Arlen had left on state business, his firm footsteps echoing away down the stone corridor, leaving Mira alone at the intersection between the warm Glass House and the cold main palace building.

  Mira was just about to turn toward the Sun Tower—intending to calm her racing heart after the moment in the gazebo—when a senior servant in a stiff uniform blocked her way.

  “Miss Rhea Ashart,” the servant greeted her without bowing. His face was as expressionless as a wall. “Queen Mathra invites you to tea in the White Parlor.”

  It wasn't an invitation. It was a inspections.

  Mira glanced briefly at the shadow of the pillar to her left. It was empty. But she knew Anna was there. She could feel a slight shift in the air, like a faint visual glitch. The presence of the ‘ghost’ gave her a little sense of security.

  “Of course,” Mira replied, adjusting the jasmine flower in her ear. “It would be my honor.”

  ***

  The White Parlor.

  The room was dazzling. Everything was white. Thick white fur carpets, ivory walls with thin gold carvings, white silk curtains that blocked out the outside world, and shiny white painted furniture.

  Queen Mathra sat on a single sofa with her back perfectly straight. That woman was the definition of frozen elegance. Her pale golden hair was intricately coiled, holding small pearls encrusted with diamonds. Her face was beautiful, but her eyes had a calculating glint—the eyes of a mother who had raised a lion and had to make sure that lion didn't eat its keeper.

  On the long sofa beside her sat two other figures. Arlen's younger sisters.

  Princess Arith. A very thin girl, almost fragile in her loose silk dress. She had Arlen's golden hair, but it was dull, lacking luster. She was holding a teacup, but her hand was trembling slightly—a permanent tremor that made the cup clink softly against her saucer. She looked even more fragile than she had at the royal tea party.

  Princess Anne. The youngest child. She sat on the carpeted floor, her legs crossed. Her golden hair was tied up in two high ponytails with blue ribbons. She wasn't holding a doll; she was building a tower out of playing cards. The cards didn't fall even when stacked at an angle, held in place by a thin static charge emanating from her fingertips.

  “Sit down, Rhea.” Queen Mathra's voice was soft, yet it carried a pressing authority.

  Mira curtsied, then sat down in the chair pointed out to her.

  “Arlen seems... different today,” Queen Mathra began, pouring tea into Mira's cup. “He rarely brings anyone to the Glass House. Usually, he just talks to the plants.”

  “Plants are good listeners, Your Majesty,” Mira replied diplomatically.

  “Plants don't argue,” Princess Arith muttered from the sofa. Her voice was hoarse, the voice of someone who was tired of breathing. “My brother likes things that are silent. That's why he likes statues.”

  “Arith,” Queen Mathra scolded, her tone sharp but tired. “Mind your manners.”

  Arith snorted softly, then sipped her tea. As she lifted the cup, the sleeve of her dress slipped down. Mira noticed. Arith's arm was covered in intricate red patterns—Lichtenberg figures. Branches of internal burns that spread from her wrist to her elbow. Her skin looked thin, as if the blood inside was too hot and “noisy” for an ordinary human body to contain.

  Arith noticed Mira's gaze. She didn't pull her arm away. Instead, she stared at Mira with dull, cynical blue eyes. “Does it look painful?” Arith asked. “This is what happens when you're born with too much lightning in your blood, but your body is made of glass. We Runerre... we often burn ourselves with our own fire.”

  “Arith, enough!” Queen Mathra cut in. She set down the teapot a little roughly. “Our power is a gift, not a curse.”

  “A gift that makes me unable to hold a spoon without shaking?” Arith replied sharply.

  Suddenly, 10-year-old Princess Anne giggled. She didn't care about her mother and sister's argument. Her card tower had collapsed. Anne's round eyes were fixed on an empty spot next to Mira's chair. The spot where Anna stood (invisible).

  “There's Grey Sister,” Anne chirped cheerfully, pointing at the empty air.

  Mira's heart stopped beating for a moment.

  “Anne, don't start with your imaginary friends again,” Queen Mathra sighed, massaging her temples. “You're confusing our guests.”

  “It's not imaginary,” Anne tilted her head, her eyes following Anna's movements (who was probably moving away in panic). "She's wearing a maid's uniform. She smells like grapes."

  Mira clutched the hem of her dress. This child... Anne was a pure magic user. Her sensory sensitivity to Intian and physical presence was so high that she could penetrate Anna's “empty” perception.

