It always started with suffocation.

Every time Seraphina closed her eyes, three distinct, recurring dreams would unfold within a single night, hauling her back into the abyss of her memories.

The first of her dreams belonged to a distant past where she was merely a child.

Three, perhaps four years old, her small, frail hand was locked in the iron grip of a woman she could now barely remember.

The woman’s face had long since faded into a blur of featureless shadows, but the memory of what those hands had tried to do remained terrifyingly vivid.

Just two days before this memory, that very same woman had pressed a heavy down pillow over Seraphina’s face, pinning her to the mattress and holding it there ruthlessly until the world went entirely dark and her tiny lungs screamed for oxygen.

That woman was her mother.

Now, that same mother was dragging her forward through the streets in a frantic and sweaty hurry.

Seraphina did not recognize the cobblestone path beneath her bare feet. The location was filled with an excessive abundance of bright flowers and lined with beautifully dressed women who stood waiting by the windows, as if anticipating the arrival of someone extraordinarily important.

Her mother said absolutely nothing, her fingernails digging painfully into Seraphina's wrist as she dragged her along.

Finally, they stopped in front of a grand, four-story establishment with a massive, ornate sign stretched across the top of the terrace.

The Rose Pavilion.

The name meant nothing to a child of her age, but the imagery burned itself into her mind.

Inside the perfume-choked establishment, a man clad in pristine, heavy silver armor sat waiting at a central table. He stood out like a sovereign predator among the sea of wealthy old men who frequented the pavilion to carouse with the courtesans.

He was young, exceptionally tall, and seemed to radiate an aura of strength.

The moment her mother caught sight of his green cloak, she rushed forward, her knees nearly buckling as she came to a halt before his table.

“My Lord…!”

Her mother bowed so low her forehead nearly touched the floorboards. Beads of anxious sweat crowned her pale brow as she waited desperately for the armored man to offer even a shred of acknowledgement.

Seraphina held onto her mother's trembling hand tightly, but the violent shaking wouldn't stop.

The man did not respond immediately. He took his time, elegantly lifting a faintly scented porcelain cup and drinking from it as though nothing around him mattered. Only after a long, agonizing pause did he set the cup down with a soft click and rise to his imposing height.

When he finally spoke, his deep voice carried an open disgust.

“I’ve heard the news. The child contracted a demon, didn’t she?”

“Y-Yes… My L-Lord…”

“Haa…” He exhaled a long and cold breath, adjusting his gauntlets. “I have no earthly idea how she is keeping a demonic seed contained without an ounce of mana or aether, but… this may prove useful.”

At those words, her mother’s suffocating grip on Seraphina's wrist suddenly loosened.

A wave of desperate hope crept into the woman's panicked expression.

The Lord's face showed no signs of respect, trust, or affection—his cold expression made it clear he was deeply inconvenienced—but her mother recklessly took her chance anyway.

“M-My Lord… if that is truly the case… then does that mean… o-our, no, my daughter can live within your grand estate?”

“There isn’t another alternative.”

He pointed a finger lazily toward Seraphina, completely refusing to look at the child's face.

“She carries the blood of Armathorne, even if she was the unfortunate result of a wretched wench like you.”

His sharp gaze hardened further at his own words, causing her mother to let out a quiet whimper of submission.

“If there is nothing else of substance to discuss, I will take this thing and leave—”

“M-My Lord!”

Her mother called out in a final and desperate gamble.

“If you are truly taking her away to the duchy… then… please…”

“What is it now?”

His annoyed voice cut through her stammering.

Her mother swallowed hard, gulping down her sheer terror before forcing the next words out of her throat.

“Then… may I also come with you to the estate—!”

The sentence was never completed.

Slash—

In a single flash of steel, her mother’s head was cleanly separated from her shoulders.

Thud.

The severed head landed on the plush, red-carpeted floor, rolling a few inches before coming to a stop.

For a brief, agonizing second, the entire pavilion froze in silence.

Then, absolute chaos erupted.

High-pitched screams echoed through the Rose Pavilion as wealthy patrons and courtesans tripped over one another, running in every conceivable direction to escape the room—desperate to flee from the sight of the armored monster.

However, throughout the entire stampede, Seraphina did not move a single inch.

Even as her mother’s warm, crimson blood splattered violently across her pale face and tattered clothes, she remained perfectly still.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream. She didn’t even feel a shred of hatred for what she had just witnessed. She felt entirely hollow.

Swish—

Before she could even look down at the headless corpse cooling at her feet, a cold and razor-sharp edge of a longsword was pressed firmly against her small neck.

“Name.”

