The hall filled with quiet awe.
Whispers.
Held breaths.
Eyes trying to comprehend what had long been absent.
And it wasn't just the names that captivated them…
but everything surrounding them.
The hall itself was a masterpiece of nobility—decor, light, colors chosen with ritual precision. Every detail declared one truth:
Vershi does not celebrate…
it proclaims.
As for the Emperor—he sat upon his throne, observing without missing a single detail.
And within him, there was no hesitation.
This family—
with all its contradictions, conflicts, and inherited ferocity—
must remain his ally.