  “Children have vivid imaginations, Your Majesty,” Mira said quickly, trying to smile. “I used to talk to the shadows of trees too.”

  Queen Mathra stared at Mira intently. “This family... is complicated, Rhea,” the Queen said, her voice lowering. "The Runerre blood is very pure. Very powerful. Arlen is the only one born with the perfect vessel to contain it. His siblings... they overflow. They need supervision."

  The Queen leaned forward. “Arlen needs a wife who can balance him. Not someone who makes him more volatile. Do you understand what I mean?”

  It was a subtle warning. The Queen saw Mira's influence on Arlen—making him more emotional, more “human”—and she didn't like it. To the Queen, emotion was instability. And instability was dangerous for this family of witches.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  “I understand, Your Majesty,” Mira replied calmly. “I'm not here to be a storm. I'm here to be an anchor.”

  The Queen stared at Mira for a moment, then nodded stiffly. “You may go. See you at dinner tonight.”

  Mira stood up and curtsied. As she turned, Anne waved at her. “Bye, Flower Sister! Bye, Gray Sister!”

  Mira walked out of the White Parlor with quick steps, resisting the urge to run.

  ***

  Corridor Leading to the East Wing.

  As soon as the door closed and they were a safe distance away, Anna's voice appeared beside Mira, sounding slightly shaken.

  “That kid,” Anna whispered. “She saw me. She really saw me. Her eyes followed me around the room.”

  “She’s an Anomaly,” Mira said, slowing her pace. “Her senses are sharp. She can sense the static around you.”

  “That’s scary,” Anna admitted. “I’ve snuck into archmage rooms before, and they didn’t notice. But that 10-year-old pointed at me and laughed. This family... they’re not messing around, Miss Rhea. Their power is real.”

  Mira nodded. The “False Family” theory might be true about political history, but about power? No. Their power was real. So real that their own bodies struggled to bear it. Arith in pain. Anne hyper-sensitive. Arlen lonely at the peak of his power. They were all victims of magical genetics that were too grand.

  ***

  Evening. The Great Banquet Hall.

  The state dinner was held to welcome the Ministers who had just returned from their winter recess. The atmosphere was formal and stiff.

  Arlen sat at the center of the table, shining in his blue and gold formal attire. Mira sat to his right. Elodie sat across from Mira, her face cold and unreadable. Iva sat at the end of the table, looking anxious.

  Meanwhile, Queen Mathra sat at the head of the table. Princess Arith sat next to Iva, merely stirring her soup with trembling hands. Princess Anne sat next to her mother, her feet dangling, not touching the floor. The child looked bored to death.

  King Maren was not present. He had to go abroad on certain business. He was attending the last meeting of the year with the Northern Alliance.

  “So,” the deep voice of the Minister of Defense, Lord Askagarg, broke the silence. “We heard an interesting rumor from the Academy, Lady Ashart.”

  All eyes were on Mira.

  “What rumor, Lord Askagarg?” Mira asked politely, calmly cutting her meat.

  “That your academic grades... are concerning. However, your practical combat skills surpass those of the instructors.” Lord Askagarg, Lukas's very conservative father, stared sharply at Mira. “Some people on the council are worried. Are we looking for a Queen to accompany the Prince, or a bodyguard?”

  An open attack. Elodie hid a smile behind her wine glass.

  Arlen stopped eating. The aura around him sharpened. Static electricity hummed softly, making the hairs on Mira's arms stand on end. She was about to snap at Askagarg. But Mira placed her hand on Arlen's arm. Holding him back.

  Mira looked at Lord Askagarg with a gentle but sharp smile. “The history of Asnaven is written with ink and blood, Your Highness. Our first Queen, Queen Ariana, led the archery troops when the King was wounded. Was she a bodyguard?”

  “That was a time of war,” Askagarg argued. “Now is a time of peace.”

  “Peace is the pause between two wars,” Mira replied calmly, quoting a philosophy she had learned from a history book in the Kars library. “And after yesterday's incident at King's Cliff... I think Asnaven needs a Queen who can stand tall when the ground shakes, not a Queen who needs to be saved.”

  Silence fell over the dining table. It was a bold statement. Mira was implicitly saying that Mira (who was fearful) and Elodie (who was passive) were not suited for times of crisis.

  Princess Arith chuckled softly from the end of the table. A dry, cynical laugh. “He's right, Askagarg. My brother needs someone who won't have a heart attack when he accidentally sparks lightning in his sleep.”

