Sierra had been in such shock that she had fainted after unconsciously casting magic—something she never would have done had she been in control. Not only had she recklessly drained her mana, but she had also buried half the manor in snow and encased her sister's body in an ice coffin. Given her condition at the time, it had been a suicidal act.
What was truly remarkable, however, was that the ice refused to melt, even under fire. It hadn't even been cast by a master—just a child who had yet to learn how to use a magic tool. They had hesitated to break it, fearing it might harm Sandra's body.
Herigal's brows furrowed. "This Fairy… where is it now? What is its identity?"
"I don't know," Sierra admitted, her voice quieter now.
"That Fairy helped you. If even you don't know, then who does?"
"It doesn't talk to me. But I want to believe in it… Sandra wouldn't gamble with the future like this. Not when her children's fate is involved."
Jean moved closer, patting Sierra's back lightly. "Don't get excited, Miss."
Sierra paused to steady her breathing, her gaze hardening. "I know you don't believe me. She died because of me. Hate me if you want. But I won't apologize. Please… let me not apologize."
Herigal studied her closely. She seemed to be telling the truth. If she truly had no knowledge of this "Fairy," then finding it would be nearly impossible. It had aided Sierra at the cost of Sandra's life—yet, strangely, it had never revealed itself to her. Whether it was male, female, or even human remained unknown.
But none of that changed the reality before them.
Sandra was dead. Sierra was crippled.
If the true mastermind behind this was aiming to wipe out all of the Duke's children, then this crisis wasn't over yet. Sierra and the unborn child were still in danger.
The enemy could be the demon clan. Their grudge ran deep—deep enough to seek revenge, no matter how long it took. For two generations, the Broissco family had produced generals who led their troops to victory against the demons. That alone was reason enough for the clan to retaliate.
But they weren't the only ones who had cause to strike.
The royal family, too, had every reason to be wary of Duke Broissco. In simple terms, if the Duke ever decided to seize the throne, no one in the kingdom would be able to stop him. He had the power, the influence, and most importantly, the people's trust. Even the commoners—who often suffered under nobility—would have no reason to complain under his rule. A leader like him was a threat, not just to the monarchy but to the entire balance of power.
And then, there were the Broissco branch families. They had their own grievances.
The previous Duke had been strict and difficult to approach, but he allowed them a certain degree of freedom as long as they followed his rules. His rigidity had been predictable, even manageable. But the current Duke was different. On the surface, he seemed indifferent—easy to manipulate. Yet in reality, he was even harder to get close to. His cold detachment made it near impossible for the branch families to scheme in the shadows. Their hidden dealings, their secret stashes, their long-standing privileges—they were slipping through their fingers.
Too strong.
Too wealthy.
Too independent.
The Broissco family had always stood apart from the rest. But now, their strength had made them a target.
Herigal stood silently for a moment before turning away. Just as he reached the door, he paused.
"She didn't die because of you," he said, his voice steady. "She died… for you. Learn the difference."
With that, he left the room.
Jean watched him go before shifting her attention back to Sierra. She offered a gentle smile. "I'm sure your sister wouldn't want you to apologize either."
Sierra lowered her gaze, her fingers curling into the blanket.
Jean tilted her head. "But… are you really just six years old? My little brother is six, and all he knows how to do is whine and throw tantrums. You don't have to hold yourself back, you know? It's okay to act like a kid."
Sierra's lips twitched in the faintest of smiles. "Well… eight plus six. I'm actually fourteen," she mumbled.
Jean blinked in confusion. "Huh?"
Before she could process what that meant, a voice echoed in her mind.
[Jean, lend me your body again.]
Jean's expression turned dazed as something—someone—took control. Her body moved on its own, reaching out to grab Sierra's left hand.
"Let me see…" The voice was not quite Jean's own.
Sierra frowned. "My sister said I can recover my right hand. Even if it's magic, I still don't understand. How are you going to do it?"
