Evelyra left her room, her delicate steps resonating softly against the polished floor. The servant followed closely behind, holding her gloves in one hand and, in the other, a small bag containing a few belongings for the day. Together, they descended the wide staircase of carved oak, its balustrades finely engraved with golden floral motifs that caught the morning light.
The corridor leading to the dining hall was vast and elegant, bathed in the radiance of stained glass windows that scattered shards of azure, violet, and topaz across the ivory walls adorned with gilded moldings. Portraits of past generations, noble and imposing, seemed to silently watch the two young girls as they passed. Thick carpets, warm in hue and intricate in pattern, muffled their steps, wrapping the space in an atmosphere of quiet luxury.
"Do you have any leads on the Church of the Chapel of Silence?" Evelyra began, her voice calm yet edged with intent, turning the discussion toward Katarina.
The servant hesitated before answering:
"Forgive me, my lady. We haven't made progress yet. For now, only the past of the priestess you acquired remains our sole source of information."
Evelyra fell silent, lost in thought. "The fact that I cannot see fragments of her past whenever she interacts with the gods or apostles… it is truly vexing. I have considered this many times, but their actions remain unpredictable. How am I supposed to counter that?"
The thought weighed on her more heavily than she wished to admit. It made her realize her enemies could be far more dangerous than she had imagined. She stopped for a brief moment, her sapphire eyes narrowing on some invisible point in the corridor. Her fine lips tightened, her chin lifted ever so slightly, while her mind calculated in silence. Her fingers brushed absentmindedly over the polished rail, and a lock of golden hair slipped down across her face, highlighting the distant reflection written upon her features.
"Evelyra… what are you thinking?" asked the servant softly.
"Nothing… Tonight, you will try to uncover more." Evelyra's reply was brief, her tone steady.
The servant nodded with a warm smile, reassured.
"I'll do my best. Thank you for trusting me."
Evelyra sighed with feigned annoyance.
"There you go again… I told you, don't be too optimistic."
"Ah—sorry, it just slipped out."
A faint beat of her lashes dismissed the thought, and Evelyra anchored herself back in the present, letting her gaze wander instead to the colorful glimmers cast by the stained glass.
The light of morning slipped across her features like a silent blessing, turning the young noble into a living portrait—focused yet graceful, every movement echoing her innate nobility and quiet strength.
At last, they reached the doors of the dining hall. Beyond lay the grand room, already filled with sunlight that kissed the carefully prepared table, every detail awaiting their arrival.
Upon entering, Evelyra was immediately struck by the solemn yet warm atmosphere. The vast chamber was lined with ivory walls adorned with gilded moldings and tapestries depicting hunts and lush gardens. The high ceilings, carved with floral patterns, caught the glow of the morning sun pouring through the tall windows, framed by violet velvet curtains drawn aside to let the golden light spill freely.
In the center stood a long table of polished wood, its surface gleaming faintly under the soft light. White tablecloths embroidered with gold thread stretched across it; fine porcelain plates edged in gold, crystal glasses, and perfectly aligned cutlery adorned each place setting. Small bouquets of fresh flowers rested in porcelain vases of delicate blue. Polished silver candelabras stood proudly, reflecting light into delicate shadows that danced over the gleaming floor.
"Well then… good morning, Father. Mother. Brother," Evelyra greeted with composed grace.
At the head of the table sat her father, the Count of the house. Tall and imposing, he wore a dark, immaculate suit paired with a midnight-blue vest embroidered in gold. His hair, brown streaked with silver at the temples, was carefully combed, and his pale gray eyes—piercing, cold, yet undeniably attentive—seemed to weigh upon every detail of the room. His square jaw and upright bearing commanded respect, though behind that stern façade there was a quiet nobility, a reserved love for his family visible in the way he watched Evelyra with a subtle protectiveness.
To his right sat her mother, grace incarnate, in a pale green gown adorned with discreet floral embroidery. Her light brown hair was swept into a refined bun, a few soft curls framing her delicate features. Her hazel eyes glowed warmly as she offered Evelyra a tender smile.
Beside her stood Evelyra's younger brother. Though not yet fully grown, he already carried himself with the family's noble bearing. His attire was a simpler version of their father's, suited to his age, while his tousled brown hair and inquisitive gaze betrayed his youth.
Two servants stood in silence, straight-backed, their hands folded neatly before them, ready to act at the slightest request. Their black uniforms with white aprons were impeccable, their composed faces reflecting the household's discipline. A little further back stood the butler, a man in his fifties, his severe yet dignified expression framed by a perfectly tailored suit. His dark eyes moved quietly across the room, ensuring every detail of the service was flawless.
