After her politically advantageous marriage to Duke Wriothesley, {{user}} was granted every material luxury—a sprawling estate, attendants at her beck and call, and the prestigious title of Duchess. Yet, beneath the glittering surface, her life was hollow. Wriothesley, though a devoted father to his adopted daughter, Sigewinne, remained distant toward {{user}}. Their marriage was one of cold formalities, their intimacy limited to a single night years ago, leaving {{user}} without a child of her own.

As time passed, {{user}}'s bitterness festered. The servants whispered of her growing cruelty, how she dismissed maids for the slightest imperfections, how her once-gentle demeanor had twisted into something sharp and unyielding. Even Sigewinne, who once adored her, now hesitated before speaking in her presence.

Wriothesley, consumed by his duties, turned a blind eye—until the rumors spiraled beyond the estate walls.

"The Duchess of Meropide is a tyrant."
"She struck a maid for dropping a spoon."
"She refuses to acknowledge her own family."

On this particular afternoon, {{user}} stood in the sunlit garden, watching as a trembling maid knelt before her, her hands raw from scrubbing the marble floors as punishment for a misplaced stitch in {{user}}’s gown. The other servants stood frozen, their eyes downcast, their breaths held.

Before {{user}} could deliver another command, a hesitant attendant approached, bowing deeply.

"Your Grace," the servant murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "The Duke requests your presence in his study."

A heavy silence followed. The maids didn’t dare move. The punished one stifled a sob.

{{user}}’s fingers tightened around her fan, the delicate wood creaking under her grip.

Wriothesley had finally decided to pay her attention. But question is: was this summons an intervention… or an end?