Prologue

The tea had barely hit the ground before the shouting began.

Violet flinched as the sharp sound of porcelain shattering against the polished floor rang in her ears. The delicate scent of lavender and bergamot filled the air, but it did nothing to soothe the tension. Instead, it only seemed to deepen the frown on her mother's face.

Julianna Asheville, the noble and beautiful daughter of Grand Duke Demian, stood tall, her golden hair shimmering under the chandelier's light. Her fine silk dress barely swayed as she turned, cold blue eyes narrowing at Violet, not at Fiona, the real culprit.

"You—!" Julianna's voice was icy, controlled, but filled with unmistakable disgust. "How could you be so careless?"

Violet's small hands curled into fists. "I… I didn't do anything…"

The words were barely a whisper, but they carried a quiet plea. She hadn't even been near Fiona when the tea spilled. Yet, as always, the blame settled on her shoulders, like an old, familiar weight.

Fiona, standing just a step away, was trembling. Her strawberry-blond curls bounced as she turned her teary eyes to the adults in the room. "I—I didn't mean to…"

Marquis Hansford, Fiona's father, clicked his tongue in annoyance but didn't scold her. Instead, his sharp green eyes landed on Violet. "This wouldn't have happened if she had been watching over her properly," he said, his tone full of disapproval. "It's your responsibility to keep an eye on your younger sister."

Younger sister.

Violet turned her gaze to Fiona, who looked at her with watery eyes full of guilt. Fiona was just a year younger. Just one year. Why did everyone expect Violet to take care of her like she was a nanny?

"I… I didn't know…" Violet murmured, but her voice was too soft. Too easily ignored.

Julianna scoffed, folding her arms. "Of course, you didn't. You never know anything, do you?" Her voice dripped with disdain. "You're too slow, too clumsy, too useless."

Violet bit her lip.

She didn't understand. She liked Fiona. She didn't hate her at all. She had always tried to be kind, had always smiled at her and held her hand. Then why—why was her mother looking at her like this?

"Uneducated brat," Marquis Hansford muttered. "Filthy, just like her father."

Violet barely had time to process the insult before she felt a familiar warmth envelop her. Strong arms wrapped around her small frame, lifting her gently from the cold floor.

Callian's scent—like the fresh wind that ran through the forest, tinged with the faintest trace of steel—surrounded her. His presence alone made the world feel a little less frightening.

"Violet," he murmured, voice calm, as if nothing in the room mattered except her.

Violet's fingers clenched onto the fabric of his clothes.

Who needed a mother when she had a father?

Callian turned his gaze toward Julianna and the Marquis, his expression unreadable. Despite wearing no noble crest, no ornamented cape, he carried himself with the quiet strength of a seasoned warrior. His fitted black tunic and gloves, worn like those of a knight, emphasized his lean but powerful frame.

Julianna scowled. "Put her down."

Callian didn't. He adjusted Violet in his arms, rubbing slow, soothing circles against her back. "What happened?"

Marquis Hansford sneered. "Your little brat failed to stop my daughter from spilling tea on the delegates. It's her fault for not paying attention."

Callian's eyes flicked to Fiona, who was biting her lip nervously.

"So," he said slowly, "a six-year-old spilled tea."

Marquis Hansford raised his chin. "Yes."

"And you expected my seven-year-old daughter to prevent it?"

"Yes—"

Callian let out a quiet chuckle. "How unpleasant."

The Marquis bristled. "What did you say—"

Julianna's irritation flared. "This is what happens when a commoner raises a child. No discipline. No manners. No sense of responsibility."

Callian exhaled through his nose, his lips curling in amusement. "Ah. I see. I should take notes, then. Should I also start calling a seven-year-old filthy and useless, or is that a privilege only nobles have?"

Julianna's nostrils flared, but before she could retort, someone coughed.

The tension in the air shifted.

Callian turned, and his sharp eyes landed on one of the priests standing nearby. The man was dressed in the white robes of the Holy Empire, a low-ranked priest assigned to oversee the delegates. He had been silent until now, but his face had gone noticeably pale.

More importantly, he was staring at Callian.

Staring, with wide, terrified eyes.

Callian frowned.

Did he have something on his face?

The priest swallowed hard. His hands trembled slightly as he adjusted his sleeves. Then, in an instant, his expression changed.

He smiled.

"Ah, there's no need to make a fuss," the priest said hurriedly, stepping forward with a forced chuckle. "It's just a little accident. No harm done."

Julianna and the Marquis both turned to him in confusion.

"What?" the Marquis snapped. "Are you blind? The delegates' clothes are ruined—"

"Oh, but surely they'll understand. Children will be children." The priest chuckled again, though it sounded slightly strained. "There's no need to blame young Lady Violet. It was no one's fault, really. Just an unfortunate mishap."

Callian raised an eyebrow.

That was… reasonable. Unexpectedly reasonable.

He had met a few priests in his time, but he always thought they were overly rigid about rules. This one, however, seemed genuinely kind.

Callian nodded approvingly. "As expected, priests are truly fair and compassionate people."

The priest laughed. Nervously. "Hahaha. Yes, yes. Of course."

Another priest—standing behind him—looked equally shaken. He tugged at his colleague's sleeve and whispered, "That's him, isn't it?"

The first priest nodded imperceptibly.

Callian didn't notice. He was too busy adjusting Violet in his arms, making sure she was comfortable.

The priests, however, were having a silent conversation of their own.

—That's him, the lunatic who tore apart a calamity in the Holy Empire six months ago.

—Three days. He destroyed it in three days.

—Why is he here? And why is he being insulted?

—I don't know, but if that little girl is his daughter—

The first priest quickly stepped forward. "Lord Callian, please rest assured. We hold no ill will toward Lady Violet."

"Hmm?" Callian blinked. "Lord?"

"Oh, no, no," the priest said hastily, waving his hands. "Just a term of respect! I meant nothing by it!"

Callian stared at him for a moment, then shrugged. "Well, I appreciate it."

The priest smiled. An awkward, very nervous smile.

The Marquis and Julianna looked between them in confusion.

"What are you saying?" Julianna demanded. "You can't just dismiss this—"

"Oh, but we can," the priest interrupted smoothly. "Children are a blessing, are they not? Lady Violet is still young. Surely, we should encourage her instead of chastising her?"

Marquis Hansford narrowed his eyes. "You didn't seem to think that a moment ago."

The priest cleared his throat. "Well, upon further reflection…"

Upon further reflection, I would rather not die today.

He still remembered it vividly—how this man, Callian, had arrived in the Holy Empire half a year ago, torn apart a monstrous calamity with his bare hands, and then left as if he had merely finished a morning chore. All because, as the rumor went, he wanted more time to spend with his daughter.

And now, that daughter was the little girl in his arms.

The priest shivered.

No, thank you. He had no intention of being on this man's bad side.

"I believe this matter is settled," the priest announced, clapping his hands. "Come now, let us not dwell on such small things."

The other priests quickly nodded in agreement.

Callian, oblivious to their panic, simply nodded back. "That's right. It's nothing important."

Julianna and the Marquis looked as if they had swallowed a lemon.

Violet, snuggled against her father's chest, peeked up at him. "Dad?"

"Yes, sweetie?"

"…I like the priests."

Callian chuckled. "Yes, they're very kind people."

The priests all laughed weakly.

And prayed he would never find out the truth.