The Bookmark: Posthumous Publication

Every member of the Wolfhard family was assigned their own personal battle maid or mage maid, who shadowed them constantly, guardians whose duty was as much to protect as to serve. Ruby, Sushila's battle maid had devoted her entire life to Sushila, the warmth of her loyalty unyielding, like a shield forged in the heat of devotion. But Zora, oh Zora, was no mere mage maid. Chosen for her unparalleled magical talent and her unbreakable spirit, Zora served the Patriarch in a way that few could comprehend. Her healing hands/wand mended the wounds of battle, stitching together flesh and spirit with a touch that whispered of deep, ancient power. But do not let her grace fool you, Zora was a force to be reckoned with. Her healing hands had only scratched the surface of her power.

Zora was no fragile healer; her true strength lay in the way she moved. A tempest wrapped in human form, her hand-to-hand combat skills defied the very laws of the physical world. She was a living masterpiece of martial art, a dance of deadly elegance, as though every movement she made had been written into the fabric of reality itself. She read her opponents like an open book, anticipating every strike before it even happened, her every defense a perfect response, a flawless flow of precision that left no room for error.

To be Head Maid was not merely a title, it was a testament to Zora's unmatched prowess, to the very core of her being. There were only two individuals whom the Patriarch trusted to guard his back in battle: Zora, and the ever-dutiful Head Butler, Reginald. Together, they formed an indomitable pair, unwavering in their loyalty and their strength. They were more than protectors; they were the Patriarch's ironclad shield. And yet, despite her significance, the patriarch had handed over the esteemed Zora, not to his first or second wife, but to his fourth and youngest, as if she were merely an object to be replaced.

Sushila eventually drifted into a restless sleep, her pillow damp with tears. The character of Sushila was a tribute to my grandmother, whose boundless motherly love for my sister and me was mirrored in Sushila's affection for her son, Arthur.

The night seemed endless, each minute dragging on with the weight of uncertainty. My thoughts, endless and tangled, gnawed at me. What happened to Grandma and Sis? Were they okay? I couldn't stop asking myself these questions, the weight of uncertainty pressing on me like a stone. Had Noah, Natalie, and his vile cronies been arrested for murder?

But the deepest wound of all was the one I couldn't escape. Reborn into this world, cursed to wear the skin of a secondary character. If only I'd been reincarnated as the heroine, yes, even if that meant living as a girl. At least she's fated to survive, her path was already written in the stars. Instead, I was trapped in the role of the antagonist, the one doomed to attract death at every turn. The tragic irony of it all: I had written this. I had crafted this nightmare. And now, I was living in it.

In Chapter **, there's a heart-wrenching scene, etched in ink on paper, one I wish to erase. But could an eraser ever truly remove ink? No, if I truly wish to live, I must stop that scene from happening. The scene that had doomed Sushila's fate. Overwhelmed by the incidents that transpired, her depression deepens, culminating in the tragic decision, where Sushila's own hand would claim her life, her despair a poison that tainted her very soul. And with her death, marks the beginning of, Arthur's descent into darkness. Bereft of his mother's love and abandoned by a father who no longer cared, Arthur would fall victim to the cruelty of his father's other wives, trapped in a nightmare of neglect and cruelty, a grim echo of Cinderella, but far more bitter, far more tragic.

And if the path to the Demon Lord was opened, then my end would be sealed. A swift, unmerciful death at the hands of the heroine's sword, a fate I had written but never believed would be mine.

Before I could fully grasp it, my new, tiny, fragile body surrendered to the weight of sleep.

In this world, where magic and steel bled into one another like fire and blood, the very air seemed charged with power. Just as a sword's swing could send an aura of razor-sharp energy cleaving through the air, or a wizard's chant would summon fire from a simple flick of the wrist. At the heart of it all was the Mana Core, a powerful, pulsating source of energy embedded in the chest, tethering the magic of the world to the person who bore it.

For mages, the Mana Core was the wellspring of all their power, an endless font from which they drew their spells. For warriors, it was the very force that fueled their strikes, turning every blow into a living weapon, an Aura capable of cutting through stone and bone alike.

But the Mana Core was fragile. When a mage or swordsman fell, their power shattered with them, scattering into the wind like dust. My own core had been torn apart, ripped from me by a mage's spell that left nothing but a ghost of magic, a faint pulse that would never again awaken.

The following day, Grey summoned the greatest healers in Stella. Each of them delivered the same grim prognosis: Sushila would never walk again. As for me, I had cheated death, but barely. They called me a living corpse, a body merely waiting for the inevitable end.

Grey knew the truth would break Sushila, but he could not protect her from it. As he spoke, her eyes darkened with an impossible weight, each word a knife, cutting through the fragile remains of her spirit. Her face, etched with grief, seemed to crumble under the burden of the news. Grey saw it then, the last pieces of her resolve falling away, her soul shattering like glass.

Raina visited often, her presence a fleeting but cherished moment in the quiet rhythm of our lives. Each time, she carried with her the fruits of her labor, handcrafted wooden toys, little swords and shields, their rough edges a testament to her dedication. Her hands, always scarred with the marks of her work, were as worn as the tools she used to carve them. I never knew whether those cuts came from her relentless training with Zora or the endless hours spent shaping the wood, but they told a story of someone who had long since grown accustomed to pain. Sushila, though, never saw her as anything less than a daughter. Her care for Raina was tender, a soft contrast to the sharp edges of the world that had broken her. Every time Raina came, Sushila would fuss over her wounds, murmuring words of comfort, even as Raina's smile, fragile and fleeting, hid the deep ache that lingered in her eyes. I knew it was there. The weight of loss. The absence of the mother she could never quite let go of.

Zora, too, watched over Raina, though she never spoke of it directly. "She's talented," Zora would say quietly, almost to herself. "At the rate she's going, she could surpass me in ten years or less."

Her voice, though steady, carried something unspoken, a deep attachment to the girl. "She's a mage," Zora would murmur, "but she insists on holding onto an attachment in the form of her mother's dagger, a weapon that could never truly match her gifts, her magic, should be her focus."

And so, under Zora's watchful eye, Raina trained, learning not only magic but the art of combat, a dance of survival that would shape her into something more than the sum of her past. It was a delicate balance, one that tethered her to the present, to the person she was becoming, while the ghosts of her past lingered at the edges of her every movement.