Cold yellow fog clung to the gas lamps of Backlund, turning the evening into a damp, choking maze. Moisture beaded on Elya’s eyelashes, but she did not blink to clear it. Her eyes remained wide, glassy, and completely still. Nothing felt real anymore. Every breath of the acidic, coal-stained air entered her lungs like drafty wind through an abandoned house. There was no tickle in her throat, no urge to cough, no coldness in her chest. She was a hollow shell. Walking through the affluent Hillside District, she listened to the rhythmic click of her leather boots against the wet cobblestones. Steam-powered carriages rattled along the distant main avenues, their iron wheels grinding against wet tracks, but here in the narrow alleys of Hillside, the world felt dead. Beneath her heavy wool coat, she wore a pristine white dress with a high collar, tailored to make her look like a delicate merchant’s daughter. It was a lie. Everything about her was a lie. Reaching up, she pressed two fingers against the side of her neck, searching for the reassuring thump of her carotid artery. She felt the skin yield under her pressure, but her fingertips registered absolutely nothing. No warmth. No pulse. No vibration. Her body was a silent machine, running on some dark, ancient energy she could neither understand nor control. Memories used to have color. Years ago, in the sun-drenched gardens of Gian Hải prefecture, life smelled of crushed mint and warm earth. Her father, Thomas Rosewood, was a highly successful merchant who dealt in fine fabrics and imported spices. Three older brothers—Leo, Arthur, and Hugo—would race down the gravel path of their estate to greet him whenever he returned from the docks. They always laughed, their voices bright and full of life. Elya would run after them, her lace petticoats bunching around her knees, her heart bursting with pure, uncomplicated joy. "Our little angel," her father would whisper, lifting her high into the air as if she were made of spun sugar. Their home was a sanctuary of comfort. Though not of noble blood, the Rosewoods possessed enough wealth to afford the finest tutors, ensuring Elya received the same rigorous education as her brothers. Sundays were reserved for quiet devotion. Kneeling on the plush velvet cushions of the local cathedral, Elya would close her eyes and mimic her mother’s silent prayers to the Evernight Goddess. Serene incense would wrap around her like a protective blanket, making her feel safe under the Lady’s watchful gaze. Everyone in the neighborhood adored the youngest Rosewood daughter. Teachers praised her gentle disposition, while neighbors frequently stopped her to offer fresh pastries or compliment her polite manners. She was a sweet, fragile girl who cried when she scraped her knee and smiled when she saw a butterfly. A single, terrible day shattered that beautiful existence. During a family holiday near a remote, ancient woodland, Elya had wandered away from her brothers. She had stumbled into a hidden, subterranean ruin, a place where the air tasted of copper and old dust. Unnatural curiosity had drawn her down the damp stone steps. The air inside was thick, smelling of copper and ancient decay. Deep within those dark stone chambers, she had touched something she shouldn't have. At the center of the subterranean chamber stood an altar of dark, oily stone. On it rested a bizarre, calcified object resembling a petrified eye. When she reached out and touched it, a jolt of cold electricity had shot through her arm, seizing her heart in a vice-grip of absolute terror. She had blacked out. When she awoke, the petrified eye was gone, turned to dust, and her world had lost its flavor. But she was dead inside. Her mother had wept with relief, hugging her tightly, yet Elya could not feel the warmth of her mother's embrace. She had tried to smile to reassure them, but the muscles in her face refused to obey. Panic had set in when her brother Leo accidentally dropped a heavy iron wrench onto her foot. The metal crushed her toes, turning the skin purple and black. Elya had only stared at her ruined foot with a hollow, blank expression. She felt no pain, no shock, no physical discomfort whatsoever. Within an hour, the crushed bones and torn flesh had knit back together, leaving her skin as smooth and pale as marble. Realizing she was becoming a monster, she knew she had to leave. She could not bear to see the growing terror in her mother’s eyes, or the way her brothers flinched whenever she stared