At the end of the damp stone stairs lay a cell.
Once the guard handed over the silver candlestick and left, Aracella took off her cloak and hat.
Through the bars, a woman in worn prison clothes sat dejectedly, her eyes closed and her face smudged with grime.
Recognizing the familiar voice, Iris opened her eyes and crawled toward the iron bars.
Aracella hastily set the candlestick on the floor, crouched down, and met her sister’s gaze.
The sisters clasped each other’s hands. Through the narrow gap between the bars, Iris’s appearance became clearer in the faint candlelight.
Aracella’s face contorted as she took in the gaunt frame, the tangled hair, the bruises, and the hollow pallor.
Aracella cried out in fury, biting down hard on her lower lip.
Blood dripped from the lip, swollen from how often she had bitten it.
Stark hatred surfaced in her tearful eyes.
Iris comforted her younger sister in a raspy voice. She remained calm even after being dragged away with her husband and subjected to brutal torture on charges of treason.
Iris smiled faintly with pale, swollen lips. Her dry, bony fingers patted the back of her sister’s hand.
Aracella stiffened, stunned by the truth she had never heard before.
Unable to contain her anger, Aracella struck the iron bars. Then she froze and looked at her sister.
Iris, too, cast her eyes down, full of regret.
Before she could finish speaking, Iris quickly covered her mouth and coughed.
Aracella anxiously rubbed her sister’s shoulder.
She muttered the words as though she genuinely regretted it.
Meanwhile, Iris’s green eyes, once like midsummer grass, lost their luster and suddenly grew dim.
Aracella leaned closer toward her sister, listening to the voice that sounded as though it might fade at any moment.
At that moment, the guard who opened the door grabbed Aracella by the forearm.
She still had things to say and tried to hold on to her sister, but the guard’s firm grip dragged her away in the end.
A few days later, Iris was executed as the wife of a traitor.
Aracella wept, clutching the newspaper that bore her sister’s obituary.
She sobbed, repeating those words over and over.
In the dead of night, inside the Hugo estate.
Aracella drew a sharp breath and opened her eyes.
Her entire body was damp, soaked in cold sweat.
She sat up, clutching the blanket, and looked around.
Even in the dark, she could make out the familiar scenery of her room.
I was lying on the floor, mourning my sister’s death.
The blue eyes beneath her slowly fluttering lashes were vacant.
My heart was pounding fast and erratically.
Aracella looked down at herself sitting on the bed in her usual pajamas, and soon realized the truth.
As far as she knew, Iris was not married and had nothing to do with Duke Vandermeer’s eldest son.
What had just happened had not taken place in reality.
Even so, Aracella’s body began to shiver as though she were freezing.
Cold sweat beaded on her rounded forehead once more.
Because she knew this was no ordinary dream.
‘I saw my sister’s future in a dream…’
She possessed a peculiar ability to dream of the future.
From trivial things about herself the next day—like knowing it would rain and getting soaked—to major events months later, such as a friend getting into a carriage accident.
The dreams were not limited to the dreamer herself; they encompassed the people around her as well.
The downside was that she could not dream whenever she wanted or about whatever she wished.
If tonight’s dream was precognitive, it was the first time she had had one in five years.
Seeing the future in dreams was unpredictable, and there was only one way to confirm whether it was truly a prophetic dream.
Placing a hand over her heart, Aracella checked the state of the mana in her body and was certain.
Whenever she had a prophetic dream, her mana would run wild just like this.
Aracella, who skillfully calmed her mana, soon grew solemn.
‘Then that means my sister is going to die in the near future, doesn’t it?’
In the dream, neither Iris nor Aracella had looked much different from how they looked now.
That meant, at the very worst, it would happen within a few years at most.
But how was she supposed to prevent this arranged marriage with the Vandermeer family?
Aracella, who used magic to light all the candlesticks in the room, sank deep into thought.
First, I’ll uncover Oscar Vandermeer’s secrets and threaten him into calling off the arranged marriage.
If the Vandermeer succession hung on this arranged marriage, he would obviously push through with it regardless of any scandal.
Even the venerable and prestigious Marquis Hugo was no match for Duke Vandermeer, who was said to be the greatest of the three pillars supporting the Empire.
Then second, Aracella Hugo marries Oscar Vandermeer.
Though she had intended to stay single for quite a while, she could marry for her sister’s sake.
However,
‘I don’t have the confidence for that…’
I have zero confidence that I won’t punch him to death the moment I see him.
She took a moment to calculate the punishment for murdering Oscar Vandermeer.
The sentence for killing a noble was at least thirty years, but if the ducal house petitioned, the penalty would be even harsher.
‘…Even if Frederick helped me, I wouldn’t get off scot-free.’
Then Aracella would have to rot in prison for more than thirty years.
It was far too bleak a future for someone who had dreams she wanted to achieve.
Third and finally, Aracella Hugo marries one of the Vandermeer sons other than Oscar.
That was it! The Lord Vandermeer of the Red Falcon Knights mentioned right there.
‘I really don’t want to marry a knight, but…’
Still, there were only two Vandermeer brothers, so her choice was between Oscar and Lord Vandermeer.
Aracella pondered for a long time whether there was a better way, and as dawn broke, she made her decision.
‘This is the best option. Let’s just close our eyes and do it.’
Having made up her mind, she declared it while her family was gathered for breakfast.
“Mother, Father, Sister, Adrian. I want to get married. My husband will be Lord Vandermeer.”
To be precise, she was notifying them of her decision.
The peaceful meal of the Hugo household was instantly thrown into chaos.
As her family’s voices mingled in disbelief, worry, and reprimands, Aracella spoke up calmly.
Faced with this earnest response, the Marchioness set down her silverware and turned serious as well.
The Marchioness watched her second daughter, who was speaking brazenly without so much as a change in expression, looking just as she had three years ago.
Even back then, that unilateral declaration had sent the Marchioness’s blood pressure soaring, and somehow the girl remained completely unchanged with time.
While the Marchioness drank water to soothe her boiling stomach, the Marquis and Adrian spoke up.
The Citron Empire was renowned for the bad blood between mages and knights.
This was because the imperial family had alternated favoring the two factions from generation to generation, keeping each in check.
They were bitterly hostile, constantly finding fault with each other and endlessly vying for the upper hand.
Aracella shook her head at Iris’s reasonable suspicion.
A profound silence fell.
The Marquis’s family was collectively struck dumb, staring at Aracella with bewildered expressions.
Aracella steadily swallowed her food, wiped her mouth with a napkin, and smiled.
The Marquis and his wife’s eyes widened.
It was astonishing how their second daughter knew about something that had left them so flustered they hadn’t even broken the news yet.
Aracella stood, leaving her stunned family behind, and returned to her room with brisk steps.
She then wrote a letter and handed it to her maid, Audrey.
Let’s have a look at my future husband’s face.