The Duke and Duchess of Arsen had been childless for many long years. Their desperate prayers to the Temple were high enough to reach the heavens, and the sheer amount of gold they offered could have easily built three cathedrals on the empire's furthest borders.

And finally—a miracle arrived in a burst of radiant light.

That day, the Duke wept tears of joy as he held the newborn in his arms. The Duchess clutched the infant’s tiny fingers, whispering in overwhelmed emotion.

"How can she be so lovely... She is like a princess crafted by the gods themselves."
"My dear, let us raise this child to be the most precious being in the world."

To put it bluntly, their vow was half-right and half-wrong. The child did indeed grow up to be a "princess" more noble and beautiful than any imperial princess in the empire.

The only problem was that this princess’s mouth was the most lethal weapon in the entire empire.

Bellatrix made her nanny cry the moment she moved past babbling; she ground the reputations of other young ladies into dust at her social debut; and with the most radiant smile, she would drive a dagger straight into the deepest part of one's heart.

The Duke and Duchess began frequenting the Temple once more—this time with faces far more desperate and wretched than when they had first prayed for a child.

"O Gods, please... grant us a living soul who can endure our Bella’s god-awful temperament. A noble, a commoner, even a miner from the pits—it doesn't matter!"
"...If all else fails, even a mute foreigner from a distant land will do! (In fact, someone who can't speak might be for the best.)"

Their donations doubled. Their prayers bordered on wailing. Unfortunately, the gods remain silent.

And so, even today, the House of Arsen lets out a silent scream toward the heavens.

"Please, let there be a human being somewhere in this empire capable of handling Bellatrix von Arsen."