The Extra's Rise-Chapter 321: Witch’s Heart (1)

I don't care about people.

Not really. Not truly.

Why would I? From the moment I first drew breath, the entire world revolved around me. I was Cecilia Slatemark, the princess—the jewel—of the greatest empire humanity had ever seen. I wasn't raised, I was worshipped. Servants whispered my name like a prayer, nobles bowed as if their very bones were crafted to bend before me. Love was unconditional, attention absolute.

The imperial palace was my personal playground—crystalline spires that pierced the clouds, gardens engineered to bloom only in my presence, fountains that danced to the rhythm of my footsteps. Even the air seemed to shimmer with deference when I passed through it, as if the very elements recognized their better. Every corridor, every chamber, every courtyard was designed to reflect my glory back at me from a thousand gleaming surfaces.

It spoils you, you know, being handed the world before you even ask for it.

When I was young, my brother made the foolish mistake of trying to take one of my toys—a small mechanical nightingale crafted by the finest artificers of the Western continent, its feathers woven from gold and sapphire threads that caught the light like liquid sunshine. I didn't scream, cry, or throw a tantrum—I simply broke him.

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Even then, I knew precisely how much was too much. I knew exactly where to strike to cause maximum pain without leaving evidence. And I enjoyed every moment of teaching him that lesson, watching his eyes widen with the realization that his little sister was not just spoiled but dangerous.

After all, why should the brightest star share its sky?

Years passed, and my family sent me to the famed Tower of Magic—supposedly to learn humility alongside power, though I suspect Father simply wanted me somewhere I could cause less political damage. The Tower loomed over the landscape like a silver needle piercing the heavens, its fifty-seven floors each dedicated to increasingly complex magical disciplines. Here, ambition ran fierce and competition was merciless. Students from noble families across all continents fought for recognition, for advancement, for the smallest crumb of approval from the Masters.

They called it the pinnacle, a place to humble even the strongest egos.

But they hadn't met me yet.

I arrived without fanfare—Father's one concession to the Tower's traditions of meritocracy. The entrance examination was designed to test not just magical aptitude but creativity, emotional resilience, and ethical boundaries. Most applicants spent months preparing. I completed it in seventeen minutes, leaving the examiners pale-faced and whispering behind trembling hands.

I shattered every record, surpassed every prodigy who dared to challenge my standing. The simple spells taught to beginners, I executed with theatrical flourishes that left instructors speechless.

When the Master of the Tower herself offered me discipleship, I wasn't surprised. It was inevitable, after all. Like gravity, like sunrise, like the worship in the eyes of all who beheld me.

Because I was inevitable.

Yet, even standing atop that ivory tower, even as the world continued to place itself obediently beneath my heel, there was something—someone—who refused to bend to my will. It irritated me, intrigued me, infuriated me, and enthralled me all at once.

Arthur Nightingale.

I shouldn't care about anybody.

I adjusted my skirt, smoothing out the last imperfection. The reflection staring back at me was flawless, powerful—exactly as expected of Cecilia Slatemark. Yet, as I caught my own eyes in the mirror, a soft warmth blossomed in my chest, betraying me completely.

A smile curved my lips gently.

"But my heart still beats for him."

Boys were easier than girls.

They stumbled so predictably into embarrassment, tripping over their own tongues, faces flushing redder than the Imperial banners flying proudly across Avalon. A glance, a faint smile, and they would practically unravel like badly-knitted sweaters. It wasn't their fault, of course—not entirely. One had to make allowances, after all, because the game was rigged from the start.

I tilted my head slightly, examining myself in the ornate mirror, the surface gleaming with magical precision. And why wouldn't they fall apart in my presence? I was, after all, Cecilia Slatemark: princess of the Empire, possessor of power and beauty beyond reason, and wielder of a smile that could melt hearts as easily as it could break them.

Everything I wanted, I took. It was as simple as breathing. Desire was my currency, obedience my birthright. People danced on strings woven from my whims, and oh, how delightful it was to watch them perform. Courtiers forced into embarrassing confessions in crowded halls, proud nobles kneeling to serve as chairs at my whim, young men reduced to tearful begging when I casually dismissed their devotion.

