In the quiet hush of the Rose Academy medical ward, the sterile scent of potions and soft antiseptic herbs hung faintly in the air.
The white sheets rustled as Amelia slowly stirred, her eyelids heavy with fatigue, lashes damp with sweat. She groaned softly, the dull ache behind her temples pulsing in rhythm with her heartbeat.
Her vision gradually focused on the faint glow of the enchanted lights embedded in the ceiling, then wandered to the side.
A woman with soft pink hair—one of the academy nurses—stood at a nearby desk, scribbling notes with brisk strokes, her pen tapping against the page with every punctuation.
Amelia blinked, confused. ’Wasn’t I... at the black market? Why am I—’
The realization hit her like a jolt. ’This is Rose Academy.’
She coughed lightly, trying to gain the nurse’s attention. Her throat was parched, voice cracking slightly.
The nurse paused mid-stroke, looked over her shoulder, then turned fully to face her. "Oh. Finally awake, are we?" she said with a mildly exasperated tone. "At least one of you’s up now. Maybe I’ll finally get a break from your friends’ endless nagging."
Amelia raised a brow. The nurse’s tone wasn’t exactly... kind. It was laced with fatigue, like someone who had pulled too many all-nighters dealing with high-maintenance patients.
Still, the words themselves stuck out to her—one of you.
Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Who else was admitted?"
The nurse offered a wry smile and leaned against the desk. "Two more. A brunette girl whose skull was nearly cracked open. And a redhead who was practically kissing death’s door."
Amelia’s heart clenched. Her body went rigid as the words sank in. "What...?" she breathed, voice barely above a whisper.
The nurse nodded solemnly. "It’s been seven days since all of you arrived here. You’re the first to wake. The other two are still unconscious, under strict observation. We’re doing everything we can."
Amelia’s mouth parted, her mind spiraling in every direction, trying to recollect what had happened.
The black market, the ambush, the shadows—everything blurred together, frayed at the edges. Guilt began to form, like cold lead in her stomach. ’Were they injured because of me?’
She opened her mouth to ask the burning questions clawing at her throat—but before a single word could form, the door to the ward swung open with a creak.
Three figures stepped through.
Their eyes scanned the room like hounds sniffing for hope, and when they landed on her, a breath of life returned to their expressions.
"Amelia!" Freya rushed forward, her usually composed demeanor crumbling into raw emotion as she threw her arms around her friend.
Amelia stiffened at first, but slowly returned the embrace, her hand rising to gently pat Freya’s back. "H-Hey, what’s up with the hugging? You’re acting like I died or something," she joked, trying to lighten the mood with a crooked smile.
She pulled back slightly, her violet eyes clouded—not with relief, but with something heavier. Something Amelia couldn’t quite name.
Amelia’s smile slowly faded. She looked to Zyon and Evelyn, both of whom stood silently, their expressions unreadable.
No teasing from Zyon. No sarcastic remarks. Evelyn’s arms were folded, her brows furrowed in thought, lips pressed into a thin line.
Amelia’s chest tightened.
Her voice came out softer this time. "Something big happened... didn’t it?"
They just stood there.
The tension in the room prickled at her skin. She could hear her heartbeat in her ears now, fast and uneven. Her breath hitched.
’Why won’t they answer?’
Finally—after what felt like an eternity wrapped in silence—Evelyn spoke.
Her voice was calm, but the weight in it was unmistakable. "Your mother... Aunt Liana... she was taken captive. We don’t know by who. Or where."
That was all she said.
The silence that followed wasn’t simply quiet—it was suffocating. Even the nurse, sensing the shift in atmosphere, quietly excused herself, shutting the door behind her with a soft click, leaving the four of them in that stillness.
Amelia didn’t speak. She didn’t cry. She didn’t move.
She sat there, motionless in her bed, eyes staring ahead—empty. Like the words hadn’t quite reached her yet. But they had. Oh, they had.
Then, slowly, Amelia inhaled. A deep, measured breath, as if bracing herself against a storm only she could see.
