Winter in Valkathra had always been cruel, but that day? It was plain vicious. The sky stretched out in one long endless slab of gray and the air felt like knives slicing into bare skin. Snow blanketed the courtyard in this perfect, soft layer, until kids trampled all over it with their game.
Rylan, the eldest son and first heir of the Draevin family, led. He was tall for eleven, with that sharp jaw and messy dark auburn hair falling in his eyes, already carrying himself like he owned the whole world. Those jade green eyes of his had look of pride and arrogace. .
Meliora stayed close beside him, her short platinum curls, like field of wheat under sun, peeking out from under her hood, cheeks flushed from the cold, dressed head to toe in velvet and fur. She looked more like a porcelain doll someone forgot on the palace steps than an actual child. Winter made her glow like that.
And Kaelen, the youngest was five year old. he trailed after them like a stray pup, all messy hair of mahogany colour sticking to his forehead, too long for his round face, hazel eyes wide with clueless curiosity.
Cessalie stood a little behind them, a small thing with long straight hair the color of pale coral from the sea, pink touched with a hint of orange like the branching coral plants under water.
She kept glancing ahead where Rylan walked. Every few steps her feet sped up, like she might run forward and fall into step beside him. She wanted to go ahead, to see things first and lead the way.
But she wasn't supposed to.
Still, she tried anyway.
Instead of adding to Rylan's snow fort, she built her own quietly. Every snowbrick shaped with little hands, packed tight like it might actually matter.
"Cessalie, stop," Rylan barked.
She didn't.
Meliora sighed, all bored and ladylike. "You're ruining the game, Cece."
"No, I'm not," Cessalie said, not even looking up. "I'm making my own too, just like Rylan. It's better."
That got his attention. His jaw locked.
"Cessalie." His tone was cold and teeth gritting. "You don't get to make the rules."
She ignored him.
And then, she did something dumb. It was just a snowball, but it hit him dead in the chest and he staggered back, shattering his fort.
He didn't expect that. She wasn't supposed to make her fort against him.
Before she could celebrate or run, his hand lashed out.
There was a flash of something. What was it? Ice? A sharp broken piece of ice. She barely registered it before a burning and sharp pain ripped across her cheek.
She hit the ground hard. Cold dug into her spine, but her body only registered the sting. Hot and wet blood sliding down her skin.
Everything blurred.... snow, blood, the iron taste in her mouth.
Rylan let out a slow exhale and shook his hand, like she had made him do it.
"You shouldn't have done that," he muttered.
Meliora stepped forward, but not helping. "You made him mad, Cece."
Cessalie's breathing came too fast. Her fingers pressed to her cheek and came away stained red.
Kaelen hovered beside her but didn't say a word. He scaredly looked at his older siblings to understand the situation. But he understood nothing.
Then the maids showed up, and went straight to Rylan.
"Oh, young master," one cooed, brushing snow off his coat. "Please don't be angry. It wasn't worth your temper."
Another gently took his hand.
"Your hands must be freezing. Come inside. Let's warm them."
No one looked at Cessalie. The cut on her cheek pulsed, but the ache in her chest? It was way worse.
And then, her mother came.
One glance at Cessalie's blood-stained dress, the scarlet drops melting into snow, and she sighed.
"Cessalie," she said sharply, like the wound was an inconvenience. "What have you done now?"
Cessalie tried to speak, but Meliora beat her to it.
"She was being difficult."
"Disrespectful," Rylan added.
Her mother's expression iced over. "You always bring trouble upon yourself."
That was it? Nobody scolded Rylan or punished him.
When Duke was told, he didn't even glance up from his work. "She needs discipline," he said. "A daughter should know her place."
That night, the maids cleaned Cessalie's wound without saying a word. The stitches pulled at her skin, but the sting barely registered anymore.
The pain faded. The scar didn't.
A pale crescent, etched into her right cheek like a brand. It became permanent and unavoidable.
That was the day she understood. She was the only legitimate child, but the one they valued the least.
*********
Cessalie exhaled slowly, her eyes lifting to the mirror. For a moment they settled on the small crescent-shaped scar high on her left cheek, a thin pale curve just beneath her eye, on ber cheekbone.
The memory that came with it tried to surface.
She pushed it away.
