The manor was a gilded cage, each ornate sconce and velvet drape a testament to her family's opulence, and to Elara's utter invisibility within its walls. She moved through its grand chambers like a phantom, a whisper of a girl in a world that clamored for her sister, Lyra. Tonight, the silence pressed in heavier than usual, a suffocating blanket woven from ignored glances and unheard pleas. The scent of aged rosewood and beeswax polish clung to the air, a familiar perfume of forgotten dreams.
Elara traced the swirling pattern of the wrought-iron banister, her fingers lingering on the cold metal. Upstairs, through the thick oak doors of the grand salon, the melodic peal of Lyra's laughter echoed – bright and bell-like, a sound that always drew their parents like moths to a flame. Tonight, it was punctuated by the deeper timbre of Lord Ashworth, a suitor chosen for Lyra, his voice a drone of future promises. Elara could almost picture them: Lyra, radiant in a gown of sapphire silk, her dark curls framing a face alight with animation; her mother, elegant and composed, nodding approval; her father, a leonine presence, beaming with patriarchal pride. The tableau was a recurring nightmare, a masterpiece of familial bliss from which Elara was perpetually excised.
She descended into the shadowy quiet of the ground floor, each step muffled by the antique Persian rugs. The manor was a labyrinth of forgotten corners for her, places where the light didn't quite reach, much like her own existence. The family portrait in the foyer, commissioned years ago, was a cruel testament. Lyra, a vibrant splash of color, stood at the forefront, her hand clasped proudly in their mother's. Elara, a muted shadow, was barely visible at the canvas's edge, her face obscured by a stray curtain, an afterthought even in artistry. It was then, gazing at the dusty canvas, that a fierce, rebellious ember ignited within her. They wish I didn't exist? Fine.I don't.Not here.
She reached the back gallery, a long, narrow hall lined with ancestral armor and dormant weapons – relics of a glorious past that seemed to have bypassed her branch of the family tree. Her father, a man of commerce and cold calculation, often scoffed at the martial pursuits of their forebears. "A waste of ambition," he'd declared once, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. But to Elara, these silent guardians spoke of a different kind of life, one forged in purpose and steel.
A faint glow emanated from beneath the door to her father's study. Curiosity, a rare luxury in her controlled life, pulled her forward. She didn't expect to hear anything new, only the inevitable dissection of the day's financial dealings or the quiet maneuvering of Lyra's advantageous marriage. But the voices, when they came, were hushed, urgent.
"Ashworth is a good match, my dear. Financially sound, and with influence," her mother's voice, usually so placid, held an edge of desperation.
"His sister, however..." Her father's words were clipped, dismissive. "They say she's joined the cadets. Unseemly for a woman of her standing."
A cold tremor ran through Elara. The cadets. The Royal Imperial Cadets. A rigorous military program, open to all, regardless of birth, so long as one possessed courage and conviction. For months, under the shroud of discreet tutors and veiled requests, Elara had been secretly training. Strength, tactics, marksmanship – disciplines she pursued with a singular devotion, fueled by the very invisibility that bound her in this manor. She had chosen a false name, a fabricated history, a persona so divorced from Elara of the grand manor that no one, least of all her family, would ever recognize her.
"What are we to do about Lyra, then?" her mother continued, her tone laced with worry. "If gossip reaches Ashworth that his future wife consorts with a woman dabbling in such… unfeminine pursuits..."
Her father chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "Lyra understands her duty. She knows what is expected. Unlike some." The 'some' hung in the air, an unspoken accusation that Elara felt pierce her heart, a wound she had long grown accustomed to. They didn't even acknowledge her existence enough to admonish her directly.
Elara backed away, her movements silent, the polished floorboards mercifully uncreaking. Her throat tightened, a familiar ache of alienation. They spoke of duty and expectations for Lyra, yet for Elara, there were none. She was a blank slate, an empty canvas. But that, she realized with a strange, fierce joy, was her greatest weapon. They expected nothing, saw nothing. And in that void, she had built a secret life.