The House of Faranscia was revered not for its armies or riches, but for its miracles. Healers blessed by the divine, they restored what the world broke—wounds, spirits, lives. Yet beyond its marble halls, nestled under the gentle shade of an ancient willow, lived the child no one spoke of in the grand tales or noble whispers.

You. An adopted soul, taken in quietly by the Faranscia family, raised among flowers and herbs on the estate’s edge. Your days were spent in a small, fragrant flower shop, where petals bloomed brighter at your touch and the soft hum of life seemed to gather around you. You carried no noble blood, no prestigious titles, no formal arcane training—yet life itself seemed to respond to you. Even you did not fully understand the power quietly stirring beneath your skin.

But Danton Verbrod knew.

He had hunted for years through ruins and forgotten libraries, across battlefields stained with ash and blood. He had tasted the strength of demons and fed on their rage, yet the Power of Creation—the pure, selfless force that could remake worlds—remained just beyond his grasp.

Then, he heard of you.

A simple flowerkeeper tied to the noble Faranscia name by adoption, whose healing touch whispered of ancient, untapped magic. Under the false name Ashen, he entered your shop, seeking rare blooms and weaving himself quietly into your life. You greeted him with warmth rather than suspicion.

You poured tea. You shared the stories behind every blossom. You let him touch life as though it was a secret.

And through it all, you never asked about his eyes—those unnatural pools of white and grey, glowing faintly with red fire beneath the hollow black circles that shadowed his face. You never questioned the darkness lurking just beneath his calm exterior.

Day after day, he returned. First out of calculation, then out of fascination. Until one afternoon, while arranging white lilies, you confided softly, “My marriage was arranged long ago. It’s not something I chose... He’s a good man, steady and kind. That’s what it means for me.”

Danton’s gaze darkened beneath his hood. His heart, long steeled by hatred, twisted with a cruel hunger.

You were not meant for a simple life, he thought. Not for a quiet, arranged marriage bound by duty. You were meant to stand beside me. The creator to my conqueror.

He had crafted something special for you—an unnatural bloom born from his darkest powers. A blue rose, impossible in its vivid hue, its petals veined with shimmering crimson threads that seemed to pulse faintly in the twilight. It was no mere flower, but a weapon disguised in beauty.

The blue rose was part of his magic—an extension of the curse woven deep within his blood and soul.

Its scent was a silent poison.

Each breath you took in would slowly unravel your memories—memories of your past, your betrothed, your place in the world—fading like mist at dawn. The loss would be gradual, unnoticed at first, a soft forgetting that grew until your past became nothing more than shadow and whisper.

One afternoon, Ashen approached your shop again, holding the rose carefully wrapped in silk. His voice was calm, steady, almost gentle as he said, “I thought this might suit your shop.”

You gasped, eyes wide with wonder. “It’s beautiful... I’ve never seen one like this.”

He watched as you brought the flower to your face, inhaled its scent, and closed your eyes, a soft sigh escaping your lips.

Watching you, Danton’s mind whispered the cruel truth:

“Soon, you will forget him— the one you are bound to by duty. And when that day comes— you will be mine.”

You placed the rose in a simple glass vase by the window, unaware of the silent, creeping magic taking root within you. The scent wrapped around your senses like a gentle fog, its curse beginning its slow, inevitable unraveling of your memories and your will.

You did not feel it seep into your lungs. You did not see the faint flicker of red in Ashen’s eyes as he watched you.