She was nineteen. Thirteen years had passed since that day, yet the scar remained. The others had faded long ago, softening into her skin until they were nearly impossible to see. But this one never changed. It stayed where it was.
The girl in the mirror stared back at her.
Her hair fell straight down her back in long, smooth strands. Her brows were slender and neat, slightly darker than her hair, framing bright turquoise eyes. The outer corners lifted gently, giving them a subtle feline tilt that made her gaze appear sharper than it truly was.
Her face carried a soft heart shape that narrowed into a delicate chin. Her skin was pale ivory, though the rosacea across it painted a constant flush. The redness spread across her cheeks, forehead, and nose, continuing down her neck and across her collarbones and shoulders. It never truly disappeared, which was why she had always preferred dresses that covered more of her skin.
Her lips were wide with a natural shape, the lower lip a little fuller than the upper. They looked soft and slightly plump, though not overly so.
Her body had grown into the kind noblemen liked to admire. Her shoulders were slender, her waist drawing inward before her hips curved outward in a gentle fullness. The shape continued into long legs, giving her figure of a soft peach.
It was exactly the sort of figure that made noble families consider her for marriage.
Until she opened her mouth. Then the interest rarely lasted long.
Cessalie looked at the scar one last time before turning her gaze away.
Everything had changed after that.
Fear, resentment and atred chewed through whatever love she had left for her family. She never looked at Rylan the same way again. Truthfully, she never looked at him at all.
Her fingers curled into fists. She took a breath, then another. Silky strands slipped through her fingers as she ran her hands through them, the same strands her maids insisted on straightening, even though they were already straight.
𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘭 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦, she thought.
She pushed to her feet and stepped outside.
The air was hot, the sky stretched wide and pale, an endless sheet of blue. And there she was, Elysande, her mother waiting.
Cessalie wanted to walk past her, to pretend she didn't see her standing there. But she couldn't. In this family, in this gilded cage, Elysande had no one but her.
And yet, Cessalie hated her for it.
She hated the way her mother had taught her to endure and stay quiet. She bore it too. Her own scars were buried beneath layers of powder and silk. But no amount of makeup could erase what had been done to her or to Cessalie.
The resemblance between them made her sick. The same coral hair that gave away it's shine. Her eyes were stolen from her father's blue, but lighter, just another reminder of a legacy she wanted nothing to do with. She never wanted to look like them.
Even her mother's hair had lost its glow. Once, when Cessalie was small, it shone like the sky at first light, brushed with warm rose and faint copper that caught the sun and held it. Now it looked dim and washed out, like an old portrait left too long in the light
Cessalie couldn't even hold her gaze for long. Her eyes flickered away, but she still stepped closer. "Good morning, Mother."
Elysande nodded, offering a small wornout smile. "Cece, your father expects you in the dining room today."
Cessalie frowned. Why her? She never joined them for meals. That was Rylan's role...playing heir, discussing duchy affairs with Cyrion. The rest of them, his mistresses, sat like quiet, painted insults to her mother's existence. And their children were nothing but decorative fixtures at the table.
She was the only legitimate daughter. The only one born of marriage. In Valkathra, only the royal family was permitted to take multiple wives as no child born of royal blood could be illegitimate. But nobles? Commoners? They weren't granted that right.
Cyrion didn't care. He had three mistresses. One before Elysande, two after.
"Cece… what are you thinking?" Her mother's hand closed gently around her arm.
Cessalie flinched, pulling back without thinking. Elysande noticed but masked the hurt behind her eyes, withdrawing her hand. "Your father doesn't tolerate indiscipline. Be on time."
Cessalie nodded, though they both knew indiscipline just meant refusing to stay quiet about his bullshit.
She didn't say another word and stepped ahead. Elysande followed, her footsteps soft behind her.
They reached the grand double doors. The guards flanking either side moved in sync, pulling them open without a sound.
Cessalie walked in after her.
Cyrion wasn't here yet. It was typical of him.
She was the one who had to be on time, yet the man who enforced the rule couldn't bother to show up himself.
How poetic.
Elysande slipped into her usual seat along the long side of the table, right adjacent to aCrion's throne basically.
And beside her, like polished poisonous statues, sat the other two mistresses perfectly aligned on that same long side, all three of them dressed in competition.