Seraphina's focus slowly drifted upward, tracking the length of the blade.

The man who had refused to grant her a single glance moments ago was now staring directly down into her eyes, his green pupils waiting with lethal patience for an answer.

Using her soft, raspy voice, she managed to push out a single word.

“Seraphina.”

“…Sounds noble. Not the worst thing that dead wench ever came up with.”

He slowly lowered his massive frame to her height, pulling the sharp blade away from her throat with a smooth flick of his wrist.

“Because then that would be you.”

Seraphina didn’t truly comprehend his words, and her childish focus was entirely locked onto his face.

Up close, his eyes were a striking, vivid shade of dark green. They gleamed with the brilliance of a precious gemstone.

She suddenly remembered her mother speaking stories about those eyes in the dark.

Stories about her father.

Having never laid eyes on him before this bloody moment, Seraphina reached the only innocent conclusion her young mind could muster.

“Papa…?”

She tilted her little head, her wide golden eyes blinking curiously.

For a fraction of a second, Duke Zorack looked genuinely taken aback, a flicker of surprise crossing his severe features.

Then, a dark and booming laugh erupted from his chest.

“Hah… haha… hah!”

It was a loud, heartfelt laugh, as if she had just muttered the most amusing joke he had ever heard in his entire life.

“You are most definitely that wench’s daughter,” he noted before firmly placing both of his heavy, armored hands directly onto her small shoulders.

“Seraphina Noire Armathorne. That is your name from this day forth, and I am your father.”

He leaned in closer, his green eyes boring into her soul.

“Be a good, obedient girl, and serve my family, and I will protect you from the rest of the world.”

Seraphina’s eyes widened in disbelief.

Protect? Someone like her?

“You would… do that?”

He gave a firm nod.

“For me?”

“Haa, well… That is far more complicated than your brain needs to understand right now. However, the short answer is yes. I will protect you.”

She hesitated, then pointed a weak and blood-stained hand toward the corpse leaking onto the carpet.

“…You are not afraid of me… like her?”

At that question, the Duke tilted his head as if she had spoken in a foreign language.

Then, without a single shred of hesitation, he delivered his answer.

“Afraid?”

The word came out entirely flat and dismissive.

He glanced past her shoulder for a brief moment, looking at the pool of blood with the same indifference one would give to a crushed insect, before returning his gaze to her face.

“That thing back there was weak.”

His green eyes settled on her with authority.

“And weak things naturally fear what they cannot control or understand.”

Seraphina blinked.

His words didn't fully make sense to her, but the absolute conviction in his tone did.

He was calm, certain, and completely unafraid of the darkness rotting inside her chest.

His large hand lifted, pausing for a fraction of a second in mid-air before resting on her disheveled hair.

The touch was incredibly firm, devoid of warmth or gentleness, but it didn't hurt her.

“If you make yourself useful,” he continued, his voice steady, “there will never be a reason for me to fear you.”

Seraphina’s small fingers curled tightly into fists at her sides.

Useful.

She didn't understand everything, but she understood that word.

“And if I am not… useful?” She asked slowly.

The Duke's expression didn't soften in the slightest.

“Then you will become a problem.”

It was a rather brutal direct answer, yet his hand did not leave her head.

Instead, it pressed down, as if grounding her to the earth.

“But until that day comes,” he added, “you belong to me.”

Seraphina looked up into his eyes.

Not at the blood-dripping sword, not at the horrific scene of slaughter surrounding them, and not at the screams of the pavilion.

Only into his eyes.

They did not waver. They did not avoid her gaze. They did not look down at her as if she were a cursed abomination that needed to be erased from existence.

For the first time in her short life, someone was looking directly at her.

Not with fear. Not with disgust.

Just… as she was.

Her pale lips parted slightly, a tiny breath escaping her.

“…Okay.”

Her small fingers slowly reached forward, her instincts taking over as she caught the blood-dappled edge of his green sleeve, holding onto the fabric with everything she had.

He did not pull his arm away.

And to Seraphina, that single act of tolerance was more than enough.

The frantic screams in the background faded into white noise.

The warm blood pooling around her bare feet no longer mattered.

Even the headless corpse of the woman who had birthed her had lost all meaning.

All that remained in her newly defined world was the armored man standing in front of her.

Her father.

The one who wasn't afraid of her.

The one who promised he would protect her.

The one who actually looked at her.

Seraphina’s tiny grip on his sleeve tightened until her knuckles turned white.

If being useful meant he would keep looking at her with those eyes…

Then she would become the most useful.

No matter what it took.

At least, that was the vow she had made before everything started falling apart.