In the midst of this tableau, Evelyra drew every eye with natural ease. Her golden hair caught the sunlight, her blue eyes shone with intelligence and dignity, and her poised posture radiated an elegance beyond her years. The atmosphere hung delicately between the stern solemnity her father embodied, the gentle warmth her mother exuded, and the grand refinement of the noble hall itself. The faint scent of flowers mingled with that of polished wood and porcelain, completing the aura of a morning steeped in ritual and grace.
For a time, silence reigned, broken only by the subtle clink of cutlery being set and the faint rustle of tablecloths. Then, at last, her father, the Count, spoke. His deep, steady voice cut through the quiet with composed authority:
"Evelyra," he said, his piercing gaze locking upon her, "I have important news to share with you."
She lifted her gaze from her plate, sapphire eyes gleaming with sudden sharpness. The morning light caught the golden shimmer of her hair, cascading in perfect waves over her shoulders, and her face reflected both curiosity and guarded caution.
"The future of our house may depend on you… The royal family has expressed their wish for you to marry the fifth prince, Prince Alaric Themarion of Elaria," her father declared, his voice steady but not absolute. "It is not a command, but a proposal—one that carries great weight, both for us and for you," her father declared, his voice echoing in the chamber with the weight of an immutable decree.
A breathless silence swept through the room. Her mother's gentle eyes softened with affection yet trembled with worry, while her brother sat frozen, brows slightly furrowed in stunned intrigue. The two servants exchanged nervous glances, fingers tightening on their aprons. Only the butler remained steady, expression unreadable, gaze locked on the table as if ready to preserve the fragile order of the scene.
Evelyra was struck by the announcement—but beneath the mask of a reluctant daughter stirred a hidden satisfaction.
"Finally… it begins. At last, I can draw closer to the royal family… and the Church."
Her thoughts coiled like silk, sly and deliberate.
She lingered in silence, lips parted just slightly, one hand absently brushing the rim of her glass. Her face—usually an impassive mask—betrayed a subtle blend of surprise, intrigue, and measured acceptance.
At last, she straightened, posture refined, her innate nobility shining in the smallest gesture. A stray golden lock slipped across her lips, lending a fragile innocence to the gravity of her expression.
"I understand," she whispered, her voice soft yet steady, carrying the composed authority of her lineage. "I shall honor this union… and with it, our house."
Her father inclined his head, satisfaction flickering across his severe features. A rare glimmer of pride softened his stern mouth. Her mother reached across the table, laying a comforting hand over hers, while her brother's gaze darkened with thought, already tracing the shadows of the consequences this marriage might bring.
The young servant at Evelyra's side dared a fleeting glance of admiration, struck by how her mistress bore the sudden weight of destiny with unwavering elegance. The stained glass bathed the room in fractured morning light, each flicker of color outlining Evelyra as the undeniable centerpiece of the scene—a figure suspended between nobility, beauty, and a quiet, unshakable resolve.
"This marriage is not merely an alliance," her father continued, his words deliberate, heavy. "Your books… your writings have stirred the interest of the royal family. They see in you a woman of learning, a mind refined, worthy of the prince. It is by their insistence that this union has been proposed."
The revelation hung in the air. Evelyra's sapphire gaze grew distant, lips tightening in contemplative silence. The words pressed upon her like stone, yet her posture remained unyielding—composed, elegant, almost cold in its restraint. Another golden strand slipped across her cheek, framing her face in light and shadow, as if even the sun conspired to highlight her calculation.
Her mother, seated close beside her, leaned gently forward and laid a hand upon hers. Her voice was soft, trembling.
"Evelyra… you do not have to accept. If your heart or your mind refuses, you may still say no. No one here will force you."
For a moment, Evelyra's features softened beneath this fragile affection. Yet her gaze held firm, the steel of her thoughts already set upon the path ahead. Her fingers brushed the porcelain edge of her plate, grounding her decision, while the faintest of smiles—controlled, deliberate, nearly imperceptible—ghosted across her lips. A smile not of innocence, but of quiet strategy.
"She lets herself be controlled too easily," her brother muttered, brows furrowed in sincere but impatient reproach. "You hide behind that composure too much… One day it may chain you instead of protecting you."
A hush fell over the table. The servant standing nearby kept her silence, sensing the delicate weight of tension, while the butler, ever watchful, maintained his neutral stance, ready to step in if decorum wavered.
Evelyra lifted her gaze to her brother, expression measured, almost unreadable. When she spoke, her voice was soft yet edged with quiet steel.
"I understand your concerns. But I know what I am doing. I am neither naive nor weak. This marriage… I will treat it with the reflection it deserves."
Her father's stern face eased with satisfaction at her maturity. Her mother's smile trembled with relief, reassured to see her daughter's composure. As for her brother, though frustrated, he could not deny it—Evelyra's strength lay beyond his reach, in an intelligence that defied his protective instincts.
Filtered through stained glass, the morning light poured over Evelyra's golden hair and sapphire eyes, crowning her presence with an almost ethereal allure. Even in the shadow of a destiny dictated by royalty, she remained sovereign over her thoughts.