Anwen didn't even glance up. She was Cyrion 's first mistress, from before his marriage. She was tall, even taller than Cyrion. She was rigid and elegant in that cold, untouchable way. Her dark hair, streaked with silver, was pulled into a low, bun at the nape of her neck. Those jade green eyes stayed locked on nothing, like the entire room wasn't worth noticing. She sipped her wine like existence bored her.
Amara, though… Amara lived to talk. She tilted her head, platinum blonde curls falling over her shoulder like she rehearsed the move daily. "Oh? She decided to join us today?" Her voice was sweet, all honey-dipped spite. "We almost thought you'd forgotten where the dining room was."
Her hazel eyes swept over Cessalie, with a perfect sharp smirk on her face. She was too pretty for her own good, too good at biting. And it wasn't even a secret, she couldn't stand Cessalie.
Cessalie didn't bother replying. She was used to it.
She pulled out a chair herself, the screech of it dragging across the marble floor a little too loud in the stiff silence. Amara's gaze snapped to the sound like a hawk locking onto prey, smirk deepening.
Cessalie sat down, keeping her expression unreadable. But the moment her eyes lifted, her breath caught.
Directly across from her sat Rylan, Anwen's son, the duchy's golden boy. Twenty-four now, her older half-brother. He was yrion's pride when it came to managing Ferendia.
He never smiled, not once in her memory. His face was all sharp edges, like responsibility had carved him out of stone.
He was taller than even Anwen, lean, athletic frame, dark auburn hair that never looked out of place and those same jade green eyes, already locked on her.
She always got under his skin somehow. Walking out of line, saying the wrong thing, never knowing when to shut up. But after that incident, they barely spoke. Cold exchanges here and there, nothing more.
She hated admitting it, even to herself, but… he scared her. Every time she saw him, the scar on her cheek burned, like it remembered.
"What happened, Cece?"
The voice came from beside him. Meliora. She was three years older to Cessalie.
She was the poised and beautiful older sister, so insufferably perfect it made Cessalie nauseous. Her golden hair fell in soft waves, hazel eyes sparkling like she practiced that exact look in the mirror which she probably still kissed goodnight.
Meliora was Amara's mirror image, and she knew how to use it, and definitely knew how to twist her manicured nails into every insecurity she could find.
As stunning as she was, she was twice as awful.
Cessalie forced a smile, swallowing down the bitterness clawing its way up her throat. "There's nothing you should worry about, sister."
Her other siblings, Kaelen, Isla and Evan weren't there. They were too young or irrelevant to Cyrion.
Kaelen was also nineteen, the only boy after Rylan, which basically meant a free pass to do whatever he wanted. Isla was fourteen. Evan barely six. Pretty little things with big eyes and bigger silences, tucked away from the table like decoration pieces waiting to be unwrapped.
Cessalie straightened her posture, forcing herself to sit taller, eyes avoiding everyone. Their stares always came with knives.
A servant passed by, pouring wine into her goblet. She didn't touch it.
Across from her, Rylan was still staring, arms folded. His expression were unreadable, except for the faintest twitch in his jaw. That was his tell that he was annoyed, probably already filing a mental report about how she'd ruined something, and she hadn't even opened her mouth yet.
Meliora leaned toward him, whispering behind her hand.
Cessalie didn't care.
The doors creaked open again. Every posture snapped straight, shoulders stiffening like strings pulled tight.
Footsteps echoed across the marble floor.
She didn't have to look. She knew that sound.
Duke Cyrion Draevin had arrived.
He passed behind her without a word, the air shifting faintly in his wake. He smelled like the same godawful cologne he'd worn for years. It was strong and suffocating just like everything else about him. His hair har turned silver completely and dark blue eyes bore into people with intent of killing.
He took his place at the head of the table, finally bringing an end to the quiet play they'd all been pretending wasn't happening.
His eyes scanned the room once and then landed on her.
"You're late," he said.
She wasn't. But she didn't argue.
He didn't wait for a response anyway. Just looked down at the stack of documents beside his plate, picked one up, and started reading like none of them existed and not even the meal.
Elysande sat frozen, hands clenched tight in her lap, jaw locked like stone. She didn't look at him.
Under the table, Cessalie's hands curled into fists, nails digging into her palm, just to remind herself she still existed.