Cursed Object

A heavy silence fell over the dining table. Then, in an explosion of rage, Lucas shot up from his seat, his fists clenched. 

"You can't be serious, Father! You're going to let... her... wear Mother's wedding dress?" His voice was laced with disbelief and fury. 

The marquis remained unbothered, his expression calm as he continued his meal. "Lucas, Crystal was also Ivy's mother. Don't act as if I'm allowing a stranger to wear it. Besides, I'm sure she would have loved to see her own daughter in it." 

Ivy kept her expression neutral, but suspicion prickled at the back of her mind. 

"This isn't like him…"

The marquis had guarded that dress with his life. He had treated it as a sacred relic, untouchable by anyone—including Ivy. And now, he was handing it over so easily? 

"What's the catch?" She eyed him suspiciously.

She hadn't even been serious when she suggested wearing the dress. It had been a test, a provocation. Yet, he had agreed without hesitation. 

"But Father—" Lucas began again, desperate to argue. 

"It's decided," the marquis cut him off, his tone final. "Ivy will wear her mother's dress. That is not up for discussion." 

No one dared speak after that. 

Lucas and Liam shot Ivy venomous glares, their jaws tight with frustration, but they knew better than to challenge their father further. 

Breakfast continued in uneasy silence. Ivy ate slowly, ignoring the weight of her brothers' resentment pressing down on her. 

After breakfast, Ivy and Anya made their way to the treasure room, where the dress was stored. 

The moment Ivy saw it, she knew—it was perfect. 

The gown fit as though it had been crafted just for her. Its fabric, though from an older era, carried a timeless elegance. The intricate embroidery wove across the bodice in shimmering silver threads, catching the light with every shift of movement. 

The seamstress, who had been inspecting the dress, turned to Ivy expectantly. 

"No need for alterations," Ivy said simply. "I'll wear it as it is." 

The seamstress hesitated. "My Lady, I should at least check for tears. It hasn't been worn in over two decades—" 

"Fine," Ivy relented. "Make sure it's intact, but don't change a thing." 

The woman nodded, carefully gathering the gown before stepping away. 

As Ivy and Anya left the treasure room, Anya cast her a hesitant glance. "Are you sure you don't want any modifications?" 

Ivy smiled faintly. "I'm sure." 

Anya didn't question her further. 

"So, where are we going next?" Anya asked, a hint of excitement in her voice. 

Ivy considered for a moment before responding, "The armory." 

Anya blinked in surprise. "The… armory?" 

It was a fair reaction. Ivy had never shown an ounce of interest in combat before. In fact, she had actively avoided it. Books, training grounds, weapons—she had kept her distance from anything remotely related to fighting. 

Not out of laziness. 

Out of fear. 

Lady Ivy had been weak. Timid. Insecure. She had despised even the sight of blood, to the point where she would faint at the smallest wound. 

Some whispered that it was because her mother had died from postpartum hemorrhage. Others claimed it was something deeper, something unnatural. 

But Ivy—this Ivy—was different. 

And as she thought about blood, a slow, unsettling smile curled on her lips. 

To reach the armory, they had to pass through the training grounds. 

The vast space stretched before them, enclosed by towering stone walls carved with glowing runes. The air thrummed with energy, thick with the scent of sweat, dirt, and burning magic. 

All around, warriors clashed—some wielding swords, others summoning elemental forces. Fire crackled, water twisted in precise formations, and sparks of electricity danced between fingertips. 

Ivy barely spared them a glance as she walked past. 

But they noticed her.

The moment she stepped onto the grounds, movement stilled. Whispers spread through the crowd like wildfire. 

"Isn't that the eldest daughter of the marquis?" 

"Yes, but… what is she doing here? She never comes anywhere near this place." 

Their confusion was understandable. Lady Ivy had always feared this world—had always been unwelcome in it. 

But this Ivy wasn't here to seek approval. 

She had a different purpose. 

Without acknowledging the stares, she continued toward the armory. 

The moment Ivy stepped inside, she felt it. 

A pulse of power. 

The walls gleamed with weapons of all kinds, each infused with magic that crackled in the air. Swords lined the racks, their hilts inscribed with runes that glowed faintly. Crystal staves hovered in display cases, their energy shifting between colors. Shields, polished to a mirror finish, reflected not just her image, but glimpses—flickers of battles yet to come. 

But Ivy barely noticed any of it. 

Because at the far end of the room, placed on a pedestal, was a black katana.

A chill ran down her spine. 

Something about it called to her. 

Not just curiosity. 

Something... deeper. Something... ancient. 

Without thinking, she moved forward, drawn toward the weapon like a moth to flame. 

Her fingers reached out— 

"My Lady, you can't touch that!" 

Anya's panicked voice snapped through the air. 

Ivy halted, blinking as she turned to her maid. "Why not?" 

Anya swallowed hard, wringing her hands. "That weapon… it's cursed. Every person who has touched it has died." 

Ivy stared at her for a moment. Then, slowly, she smirked. 

"Cursed?" 

She didn't believe in such things. 

Before Anya could stop her, Ivy reached out—and her fingers closed around the hilt. 

Pain lanced through her hand. 

Sharp.

"Ouch." 

She barely grazed the blade, yet a thin line of crimson welled up on her fingertip. A single drop of blood rolled off her skin— and landed on the Katana.

The moment it touched the blade, the entire weapon glowed red. 

Ivy froze. 

Her breath caught in her throat. 

The air in the room seemed to shift, the pressure growing heavy as an eerie silence settled. 

She tightened her grip on the hilt. 

Something inside her whispered. 

Something ancient. 

Something… waking up. 

"What… the hell?"