The venue was the High Council chamber, a vast, echoing space designed to dwarf its occupants. Elma was positioned, on a cushion set between her father and Lady Kresnik, who presided with a stoic, slate-gray severity that made her seem carved from granite.

  The air was thick with barely contained resentment. Three other powerful lords sat around the crescent table, their eyes sharp, their own House colors dull beside Valerius’s blinding gold.

  Valerius began the meeting by stressing that inaction against the tide would mean mutual destruction.

  Suddenly, Lord Teyrn, a gaunt man in burgundy, stopped speaking and turned his gaze directly onto Elma.

  “Forgive me, Lord Altheris, Lady Kresnik,” Teyrn said, his voice laced with pointed neutrality. “But for generations, it has been tacitly understood that children do not attend these council meetings. Why is the child here?”

  A beat of tense silence passed.

  Lord Valerius Altheris threw back his head, and the laughter erupted—louder than ever, clashing against the severe chamber walls.

  “HA HA HA! Teyrn, my old friend! You ask me why the future is present at a discussion of the future?” He leaned over and gripped Elma's shoulder, the golden armor cold beneath his hand. "This little one, Elma, is the future of the alliance—the formal formation of the greatest, most powerful House this realm has ever seen. She must be treated as such. She must learn to breathe the air of power, not the stale air of a nursery.”

  Before the lords could respond, Lord Vane, a severe man known for his moralistic pronouncements, stood abruptly, his chair scraping loudly across the stone floor.

  “I find her presence disgusting!” Vane spat, his voice trembling.

  “Especially after what you did to House Varr! It is unforgivable, Altheris, to erase a Great House from existence simply for political leverage!”

  The room went silent, save for Valerius's heavy breathing. Vane had dared to cross the line.

  Valerius Altheris slowly looked up, his cold crimson eyes locking onto the man. He did not raise his voice; the laughter was gone, replaced by a deadly calm that was far more terrifying.

  “Unforgivable?” Valerius asked softly. “House Varr was already dying, Lord Vane. They chose weakness. They chose sentiment over Power. I merely gave them the honor of dying like the great house they used to be, rather than having their land ravaged by common peasants once their protection failed.”

  He then fixed his gaze on Elma, his hand still on her shoulder, and the pride returned—cold and monumental.

  “And besides,” he concluded, his voice ringing with absolute certainty. “It is only fitting that the child who secures the alliance receives such a House as her birth sacrifice.”

  Elma, sat motionless between the political titan and the implacable matriarch.

  Birth sacrifice.

  She understood the words: the finality of the Varr name. The crushing weight of her own importance. The casual declaration that her entire existence was bought with an ocean of blood.

  A chilling silence hung over the High Council chamber after Valerius’s final, arrogant declaration. Lord Vane, the moralist, stood isolated, his face pale with fury and fear.

  Then, Lord Thorn cleared his throat — an ancient, sharp-eyed man. He did not look at Valerius but stared at the sprawling map of the unified territories pinned to the far wall.

  “I believe we all quietly agree that House Varr had lost its way,” Thorn said, his voice measured and low. “Orren’s sentimental decree about the old rites ensured their decline. A weak House is a disease in the body of the realm, and sometimes, a surgeon’s blade is necessary.”

  He paused, and his eyes, cold and calculating, finally flickered to the golden sheen of Valerius’s armor, and then momentarily, to Elma.

  “The only question, Lord Altheris,” Thorn continued, “is how we ensure the surgeon knows when to put the blade away.”

  The silence returned, now sharper, heavier. Thorn hadn't just agreed to the slaughter; he had expressed the core fear shared by every other Lord: Which one of us will be next on Valerius’s ambitious operating table?

  Valerius’s dangerous calm vanished. His jaw tightened, and he was already leaning forward, a sharp, annihilating retort forming on his lips—a response that would have shattered the fragile peace.

  But before he could speak, Lady Kresnik intervened.

  Her voice, usually a dry, steady whisper, cut through the tension with the force of steel on glass. She didn't shout; she simply spoke with absolute, unwavering authority.

  “The question is already answered, Lord Thorn,” Lady Kresnik stated, not looking at her son-in-law, but addressing the assembled Lords. “What happened to House Varr was not a random act of savagery. It was the consequence of their own deviation from our ancient traditions. They let their blood weaken. They abandoned the foundation of our power.”

