The next day.

The heavy oak door to Lord Marcus's private study clicked shut behind Genevieve.

The room smelled intensely of old parchment and rich cigar smoke. Genevieve sat in the leather chair opposite the massive mahogany desk, her internal alarms screaming.

Lord Marcus sat behind the desk. He adjusted his cuffs, his face unreadable. He pushed a delicate crystal vial across the polished wood. The thick, dark red liquid inside caught the dim light.

"A high-tier blood alchemy potion," Lord Marcus said, his voice flat. "Consider it compensation for my... harshness yesterday."

Genevieve stared at the priceless vial. The image of Rosalie's helpless, fragile face flashed in her mind.

She reached out with both hands. Her fingers hovered over the crystal. Right as her skin brushed the smooth glass, she forced her wrist to jerk violently.

The crystal vial slipped from her grasp.

It hit the edge of the desk and plummeted onto the expensive Persian rug. A dull, heavy crack echoed in the quiet room.

The glass shattered. The thick, potent smell of high-tier blood magic exploded into the air, suffocatingly sweet. The dark red liquid seeped into the intricate threads of the rug, ruining it instantly.

Lord Marcus's eyebrows snapped together. He opened his mouth to speak.

Genevieve beat him to it.

She slapped both hands over her mouth. She sucked in a sharp, loud breath, perfectly mimicking Rosalie's signature startled gasp.

"I'm so stupid!" Genevieve cried out, her voice trembling violently. "I can't even hold a simple bottle. I've ruined it. I've disappointed you again, Lord Marcus."

To sell the performance, Genevieve reached under her long skirt and pinched the soft flesh of her thigh with brutal force. The sharp physical pain brought instant, genuine tears to her eyes. Two fat drops spilled over her lashes and rolled down her pale cheeks.

Lord Marcus stared at her. He watched the exaggerated trembling of her shoulders. A wave of sheer absurdity washed over him.

Instead of exploding in anger, Lord Marcus let out a short, dry laugh. The corner of his mouth twitched upward in defeat.

He stood up. He walked around the heavy desk, carefully stepping over the shards of broken crystal. He stopped right in front of her.

He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a silk handkerchief embroidered with his family crest. He held it out to her.

Genevieve shrank back. She pulled her shoulders up to her ears, acting like a stray dog expecting a kick. She didn't reach for the silk.

Lord Marcus sighed. The sound was heavy in his chest. He reached down, grabbed her cold hand, and gently but firmly pressed the handkerchief into her palm.

"I apologize for my lack of control yesterday," Lord Marcus said, his voice dropping low.

Genevieve's heart did a victorious flip. But on the outside, she kept shivering. She brought the silk to her face and clumsily wiped at the tears.

"I will have the alchemist brew a purer batch for you tomorrow," Lord Marcus promised, stepping back.

Genevieve bent forward in the chair. She lowered her head until her chin almost touched her knees, adopting the most submissive posture possible.

"Thank you. Thank you so much," she babbled, her tone dripping with pathetic gratitude.

Lord Marcus rubbed his temples. Looking at her cold, beautiful face twisted into this pitiful mask was giving him a migraine.

He pointed to the plush leather sofa against the wall. "Sit there. Tell me the truth. Is your body truly failing?"

Genevieve seized the opening. She pressed her hand flat against her chest.

"My magic is draining," she whispered. "The sunlight burns my skin now. Even the wind in the hallways makes me dizzy."

Lord Marcus frowned. He stepped closer and held out his hand, palm up. He wanted to check her magical core.

Genevieve didn't pull away this time. She placed her wrist in his hand.

As his cold fingers pressed against her pulse point, Genevieve dug deep into her Antediluvian bloodline. With absolute, terrifying control, she suppressed her roaring magic. She forced her veins to mimic a shattered, dried-up magical circuit. She made her pulse weak, erratic, and full of holes.

Lord Marcus closed his eyes to focus. When he felt the pathetic, broken state of her magic, his eyes snapped open. The last trace of suspicion vanished from his face. A heavy shadow of guilt settled over his features.

