Helena was enjoying the auction.

  There was nothing particularly special about it. Simply being present, surrounded by the liveliness of the place, was enough. Voices rose and fell around her, bids were called, people leaned forward with interest. For now, that alone was sufficient.

  Beside her, Stella was hugging her new plushie tightly. She was clearly trying to look composed, as if she had already outgrown such things, but she was still ten. The effort showed in the way she sat a little too straight, eyes flicking around now and then to check whether anyone was watching.

  Laysandra had calmed down as well. The earlier tension had faded, replaced by cautious familiarity. She still looked alert, but she no longer seemed overwhelmed by her surroundings.

  Rias, meanwhile, was still stuck in her own gathering. Helena could see her a short distance away, surrounded by nobles who showed no sign of slowing down. Rias nodded at the right moments and smiled when required, but her expression had grown faintly glassy. Her mind was clearly nearing its limit.

  Helena had spent most of the auction chatting quietly with Laysandra and teasing Stella whenever she caught her sneaking affectionate looks at the plushie. It passed the time easily.

  Then she noticed him.

  It took a moment. Helena had never been good with faces or directions. Even in her memories, her old family existed more as impressions than details. Blurred outlines. Raised voices. Expectations without clear shape.

  But this face came into focus immediately.

  Iscar Winterwell.

  Her brother.

  Recognition settled in without hesitation. There was no confusion, no need to second-guess it.

  So the time really does flow differently, she thought.

  She had heard it before, that her family was still alive. That a century on Earth did not mean a century here. When Rob had mentioned that Andrew was still the head of House Winterwell, she had accepted it on the surface, but some doubt had lingered.

  Seeing Iscar erased that doubt completely.

  There was still youth in his face. Not untouched, but present. Enough to make it clear that this was not a later generation. This was the same brother she remembered.

  Old memories surfaced.

  His unreasonable demands. The way he spoke as if obedience were the natural order of things. How he had acted as the second prince’s loyal follower, pushing Helena into whatever role was required of her next.

  She had tried to fit into the structure they built around her. She had suppressed her own feelings and agreed again and again, because that was what was expected of her.

  And in the end, it had earned her confinement in a convent.

  The people there had been kind. They had treated her well enough. But she had still been young. She had still wanted to see the world. To live freely, even if only a little.

  She never had that choice.

  House Winterwell.

  The title of fiancée to the second prince.

  They had been chains, even if no one had ever called them that.

  Helena looked at Iscar again and considered how she felt.

  There was some anger. A trace of it, at least. But it was distant, muted, no longer something that demanded action.

  Right now, he felt like just another person in the hall. Less than a stranger, even. Someone tied to a life that no longer belonged to her.

  She let out a quiet breath and looked away.

  “It doesn’t matter now,” she told herself.

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  The world was smaller than she once believed. If not today, then someday, she would encounter her old family again. She was not hiding, and she had no intention of starting.

  She had already stepped out from under their influence. She had made herself into someone who listened to her own voice.

  What she was now was not something anyone could take from her.

  Not now.

  Not ever.

  The auction was clearly nearing its end.

  A steady stream of items passed across the stage. Rare magic stones. Oddly shaped enchanted tools. A treasure map of questionable authenticity. A handful of ancient relics whose true value was left deliberately vague. They drew interest, bids, and polite murmurs.

  None of it held Helena’s attention.

  She watched without much interest until a familiar movement caught her eye.

  Iscar lifted his bidding paddle.

  The item was modest. A pack of healing potions, well-made and brewed by a master alchemist. Reliable, but hardly impressive. Helena almost dismissed it outright. She did not need potions. Her storage was filled with better healing options than anything being sold here.

  Still, her gaze lingered on Iscar.

  Annoying him did not require a reason.

  The corner of her mouth lifted slightly.

  Not revenge, she decided. Nothing dramatic. Just a little fun.

  The auctioneer was already winding toward a final call when Helena raised her paddle.

  The price doubled.

  The reaction was immediate.

  Iscar turned, irritation plain on his face as he searched for the source of the new bid. His eyes found her.

  Ten thousand gold for a pack of potions.

