Elyandra's awakening was a silent ritual, etched into her routine like ancient runes on stone. Her eyes opened to the soft twilight of the room, faint dawn rays peeking through the heavy curtains. Without hesitation, her body moved with almost automatic discipline, echoing the countless days under Dalia's implacable watch.
First, organization. Silk sheets were smoothed with firm hands, each wrinkle undone with precision surprising for a nine-year-old. Pillows were arranged at a perfect angle, just as Dalia had taught, creating an order that extended beyond the physical to calm the still-sleepy mind. Belongings, once scattered with childish indifference, now rested in their proper places: books aligned on the shelf, small wooden toys carefully arranged on the dresser, quills organized by size and color in a leather case.
Next, the body's awakening. Three quick turns around herself—a peculiar habit acquired to shake off the last vestiges of sleep. Then, three firm slaps to each side of her face, an abrupt call to the senses. There was no laziness; each action was executed with near-adult efficiency.
Noble garments waited upon the mahogany chair. The richly embroidered fabric, once a synonym for oppressive formality, was now handled with respectful familiarity. Each piece was donned with meticulousness: a soft linen shirt, a dark velvet doublet adorned with discreet silver threads, long skirts, and leather boots that fit perfectly. With every layer, the image of the hesitant child faded, giving way to a figure more composed, dignified, and noble.
Finally, the ribbon. The dark silk ribbon—a gift from Siris—was more than an accessory. It was a tangible link to the past, a silent reminder of the love that had shaped her. Elyandra took it delicately, fingers caressing the smooth texture. She brought her hands behind her head, movements still slightly clumsy but imbued with silent determination. Her fingers tangled briefly in the white strands, but the bow took shape: ribbons crossed with care, the final knot tightened with growing precision.
Looking into the mirror one last time, Elyandra saw a reflection that, while childish in features, radiated preparation and control. The hesitant girl had transformed into a resolute little noble. The black ribbon in her hair was her anchor to the past; her golden eyes, fixed on the future, shone with silent resolve. She was ready. Ready for the exams. Ready for whatever the day held. The little Valemortis, forged in pain and discipline, was finally ready to take flight.
Crossing the threshold of her room, Elyandra entered the silent corridors of the Valemortis mansion. An air of solemnity hung there, dense with the aura of the family's ancestral nobility. Impeccably dressed maids stood like discreet sentinels along the path, their movements synchronized and nearly imperceptible, ready to attend to any need.
With every step, the same whispered phrase echoed, laden with respect and restrained affection:
— Happy birthday, Lady Elyandra.
Elyandra responded to each greeting with a soft "Thank you" and a slight nod. Her childish purity, combined with the growing nobility in her gestures and the sweetness of a face turning nine that day, seemed to melt the hearts of the servants. Gazes followed her with a mix of admiration and tenderness—not just the Valemortis heir, but a delicate flower blooming amidst the severity of the lineage.
The birthday unfolded like a richly embroidered tapestry, each moment woven with threads of tradition and noble expectation.
The morning began with breakfast. A dark ebony table adorned with delicate white floral embroidery was laden with delicacies: fresh, crusty bread, vibrant wild berry jams, thin slices of cured ham, soft aromatic cheeses, and a pitcher of orange juice glowing like liquid gold. A small honey cake decorated with red berries flickered softly. Elyandra sat with childish calm, savoring every bite with almost solemn attention. Her posture was impeccable—back straight, elbows tucked—each movement calculated and elegant. The few maids serving her moved with discretion, their eyes filled with respect and tenderness. Elyandra thanked each one with a soft smile and a polite "thank you," captivating everyone with her precocious grace.
The morning continued in the library, a vast hall of imposing shelves filled with leather-bound books. The librarian, a lady with graying hair and a gentle gaze, waited with a selection of illustrated manuscripts and hand-picked classic tales. Elyandra leafed through the pages with genuine curiosity, delicate fingers tracing intricate engravings, absorbing stories with an intellectual greed that was surprising. She asked insightful questions, demonstrating an understanding beyond her nine years, leaving the librarian enchanted by her intelligence and thirst for knowledge. Her presence there was that of a small scholar, immersed in a world of words, radiating seriousness and contemplation.
The afternoon tea was more formal, held in one of the reception halls. The table was set with an impeccable white linen cloth, delicate porcelain cups, silver plates, and a variety of fine sweets and savories: cucumber and salmon sandwiches, warm scones with jam and cream, miniature frosted cakes. A few ladies of the local nobility, family friends, had been invited. Elyandra behaved with admirable composure, maintaining polite conversation, responding with intelligence, and demonstrating flawless etiquette. Her presence was that of a gracious hostess despite her young age, captivating the guests with childish charm and surprising poise. She radiated sweetness and innocence, but behind her golden eyes burned a spark of intelligence and determination that did not go unnoticed by the more observant.
In the late afternoon, as the sun painted the sky with shades of orange and pink, Elyandra found her mother in one of the inner courtyards. The garden was an oasis of tranquility: murmuring fountains, colorful flowers, and the soft scent of aromatic herbs. Lady Altheria sat on a stone bench under the shade of a flowering wisteria, a dark-covered book open in her hands. Her expression was serene, absorbed in her reading.
Elyandra approached in silence, her footsteps light on the gravel. She sat beside her mother, waiting with respectful patience for her to emerge from the literary universe.