He let go of her wrist.

"You are excused from all family hunting duties," Lord Marcus announced, his tone final. "You will stay within the Court and rest."

Genevieve let out a shaky breath of relief. The plan worked.

She stood up to leave. She made sure her knees buckled slightly. She swayed on her feet, walking toward the door with clumsy, uneven steps, looking like she might pass out at any second.

Lord Marcus watched her fragile back. The crease between his brows deepened.

The moment the heavy oak door clicked shut behind her, Lord Marcus slammed his hand onto the call button.

The butler entered immediately.

"Investigate everyone," Lord Marcus ordered, his voice dark and lethal. "Find out who poisoned or cursed Genevieve. Turn the outer clans upside down if you have to."

Out in the hallway, Genevieve stood perfectly still.

The pathetic slump of her shoulders vanished. Her spine straightened. The fake weakness melted off her face, leaving behind her usual cold, sharp expression.

She looked at the closed door of the study. A slow, mocking smile curved her lips.

The crystal chandeliers in the Crimson Court's grand banquet hall blazed with blinding light.

Dozens of high-ranking vampires stood in small clusters, holding delicate crystal flutes of blood wine. The air hummed with the sound of classical music and the rustle of expensive silk.

The heavy double doors opened.

Genevieve walked in. She wore a plain, oversized black dress that hung off her frame like a potato sack. It was a brutal contrast to the skin-tight, diamond-encrusted gowns she usually wore to these events.

The moment she stepped onto the marble floor, the conversations died.

Dozens of pairs of eyes snapped toward her. The aristocrats stared, their eyes wide with shock and burning curiosity. The scent of fresh gossip flooded the room.

In the center of the hall, Rosalie stood surrounded by a group of young, eager male vampires. She wore a stunning white gown covered in crushed diamonds. She looked like a flawless, untouchable princess.

Rosalie saw Genevieve. A dark, calculating gleam flashed in her eyes.

She picked up a glass of premium, high-tier blood wine from a passing silver tray. She plastered a gentle, forgiving smile on her face and walked straight toward Genevieve, playing the gracious victor.

Genevieve watched her approach. She calculated the distance.

Just as Rosalie stopped in front of her, Genevieve threw herself backward.

Her back slammed violently into the solid marble pillar behind her. The impact produced a loud, sickening thud that echoed over the music.

Genevieve let out a dramatic, high-pitched gasp of terror.

Rosalie froze. Her hand, holding the wine glass, stopped in mid-air. Her perfect smile cracked, looking stiff and ridiculous.

Genevieve grabbed her own shoulder, rubbing it as if she were in agony.

"I'm sorry!" Genevieve shouted, her voice trembling and loud enough for half the room to hear. "A useless cripple like me doesn't deserve such fine wine. Please, Lady Rosalie, enjoy it yourself! Don't waste it on me!"

The surrounding nobles heard every single word. It was the exact, pathetic phrasing Rosalie always used.

A few of the older female vampires hid their mouths behind their feather fans, their shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

Rosalie's face turned stark white, then flushed a furious red. Inside her head, her system screamed. Her favorability points were dropping due to the sheer, suffocating awkwardness of the situation.

Desperate to save face, Rosalie forced her smile back. She took a step forward and reached out to grab Genevieve's hand, trying to force a display of sisterly affection.

Genevieve reacted like she had been struck by lightning.

She violently ripped her arm away. The motion was so exaggerated it looked comical.

Using the momentum of her own swing, Genevieve threw herself onto the polished floor. She landed hard on her side. She grabbed her own wrist, curling into a ball, and sucked in a sharp hiss of pain through her teeth.

The orchestra abruptly stopped playing.

The entire hall fell dead silent. Every single eye locked onto Rosalie, who stood over Genevieve with her hand still awkwardly extended.

Rosalie panicked. Tears instantly welled up in her eyes.

"I... I didn't even touch her!" Rosalie stuttered, her voice cracking. "I didn't use any force!"

