The carriage was gone. The blood, the weight of her lifeless body in his arms—gone.

Instead, he stood upon the steps of the residing Imperial Palace.

The halls stretched before him, cloaked in an eerie, ghostly stillness.

His hands twitched at his sides. His body felt intact, but his mind reeled.

"What...?" His voice barely carried past his own lips.

He turned.

The world behind him was an endless abyss of nothingness.

And before him, at the top of the steps, stood a figure.

A figure he knew all too well.

"Sterlla...?"

EPISODE 10
SERPENTINE

Sterlla descended the grand staircase with an effortless grace, the heavy fabric of her gown cascading like a waterfall of midnight and gold. Each step was measured, controlled—a quiet proclamation of her status, of the weight she bore. The soft glow of candelabras flickered against the intricate embroidery of her dress, casting delicate shadows across the marble floor. Yet, despite the poised elegance she exuded, her mind churned with the remnants of her latest demise.

She had died. And yet, she had returned.

Unlike before, when she always awoke three days before the moment of her death, this time, she had returned mere hours prior. It was an anomaly. A crack in the cycle of her endless reincarnations. She knew without question that no one would remember—not Adena, not her attendants, and certainly not Linone. How could they? She had come back before the tragedy could be sealed into the threads of time. Her conversation with Linone, her shared burderns with him were all shattered now.

But as she reached the bottom of the stairs, Linone stood before her, his presence a wall of unwavering duty. His posture was as rigid as the steel of his sword, but his eyes… his eyes burned with something raw, something desperate.

“Commander Linone,” she greeted, her voice smooth, controlled. “I am ready for the ball—”

Before she could finish, Linone moved.

Faster than she could react, his hands clamped down onto her shoulders, fingers pressing into the fabric of her gown as though he feared she would vanish into mist. The strength in his grip betrayed his usual restraint, and for the first time, she saw something foreign in his expression.

Panic.

“S-Sterlla…” His voice trembled, rough with something unspoken. “Crown Princess Sterlla… you… you are truly alive.”

A deep, unsettling chill crept into her bones. Her breath hitched slightly, but she maintained her composure. “What… what do you mean, Commander?” she asked, though the words came out slower, more wary than she intended.

Linone exhaled sharply, as if the air had been knocked from his lungs. His brows furrowed deeply, and then—before she could react—he pulled her against him.

The world stilled.

Sterlla stiffened, her hands frozen at her sides as the scent of leather, steel, and something uniquely Linone enveloped her. The embrace was neither formal nor fleeting. It was desperate. Terrified. His arms wound around her tightly, as if anchoring himself to her existence.

"Ah… I am relieved," he breathed, his voice hoarse. "I am so relieved… Thank the gods…"

Sterlla’s heart pounded against her ribs. This was wrong. This was impossible. Linone was not supposed to remember. No one ever remembered.

Slowly, hesitantly, she raised her hands to his back, her fingers barely grazing the fabric of his coat. “…How do you remember?” she whispered, her voice barely audible against his shoulder.

Linone didn’t pull away. His fingers twitched slightly against her spine, his grip unyielding. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, as though afraid to shatter the fragile moment.

“I do not know,” he admitted, the weight of the unknown pressing against his words. “Something happened. Something beyond my comprehension…” He exhaled shakily. “But you are here. You are alive. That is all that matters, Princess.”

Gently, he loosened his hold, his hands trailing down her arms before finally releasing her. He stepped back, though his piercing gaze never left hers.

The moment was shattered by the sharp snap of a fan closing.

The sound echoed through the hall, crisp and deliberate. A presence loomed nearby—watching, waiting.

Sterlla turned her head, her regal mask sliding back into place, but her heart remained a battlefield of questions.

Frina Vinford
Only Daughter of the Vinford Family
Holder of the light of Cyan - the power of sparking drowsiness
21 years old
Highest socialite of the society

A sharp, rhythmic click echoed through the grand hall, each measured step slicing through the silence like the edge of a blade. The scent of rare jasmine and cold steel accompanied the approaching figure, a presence both commanding and unsettling. The owner of the sound emerged from the shadows, her posture poised yet lethal, a handfan resting delicately in one hand while the other lay beneath it, fingers lightly tapping against the polished wood.

Frina Vinford.

Sterlla turned at the sound, her expression carefully schooled into something composed—something regal. Her dark lashes fluttered as she inclined her chin, graceful as ever, concealing the tension that coiled within her.

"Frina," she acknowledged, her voice soft, melodic, yet unyielding.

"Sterlla."

The name was spat out like venom, each syllable laced with barely contained hostility. Frina’s ocean-blue eyes gleamed under the candlelight, sharp and predatory. If Sigel was a snake, then Frina was the hunter—relentless, calculated, merciless.

A woman you should never make an enemy of. Because once Frina Vinford had your scent, she would never let go.

Sterlla held her ground, unwavering as the tension between them thickened. Frina's gaze flickered over her, assessing, dissecting, searching for a weakness—anything she could sink her fangs into.

The air between them crackled, a silent war waged beneath veiled words and decorous facades.

The Vinford family and the Xiones family had long been at odds, though neither dared to show it outright. Their conflict simmered beneath polished courtesies, masked beneath layers of civility and forced smiles. And the reason? Petty. Insignificant in the grand scheme of politics and war, yet deep enough to fester into hatred.

Sterlla was set to marry Orion Feifer.