  He knew instantly it was deliberate. Not an attempt to buy the item, but interference. His expression tightened, annoyance slipping into something uglier.

  Helena met his gaze calmly.

  It was, she decided, the most enjoyable thing she had seen in decades.

  She expected him to bid again. She was prepared for it. If he raised the price, she would raise it further. Eventually, he would give up.

  That had been the plan.

  What she had not accounted for was that ten thousand was already excessive. Even for potions of this quality, it was well beyond reasonable value.

  Iscar stared at her for a few seconds longer. Then the man seated beside him leaned in and said something quietly, his expression troubled.

  Iscar’s jaw tightened.

  But he did not raise his paddle again.

  Instead, he looked away.

  Helena blinked.

  That was unexpected.

  If there was one thing she remembered clearly about her family, it was their pride. Their refusal to back down once challenged. Seeing Iscar let it go so easily felt wrong.

  Confusing, even.

  The auctioneer glanced around the hall. “No further bids?” He smiled and brought the gavel down. “Sold.”

  The potions were hers.

  The auctioneer, looking slightly more animated than before, glanced toward her. “My lady, would you like the potions delivered to you now? I can have the staff bring them immediately.”

  Helena waved a hand without looking back at the stage. “No. I can wait.”

  The auctioneer nodded and smoothly moved on to the next item.

  Helena leaned back in her seat, still watching Iscar from the corner of her eye.

  That reaction lingered with her longer than the potions ever would have.

  Rias was not enjoying herself.

  If anything, she was still recovering from it.

  The special tea gathering had drained what little energy she had left. Too many voices. Too many overlapping conversations. Too much smiling and nodding at exactly the right moments. Her thoughts felt sluggish, like they were wading through syrup.

  She was only half-listening when the gossip circle shifted.

  Someone had arrived late to the auction. That alone was enough to draw attention. It became the next topic with remarkable speed.

  Naturally, the discussion turned toward him.

  Rias followed along vaguely at first. Comments about how he used to be popular. How his family had fallen from favor. How unfortunate it was, spoken with just enough relish to make the sympathy feel hollow.

  Then a name surfaced.

  “Iscar Winterwell.”

  Rias stiffened.

  Winterwell.

  Her thoughts snagged on the name. Helena’s face surfaced in her mind.

  Isn’t Helena also a Winterwell?

  She glanced instinctively toward Helena’s seat, expecting some reaction. But Helena looked relaxed, leaning back, her attention seemingly on the auction floor. No tension. No visible change. It was as if she had not even noticed him enter.

  Maybe she didn’t see him, Rias thought.

  The gossip continued.

  The tone shifted subtly. Less curiosity, more judgment. The Winterwell name was pulled apart piece by piece, each comment a little sharper than the last.

  Rias frowned.

  They were still a count’s house, weren’t they? Not the highest rank, perhaps, but still high-ranking nobles. Why were these women speaking as if the family were barely respectable?

  Something was missing.

  She could feel it. An uncomfortable sense that everyone else knew something she did not.

  As the conversation spiraled further downward, Rias finally spoke up.

  “Why do you all speak of House Winterwell like this?” she asked. “What happened?”

  The women exchanged glances.

  One of them smiled slowly, clearly pleased to be asked.

  “Oh?” she said lightly. “It’s an old story. Would you like to hear it, Lady Rias?”

  Rias nodded.

  The explanation did not take long.

  Each sentence landed heavier than the last. A failed engagement. A broken alliance. Favor withdrawn by the royal family. The second prince’s anger. How House Winterwell had been quietly cut off, sidelined, punished without any official announcement.

  Rias felt the color drain from her face.

  One of the women continued, tapping a finger against her chin as if searching her memory. “And that girl,” she said thoughtfully. “The one at the center of it all. She disappeared, didn’t she?”

  She tilted her head.

  “What was her name again?”

  Then her face brightened.

  “Ah. Helena. The second prince’s former fiancée.”

  “Teehee.”

  The sound echoed unpleasantly in Rias’s ears.

  She didn’t laugh.

  She couldn’t.

  Her gaze drifted back toward Helena, her heart beating a little faster now as the pieces finally clicked together in a way she did not like at all.