The crowd parted. Lord Marcus strode through the gap, his face like a thundercloud. He stopped and looked down at the chaotic mess on the floor.

Rosalie braced herself, waiting for Lord Marcus to scream at Genevieve for bullying her.

Instead, Lord Marcus just sighed. He didn't even look at Rosalie. He snapped his fingers at two nearby blood servants.

"Help her up," Lord Marcus ordered tiredly.

The servants rushed forward and pulled Genevieve to her feet.

Genevieve leaned heavily against one of the servants. She looked at Lord Marcus with wide, watery eyes.

"Please don't punish Rosalie," Genevieve whispered weakly. "It's my fault. My bones are just too brittle now."

Whispers erupted across the hall. The nobles shook their heads. Half of them thought Genevieve had lost her mind; the other half thought she was a pathetic joke. The deep fear they used to hold for the pureblood genius vanished into thin air.

Lord Marcus's jaw tightened. This public humiliation was destroying the Court's dignity.

He grabbed Genevieve by the elbow and dragged her out of the hall, pulling her onto a secluded, wind-swept balcony.

The cold night air whipped Genevieve's hair across her face.

Lord Marcus let go of her arm. He glared at her.

"Since you are so restless in the Court, I will throw you into the Academy's rules to grind you down," Lord Marcus warned, his voice a low, dangerous growl.

Genevieve dropped her head. She twisted the fabric of her ugly black dress between her fingers, looking entirely clueless and submissive.

Lord Marcus watched her blank face and made a hard decision.

"Starting tomorrow, you will report to the Nightwalker Academy," Lord Marcus commanded. "You will attend classes, and you will act as Rosalie's personal bodyguard. If she makes a single mistake or suffers any harm, I will hold you entirely responsible. Let us see if having a real task cures your sudden frailty."

Genevieve's stomach plummeted. The Academy. That was the exact location where the prophecy said she would be framed and killed.

She snapped her head up.

"No," Genevieve said, her voice shaking with real panic this time. "I can't. The sunlight outside the Court... the silver weapons in the training grounds... I'm too weak!"

Lord Marcus's expression turned to stone.

"You will go," he said coldly. "Or I will cut off your blood supply entirely."

Genevieve bit her lower lip hard. She lowered her head, acting defeated.

"Yes, Lord Marcus," she mumbled.

But as she stared down at the dark balcony floor, a sharp, cunning light flashed in her eyes. If she had to go to the Academy, she would drag her trash persona all the way to the bottom. She would break every single plot point before it even started.

The smell of ozone and burnt copper hung heavy in the Academy's combat simulation room.

Instructor Elias Vance stood at the front of the massive, stone-walled classroom. He slapped his wooden pointer against the chalkboard, drawing a complex diagram of energy conversion.

"Half-blood Rosalie," Elias barked. "Come to the front."

Rosalie stood up, smoothing her perfectly pleated skirt. She walked to the center of the room. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and held her hands out.

A soft, warm, and incredibly precise wave of healing light bloomed from her palms. It illuminated the dark classroom.

The students erupted into applause. Whispers of awe filled the room. For a half-blood to possess such pure magic was incredibly rare.

Rosalie lowered her hands. She blushed, looking down at her shoes.

"It's nothing, really," Rosalie said softly. "My small tricks are completely worthless compared to the pureblood genius, Genevieve."

The applause died instantly.

Every head in the classroom turned. Like a physical spotlight, their stares pinned Genevieve to her seat in the darkest, back corner of the room.

Rosalie walked down the aisle, stopping right in front of Genevieve's desk. She smiled, her eyes shining with fake admiration.

"Sister, please," Rosalie said loudly. "Show us your power. Guide us."

Genevieve had been sleeping face-down on her desk. She slowly lifted her head. Her hair was a mess. Her eyes were dull, unfocused, and completely devoid of the terrifying pureblood pressure she used to carry.

She pushed her chair back. As she stood up, she deliberately let her right knee buckle. She grabbed the edge of the desk, swaying dangerously, looking like a strong gust of wind would snap her in half.

