Chapter 2

Ever since that fateful dinner, my standing within the Valen household sank lower than the lowliest servant.

And so, I learned to stay silent.

I never spoke to anyone again about my ability to see emotional threads.

Days slipped by, and I entered middle school.

In the bitter winter when I turned twelve, Austin was struck by a blizzard the likes of which hadn’t been seen in a hundred years.

Father had just spent fifteen hundred gold coins buying the latest Stormcore hoverboard for Aunt Celia’s son, Luke.

Luke paraded around the living room showing it off arrogantly. The hoverboard’s wake knocked over Mother’s favorite vase, yet Father only roared with laughter, praising Luke for his athletic talent.

Meanwhile, I merely wanted to ask the treasurer for thirty silver coins to buy a basic alchemical fever remedy, only to be turned down flatly by the steward.

“Mr. Valen says he will not throw money away on dead weight. It is just a trivial cold. Suffer through it.” The steward relayed Father’s command in an icy tone.

Driven to desperation, I had no choice but to go directly to Father, asking for thirty silver coins to buy a basic fever remedy.

But Father didn’t even let me finish. "Is asking for money all you know how to do all day?" he snapped, his face twisting with rampant impatience.

Aunt Celia, who happened to be lounging right beside him, deliberately chimed in. "Oh, Arthur, speaking of which, Luke absolutely adores that hoverboard you bought him! He was just saying you treat him even better than his own biological father does. You're his favorite person in the whole world!"

Her sweet-talking instantly wiped the annoyance from Father's face, replacing it with a beaming, delighted smile.

The stark contrast shattered my last ounce of restraint. 

"Why?!" I roared, my suppressed anger finally exploding. "Why can you drop thousands on a toy for Luke without blinking an eye, but you won't even give me thirty coins for medicine?!"

Father’s face turned livid. He shot up from his chair.

"How dare you compare yourself to him? He’s just a child! You’re old enough to know better, yet you're getting more and more unreasonable! It's just a minor fever, is it really worth all this hysterical screaming?"

Aunt Celia quickly grabbed his arm, her voice dripping with gentle persuasion. "Arthur, please don't be mad, Luna is just anxious. Luna, dear, don't blame your dad. Your cousin rarely visits; your father is just happy to see him."

Turning to me, she gracefully pulled thirty silver coins from her elegant purse and held them out.

"Here, Auntie will give this to you. Don't fight with your father over such a petty thing."

Her gestures were so incredibly natural—as if she were the true mistress of this household.

I didn't take the coins. I just stared coldly at that thick, grotesque red thread pulsing between her and my father.

"No thanks," I said, my voice dropping to a freezing whisper. "It's dirty."

Without looking back, I turned and walked toward the stairs.

Behind me, Father's furious roar echoed through the hall, immediately followed by the violent, shattering crash of smashed porcelain.

I dragged my heavy feet back to the cold, damp attic. Frigid wind seeped through cracks in the broken windows, slicing across my skin like blades.

Late that night, my fever spiraled completely out of control. My lungs felt stuffed with burning coal, and every breath brought searing, tearing agony.

My vision blurred, and hallucinations began to creep in. I knew without fever medicine, I might die up here in the attic.

I struggled out of bed, gripping the icy wall as I hobbled slowly toward the ground floor.

The grand hall downstairs blazed with light, and a gramophone played a cheerful waltz. Father and Mother were hosting an extravagant masquerade ball.

I leaned over the second-floor banister, gasping weakly. Through the crowd, I spotted Mother in her diamond-studded mask, groveling to the wives of several councilmen. And there was my father Arthur, pulling masked Aunt Celia close, whispering intimately with her in a shadowed corner of the dance floor.

That thick, greasy red thread twisted wildly between them, glowing with a sickening radiance.

“Mom… Mother…” I tried to call out, but only hoarse hisses escaped my throat.

My legs gave way. I tumbled down the carpeted staircase and crashed heavily onto the landing below.

The dull thud finally drew everyone’s attention. The music cut off, and the guests stared in shock at the girl crumpled on the floor — clad only in a thin nightgown, face flushed bright red from fever, looking like a heap of mud.

Mother rushed over first. But there was no concern in her eyes, only sheer horror and rage.

“Luna! What are you doing out here looking like this? Do you want every prominent figure in Austin laughing at our family?!” She hissed through gritted teeth, keeping her voice low.

Father stepped over as well. He towered over me, his gaze as cold as if he were staring at a dead rat. “Steward! Drag her back to the attic! Get her out of everyone’s sight!”

Not a single person asked how high my fever ran. Not a single soul cared whether I would survive the night.

Several burly servants stepped forward, seized my arms, and hauled me toward the stairs as if dragging a sack of trash.

As they dragged me away, my head lolled limply. Through my foggy vision, I fixed my gaze on Father and Mother.

I watched the thin red thread that bound them together — the thread signifying marriage and family — stretch taut to its absolute breaking point.

Then came a sharp snap, a sound only I could hear, hanging in the air.

The thread had snapped clean in two.

The broken ends turned to ash and drifted away without a trace.

My parents: one consumed by power and lust, the other obsessed with vanity and pretense.

Neither of them truly cared if I lived or died.

Lying on the frigid attic floor, I stopped shaking. I stopped crying too.

The scorching heat in my lungs lingered, but my heart turned ice cold in that instant.