Lady Altheria was immersed in the sugary world of her romance. Yellowed pages slid under delicate fingers, her eyes dancing across the lines. The predictable plot of love and overcoming obstacles enveloped her in a bubble of sweetness. Shy smiles formed on her rosy lips, her eyes shone with surprise at the twists, and a soft blush colored her cheeks during the more passionate scenes. Every word was absorbed with almost childish intensity.
Finally, Lady Altheria lowered the book, holding it in her lap.
— It was a very interesting adventure — she noted, her voice melodious and soft. — The journey of the lovers filled with obstacles and misunderstandings, but the final triumph of love... it is always so gratifying. Lady Beatrice's writing, though sometimes predictable in its tropes, possesses an undeniable ability to touch the heart.
Elyandra, who had listened in silence, nodded slightly.
— I imagine so, Mother.
The moment the final words left Lady Altheria's lips, her green eyes landed on Elyandra as if seeing her for the first time. There was no startle, only serene recognition and a tender smile that lit up her delicate face.
— Elyandra, my love... happy birthday.
She leaned in and wrapped her daughter in a soft, delicate embrace, a brief gesture that conveyed all her maternal affection. As they pulled apart, Lady Altheria held her daughter's shoulders, her green eyes fixed on the golden ones.
— How has your day been so far, dear? I hope everything is to your liking. Tell me, was breakfast delicious? And the visit to the library? Did you like the books Mrs. Agnes prepared for you?
Elyandra responded with restrained enthusiasm, her eyes shining as she shared the details.
— Yes, Mother. The cake was delicious, and the books were fascinating. The story of the princess who learned to use the stars as a guide was especially interesting. And the afternoon tea was very pleasant. Lady Beatrice and Lady Eleanor told me funny stories about their own childhoods.
They spoke in soft, elegant tones, each phrase carefully constructed, each gesture imbued with impeccable etiquette. There was affection in their glances and tenderness in their words, but always maintaining the composure and distinction of the noble lineage.
The comfortable silence was broken by Lady Altheria's contemplation. Her green eyes scanned her daughter's figure, noting the unexpected firmness beneath the fine fabric of her clothes—musculature that was once fragile now demonstrated a surprising rigidity, a silent witness to the intense training.
A slight frown appeared on her forehead, genuine maternal concern.
— Elyandra, dear... are you happy with the way things are going? With all this training?
The question caught Elyandra by surprise. Her lips parted slightly, her brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "Happy?" the word echoed in her mind. Happy with the constant fatigue? With the familiar ache of her muscles? With the cuts she had to heal every day because of Dalia's "psychopathy"? With the absence of Siris still throbbing in her chest, now wrapped in determination?
She looked at her mother, her golden eyes seeking clarity.
— Don't you understand, dear? — Lady Altheria sighed, her voice laden with soft melancholy. — A noble like you... shouldn't worry about such... crude things. Intense physical training, combat... those are concerns for soldiers, for knights. Not for a Valemortis. Your lineage, your beauty... everything guarantees you a life of comfort and security.
The words echoed in Elyandra's mind, casting a new light on her position.
"A high-caste noble... ninety-eight percent ancient pure blood... the countenance of a saint..."
It was true. She possessed all the attributes that, theoretically, would guarantee her a serene and privileged existence. But was that reality? No.
To Elyandra, the life of a noble did not appear as freedom or tranquility. On the contrary, she felt the invisible weight of a burden, a constant pressure that her old life had not allowed her to fully glimpse. The relentless routine of preparing for a public life of etiquette and duties, the constant reminder of her preciousness—almost a valuable commodity that could be traded should the family's fortune falter—created the disturbing illusion of a rope being slowly tightened around her neck.
With every day, with every new demand, she felt the suffocation of that imaginary rope, the claustrophobia of being dominated and caged by the gears of the imperial system. In her childish but perceptive mind, she glimpsed a future where her decisions would not be hers, where her life would be dictated by political alliances and dynastic conveniences. The "quiet life" her mother described sounded like a golden prison, adorned with luxury but devoid of true freedom.
Elyandra looked away, her golden eyes momentarily lost in a sea of complex thoughts. There was a silent struggle within her, a fundamental disagreement with her mother's worldview. She swallowed hard, a nearly imperceptible movement, before bringing her gaze back to Lady Altheria's serene face. Her expression, despite the internal turbulence, maintained a surprising clarity—childish purity contrasting with the precocious maturity of her thoughts.
With a clear and firm voice that echoed her newly discovered determination, Elyandra replied:
— I don't want something so simple that I can just walk with the crowd...
Lady Altheria's green eyes widened slightly, capturing for a fraction of a second the depth and unexpected resolve in her daughter's gaze. In that brief moment, the mother caught a glimpse of the adult Elyandra was becoming—a soul forged in fire and determination, far beyond the apparent fragility of nine years.
A genuine smile, laden with honest admiration, bloomed on her delicate lips.
— I see — Lady Altheria said, her voice now soft and thoughtful, devoid of her previous concern. There was a new understanding in her eyes, a tacit recognition of the individuality and willpower residing within little Elyandra.
An atmosphere of mutual understanding enveloped the courtyard. The air between mother and daughter grew lighter, charged with an unusual tranquility—a silent acknowledgement that despite their different perspectives, there was a deep bond that united them. Elyandra felt a strange peace flow through her, a tacit acceptance that her mother, even without fully understanding her paths, loved her and, in that moment, respected her.
They remained in silence for a few precious minutes, side by side, enjoying the serenity of the afternoon: the soft murmur of the fountain, the warmth of the sun beginning to fade on the horizon. It was a moment of silent connection, where words became unnecessary to express an understanding that transcended the verbal.