❝
IN THE House Deloney, the Earl's enraged voice echoed throughout the premises, as he engaged in a contentious discussion with the Marsheries regarding the whereabouts of his missing daughter. "What do you mean that you have failed to locate my daughter?!" he shouted, his words punctuated with a loud crash as the goblet he threw to the ground shattered into pieces. A deep sense of frustration and disappointment engulfed the Earl, as he desperately attempted to locate his missing child.
The Earl's furious voice thundered throughout the premises as he engaged in a heated exchange with the Marsheries during their investigation. "Your Grace, we have been searching for your daughter for almost two weeks," the Marsherie responded, in an attempt to pacify the Earl's rising anger. "Do you expect me to accept that? FIND MY DAUGHTER IMMEDIATELY, OR I'LL PERSONALLY WON'T HESITATE TO SLAUGHTER ALL OF YOU!"
The Marsheries immediately took their leave from the premises, the Earl remained vexed, trying his best to regain his composure in a timely manner. "Charlotte, my precious amethyst, my beloved daughter, where have you gone?" His words were transformed from wrath to sadness as he mourned the absence of his precious daughter, his rage giving way to sorrow over the whereabouts of Charlotte.
Carmelia, perched on the second floor of the lavish manor, observed her father's despondency with a coy smile on her lips. She appeared to have no qualms regarding the fate of her missing sister, rather showing delight at the news, as if her own personal agenda required the disappearance of her sibling.
Descending the grand staircase with measured grace, Carmelia approached her father, her countenance composed, betraying not the faintest trace of satisfaction at Charlotte's absence. Her voice, calm and dulcet, carried no hint of disquiet as she sought to soothe his troubled mind.
"Father, you need not trouble yourself so greatly over Charlotte's fate. It is entirely possible that she still lingers somewhere within Normaine, unharmed," she murmured, her gloved hand offering a gentle solace as it traced slow, reassuring circles upon his shoulder.
She hesitated but a moment before continuing, her words now more deliberate, more pointed. "What if she was not taken against her will? What if, rather than being stolen away in the night, Charlotte chose to flee? The weight of duty, the expectation of marriage to the Crown Prince of Luxtonia—perhaps it proved too great a burden for her still-unready heart." Her voice, though soft, was devoid of the ardent concern befitting a sister's lament.
Her father exhaled a weary sigh, the deep lines upon his brow betraying the depth of his distress. Still, his hand sought hers, fingers curling over her own as his gaze, steady and grave, met hers.
"Carmelia, you misunderstand. I know Charlotte—my Charlotte—far too well to believe she would abandon her home so recklessly. She is your sister, your dearest kin, and she may well have awakened the divine blessings of the goddess Chrysantharos. You are well aware of the sacred tradition that binds every noble house, are you not?" His voice, though gentle, bore the weight of an immutable truth.
Carmelia stiffened, her countenance betraying the faintest flicker of defiance. "And what of me?" she retorted, her tone sharpening as her poised demeanor began to waver. "Could I not have awakened such blessings in time? You claim to know Charlotte so well—then tell me, what became of the girl who once danced so freely beneath the morning sun? The one who laughed without restraint before she was stolen from us as children? Did you ever consider that she might have fled not from duty, but from fear? That she might have realized she could no longer bear the weight of this life you have so carefully woven for her?"
Her voice, once measured and gentle, now trembled with conviction, with something dangerously close to rebellion.
"That is not the matter at hand, Carmelia," her father intoned, his voice bearing the weight of both duty and despair. "Once Charlotte has awakened the blessing, she must be wed to the Crown Prince—not merely for her own sake, but for the preservation of all. Now that she has vanished, we must find her at once, lest ruin befall us."
"Ruin?" Carmelia echoed, her breath hitching ever so slightly as the gravity of his words took hold.
Her father's expression grew more severe, his eyes darkening with the memories of an age steeped in tragedy. "The nobility of Normaine has never fully recovered since the fall of the royal house—overthrown by one whom history now calls the Traitor. The stain of that treachery did not end with our borders; Albiana, too, suffered the consequences."
