The boys perspective.
Noel leaned slightly over the balcony rail, his elbows pressed into the cool marble. Below, in the courtyard, the two girls walked side by side—laughing, whispering, pausing to admire the flowers that curved along the path before they left to their carriage.
"She looks like the woman in Father's office," Noel said quietly.
Nathaniel didn't move, but his eyes sharpened. "The one in the small portrait?"
Noel nodded. "Same mouth. Same chin. Except... her eyes. Mother's eyes in that painting were green."
"That woman wasn't our mother," Nathaniel muttered.
"I know. But why does he keep her portrait hidden there?" Noel glanced at his twin. "Father stares at it like he's trying to remember a promise he forgot to keep."
Nathaniel's jaw clenched. "You ask too many questions."
"And you pretend you don't have the same ones," Noel shot back.
They both stood in silence. The wind caught strands of their dark blond hair, tousling it the way their mother used to. But this moment didn't feel warm or nostalgic. It felt... unfinished.
Noel turned away from the rail. "Do you think Father knows who she is?"
Nathaniel nodded. "He always knows more than he says."
"Then why not tell us?"
"Because whatever it is... it's dangerous."
They left the balcony, their boots echoing softly against the hall's stone floor. Behind them, Riella glanced up for the briefest second. She couldn't see them. But something about the air tugged at her—like she was being watched by someone who understood something about her that she hadn't yet discovered herself.
(Dimitri's Perspective)
Dimitri stood alone in his private office, the room dim except for the soft glow of the candle flickering on his desk. The scent of old parchment and ink hung heavy in the air. He had dismissed Kaien hours ago, though the man had offered to stay. Dimitri needed silence—to think, to remember.
His eyes were fixed on the small portrait tucked into the shelf behind the curtain. Not large. Not ornate. Just enough to preserve a face burned into memory.
Her eyes had been green—gentle, warm, always carrying something unsaid.
But Riella… Calistar… her eyes were green and blue. Still, the resemblance unsettled him every time she entered a room. The shape of her cheekbones. The stubborn tilt of her chin. Even the way her hands moved reminded him of her.
He hadn't spoken her name in years. Had buried it with the promise he couldn't keep.
The knock came gently—three soft taps. Kaien, no doubt. But he didn't answer. He didn't need more war updates, didn't want to speak of Leonardo, or spies, or failing allies.
He wanted to speak of her. Or at least, remember her without guilt.
He reached for the drawer, pulled out the folded letter—the one left with Riella when she was still just a child. Only one other person knew its existence: Kaien, who found it in the hands of a dying courier nearly twenty years ago.
He had opened it once. Just once. He couldn't bring himself to read it again.
"Calistar," he whispered. The name lingered in the room like a ghost.
His hand trembled slightly as he pressed it to the drawer, sealing it shut once more. Some truths were too dangerous to release… even to the one who deserved them most.