One night, Xiaolan was quietly preparing her things. Tomorrow, the chariot would arrive to take her to the city—at least, that's what the Sisters had told her.
She remembered how happy Clea had been when she heard the news. Brighter than she'd ever seen her.
"Xiaolan?"
A small voice called from behind.
She turned. A few younger girls stood in a circle, their eyes shining with a strange mix of sadness and joy.
"We're glad you're going home," one of them whispered.
Xiaolan smiled gently. "Don't worry, okay? The sun will shine upon you too."
They hugged her, small arms wrapping around her in farewell.
They weren't that close—but they were still family.
Morning came.
The chariot arrived at the orphanage gates, elegant and guarded. People from Frings family spoke with the Sisters in private.
Meanwhile, Clea and Xiaolan stood a little apart, saying their goodbyes.
"So… this is it," Clea murmured, her hands resting on Xiaolan's shoulders.
Tears started to fall before either could stop them.
"I'm gonna miss you, Big Sister Clea," Xiaolan whispered as she hugged her tightly.
"Me too, Xiaolan. Eat more, okay? Always take a bath. And listen to your elders." Clea's voice cracked, but she smiled through it.
Xiaolan wiped her eyes. "You'll visit me, right?"
Clea nodded. "Don't worry. After I get out of here, I'll come find you."
"Promise?"
"Yes," Clea said, brushing her thumb across Xiaolan's cheek.
"I promise."
The chariot rolled down the path, its wheels crunching over gravel as Xiaolan sat quietly inside, her hands clasped tightly on her lap. She peeked back through the small window, catching one last glimpse of Clea.
Clea stood at the orphanage gate, her face still damp from crying, but she managed a smile. She waved one last time—strong, proud, trying to be happy for her.
As the dust settled and the chariot faded from view, Clea let out a shaky breath and turned to head back inside.
That's when she heard it.
"Where do you think our Lord's going to hide her?"
The voice was soft, laced with something bitter.
Clea froze mid-step. Her breath caught.
She turned her head slowly. "What… did you say?"
It was Sister Gracia. Standing by the laundry line, hands folded. Watching the horizon with a knowing smirk.
"Do you really think Lord Frings would just give up that girl to Avaloria?" she said, voice dripping with condescension. "He handpicked her."
Clea's heart dropped. A cold chill crept up her spine.
"B-but… the chariot—"
Gracia chuckled. "That chariot isn't going to the capital, dear. It's going to the manor."
Clea's breath catching in her throat. The air around her seemed to vanish as her chest tightened, panic curling like a noose.
Her hands trembled, vision blurring as her heart pounded loud in her ears. "No… no, that can't be," she whispered, stumbling a step back.
Her legs felt weak, her stomach twisting. The world, just moments ago warm with hope, now cracked and cold.
She turned toward the gate where the chariot had vanished, her voice caught between a scream and a sob. "Xiaolan…"
Lord Frings' Mansion
Xiaolan stepped down from the chariot, eyes wide, heart light. Her fingers clutched her satchel tightly, brimming with the hope of home. The mansion's grand doors loomed ahead, ornate and heavy—but to her, they were gates to freedom.
The door creaked open.
Her smile grew—then faltered.
Only Lord Frings and some guards stood waiting, flanked by a few of his men. No Avalorian envoys. No warm faces from home.
She hesitated, confused. Still, she stepped forward.
Frings's eyes slid over her—slow, possessive, and hungry.
"Hmm... you've become even more beautiful than the last time I saw you," he said, his voice oily.
"Th-thank you, Lord Frings," Xiaolan replied, her smile stiff, her voice barely a whisper.
He gave a subtle nod to one of the guards.
Without a word, the guard seized her wrist.
Startled, Xiaolan turned to him. "Uhm… sir? Where are we going?"
No answer.
"To my people?" she asked, her voice rising. "Are they already here?"
Still silence.
She glanced back at the chariot—her bag still resting inside—but they were moving away from it, toward a shadowed side path that led below the mansion.
Panic crept in.
She struggled to pull free, but the guard's grip was iron.
"Please—sir, what's happening? Please, where are we going?"
No reply.
Down a stone corridor, past a heavy iron door guarded by a mam. He opened it. The guard dragged her through.
Xiaolan gasped. The hallway beyond was dark and damp. Faint, hollow cries echoed from deep within the walls. The scent of mold and rust clawed at her throat.
"Sir, please!" she begged. "What are we doing here?! I—I don't understand!"
They walked deeper, torches flickering dimly against stone. Finally, at the farthest cell, the guard stopped.
He chained her wrists to the cold wall.
"I'm sorry, child," he said softly, not meeting her eyes. "I'm just doing my job."
"Wait—please! Don't leave me here! Please!" Xiaolan sobbed, her voice raw, her wrists twisting in the cuffs. "Please tell me what's going on!"
But he walked away.
And the cell door slammed shut.
Xiaolan screamed, but her voice was swallowed by stone.
She wept into the silence—alone, caged, her dreams stolen in an instant.
Two days had passed.
The streets bustled as word spread of the Avalorian army's approach—and with them, Rethrus, the prodigy. Flags were hoisted, shops were swept, and mouths ran wild. Some waited in awe. Others, in quiet loathing.
But in a dim corner of a tavern near the city gates, Clea sat alone, cloaked and hooded, her face hidden beneath shadow. Her fingers curled around a chipped cup, but the drink within went untouched. Her eyes were hollow—drifting, sunken with sleepless sorrow.
"Miss? You alright?" the tavern boy asked, timid but kind.
"I'm well," Clea said softly. "Just waiting."
"Well… call me if you need something," he nodded before leaving her to the silence.
She waited.
Then the door creaked open.
A hulking figure entered, cloaked in grey. His boots struck the floor with purpose, and chatter died as heads turned in silent dread. The man crossed the room and sat across from Clea.
"Why meet me now?" he asked, his voice low, eyes unreadable. "After all these years."
"Because I need you," Clea said, steady but weary. "And because you owe me everything."
"Tch. You know well how busy we are. The whole city's boiling over for this Avalorian arrival." He leaned in, lowering his voice. "Speak plainly. What do you want?"
"The Avalorian girl."
He stilled. His brow furrowed.
Clea met his gaze. "You know where she is. Please. Help me get her out."
"I cannot," the man said. "I won't betray Lord Frings. I swore loyalty."
"You swore silence while he rotted girls in dungeons?" Her voice rose, bitter. "That child deserves her life. She shouldn't be caged because of your lord's filthy hunger!"
"Watch your tongue," he snapped. "You live well because of him."
"Do I? Knowing she's crying in the dark while I sit in a warm room?" Her hands trembled. "You know it's wrong."
"I know," he said at last. "But there are lines I cannot cross."
Clea's voice broke.
"She's like the sister I never had. I was there when her blood first came. I cleaned her. Held her when she cried. Whispered promises I can't keep now."
Tears streaked her cheeks. "She was so scared… and I let her go. I let them take her."
The man looked away. Then slowly, he raised his head and met her eyes.
It was Dante.
Clea reached out across the table, trembling.
"Please… Papa."