❝
THE MOON hung high above the House of Deloney, that pale whitish coin suspended on a velvet-black sky. Oil sconces dimly lit the corridors of the manor where their flickering light played gently against polished marble floors and high–vaulted ceilings. This entire estate was all asleep under the covers of intense silence–except the study in the east wing, where shadows moved under a quiet storm.
Here, inside, the air was thick with the scent of parchment and aged wood made slightly smoky by the dying embers in the hearth. The crackle of the flame had long since died away, leaving behind only a soft amber glow which danced across the walls.
Callistopher Deloney lay sprawled in one of the two velvet armchairs facing the hearth, his long legs crossed, while an open book rested on his knee. His black hair fell slightly over one eye, casting a mild shadow over the indifferent gaze. Candlelight played over his angular features, yet his expression remained inscrutable-bored, detached, aloof.
Opposite him stood the Earl Marcus Deloney. The man had a stony face made into straight lines: tall, stately figure, golden-blonde hair bent to all called back, and a mask carved from years of silent wars in courtrooms and council halls. Even now, without the ceremonial garbs of his office, he looked like a man saddled with armor by laws and expectations.
Finally, he spoke, his voice deep and cool like thunder from some distance. "That has been confirmed by the Supreme Pontiff himself. Not even the divine messengers can trace her."
Callistopher did not bother looking up from the page, though. "And what exactly does that tell you, Father?" he murmured dully.
Marcus's jaw hardened. "That whoever has taken Charlotte-or whoever she is with-is not acting alone. They are under protection. Shielded by blessings we do not understand, nor can we penetrate."
Callistopher turned another uninterested page. "Perhaps she's simply with someone who doesn't believe in chains. Unlike this house."
The long thin silence stretched between father and son, like a pulled string.
Earl Marcus turned slowly. This place is like ice. "Mind your tongue."
Callistopher finally looked forward, matching that fatherly stare with a calm, dispassionate one. "You and Mother cornered her. Told her she had no choice. I'm not surprised she vanished. I'm only surprised she waited this long."
"You think we were cruel," said Marcus, voice like steel. "But what we did was for her future-and yours."
"No, Father," came Callistopher's reply, almost smug. "You did it for the Deloney name. Everything else is just decoration."
Before either could speak one more word-before the tension could burst into flame-the doors of the study slammed open with a force that echoed down the halls like a cannon.
Both men turned, startled.
Carmelia Deloney stood at the threshold, her chest rising with a breathless fury. Her blonde hair, which normally lay in perfect waves, was beginning to unravel from its bun in strands sticking to her flushed cheeks, and a satin nightdress was hastily covered by a velvet cloak clutched tightly around her. Her blue eyes burned with unfiltered rage.
"Father," she gasped, voice shaking under emotion. "Is it true?"
Behind her stood a pale, nervous attendant-small-framed, dark-haired-wringing her hands at the threshold.
"Lady Carmelia, please—calm yourself—"
"Silence," Carmelia hissed, eyes fixed upon her father.
Callistopher raised an eyebrow and shifted slightly in his seat, causing the already cold atmosphere in the room to become colder.
Earl Marcus regarded his daughter with steady calm. "What is it you believe to be true?"
Carmelia fully entered the room, her hands balled into fists that trembled. "That you've arranged a marriage. For me. With Duke Albrecht of Bords Trois-Rivières."
There it was.
A flicker of acknowledgment in the Earl's face, then the quiet nod of a man who didn't believe in apologies.
"Yes," he said simply. "It is true."
The color drained out of her face and was replaced by something sharp and vicious.
"You decided–without me?" she asked, voice cracking. "Without even asking me if I wanted this?"
Marcus stepped slowly toward her. "It was discussed and agreed upon between the Houses. Your marriage to Duke Albrecht will serve to bind the alliance upon which we have labored for years. You are the heir of this House. This is what is expected."
Carmelia let her hands fall to her sides. Her lips trembled, not from fear, but from humiliation. "This has always been your way. You decide for me. You discuss this with others behind closed doors. As though I am just... an asset to be traded."
Marcus narrowed his eyes–not in anger–but with firm finality. "You are a Deloney. Duty outweighs desire. That is our law."