The Fairy—controlling Jean's body—gently traced Sierra's palm. "Hm… I'll take cells from other parts of your body and use mana to reconstruct new flesh and bone. That's why you can't be treated right away. Right now, you're too weak. San—Lady Cassandra repaired your mana veins, but your body has suffered too much damage."
Sierra hesitated. "But they've been giving me healing potions and medicine every day. I feel fine." She glanced at her right arm—still empty, still uncomfortable.
The Fairy shook Jean's head. "Those are only low-tier healing potions. If you had taken a high-tier potion, your right arm would have healed as it is now, and your body would have accepted the loss as permanent. Regeneration would be nearly impossible."
Sierra bit her lower lip. "So… what should I do now?"
"Take your medicine on time. Eat well. Rest well. You're young. You'll recover in no time," the Fairy encouraged her.
"Thank you very much."
Fairy: "If you want to thank me, just be healthy. Don't think about useless thing all day. You didn't do anything wrong. So, cheer up, okay?"
"Why are you so kind to me?" Sierra mumbled faintly.
Jean blinked as clarity returned to her eyes. She looked around, confused. "What was it, Third Young Miss?"
Sierra met her gaze but chose not to answer directly. Instead, she softly changed the subject. "Miss… can I ask you a favor?"
Jean nodded. "Of course. What do you need?"
Sierra hesitated for a moment before murmuring, "The twins' names. Tell my brother-in-law… the firstborn was Cloud Drasil. The little brother was Sunny Drasil."
Jean's breath caught in her throat. Before she could respond, Sierra had already drifted into sleep, her small body finally succumbing to exhaustion.
Jean sat in silence for a moment, watching over the child who had endured far too much. A lump formed in her throat as she whispered, "Our Lady must have named them…"
Wiping away a stray tear, she rose to her feet and hurried after Herigal to deliver the message.
Not long after Jean left, the door creaked open, and a child—taller than Sierra—stepped inside.
Cleo Nardia, a maid apprentice from the Drasil family, hesitated at the threshold, her gaze fixed on the frail figure lying in bed.
The girl was so small, so fragile-looking, her pale skin nearly blending with the white sheets. A bandaged arm rested atop the covers, unmoving. This was the infamous Third Young Miss of the Broissco family—the child Lady Cassandra had died protecting.
Yet, Sierra's notoriety hadn't stemmed from mischief or scandal. It had come from whispers, from the fact that she had never once stepped beyond the walls of Broissco Manor. Rumors clung to her like mist—some claimed she was hideous, others said she was an idiot. But the truth was, no one had ever truly seen her.
Cleo's chest tightened. She wasn't sure what she had expected to feel upon seeing her lady's little sister, but the bitterness that welled up inside her caught her off guard.
The child on the bed didn't stir. Her breathing was steady, her face serene, despite the wounds she bore.
Cleo clenched her fists. She couldn't bring herself to step closer, couldn't bring herself to speak. A cruel thought gnawed at her: Why is she here, while Lady Cassandra is not?
But even as resentment threatened to surface, Cleo swallowed it down. She had no right to feel this way.
Lady Cassandra had made her choice—out of love, out of duty. No one, not even Cleo, could question that.
"What are you doing here? You need permission to be here." Jean's voice cut through the silence, startling Cleo from her thoughts. The healer stood in the doorway, arms crossed, her sharp gaze locking onto the young maid. "You… are a maid apprentice? Which family are you from?"
Cleo hesitated before nodding. "Yes, I am a maid apprentice from the Drasil family."
Jean studied her for a moment before speaking again. "Are you looking for Captain Herigal? He went back to Broissco Manor."
"Thank you," Cleo murmured, bowing slightly before turning to leave.
As she walked down the corridor, her steps faltered. An unfamiliar heaviness settled in her chest, pressing down like an invisible weight. It was suffocating, confusing—an emotion she couldn't quite name.
She glanced back at the closed door, biting her lip. A lump formed in her throat, her nose stinging with the threat of tears.
"Lady Cassandra… what should I do now? She is your sister, but… I really… really hate her," she whispered, her voice trembling before she forced herself to walk away.