The announcement had unsettled the Vinfords more than any political maneuver ever could. Frina's father had stormed into the imperial court, seeking an audience with Emperor Serox, demanding that the engagement be reconsidered. He argued, pleaded, threatened—yet the Emperor had remained unmoved.

"The Feifer family has chosen their daughter-in-law," Serox had declared, his voice resolute, final.

And that had been the spark.

From that day forward, the already fragile relations between the Vinfords and Xiones had hung by a thread—frayed, brittle, ready to snap.

Frina had never forgiven her for it.

The air in the grand hall crackled with unspoken tension, the weight of centuries-old rivalries pressing upon its gilded walls. The chandeliers cast fractured light across the polished marble floor, illuminating the two women standing at the heart of it all. The imperial crest loomed above them, a silent witness to the battle of words about to unfold.

Frina Vinford stepped forward, her heels clicking with purpose, the embroidered hem of her fiery red gown whispering against the stone. She halted before Sterlla, close enough for their perfumes to mingle—Sterlla’s soft and floral, Frina’s sharp and spiced, like a blade hidden in silk.

"What a sight this is, Crown Princess Sterlla," Frina murmured, tilting her head ever so slightly, amusement curling at the edges of her lips. "Embracing the Commander of the Demon Army when you are to marry into the Feifer family."

Sterlla remained poised, her hands folded before her, back straight, chin lifted. There was no flicker of distress, no sign that Frina’s words had struck anything but empty air.

"It was merely an act of concern," she replied, her voice smooth, unwavering.

Frina let out a hum, flicking open her handfan and slowly bringing it up to cover her mouth, her piercing gaze peering over its edge. From behind the delicate veil of lace, she observed Linone, scrutinizing him like a specimen under glass before her attention flicked back to Sterlla.

"Indeed," she said, lowering the fan just slightly. "You have been going through quite a lot."

Then, with an exaggerated motion, she snapped the fan shut and crossed her arms, the lacquered wood resting against her wrist. A slow, deliberate smile unfurled across her lips.

"Prince Orion will be frustrated, though," she added, her voice dripping with mock sympathy.

Sterlla did not flinch. Instead, she mirrored the smile, though hers was laced with something more potent—certainty.

"You need not concern yourself with that," she said lightly, as if dismissing a trifling matter.

A sharp click echoed as Frina placed her fingers delicately over her mouth, gasping in mock horror. "Oh my," she breathed, eyes widening theatrically. "It would seem the Crown Princess believes I am offending her. Oh, what a grave sin I have committed."

Her voice was drenched in saccharine sarcasm, each word a carefully sharpened dagger. She let her hand lower, her expression shifting into something falsely repentant.

"Do pardon me, my lady—ah, forgive me, Crown Princess Sterlla," she corrected, the emphasis deliberate, her head bowing in a slight but unmistakably insincere curtsy.

Sterlla's gaze darkened. The insult was intentional. By hesitating on her title, Frina was making a statement—Sterlla may be a princess now, but she was not yet a queen. And if Frina had her way, she never would be.

"I was merely expressing my concern for such a powerful union within the Empire," Frina added smoothly as she straightened.

The words carried a veiled meaning. Frina believed that Orion did not love Sterlla. Their marriage was purely political, a calculated move to fortify alliances. Frina’s smirk deepened, waiting for a reaction.

Sterlla exhaled quietly, glancing at Linone. "Commander," she said, her tone regal and firm. "Prepare the carriage. Inform Crown Prince Simore and Crown Princess Sigel that I shall require their company on the journey."

Linone gave a respectful nod, stepping back. But before he could turn, Frina let out a soft chuckle.

"Perhaps you did not hear what I just said?" she mused, tilting her head in feigned innocence. The gleam in her eyes betrayed her true intentions—she wanted to press deeper, to unravel whatever composure Sterlla held.

Sterlla turned back to her, her posture unyielding. Slowly, she placed one hand over the other, just above the beginning of her gown’s flowing skirt, the motion deliberate, exuding both grace and finality.

"Lady Frina," she said, her voice laced with quiet amusement. "I do not mind your ill words in the slightest. After all, some are simply not blessed with the ability to express concern in the proper manner. There is no shame in such shortcomings."

The insult was subtle, veiled in gentility, but its bite was as deep as any blade.

Frina’s grip on her fan tightened ever so slightly. Her shoulders tensed, but her exterior remained composed. She would not allow Sterlla the satisfaction of seeing her ruffled.

Sterlla turned slightly, her gaze flickering toward Linone. "As for Commander Linone," she continued, her voice carrying an edge of finality. Linone, who had been watching silently, straightened as Sterlla addressed him. "He is a loyal friend. And even if I did entertain an affair with him, it would hardly be your concern. Coveting what one cannot have has never done anyone any good."

Frina’s nails dug into the painted wood of her fan.

The implication was clear.

"Are you suggesting," Frina countered smoothly, her lips curling, "that you hold both men at your fingertips? Quite the confession, dear princess." With a sharp flick of her wrist, she snapped her fan open and let it rest just below her eyes.

Sterlla took a slow step forward, closing the distance between them until she could lower her voice to a whisper.

"Orion will never be yours," she murmured, her breath warm against Frina’s ear. Then, with a small, knowing smile, she added, "And Linone despises snakes."

Frina stood frozen as Sterlla turned, the train of her gown sweeping the floor behind her as she walked away, head high, not once glancing back.

Behind her, Frina remained rooted in place, her fan covering the lower half of her face. Only her eyes were visible, burning with silent fury.

"That conniving wolf," she seethed internally, her fingers trembling against the fragile frame of her fan.