  Arlen smiled broadly. He looked at Mira with unabashed pride. “Exactly. I don't need a decorative doll. I need a partner.”

  Arlen raised his glass. “To Rhea. The woman who isn't afraid of storms.”

  The ministers were forced to raise their glasses, muttering their reluctant agreement. Mira returned Arlen's smile. For a moment, their alliance felt real.

  However, in the midst of that moment, Mira felt a strange wave of Intian. She glanced at Princess Anne.

  Anne wasn't eating. She was bored with the adults' conversation. The child's round eyes stared straight up. Towards the wooden beams on the dark, high ceiling of the hall. The place where Anna was hiding to watch the situation.

  Anne smiled broadly, the innocent smile of a child who saw her playmate. “Big Sister Grey is up there!” Anne exclaimed suddenly.

  Anne raised her index finger, pointing toward the ceiling, directly above Mira and Arlen's position. She didn't mean to attack. She just wanted to “say hello.”

  But for a pure Runerre who couldn't control her power yet, even the slightest emotion triggered a reaction. Anne's excitement triggered a surge of energy. A purple spark of electricity jumped from Anne's tiny finger.

  The electricity shot upward, uncontrollably. It didn't hit Anna (who quickly dodged), but struck the iron chain holding the giant crystal chandelier directly above the table.

  The chain melted in an instant due to the extreme heat.

  The two-hundred-kilogram crystal chandelier came loose. It fell straight toward Mira's head.

  Time seemed to slow down. Mira looked up. She saw thousands of sparkling crystals falling like a deadly rain. Her killer instincts kicked in. Her leg muscles tensed. She could dodge it. But Arlen was beside her.

  A blinding blue flash of light occurred. Prince Arlen moved faster than the blink of an eye. He didn't pull Mira away. He raised one hand, creating a dense dome of electric plasma above their heads.

  The crystal chandelier hit Arlen's shield with a deafening sound, shattering into pieces of glass dust and bent metal, then bouncing in all directions, away from Mira.

  Shards of glass rained down on the table, causing the ministers to scream and take cover under the table. Mira screamed hysterically. Elodie remained seated calmly, only protecting her face with a napkin.

  Total silence followed after the sound of breaking glass stopped.

  Mira opened her eyes. She was unharmed. Not a single scratch. Arlen stood beside her, his hand still raised, breathing slightly hard. His eyes glowed bright blue, full of anger and protection. Around them, the floor was covered with broken glass, but the circle where Mira sat was clean and spotless.

  “Anne!” Queen Mathra shouted, immediately standing up and running to hug her youngest daughter.

  Anne looked confused. She stared at the chaos with wide eyes. “I just wanted to say hello to the Gray Sister…” she whispered, starting to cry. “She was there… in the lamp…”

  Arlen didn’t hear the reason. He stared at his sister with a mixture of anger and fear, then turned to look at Mira in panic. He held Mira's shoulders with both hands, checking her face. “Are you hurt? Did glass hit your eye?”

  “No. You protected me,” Mira looked into Arlen's eyes. This man had just used his full power to become a shield for Mira. Not to show off, but purely out of a protective reflex.

  “Take Anne to her room!” Arlen ordered the guard, his voice trembling. “And call the healer to give her a sedative. Her Intian is overflowing again.”

  Arlen took a deep breath, trying to control the static electricity that was running wild in his own body due to the surge of emotion. He looked at Mira, his eyes pleading for understanding. “Forgive me, Rhea. Forgive my sister. She... she can't control it. Her power is too great for her small body.”

  Mira watched as Anne, crying, was carried out by the Queen. Then she saw Arith staring at the scene with a pale face and trembling hands. And Arlen, panicking.

  Mira realized something that night. This family was not criminals. They were time bombs. Their pure magical blood was a weapon without a safety mechanism. They were dangerous not because of evil intentions, but because of tragic instability.

  “I'm fine, Arlen,” Mira touched Arlen's hand, which was still clutching her shoulder. “I understand. Being a storm is difficult to control.”

  Arlen bowed his head, resting his forehead briefly on Mira's shoulder—a surprising gesture of weakness in public. “Thank you,” he whispered.

  In the dark corner of the ceiling, Anna witnessed everything. She was safe, but her face was pale. This family was far more dangerous than mere political intrigue. One wrong emotion from a child, and people could die.