Genevieve looked at Rosalie. She pitched her voice to match Rosalie's soft, helpless tone perfectly.

"My mind is completely blank," Genevieve dragged out the words, sounding exhausted. "I don't know how to do anything anymore."

Rosalie's smile tightened. She thought Genevieve was just being arrogant and refusing to perform.

"Don't be modest," Rosalie pushed, her voice sickly sweet. "We all know about your glorious kills during the Court hunts."

Genevieve didn't argue. Instead, she slapped both hands over her face.

Her shoulders began to heave. She let out a series of pathetic, breathless hiccups, perfectly copying Rosalie's signature silent crying technique.

"I lost my talent!" Genevieve wailed, her voice cracking in the quiet room. "I'm a useless cripple! Stop forcing a sick person to perform!"

The classroom fell into a stunned, uncomfortable silence. The students stared at each other. They couldn't connect this weeping, pathetic mess to the cold-blooded killer they had heard rumors about.

Rosalie's smile completely shattered. Her mouth hung open. She felt the heavy, mocking irony of Genevieve's performance slapping her right in the face.

As Rosalie stood up, her mind raced. She needed to drain Genevieve's reputation quickly; Lord Marcus's elite guards were already tearing through the outer clans, interrogating everyone about Genevieve's supposed 'curse'. The pressure was mounting.

To seal the deal, Genevieve pressed her thumb against her index knuckle. She let a tiny, chaotic fraction of her shadow magic slip out of her fingertips.

Black mist exploded from her hand. It didn't form a spell. It acted like a swarm of panicked hornets, shooting wildly across the room.

The mist slammed into the instructor's desk. It knocked over a row of glass reagent vials.

The vials hit the stone floor and shattered. A foul, acidic smell instantly flooded the room.

Panic erupted. The students in the front row screamed and scrambled backward, knocking over their heavy wooden chairs to escape the chaotic mist.

Rosalie saw the chaos. She immediately dropped to the floor, landing gracefully on her knees. She looked up with wide, frightened eyes, waiting for one of the male students to rush over and protect her.

Genevieve didn't give her the spotlight.

Genevieve let out an ear-piercing shriek. She threw herself onto the floor and scrambled directly under her wooden desk. She wrapped her arms around her head, curling into a tight ball, screaming louder than anyone else.

Elias Vance's face turned purple with rage. He slashed his wooden pointer through the air.

A blinding wave of white purification light blasted across the room. It instantly vaporized the rogue shadow mist and forced the students into silence.

Elias marched down the aisle. He stopped at Genevieve's desk and glared down at the shivering girl hiding underneath it.

Elias's face turned pale. He lowered his voice, his tone a mix of shock and cautious hesitation. "Lady Genevieve... with your bloodline, this... is this some kind of disguise I cannot comprehend, or is your body truly failing to control the most basic foundation of magic?!"

Genevieve poked her tear-stained face out from under the desk. She looked Elias dead in the eye.

"Because I am a complete piece of trash now!" Genevieve yelled back, sounding incredibly proud of the fact.

Elias choked on his own breath. His face turned from purple to a sickly pale. In his hundred years of teaching, he had never seen an Antediluvian descendant with absolutely zero shame.

Rosalie stood up from the floor. She dusted off her skirt and stepped forward.

"Instructor, please," Rosalie said gently. "Sister Genevieve is just nervous."

"I'm not just nervous!" Genevieve shouted from under the desk, cutting Rosalie off. "I'm uncoordinated! My brain is shrinking! I'm useless!"

Elias squeezed his eyes shut. He rubbed his throbbing temples. He had reached his absolute limit.

He pulled a red pen from his pocket and slashed a violent mark across his clipboard.

"Zero," Elias announced loudly. "Genevieve receives a zero for today's combat simulation."

Instead of crying, Genevieve let out a loud sigh of relief. She crawled out from under the desk, dusted off her knees, and sat back down in her chair, looking perfectly content with her failure.