The air in the room was awkward and heavy.
Crystal sat stiffly on the cushioned chair opposite him, her arms stubbornly crossed, her chin tilted up in that same proud, defiant way he remembered from when they were kids. Only now, it felt more like a wall than a quirk. She didn't look at him, didn't even pretend to smile, just sat there stiff and guarded like a cat backed into a corner.
Adam leaned against his desk, arms folded across his chest, the wood digging into his spine. His loose tunic clung slightly to his damp skin, his hair still wet from the interrupted bath, a few strands sticking to his temples. The annoyance in his heart pulsed heavier with every second she stayed silent.
Finally, he broke it.
"So?" he said coolly, voice slicing through the stagnant air. "What do you want, dear sister?"
Crystal flinched—barely, but he caught it. She drew in a breath, her throat bobbing, and for a moment... just a moment... he thought she would actually speak like a normal person.
"I..." She gritted her teeth, clearly forcing the words out. "I'm... sorry."
It came out as a growl more than an apology, her face twisting up in discomfort, as if the very act of admitting fault caused her physical pain.
Adam lifted an eyebrow, unimpressed, waiting.
Crystal fidgeted, the heel of her boot tapping against the marble floor in frustration. She tucked a strand of her silver hair behind her ear and finally mumbled, "It was improper. I shouldn't have barged in. Even if you're... my brother."
The way she said it—even if—as if he was some stranger she owed the bare minimum courtesy to, made something old and cold stir in Adam's chest.
He pushed off the desk, crossing his arms tighter, looming slightly over her from where he stood. "That's it?" he said, voice sharp. "You barge in. See something you shouldn't have. And now you're here, looking like you swallowed a lemon, tossing me half an apology like scraps to a dog?"
Crystal's face flushed scarlet, but not from embarrassment. From anger.
"You—! Don't act like you're some saint!" she snapped, shooting to her feet. "You've been weird! Weird for weeks! Working out like a madman, acting all noble and perfect around Laylee, fixing her mana somehow, having 'visions' about our futures—!"
Adam sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. He had hoped this would go better. That maybe—maybe—there was enough left between them to rebuild.
"I'm trying," he said finally, voice low but firm. "I'm not the same person anymore, Crystal. I don't want to be. I... I want us to go back. Back to when we were family."
She froze.
Her breath hitched audibly, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. Her silver eyes, once sharp with anger, now shimmered with something deeper—confusion, pain, betrayal.
Adam took a step forward, voice softer. "I know I was... wrong. I know I hurt you. I just—"
"Then why—" Crystal's voice cracked mid-sentence.
Adam stopped. His heart thudded once, hard, against his ribs.
Crystal's hands trembled, her nails digging crescent moons into her palms. Her chest heaved as if she were forcing the air into her lungs.
"Then why—WHY did you do it?!" she screamed.
The words rang out in the room like a whipcrack.
Adam stumbled a half-step back, stunned.
For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke.
The old walls between them, cracked but standing, shattered completely with those words.
And from the broken pieces, the past—the ugly, bleeding past—rose up to choke him.
The door to that day, long sealed and rotting, swung wide open.
+ +
Flashback.
Before Crystal, before Laylee—before any of this tangled web of hate and regret—there was only him.
Him, and his mother.
The proud matriarch of House Blake, Lady Marianne, who once ruled the Western Vale with a steel hand and a colder smile, had been married before. Her first husband—Adam's father—was not a bad man. No, he was a scholar, a gentle soul with more beauty than strength, praised for his delicate face and mild manners. The ideal husband in a matriarchal world like theirs.
But fate was cruel.
In their prime years, when a noble house lived or died by the strength of its daughters, Adam's father was struck by an illness—something that hollowed out his body and devoured his vitality. No children came. No heirs. No daughters to continue the Blake bloodline. And so, with all the rational coldness expected of a ruling noble, Lady Marianne had made the noble decision to remarry.