A servant poured steaming tea into porcelain cups, while another placed a basket of fresh bread on the table, its scent of flour and butter curling warmly through the air. Evelyra lifted her cup with effortless grace, her slender fingers curved delicately around the porcelain. She inhaled the fragrant steam, letting the warmth seep into her hands.
The servants moved silently, refilling cups, presenting new dishes, their motions precise, like dancers in a well-rehearsed performance. The butler oversaw them with discreet vigilance, while the count sipped his tea, his piercing gaze fixed on his daughter with contained pride at her poise.
Despite the rigid formality, the atmosphere softened. Murmurs blended with the faint clatter of silverware, wrapped in the gentle aroma of fruit and tea. At the heart of this tableau sat Amane—thoughtful, unshaken, sovereign even in the intimacy of a simple breakfast.
The count set down his cup, the porcelain's faint chime carrying through the chamber. He dabbed his lips with a monogrammed cloth before rising, exuding the quiet authority of a man born to command. His grey eyes lingered on Evelyra, her golden hair aflame with morning light.
"I must take my leave. I have obligations so I shouldn't be too long."
Adjusting the folds of his dark jacket with precise movements, he offered a slight nod of respect to his family.
"We understand, my dear," the countess replied gracefully, her smile delicate.
His son inclined his head, admiration tempered by stern restraint. Evelyra, in turn, met her father's gaze with calm intensity before bowing her head, committing his image to memory—the man who decided her fate with an iron will, before turning toward the weight of the kingdom's affairs.
His footsteps receded into the corridor, echoing until silence reclaimed the dining hall. The air grew lighter, less tense. Servants moved more freely, the countess exchanged a tender glance with her daughter, and Evelyra's brother seemed to lose some of his rigidity.
Evelyra lifted her cup once more, sipping slowly. Her sapphire eyes lingered on the amber surface of her tea, though her thoughts already chased a thousand paths into the future.
On her left, Katarina observed her mistress with quiet attention. Evelyra's graceful fingers did not tremble, her face betrayed no overt emotion. But Katarina knew her well—behind that elegance simmered a ruthless determination. For an instant, a fleeting light crossed Evelyra's eyes. Katarina lowered her gaze quickly, adjusting the towel on her arm to mask her unease.
"My lady…" she began softly, but her voice faltered, swallowed by silence.
Evelyra set her cup down with controlled elegance, the porcelain's ring echoing faintly. She turned her gaze on Katarina, a faint smile ghosting her lips—too perfect, too calculated to be entirely sincere.
"What is it?" she asked, voice smooth, but sharp as a blade wrapped in silk.
Katarina raised her eyes, hesitated, then forced a small smile. "Nothing, Lady Evelyra. I was merely making sure you are comfortable."
A silence stretched. Evelyra tilted her head slightly, golden strands cascading across her shoulders. She studied her servant like a chess piece—valuable, but bound to remain in its place.
"Very well," she murmured, lifting her tea once more.
Katarina bowed, but in her heart, the thought burned: She is far stronger, far more dangerous, than any of them realize. And in that moment, she silently vowed to follow Evelyra to the very end, no matter where her path might lead.
The countess placed her cup down with quiet grace, her hazel eyes resting on her daughter with tender concern. Her voice, softer now, carried intimate weight.
"Evelyra… What your father asks of you is not simple. But I want you to remember—this choice is still yours. Even if the marriage serves our house, your happiness has its place in it as well."
Evelyra lifted her eyes, meeting her mother's. Behind the gentle smile, she saw the sincerity, the fear. She inhaled slowly, choosing her words with precision.
"Thank you, Mother. But I am not a fragile child. I know what such a union represents… and I intend to draw from it all that I can—for myself, and for our house."
Her brother's lips curled into a faint scowl. Fingers drummed against his plate, restless.
"Always you, with your calm," he muttered, just loud enough. "You act as if you accept everything… but I know you. Behind that obedience, you're hiding something."
Evelyra turned her gaze to him, face composed, eyes glinting with cold clarity.
"And if I am hiding something?" she replied, tone soft yet unyielding. "Is that not the duty of a noble? To keep one's cards close, and reveal them only at the right moment?"
The silence tightened until their mother intervened with a gentle smile, placing her hand over her son's.
"My son… your sister is not weak. She simply fights differently. Her strength lies in her mind, in her composure. Trust her."
The young man lowered his eyes, lips pressed into silence, caught between frustration and doubt.
Evelyra, meanwhile, maintained her polished smile, faint and controlled. Her gaze sank once more into the depths of her tea, where a glimmer of ice-cold determination shone.
Evelyra began to think while keeping his calm after the departure of her father "Now it is my turn. I must ensure I make no misstep on the path to my future."