The porcelain rattled as Mariana slammed her hand against the table, startling a few birds in the hedges. Her father, however, remained unshaken. He leisurely sipped from his teacup, savoring the aroma as if his daughter's anger were nothing more than background noise. They sat together under the stone pavilion in the garden, sunlight filtering through the leaves, casting shifting shadows across the table where biscuits and tea lay untouched.

"Father, you cannot be serious!" Mariana's voice cracked with both disbelief and fury. "Even if you wanted a successor, why in Asmethan's name would you choose him? Luther is still a boy! He deserves a chance at life, not to be shackled by your schemes!"

The old man's lips twitched into the faintest smirk as he set his cup down. "Schemes, you say? No, Mariana. Asmethan himself appeared through him. That is no accident, no matter what you would like to believe."

Her retort caught in her throat, her breath catching. But her pause lasted only a heartbeat before she leaned forward, stabbing the air with her words. "That makes it even worse! You would use a divine sign as an excuse to trap him, to mold him into something he isn't ready to be. I never wanted this life of a Saint, Father—you know that. I endured it because I had to, but I'll be damned before I let you force it on Luther."

Her father chuckled softly, almost indulgently. "You've always had a habit of spitting fire when you're cornered. Tell me, child—are you angry because you wish to protect him… or because he reminds you of the cage you once fled?"

Her jaw tightened, and she tore at a piece of bread from the tray, crumbling it between her fingers. "Don't twist this. You've heard the whispers. They already call you the weak and sickly old Saint. Adding Luther into this circus will only smear him with the same stain."

Instead of offense, her father laughed—a low, amused sound that filled the pavilion. "Reputation? That's the weapon you pick? Your tongue hasn't dulled, Mariana. But your arguments haven't improved either."

She rolled her eyes and popped a piece of bread into her mouth, speaking around the crumbs with pointed sarcasm. "The first time he used magic without a medium, Father, his body nearly broke apart. He collapsed right in front of me. His lungs burned, his skin split. Do you remember? Of course you don't. Because you weren't there. I was. I carried him myself. I hid what he was capable of, because if anyone else had known, they would have used him or killed him outright."

Her father tilted his head, his smirk widening. "And yet you treat him as though he is still that fragile boy. He survived. He grows stronger. He doesn't need you to shield him anymore."

She snapped her gaze back at him, fire blazing in her eyes. "He does. He's still young. I protected him because I had to. And now? Now you want to throw him into the pit before he's even ready to stand."

"And what happens when you keep him in that gilded cage forever?" her father countered. His voice softened but his eyes sharpened. "Did you not spend your youth caged by me? And when I opened the door for responsibility, you ran from it. You ran from me, from your duty. Now you would do the same to him—wrap him up in your fear, then blame me when he resents you for it."

Mariana forced a shrug, though her chest tightened. "If he resents me for keeping him alive, so be it."

But the old man's smirk turned wicked, sharp as a knife. "Then tell me, how is your husband?"

Her eyes went cold as steel, narrowing into daggers. The playful edge dropped from her voice, replaced by a dangerous hiss. "Tread carefully, Father. You may sit there smirking, but even you are not beyond being threatened."

Instead of backing down, he chuckled. "Still my daughter. Still sharp-tongued."

From the corridor beyond the window, Luther stood frozen, his hand pressed lightly against the cool glass as he watched the exchange. His brows furrowed, confusion twisting through him.

At his side, the apprentice girl who had helped him during the night of the fire clasped her hands together, a small giggle bubbling from her lips. "It's been years since anyone made the old Saint laugh like that. Not since… well, not since Mariana left. I wonder how many of the older apprentices will rush back now that she's returned."

Luther blinked, turning toward her. "She's… popular?"

"Of course," the girl said brightly, nodding. "When she was our age, she was already being called the 'next Saint.' Everyone admired her—her talent, her strength, even her wit. She shone so brightly no one could ignore her. Even her sister Mari was overshadowed. Mari had talent, yes, but compared to Mariana? She was only ever the shadow trailing behind."

Luther let out a small laugh, disbelief in his tone. "Mari… so that's why the father story sounded so familiar. Sister Mari once told me during a bar fight when she was drunk"

He shrugged.

I never thought master was the daughter of a saint. She hater anything holy.

Luther huffed and rubbed the back of his neck, groaning. "This place is going to be exhausting…"

The knight behind him cleared his throat. "Your Holiness, it is late. We should return to your quarters."

Luther yawned loudly. "Yeah, fine. Let's go."

They led him back to his room. At the door, both knight and apprentice bowed before leaving him alone. Luther trudged inside, tossing his cloak carelessly onto the bed before collapsing with a dramatic groan.

"I haven't even started," he muttered, "and I already hate this place."

A soft giggle broke the silence.

Luther shot upright, eyes darting wildly. "What the—?! Who's there?"

The voice curled around him, sly and mocking. "Too lazy already? How disappointing."

He froze, his heart thundering in his chest. "Am I… am I so tired I'm hearing things?"

The voice purred, laughter threading through each word. "Or maybe you've simply gone mad. Delusional little saint."

Luther grabbed the dagger at his bedside, holding it in trembling hands. "Show yourself!"

"Stupid boy."

Heat pulsed against his chest. He looked down—his necklace, the demonic sword sealed in its miniature form, glowed faintly. The laughter grew sharper, echoing inside his skull.

The glow flared until it nearly blinded him.

"See me now."

The sword's voice filled the room, and Luther's blood turned to ice.

It talked?

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