"What about my will?" she spat. "Do I have none?"
He turned his back upon her. That gesture-cold and unyielding-ripped something inside her.
Her voice descended into a growl. "I said I didn't want this!"
Silence.
"I said no!" she screamed.
Still, he didn't turn.
Something shifted in her face. Her slate-gray eyes darkened as tears pooled in them but would not fall. Her voice dropped to a trembling whisper filled with anguish.
"Why do you always choose her?"
Callistopher blinked but said nothing. Marcus remained frozen.
"Even when she's gone," whispered Carmelia, "you talk about her. You worry about her. You will search the heavens for Charlotte. But when I say no–you don't even blink."
Finally, Marcus spoke, his back still to her. "This conversation is over."
That final word shattered her.
Carmelia stepped back, a mask of disbelief on her face, and her cloak swayed with the movement. Then without looking back, she stormed out of the room, her venomous heel clicks scattering across the wood floor.
"Lady Carmelia—" her attendant followed after her, worriedly.
"LEAVE ME!" she screamed as her voice ripped through the still halls.
The poor girl stopped at once, bowing her head as if struck.
Carmelia's steps quickened. Sharpened. Turned uneven. Heels clacked violently on marble, reverberating through the still halls like thunder in a stormless night. She did not care who heard.
Her silk nightgown clung against her limbs with every jagged movement. Heat of rage coursed up her chest and seared through her throat. The hands in smith are trembling at her sides.
The hallways, once familiar, had felt like an endless maze. The flickering glow of candle sconces seemed to mock her-casting shadows of a distorted ideal lady on the walls as though the very manor would not allow her to be anything less.
Past the wide glass windows, framed with icy panes, was her garden. Roses bloomed beneath silver-blue moonlight-lovely, still, pale.
Just like her.
She did not stop until she reached the far west corridor-the coldest wing of the estate where warmth seldom tread. There, under a tall, arched window carved in old stone and gilt wood, she halted. Thick silence surrounded her; almost palpable. She pressed her palms flat upon the chilly glass. Her breath fogged the pane.
She stared out the window, but her reflection stared back. And she hated it.
Perfectly pinned hair. Porcelain skin. Eyes the color of summer frost. Graceful. Proper. Unreal.
"Porcelain lady," once called her at the banquet.
"A treasure," that's what the Duchess of Alvenia had whispered.
"The envy of every court," was what a princess from the West would murmur.
And she smiled. Indeed, she smiled.
Did they not know that "porcelain" meant not only beauty? It meant something that could be broken. It meant hollow.
They didn't see her sleepless, hungry nights. The nights when she could barely breathe under the weight of pressure brought down on her when her father dismissed her with a simple nod. When her mother had eyes that only searched for Charlotte.
Carmelia Deloney- the daughter every noblewoman adored. The lady every suitor watched. The noble figure painted in portraits, seated in the front row of ceremonies, towering over a room full of cowards.
Admired.
Desired.
But never truly seen.
She pressed her forehead against the glass. It was freezing, which saved her life.
"Smile, Carmelia."
"Walk like a lady."
"Bow just low enough."
"Don't talk back."
"Say yes."
She had said yes all her life. Follow every command. Played every part.
Nothing less would suffice.
Charlotte, the one who hardly knew how to behave properly and was clumsy at curtsies; the one who read books that no one would approve of—she was the one they missed. The one they prayed for. The one whose name still hung in the halls like a hymn.
Carmelia's throat constricted. Her nails pressed behind the glass. It did not break.
She was the one. Not me. If only the blessings came earlier. .
Why her? Why not me?
Why are the Sovereigns turning their backs on me?
Her knees jerked, and she bit down on her lips until the metallic taste of blood brushed against her tongue.
They all love it–the image of her–but not one of them knows her.
Not the woman who stares at herself now through the window.
Not the girl who cried the first time she bled in training, and her father told her it was "unbecoming."
Not the girl who watched Charlotte stumble into their lives and become the sun.
She spoke in a whisper, throaty and broken.
"I detest you, Charlotte."
She didn't flinch at the sound of her own words.
"You took everything. Even now, when you're not here... you still take everything."