at them with her dead, unblinking eyes. Fleeing to Backlund was her only choice. She established herself as a delicate, wealthy recluse, hiding her indestructible, unfeeling body beneath the layers of polite Victorian society. Footsteps echoed behind her, wet and uneven. Elya stopped near a rusted iron railing overlooking a steep, dark alleyway. Yellow fog seemed to grow thicker here, swallowing the feeble gaslight and wrapping the street in a suffocating embrace. A man stumbled out of the gloom. His clothes were tattered, stained with grease, soot, and dark patches of dried blood. His eyes rolled wildly in their sockets, showing far too much white, and his lips moved in a feverish, silent monologue. "His voice..." the man muttered, clutching his temples with dirty, claw-like fingers. "The flesh must be opened to hear Him. The blood must flow to quiet the screaming..." Elya did not retreat. She simply watched him approach, her face as still and beautiful as a porcelain doll. A normal girl would have screamed, turned, or run for the nearest police officer. She felt only a dull, aching curiosity. Would a knife cut her deep enough to make her feel a spark of life? Would pain finally break through this frozen cage of a body? With a sudden, animalistic hiss, the man lunged. He drew a jagged, rusty dagger from his coat. The blade caught the dim yellow gaslight, flashing with a dull, menacing glint as it arched through the air. Spitting madly, he drove the weapon straight into her chest. Metal tore through her woolen coat. It pierced her flesh, grating against her sternum with a dull, internal scraping sound. The blade sank deep, burying itself up to the hilt in her chest. She stood perfectly still. Her gaze remained fixed on the man's wild, bloodshot eyes. Not a single muscle in her face twitched. No gasp escaped her lips. Her brow didn't furrow; her pupils didn't dilate. It was like watching someone push a pin into a cushion. Inside her mind, she waited. She searched her nerves for the burning fire of a wound, for the sharp spike of agony that normal humans feared. There was nothing. Just a cold, heavy sensation of a foreign object occupying her thoracic cavity. Attacking her had broken him, and his mad grin faltered. He stared at the dagger sticking out of her chest, then up at her serene, unblinking face. A drop of dark blood began to seep around the metal, staining her pristine white collar. "Why... why aren't you screaming?" he whispered, his voice trembling. His hands shook as he tried to pull the dagger out, but his fingers slipped on the greasy handle. The absolute silence of her reaction was more terrifying than any scream of agony. "Are you... a devil?" he choked out, terror replacing his fanatical mania. Slowly, Elya raised her hand. Her pale fingers, delicate and slender, wrapped around his wrist. Her grip was light at first, almost like a gentle caress. Then, she squeezed. Her muscles, infused with the unnatural, monstrous strength of her curse, contracted with the force of an iron vice. Bones popped. Shrieking in agony, he let out a high-pitched sound as the bones in his wrist ground together. Splinters of radius and ulna tore through his skin from the inside, painting her hand in fresh, warm red. Elya watched the blood flow, her face completely expressionless. With a sharp, effortless twist of her arm, she snapped his wrist completely backward. He fell to his knees, howling, cradling his ruined limb against his chest. Elya reached down and calmly took hold of the dagger's hilt. With a wet, sucking sound, she pulled the rusty iron blade out of her own chest. Blackish-red fluid welled from the hole in her coat, but the tissue beneath was already knitting itself back together. Within seconds, the bleeding stopped, leaving only a ruined dress and a cold emptiness. She looked down at her bloody hand. A profound sense of isolation washed over her. She was a monster. A freak of nature masquerading as a merchant's daughter. This city, Backlund, was full of hidden terrors, but she was slowly realizing that she might be the most terrifying thing walking its streets. Her carefully constructed facade of a fragile, normal girl was crumbling, shattered by a single, mad beggar. As the attacker collapses, his blood stains her pristine white collar, but before she can wipe it, the corpse's flesh begins to bubble, bubbling up to form an eye on his forehead that stares directly at her and whispers her true, secret name.

Chapter 1: The Doll That Cannot Weep