  She moved her severe slate-gray sleeve, resting a hand briefly on the table, asserting her House’s seniority.

  “We maintain our strength. We maintain our traditions. We ensure our children are fit for the highest mantles of Resonance,” she declared. "If all the Houses honor this, everything will be good."

  Kresnik smoothly shifted the discourse from Valerius’s aggressive ambition to the necessity of their shared noble system. She offered a cold comfort—stay strong, and Valerius won't touch you.

  Then came the tactical olive branch.

  “As a gesture of good faith from the unified alliance to the Council,” she continued, her voice softening just enough to imply generosity, "House Kresnik will oversee the distribution of the Varr land, ensuring a proper balance. We are prepared to offer the three loyal Houses present half of the Varr territories as compensation for assisting in the pacification.”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  The other Lords instantly quieted, their fear giving way to greed. Land, wealth, and power—the currency Valerius had used to crush Varr was now being used by Kresnik to buy their loyalty.

  Valerius, his face rigid with suppressed fury at being cut off, gave a tight, almost imperceptible nod. He had wanted to threaten them; Kresnik had simply shown them the price of obedience.

  Only after Kresnik’s deceleration did the other houses, quilted together, begin planning their attack on the tide.

  Elma, pressed between the warring wills of her father and grandmother, felt the true nature of her political prison. Her father was the unpredictable blade; her grandmother was the precise hand guiding the cuts. And the entire world was maintained by a delicate balance of cruelty and bribery.

  The meeting droned on. Elma stared at her grandmother's hands, still resting on the table. They did not tremble. They did not clench. They simply lay there, pale and immaculate, and Elma understood: Nina Kresnik had never needed to raise a blade in her life. She only needed to point.

  ***

  The Dinner:

  Elma, six months old, was strapped into her high chair, enduring what was, for her, the most agonizing torture: The Dinner.

  It was served in the Great Dining Hall, a vast, echoing space designed to celebrate the wealth of House Altheris. Yet, the room itself was proof of the chasm between its occupants.

  Lord Valerius Altheris sat at the head. Lady Christa Kresnik sat opposite him, beautiful but subdued. Elma sat between them, a small, helpless centerpiece.

  The marriage was a political union, a merger of power lines, and the atmosphere reflected it perfectly. It was not a tense, suppressed anger that filled the room; it was simply a vacuum of connection.

  The silence was monumental. It swallowed the soft scrape of silver on porcelain, the quiet padding of the servants' shoes, and every breath Elma took. It was a cold, oppressive emptiness—the sound of two people who had nothing to say to each other.

  The veteran consciousness of D-66 raged against this polite, suffocating quiet. She longed for a fight, a clear threat, or even just genuine noise. The urge to break the silence, to shatter the crystal goblets, to tear the silk napkin from Valerius's lap—anything to force a real reaction—was almost unbearable.

  Christa slowly raised her head. Her eyes met her husband's—and for the first time ever in the dining hall, Elma saw something in her mother's face that wasn’t exhaustion or resignation, but a deep, quiet concern. She ignored Valerius entirely. Her gaze found Elma’s.

  "Elma," Christa said softly, her words aimed only at her daughter. "Our child is not normal."

  The statement struck Elma like a sudden, brutal blow. Panic, cold and immediate, seized her. The six months of agony spent mastering the role of a compliant, idiotic infant—the hours spent biting her own sleeve to suppress the urge to fight, the sheer humiliation of her limited motor skills—all of it had been for nothing.

  She caught me! Elma thought, the core of D—66 dissolving into frantic, primal fear. How? Did I slip? Did I move my eyes wrong?

  Elma stared back at her mother, her baby face frozen in wide-eyed shock. Her mind raced through every interaction, every feeding, every time Christa had simply murmured a lullaby. When had she seen through the mask?

  Valerius, still rigid, finally spoke, his voice dangerously low, "what do you mean?"

  Christa stood up abruptly, knocking her chair back onto the polished stone floor. The unexpected, loud crash finally broke her composure; the usual resignation was replaced by raw, frantic emotion. She was shouting now, her voice echoing and cracking in the vast hall.