Her breath caught. She stared at her reflection and in that glass, just for a second, saw Charlotte's face on top of hers. Wide-eyed. Hopeful. Loved.
Her heart broke.
"I tried to be perfect. I tried to be everything they needed. I did everything they asked." Her voice trembled. "But no matter what I do, it isn't enough."
Her hand slid down the glass, fingers curling into a fist. The ribbon with which she had tied her hair loosened, and a single golden strand fell over her eye.
"I am tired of being a statue in their hall. A prize in their schemes. A shadow behind her light."
Then more quietly than ever, with a voice only the moon could hear. "What about me....?"
Her shoulders dropped. Her breath came shallow. At that moment, she didn't look regal. Or resplendent. Or noble.
She looked like a girl who had tried very hard for very long and now realized she had no one to try for anymore.
And then her eyes sharpened.Suddenly stood free. Lips sealed together as outside wails gently hissed past the window like the harbinger of evil. Carmelia lifted her chin.
"I would never let you win again."
Shattered Carmelia into her room, almost like the tide onto fragile glass. She did not cry—at least not yet. Not here.
Her fingers shook as she ripped through the closet doors. Satin gowns, fur cloaks, and diaphanous silks for ball-ready wear hung mockingly like specters, all to impress, to dazzle, and to bind her to someone else's vision of who she should be.
Yet in the deepest corner, wrapped in gray cloth and dust, lay the one thing that was truly hers.
Out slid the fencing uniform-white, tailored, and with creases from disuse. She had not worn it for months. Her parents considered it "unladylike," unbecoming of the heir of the Deloneys. But tonight, she couldn't care less.
Carmelia discarded her nightgown in favor of the uniform, hurriedly fastening each button in a tight mechanical movement. Her fingers were sore, but ... As always, she pushed onward. No maid helped her this time. No mother hovered over. No father waited just outside the door. Alone. Just like it had always been.
A high ponytail secured with her black ribbon, her golden hair glimmered in the cold moonlight filtering through her window. One last glance in the mirror, and she stormed into the hallway once again, her boots beating against the floor in the cadences of a soldier's march.
Before her stood the double doors to the fencing hall. She threw them open. The chamber welcomed her with hollow silence.
Moonlight poured in through the tall windows, drawing long shadows along the pine floor. The lingering aroma of sweat and pine hung in the air, a tribute to Callistopher's training sessions with Mr. Sylvan.
But, currently, there was no one there. No instructors. No witnesses.
Only her. And her fury.
She walked over to the rack and took the sword she knew best—her own épée. Midnight blue silk still wrapped the grip. She stroked a finger across the hilt, and for the first time that night, her heart seemed to settle.
Without a moment's pause, she stepped into the center of the room.
And she moved.
The first cut sliced the air like a scream held for too long in the throat. Feet sliding, back straight, blade whistling in furious harmony with her rage.
She lunged forward, spun, and slashed the air again. Faster.
Each strike was like a memory shattering against the blade.
"She is a divine creature, no? Some porcelain princess from the northern kingdom."
"Her face...I've never seen anything so perfect."
"Have you noticed? She looks just like the Empress's niece!"
They loved her looks; they loved her frozen stare, able to say everything without ever putting her true self forward.
But none of them knew that underneath the porcelain was a girl suffocating.
She parried air and grabbed the blade again. Her breathing was ragged, and she tried stubbornly not to stop.
"Carmelia, smile."
"Soft voice."
"Be agreeable."
"Don't make scenes."
Again she struck. Harder. Her blade crashed against the wooden target post and echoed throughout the hall.
A role model. An icon. The noble daughter and the envy of all. But none of them knew her. Not really.
She wouldn't have spoken of it—not in the presence of her mother, who compared her unfavorably to Charlotte's "natural charm." Her father had never so much as asked her what she wanted. Every step of her life had been handed to her with a smile saying, "Be grateful." Her sword sliced through the air again, eloquently, in an arc, one which could win a duel in five seconds.
And yet her thoughts screamed
What about me?
Don't I matter?
Am I just a puppet in pearls and titles?
Another stroke. Another. Her movements were art and defiance intertwined.
Gone was the fragile little doll behind painted lips and cushioned bows.