Her husband—bedridden, weakened beyond hope—had agreed. Smiling bitterly, blessing her decision.
The new man brought vigor back to House Blake. Two daughters were born within the span of three years—Laylee Blake and Crystal Blake—bright, powerful girls who inherited their mother's pride and the new father's strength. The family flourished.
And Adam's father—left behind, quietly forgotten—withered away in the corners of the estate like a ghost.
Something broke inside him.
Something deep. Something twisted.
The man who had once blessed his wife's remarriage grew desperate, maddened by isolation and irrelevance. One night, fueled by hatred and grief, he conspired. With the help of a loyal maid, he drugged the drinks served to Lady Marianne and her new husband. And in the darkness of their shared bed, the discarded first husband crept in like a shadow.
He took back what he thought was his.
It was only months later, when the swelling of his belly could no longer be hidden, that the terrible truth came out.
He fled before judgment could descend, taking the maid and the unborn child to a secret estate hidden in the western forests.
And when the time came, he bore his son into the world, a wrinkled, squalling infant marked by destiny and despair.
But fate has a cruel sense of timing.
Lady Marianne found him. Her new husband by her side. Their knights at their back.
The door was kicked open. The cries of the newborn boy mixed with the roar of accusations and betrayal.
Cornered, trembling, weeping, the beautiful relic of a man did the only thing he could. He drew a hidden blade. And with his last strength, he slit the throat of his maid, the only one who remained loyal to him until the end.
And then, whispering a curse soaked in grief, he drove the blade into his own heart—
Blood gushing across the floor, staining the crying infant in a baptism of tragedy.
His dying wish?
That his son—his final, pitiful legacy—would one day bring ruin to the family that had thrown him away.
Thus was born the Curse of Lethargy.
It slumbered quietly, unnoticed, buried in the soul of the boy called Adam Blake, waiting for the day he would come of age.
+
Another memory stirred.
Sweeter this time, before the darkness took root.
He remembered small hands.
Two silver-haired little girls clutching his tiny, chubby fists as they dragged him across the courtyard, faces flushed with laughter.
"You have to marry me when we grow up!" Laylee declared, puffing out her chest proudly.
"No! Me!" Crystal had pouted, tugging on his other arm. "I'm the prettier one, brother!"
In those days, he was their sunshine. Their treasure. Their foolish, adorable little brother who they dressed up, teased, and protected fiercely.
And he loved them.
God, he loved them.
He had clung to their skirts when the other noble children teased him for his shyness, hid behind them when bullies pushed too hard, laughed and cried with them as though they were all part of a perfect, unbreakable whole.
Until he turned sixteen.
Until the curse awakened.
It started subtly at first. An inexplicable heaviness. Anger boiling beneath his skin for no reason at all. Resentment he couldn't explain, like a dark whisper at the back of his mind.
And then, the explosions began.
Words he didn't mean, but couldn't stop.
Spiteful, cruel words.
Directed at the two people who loved him most.
He screamed at them. Mocked them.
Told Laylee she would never be more than a failed noblewoman hiding behind books.
Told Crystal she was just a second-rate genius living in her sister's shadow.
He destroyed everything.
He lashed out at the servants. Broke things. Made scenes at formal dinners. Tarnished the Blake name until even the maids whispered behind their hands.
Crystal had begged him once, tears in her eyes, clutching his sleeve.
"Please," she had whispered. "Please come back. Please don't leave us behind."
And he—no, the cursed Adam—had torn himself away, laughing in her face, shoving her to the floor like she was nothing.
It was a miracle they hadn't thrown him into exile.
Maybe only the guilt of Lady Marianne had saved him.
Maybe only the flickering memories of better days kept them from abandoning him altogether.
But the damage had been done.
The bonds had frayed.
And the Adam Blake who had once been loved by his sisters, adored and protected...had become a fat, ugly, cursed wretch.
A villain even in his own family.