Why did I do it?

Well, because I could.

There's a certain sweetness to watching people break—not in cruelty alone, but in the revelation of how easily they give up their pride. The shock, the disbelief, and finally, the acceptance of my control. It was like tasting victory, one small conquest at a time. Each surrender was a feast for my ego, each capitulation a jewel to add to my collection of triumphs.

I had a gallery of broken hearts displayed in my mind like trophies—the ambassador's son who composed three hundred sonnets before I informed him I found poetry tedious; the duelist who scarred his face to prove his devotion, only to discover I preferred symmetrical features; the young mage who abandoned his family's traditions to pursue magical disciplines I mentioned finding interesting, only for me to have moved on to new fascinations by the time he mastered them.

Then Arthur Nightingale appeared, and I thought he would break just as effortlessly. But something strange happened. Something I didn't anticipate.

I found I didn't truly want to break him.

I could have, certainly. At least, that's what I told myself at night, whispering comforting lies into my pillow. But truthfully, I found no pleasure in the thought. Every calculated cruelty I imagined unleashing upon him left me oddly cold and empty, a sensation as unfamiliar as it was unwelcome. For the first time, victory seemed hollow if it meant watching that quiet confidence crumble, that intelligent light dim from his eyes.

Instead, I found myself wanting to possess him—not to destroy but to contain, to keep, to treasure. I wanted him in a cage, yes, but a golden one, where I could admire him whenever I wished, where his brilliance would shine for me alone. I imagined him as my personal possession, a rare creature whose spirit remained unbroken even as his freedom was compromised.

But he wouldn't want that, would he? The very qualities that drew me to him would wither in captivity. Arthur Nightingale was not meant for cages, even ones crafted from the finest materials by the most loving hands. And strangely, I found I cared about what he wanted—another first, another weakness I never expected to harbor.

Perhaps it was fate's peculiar sense of humour, placing someone before me who refused to yield easily—someone who stood defiant, a challenge and an intrigue rolled into one frustrating, irresistible package.

Maybe even witches, hardened and haughty as we are, have hearts that beat in secret, vulnerable rhythms.

And Arthur—annoyingly stubborn, impossibly clever Arthur—somehow held mine in his hands, unknowingly perhaps, or worse yet, knowingly, his grip both gentle and unbreakable.

I smiled softly at my reflection, amusement and irritation dancing equally in my crimson eyes.

Because even the cruelest witch of Avalon still had a heart, and apparently, it insisted on loving him.

I made one final assessment of my appearance, ensuring every detail was perfect. My outfit was chosen with deliberate care—a crimson crop-top that left just enough skin exposed to be tantalizing without seeming desperate for attention, perfectly matched to a black skirt with gold thread embroidery that caught the light with every movement. Around my neck, a delicate gold chain held a single ruby pendant that nestled precisely at the hollow of my throat, while diamond earrings cascaded like frozen tears from my lobes.

The ensemble walked the line between casual and formal, between inviting and intimidating. Power and allure in perfect balance—a visual representation of everything I was. My golden hair had been arranged in an elegant style that appeared effortless despite requiring forty minutes of precise work, framing my face in a way that highlighted my most striking features.

I wanted Arthur to look at me and see something he couldn't have—and then I wanted to give it to him anyway, on my terms alone. I wanted to mark him as mine in ways visible to the entire academy, to create a claim so obvious that even that insufferable Saintess would have to acknowledge it.

"Mine," I whispered to my reflection, the word both promise and threat. "He will be mine. Fully."

With that declaration still warm on my lips, I turned from the mirror and glided toward the door. Tonight would be another opportunity to draw him closer, another chance to weave myself more thoroughly into his thoughts. Another step toward possession that wouldn't feel like captivity.

After all, the most exquisite cages are the ones the birds don't even recognize as prisons. And I was nothing if not exquisite.