  "What do I mean? I mean she isn't natural! She has never cried like a proper baby! Not when the nurse cleans her, not when she's hungry, not since her birth. She is six months old, and she has never cried!"

  She gestured wildly toward Elma, her hands trembling.

  "And when I hold her, I feel it! She goes rigid, she stiffens up, she holds her breath, or she stares right through me, pretending to be asleep! She barely moves a muscle when she's near us! She is afraid or she is cursed!"

  Elma's consciousness felt a flicker of confusion and disbelief amidst the shock. Afraid? she thought. Isn't that how a smaller, weaker being should act when surrounded by a larger one? What is wrong with these people?

  Valerius stared at his wife for a long moment, taking in her hysteria. Then, slowly, a wide, deafening laughter broke across his face. It was the same booming, empty, triumphant sound Elma had grown to hate.

  "HA HA HA HA! My dear Christa! Your sensibilities are betraying you!" Valerius bellowed, rising to his full, immense height. "You see fear or a curse; I see the perfection of a leader!"

  He moved to Elma’s chair and gripped the wood so tightly his knuckles were white.

  "She is my daughter! She does not cry because she knows she has nothing to fear! She is a force of will, Christa! She is not some weak-minded peasant child who needs to wail for attention! She is silent because she is strong, because she is disciplined! She is a true Altheris-Kresnik! You should be proud!"

  Christa's shouting stopped instantly. She dropped her hands, her face crumpling with weary disbelief. "Proud of what, Valerius?" she whispered, the question hollow in the huge room. "Proud of your massacres? The Gods will curse us for this. I know it."

  A simple, devastating truth clicked into place in Elma's mind, making her feel intensely alone.

  Christa believes in gods because she cannot believe her husband or mother are simply cruel. She needs there to be a reason, a system, a punishment waiting. Otherwise, this is just what people are.

  Gods, Elma thought.

  Is that what brought her here?

  Yet, the idea took root with chilling logic.

  She stared at her mother, who was now slowly sinking back into her chair, defeated and utterly convinced of a coming cosmic punishment.

  Is that what I really am... their curse?

  Valerius's face went from booming pride to absolute, terrifying stillness. He closed his hands into fists, squeezing them so hard the leather of his gloves must have groaned. He was actively, visibly refraining from an action, something Elma had never witnessed the terrifying Lord Altheris do before.

  Thinking back, Elma realized she had never seen him lash out at Christa. On the contrary, he always fell silent whenever she was present.

  Without a word, Valerius turned his back on his wife and daughter. His massive figure strode quickly away from the table, vanishing into heavy steps that thudded away beyond the doorway.

  Christa's shoulders began to tremble, and she raised a hand to her face, trying to conceal the raw, painful sound that escaped her: a choking sob.

  She was crying.

  Elma stared at the sight, utterly frozen. She felt an inexplicable, sharp guilt clawing at her consciousness. She had never seen her mother cry before, and the sight shattered the meticulous control Elma had fought to maintain since her rebirth.

  The guilt, the pressure, the suffocating atmosphere, and the sheer helplessness of her tiny body collided with a new, piercing fear: that Christa’s trembling voice had spoken the truth.

  That she was the curse hanging over this family. The weight of it broke her, sparking the same uncontrollable, violent reaction she had felt on the day she was born.

  She broke into a cry.

  It wasn't the fake, half-hearted fussing of an infant; it was a raw, tearing wail, ripped from the deepest parts of her small lungs.

  Christa's head snapped up. Her eyes, wide and shining with tears, fixed on Elma in profound shock.

  She rose, overturning her chair in her haste, and hurried to Elma’s side, fumbling with the unfamiliar silk safety straps.

  As soon as Elma was free, Christa pulled the baby close, gathering her into a desperate, tight embrace.

  "Oh, my baby, my little Elma!" Christa choked out, tears of relief now mixing with her sorrow. "I'm so sorry I screamed at your father. I'm sorry I frightened you."

  Elma clung to her mother, the violent sobs still racking her body. She didn’t understand why Christa held this kind of power over her.

  And as her tiny body betrayed her, the thought formed with cruel clarity:

  I soiled myself.

  She did not know how long Christa held her. She did not know when Leta came to take her away. She only knew that her mother's arms were warm, and that she had never, in either life, been held like this.