Her voice, when it finally came, was quiet. "Is that why the others were hurt?" she asked. "Because they tried to save my mother?"
That simple affirmation broke the dam within.
Tears rolled down Amelia’s cheeks—not loud, not desperate—but soft, resigned. Her face, however, remained composed, her posture upright.
It was the quiet kind of grief. The kind that carved into you slowly. The kind that buried itself deep.
But she didn’t crumble.
Instead, she wiped her tears with the back of her hand and asked, "How did you find me?"
Zyon answered this time. "We found a letter. One that had been left for you."
Amelia’s gaze shifted toward him.
Zyon continued, "It mentioned something about noble involvement in the war. About a betrayal from within. The note implied that something involving the betrayers was taking place in the Black Market."
"Of course you followed it," Evelyn added, her tone fond but chastising. "Without telling anyone."
Freya gave a huff beside her, arms crossed. "Reckless as ever."
Zyon gave a small nod. "We guessed where you’d gone. But still, we couldn’t locate you until Art... well, he interrogated some people. Eventually, we found the Black Market entrance. When we got there, you were sealed inside a dome of ice. Alone."
Amelia closed her eyes as the fragmented memories returned—blurred shapes, cold steel, the sudden, unbearable heat of mana overload.
"I remember," she murmured. "It was an ambush. They lured me there under the guise of revealing traitors... but it was all a trap. They waited until I was deep inside. I could’ve held out, but..." Her lips pressed into a thin line. "They started self-detonating."
The three exchanged uneasy glances.
It was subtle, but the tension that passed between them wasn’t lost on her.
Freya was the one who voiced the thought. "That’s not normal. You’re saying they... willingly exploded themselves?"
Amelia nodded solemnly. "I’ve seen zealots before, but this wasn’t devotion—it was programming. Mechanical. As if they were waiting for a trigger."
Freya frowned. "Your mana circuits were fried when we found you. You must’ve been caught completely off guard."
"I was," Amelia admitted. "Didn’t expect living bombs."
She managed a faint, tired smile. "Still, thank you. For coming after me. For saving me. I’m sorry that everyone got hurt because of me. Even Celeste and Lilith... they didn’t need to get involved."
Zyon stepped forward, shaking his head. "Don’t say that. We made that choice ourselves. Not you. We’re a team, remember? We protect our own."
Evelyn’s voice followed after. "And Amelia... we did try. We reached out to our families. Asked for reinforcements, for someone—anyone—to intervene in your mother’s situation. But..."
Her voice trailed off, and Zyon picked it up.
"Nothing came of it. They all refused."
Amelia’s expression darkened. "Why?"
Freya leaned forward slightly, her voice low. "Because the one who took your mother... isn’t directly affiliated with Opalcrest. Or at least, that’s what they claim."
Evelyn continued, "Without direct proof, they say their hands are tied. That they can’t move politically. But we know the truth, Amelia. We know she’s inside that castle."
Freya nodded. "They’re hiding her. But no one will risk war on a hunch."
The room fell quiet again.
Amelia stared at her lap, fingers clenched into fists over the bedsheets.
Then, she looked up—and her eyes had changed.
No longer dulled by despair or veiled in confusion. They now burned with something cold and clear. Conviction.
"I understand," she said, her voice sharper. "Thank you. Truly. For everything."
She drew in another breath.
"But now, I need time alone."
The three exchanged wary glances.
Zyon was the first to speak. "No."
Amelia blinked. "No?"
"I know what’s going through your head. And I’m not letting you do it," Zyon said firmly, arms crossed.
Her composure cracked slightly. "Then what do you want, Zyon? Should I just sit here? Watch everything fall apart and do nothing?"
Her voice trembled. "Should I just wait until someone else I love dies?"
Then she added, softer this time.
The word hung in the air, heavy and aching.
Zyon didn’t reply immediately.
Instead, he stepped forward and placed a hand on her shoulder.
"You’re not alone," he said. "And you never were."