Before him now was a woman undone, and in that undoing lay her complete liberation.
A wild cry bursting from her throat, she catapulted herself into her final lunge, sword raised behind her in dual acts of supplication and defiance or possibly ruin.
Only the ragged breath remained.
Carmelia's breath was ragged and uneven, clawed out of collapsing lungs like one fighting for life.
Then a soft, deliberate clap floated through the air from nowhere.
Her body went still. Her hand still hovered in the aftermath of the strike, trembling slightly. She slowly turned her head, golden strands stuck to the sweat on her temple.
At the aperture of the room, Callistopher leaned against the door in mocking composure.
His hair was messy. He had a half-smile on his lips; faint yet with no touch of cruelty: it was aloof-not giving an impression of having anything to give.
As usual.
She lowered her épée; the breath got stuck halfway in her throat. "What do you want?" she asked sharply, tired.
"I came to check on my sister," he said mildly, like he was commenting on the weather.
Carmelia snickered, the last remnants of the stance withering. Her blade fell useless at her side; the other hand curled into a fist.
"So sweet," she scoffed. "Have the stars finally aligned for me to exist in your sky again?"
He remained silent.
"Let me guess," she said, walking past him toward the bench, "Father sent you to keep tabs on the unstable daughter. Or maybe Mother thinks I need some reassurance now that I'm being gifted away like a pretty brooch."
Her eyes dropped to the floor as she sat down, wiping away sweat from her forehead with her wrist.
"You weren't there," she continued, only slightly more quietly. "Not when I won the Winter Tourney. Not when I graduated first in my class at the diplomatic rites. Not when I stood at every ball smiling like a perfect doll while they negotiated who owned me next."
She glanced up at him, eyes icy, voice trembling with bitterness wrapped in grace. "You never stood up for me."
Callistopher took another step inside and steadied his gaze. "I always watched over you, Carmelia. Even when you didn't see it."
"Oh," she laughed bitterly, "Watched—Yes—From the corner of the room, like a polite ghost."
The sharpness in her voice cracked something deep inside her.
"Watch as they cut me down piece by piece. Every time I did something right, they looked past me. Every time I made myself smaller for them, it still wasn't enough. I've spent my entire life being perfect-for what?"
Callistopher's demeanor softened, but he didn't interrupt.
Carmelia rose once again, sword gripped in one hand, the other pressed to her ribs as if she might hold in everything that was unraveling before her eyes.
"You think I hate Charlotte," she whispered. "But I don't."
He blinked.
"I envy her," she said. "I envy how freely she speaks. How clumsy and loud and real she is. I envy that they let her be those things. But me?" Her voice cracked. "They only love the mask they made me wear."
"You are no mask to me," Callistopher said of her, in a low voice.
She shook her head.
"No. I'm a contract. A bargain. A secondhand option wrapped in silk. If I disappeared tomorrow, Father would replace me with a signature and Mother with a champagne toast. And you—" she paused, looking him in the eyes, "you'd just go back to watching."
Callistopher exhaled. "I never knew what to say, Carmelia. You were always so strong. So composed. I thought maybe… you didn't need me the way I needed you."
Her eyes glimmered, but no tears fell.
"I needed someone to choose me," she said. "Not for my use. Not for my reputation. Just… me."
The silence had thickened between them until it felt as if it could rip the room apart.
Then she laughed softly, her laughter heavy with exhaustion. "Maybe I need to shatter completely for someone to see the cracks."
Callistopher stepped nearer. His voice had dropped to a murmur. "You're not broken."
She turned away from him, unable to bear the gentleness of his voice.
"You don't get to say that," she said softly. "Not after you have kept silent all these years."
He nodded in agreement, the slowest of nods. "You're right."
Carmelia shut her eyes.
Two siblings under the same roof. Same blood. Same expectations. But one burned softly as the other watched from the window.
"What do you want to know about the worst?" she said, looking down at the bare floor.
He stayed silent.
"Maybe I don't even know if I hate you... Or if I am just tired of being hurt by you."
That was when he looked at her–-not as a sister, not as a Deloney, but as a young girl too young for this burden of sorrow.
I have always cared, Carmelia, he said.
And her words flew from her lips.
"But you never started fighting for me."