The gates of Duchy Elerian opened with a creak that echoed into the bones of the estate.
The sun was dipping past the hills, casting long golden shadows across the marble courtyard as the carriage rolled in. Its crest—imperial—caught the light, and within seconds, the manor buzzed into alert.
Footmen straightened their collars.
Maids dropped curtsies mid-sprint.
The front doors swung open before the horses even stopped.
Lady Mirane, perfectly dressed in ivory lace and rose perfume, stood poised at the top of the steps. Her smile was syrupy-sweet, her voice already halfway to a curtsy.
"Your Highness," she breathed. "To what do we owe the—"
"Duchess," Princess Serenthia said, stepping from the carriage before Mirane could finish, "please don't speak unless I ask you to."
Mirane's smile froze. A second later, so did her breath.
Even Duke Luthair Cersenia, standing just behind his wife, looked mildly startled.
"Your Highness," he said, stepping forward with a formal bow. "I was not informed of your visit."
"Because I did not announce it," Serenthia replied coolly, offering a brief nod that acknowledged him—but did not defer.
Virelle followed quietly behind, Lia hidden in her purse. She bowed to her father without meeting his eyes.
"I will be staying here," Serenthia continued, walking past them into the grand foyer. "For some time."
Mirane blinked rapidly. "We… we will prepare the guest wing—"
"I'll choose my room," the princess said without stopping. "And I would prefer my quarters be near Lady Virelle's."
This time, even the Duke's eyebrow twitched.
"Of course," he said slowly, motioning to the steward. "As you wish, Your Highness."
Serenthia paused. Just once. Just enough to glance sideways at the Duke.
"Though I must say," she added, voice light but edged with frost, "the child described in your wife's letters seems to differ greatly from the one I've just spent a day with."
The Duke stilled.
He opened his mouth. Closed it.
Serenthia did not elaborate.
She simply walked deeper into the house like a storm wrapped in silk, her presence disrupting the air and rearranging the order of things without a single shout.
Later That Evening
The guest chamber selected for the princess was, by all standards, opulent: gold-flecked drapes, a four-poster bed with hand-carved vines, floors of polished marble, and a fireplace the size of a small carriage.
Serenthia hated it immediately.
So she politely refused the space and instead insisted on touring the west wing, where Virelle's room resided.
When she stepped into Virelle's chamber, she halted.
It was… plain.
Clean. Sparse. Carefully arranged, but minimal in everything except the single locket portrait of Virelle's mother on the nightstand.
The princess's eyes swept the room slowly.
No velvet canopy bed. No perfumes. No ornate scrollwork on the walls.
Just cool wood. A modest bookshelf. A desk. A bed. A chair.
And a tiny bundle of silver fur curled atop a folded blanket—Lia.
"…Do you like simple things?" Serenthia asked finally.
Virelle, standing beside the dresser, paused. She turned, slow and unsure.
"I like…" she began. "Things that are mine. Things no one takes."
Serenthia said nothing for a long time. Then she sat on the edge of the bed and ran a gloved hand along the embroidery on the quilt.
"You embroidered this."
"Yes."
"It's good," Serenthia murmured. "But not your best work."
Virelle blinked.
"You stitched better edges on that cat's winter blanket."
Virelle smiled. Quietly.
Serenthia leaned back and looked up at the ceiling. "Tell me something odd about your duchy."
Virelle blinked again. "Odd?"
"Yes," Serenthia said. "Not diplomatic. Not rehearsed. Something odd."
The girl hesitated. Then said, "Our bell tower has no bell."
Serenthia looked delighted. "Go on."
"It fell," Virelle added. "Twenty years ago. They never replaced it. So the servants ring soup pots when someone arrives."
The princess burst into a soft laugh. "Excellent. That's gloriously ridiculous."
"And your duchy?" Virelle asked.
Serenthia tilted her head thoughtfully. "We have a royal peacock that bites politicians. Only the corrupt ones."
"Coincidence?"
"I think not."
They both laughed. Soft. Careful.
Lia watched them from the blanket, eyes half-lidded in approval.
She's doing it, Lia thought. She's pulling her out. Piece by piece. Like opening a sealed letter the world forgot to read.
Serenthia stretched, crossing one leg over the other. "I'll have dinner with you tomorrow."
Virelle blinked. "In my room?"
"I hate the grand dining hall," Serenthia said. "It echoes with nonsense. Here is quieter."
She glanced once more around the room. Then asked, more seriously:
"Does your father visit this side of the house often?"
Virelle stiffened.
"No."
"I thought so," Serenthia murmured. "Strange. He has a daughter here. A brilliant one."
Virelle looked away.
Serenthia did not press.
Meanwhile…
Duke Luthair sat in his private study, staring into a half-finished report.
But the words wouldn't stick.
"The child described in your wife's letters seems to differ greatly…"
The sentence echoed.
Mirane's words had always been measured. Polished. Full of delicate concern.
"She is distant."
"She lacks warmth."
"She doesn't cry."
"She's ungrateful. But we love her, of course. We try."
"I fear she may never grow into a proper lady."
"She needs firm boundaries."
"She doesn't like gifts. Doesn't appreciate them."
He had accepted it.
Never questioned it.
Because the girl looked like her mother. Moved like her. Spoke like her.
And he—Luthair Cersenia—had never known how to face that grief without swallowing it whole.
But the princess's words cracked something.
And for the first time in years, the Duke of Elerian wondered:
What else had he not seen?