Ivanka opened her mouth, but no sound ca out.
Demian straightened.
"If death was always ant to be part of the story you sold ," he said coldly, "then that threat should an nothing."
He looked at her once more this ti without anger, without emotion, without even a trace of rcy.
"But the way you cling to ," he went on, "the way you beg while invoking bonds and death... that is not the voice of soone ready to die."
Ivanka trembled.
"That," Demian finished quietly, "is the voice of soone afraid of losing control."
Silence fell between them.
Demian turned and resud his steps.
"I am returning to my castle," he said without looking back. "And I will search for the person who has been taken from ."
He paused briefly, then added soft, but lethal,
"Pray that your fear does not prove to be a lie."
Ivanka stood frozen on the steps.
Demian left without looking back.
His steps were heavy, fast, filled with an anger he no longer bothered to hide. The main doors of Castle Kosler slamd shut behind him, the echo rolling through the hall like a final hamr strike shattering not only the silence, but illusion itself.
Ivanka remained where she stood.
Still.
Her hands trembled, her breaths ca short, but this ti no tears fell. What remained was a cold, creeping fear born not from the loss of status, but from a bitter truth she had finally realized:
Demian was no longer within her grasp.
Marquess Kosler stepped closer, his face pale with the weight of a failed calculation.
"Ivanka..." he said quietly, uncertain.
But his daughter did not turn.
For the first ti, even the Marquess did not know what to say. There was no strategy that could restrain a man who had just walked away carrying both fury and truth in his hands.
And in the distance, the thunder of Demian’s horse faded racing toward a castle that had beco a nest of mistakes.
Demian’s castle did not welco him with ceremony.
No trumpets.No announcents.
Only a silence that was far too thick.
He dismounted and imdiately sensed that sothing was wrong. The guards stood straighter than usual not out of discipline, but fear. Servants lowered their heads too quickly. No one dared et his eyes.
"Call them," Demian ordered coldly. "Now."
There was no need to explain who.
Minutes later, the small hall filled with faces that had spent the last two days living in guilt.
Sera and Lira stood side by side, their hands tightly clasped together. Their eyes were swollen, clearly sleepless. Noel stood behind them, jaw clenched, gaze empty—the face of soone who had failed the single duty that defined his life.
And Bianca.
She stood apart.
Her face was pale, her body rigid, as though every step into that hall was a punishnt she did not fully understand.
Demian stood before them.
He did not sit.Did not lean.
"Tell everything," he said. His voice was flat. Too flat.
No one answered imdiately.
"From the beginning," Demian repeated. "From the last mont Valerie was seen."
Sera finally broke down.
"Your Grace... I—I was supposed to be with her that night," she sobbed. "But... I thought she wanted to be alone. She said she only wanted to take a short walk."
Lira nodded quickly. "She didn’t bring anything. No extra clothes. No money. She didn’t say she was leaving."
Demian stared at them without blinking.
"And you let her go alone," he said quietly.
Noel stepped forward half a pace. "That is my fault, Your Grace. I should have escorted her. But I was summoned I thought... I thought she was only going to the inner garden."
"How long," Demian asked, "before you realized she wasn’t coming back?"
No one answered.
The silence was the answer.
Demian exhaled slowly a breath trembling with sothing he was struggling to restrain.
Then his gaze shifted to Bianca.
"You," he said.
Bianca flinched. "Your Grace—"
"You were the last person with her."
Bianca nodded quickly, tears welling. "Yes. But—but Valerie didn’t say anything. We spoke normally. She didn’t seem afraid. She didn’t say she was leaving. She didn’t say goodbye."
"She is your sister," Demian said.
"Yes," Bianca replied softly. "That is exactly why... if I had known, I would never have let her go."
Demian looked at her for a long mont.
Not with suspicion.
But with sothing heavier regret.
"So," he said at last, his voice low, "none of you thought Valerie’s disappearance important enough to inform ."
Sera collapsed to her knees. "We were afraid, Your Grace..."
Demian clenched his fist.
"Afraid of ," he said. "And because of that, you let her vanish."
He turned away, walked several steps, then stopped.
"Leave," he ordered quietly. "All of you."
They hesitated.
"Now," Demian repeated.
One by one, they left steps heavy, faces broken, guilt trailing behind them like a shadow that would never truly fade.
Bianca was the last to go.
Before closing the door, she turned back.
"Your Grace..." her voice was barely audible. "Valerie... is not soone who would leave without a reason."
Demian did not turn.
But the words struck him harder than anything else.
The door closed.
Demian stood alone in the hall.
And for the first ti since it all began, he was no longer angry at anyone in that room.
He was angry at himself.
Because he knew whatever had driven Valerie away, it happened while he was absent.
And now, he did not only have to find her.
He had to be ready to face the truth of why Valerie chose to disappear.
This is where Demian stands now.
Before that faded pink door.
Its color has dulled no longer the soft, bright pink Valerie once described, but a sickly pale hue, almost like dead flesh. The paint peels in strips, the wood beneath is cracked, and the hinges are rusted, as if human hands have not touched them in decades.
The air around it feels... wrong.
Sera, Lira, and Noel stand several steps behind him. Not one of them dares to co closer. Not because of the door but because of Demian.
The aura radiating from him makes the air heavy to breathe. An invisible pressure bears down on the chest, so suffocating that Sera nearly drops to her knees. Lira grips her own arm, trembling. Even Noel usually the calst among them sets his jaw tight, bracing himself as if sothing is about to explode.
Demian raises his hand.
And opens the door.
There is no warm light.
No sign of life.
What greets them is emptiness.
The room beyond is dark and cold. Dust blankets the floor, the tables, the shelves of rotting wood. Cloths draped over old furniture are torn and brittle, disintegrating at the slightest movent of air. Rusted tal objects lie scattered, their original shapes no longer recognizable.
As if this place...
was not rely abandoned,
but abandoned a very long ti ago.
Demian steps inside.
The floor creaks softly.
His eyes sweep the room too fast searching for anything. Footprints. Ash. Hair. Fabric. Writing. Any trace that Valerie was ever here.
There is nothing.
Not a single thing.
"This..." Demian’s voice is low, vibrating with restrained fury, "...is the place you ant?"
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