His gaze grew distant, shadowed with recollections of a tale too often spoken in hushed whispers. "That Traitor bore the eyes of the goddess Lilith—the same amethyst hue, yet tainted with the crimson shade of bloodlust." His words fell heavy upon the air as he turned from his daughter, his steps slow, deliberate.
He halted before a grand portrait adorning the far wall—a depiction of a ballerina frozen mid-motion, her gown a delicate swirl of gossamer and shadow. With a quiet exhale, he studied it as if searching for answers within its strokes. "It was after this painting was completed, decades ago, that misfortune darkened our land. No one knew how it came to be, nor the names of those whose hands set fate into motion."
At last, he turned back to Carmelia, his features marked by a solemn resolve. "That is why I must secure the bond between Normaine and Albiana's crowns. Only through unity can we ensure that none shall suffer for the sins of the past." He stepped closer, his hands settling upon her shoulders, his gaze unwavering. "Do not believe that your sister has forsaken us. Deep within her heart, she loves her home—her people. That love will guide her back to us."
Just as their conversation seemed poised to continue, the heavy oak doors of the drawing room creaked open, announcing the arrival of another presence. A man of commanding stature stepped inside, his figure framed by the dim glow of the hallway's chandeliers. Though young, he carried himself with the poised dignity of a statesman, his sharp features betraying little beyond the refinement expected of his station. His garments—of the finest tailoring, adorned with subtle yet unmistakable symbols of nobility—hinted at his return from official matters.
Callistopher had arrived.
With measured grace, he approached the Earl, offering a deep bow befitting both a son and a dutiful heir. "I have returned, Father." His voice was steady, unwavering, his words spoken with a quiet deference. As he straightened, his gaze met his father's—calm, composed, though beneath that veil of serenity lurked something unspoken.
The Earl's weary countenance lifted slightly, a fleeting smile gracing his lips, though it did little to disguise the burden weighing upon his heart. "Ah, Callistopher, you are back at last." He exhaled, studying his son's face as if searching for answers before he even asked the question. "Tell me—has there been any word from the royal family of Albiana?"
Callistopher's expression remained inscrutable. He clasped his hands behind his back, his posture as effortlessly regal as the lords of old. "Not much," he replied, his tone even, almost calculated. "However, His Highness has expressed a desire to meet with you in person. He has learned of Charlotte's disappearance."
A silence settled between them, heavy as the dusk that lingered beyond the great windows.
The Earl's fingers tensed slightly where they clasped to his back. "I see," he murmured, his voice lower now, thoughtful. "It was only a matter of time before the news reached Albiana."
"And yet," Callistopher continued, his gaze unrelenting, "His Highness's interest appears… unusually keen." There was something guarded in his words, a subtle warning wrapped in formal indifference. He did not speak idly, nor did he waste breath on trivialities. His time within Albiana's court had honed him into a man who understood the weight of every glance, every carefully chosen phrase.
Carmelia, who had stood in quiet observation, now studied her brother with narrowed eyes. Though she and Callistopher had long been taught to temper their emotions, she knew him well enough to recognize when something troubled him. There was a glint in his gaze—not of mere duty, but of suspicion.
Their father's expression darkened with contemplation. "Unusually keen," he echoed, as if turning the phrase over in his mind. "You believe there is more to this than simple concern?"
Callistopher inclined his head slightly. "Perhaps. Or perhaps not. The court is ever watchful, ever waiting for signs of weakness. Charlotte's absence may be seen as more than misfortune—it may be seen as vulnerability." His lips pressed into a firm line. "And vulnerabilities, as you well know, Father, do not remain unnoticed for long."
The Earl exhaled slowly, his thoughts heavy. He knew all too well the delicate balance upon which their family stood—the intricate dance of power, alliances, and unspoken threats that wove the very fabric of noble life.
Stepping away from his father's gaze, Callistopher turned toward the grand portrait of the ballerina, his eyes tracing its elegant yet haunting form. "It has begun," he murmured, almost to himself. "The whispers, the watching eyes. Charlotte's fate will not remain hers alone."
A hush fell upon the room, an understanding passing between father, son, and sister alike. The world beyond these walls had already taken notice. And what came next… none of them could yet predict.
"There's no time to lose, we must find your sister as soon as possible."