Morning bloomed in golden beams across the high ceilings of the Rothermere estate. The study—lined with books, old swords, and mounted stag antlers—felt warmer than usual, lit by the eastern sun that poured through the stained-glass windows, painting fractured red and amber across the oak floors.
Thorne Rothermere, heir of the duchy, sat at the long table with a leather-bound ledger cracked open before him. His hair—sunlight gold and slightly unruly—fell over his brow as he scrawled notes in quick,with elite focus, practiced strokes.
He wore his shirt half-unfastened, sleeves rolled to the elbows, collar gaping at the throat. A glimpse of his built chest shown through—a almost faded scar slashing across his collarbone, almost healed, from recent combat. Power didn't hang on him like it did with the Duke; with Thorne, it draped like second skin.
He took a sip of cold black tea,deliberate and muttered, "Should've trained the sun to rise earlier."
Later continued to scrabble.
A polite knock interrupted his scribbles.
"Enter."
Head Butler Wystan stepped in, regal in posture despite his age, and bowed precisely.
"Young Master Thorne."
Thorne leaned back, stretching his wide shouldes.
"Wystan. What's the verdict? Am I being sent to the border again, or are we celebrating peace for once?"
Wystan offered the faintest smile.
"Neither, my lord. His Grace requests your presence in preparing for the welcome banquet."
Thorne raised a brow. "Ah. The Second Prince's glorious return?"
"Yes. His Highness arrives in two days' time after finalizing the trade accord with the Luinor Empire."
"Emperor ordered that the welcome banquet should be held at 'Astal Pavillion.' As it is under Duchy, incharge is kept Duke Rothermere for the preparation. "
Thorne clicked his tongue.
"Diplomacy and dancing. What a thrilling week."
' Her Majesty the Empress must be behind this. The Emperor isn't the type to come up with something like this on his own — decisions like these always originate from her.'
Wystan coughed lightly. " As you might know, His Grace also intends to announce Lady Elira's formal debut. She turns eighteen."
Thorne pushed his chair back with a loud scrape and stood, tension radiating through his shoulders like a drawn bowstring.
"YES... I know.That's the greatest problem," he muttered, rubbing a hand down his face. "Of all the cursed days…"
Wystan remained still, practiced in weathering Rothermere tempers.
Thorne turned sharply toward the window, voice low and edged.
"Father wants to toss her into a pit of wolves wrapped in silk and expect her to come out queen."
"She is a Rothermere, my lord," Wystan said gently. "She may yet surprise you."
Thorne's eyes narrowed.
"She already has. That girl—no, woman—who walked into Father's solar the other day… she's not the same Elira I remember."
A pause.
"And that scares me," he admitted.
Silence hovered like dust in the sunbeams. Then Thorne exhaled hard.
"Send word to the tailors. No ridiculous ballgowns. She's not a chandelier."
"Of course, my lord."
"Oh—and no green. She hates green. Although she Looks beautiful in whatever she ware but I don't want anyone to have a damn thought of her look like a wilting herb."
"I believe the color is chose—"
"Change it," Thorne growled.
Wystan gave a slight bow. "Shall I also cancel the fireworks, the acrobats, and the dove release, my lord?"
"…Doves and Acrobats?"
"The Empress made suggestions."
Thorne pinched the bridge of his nose. "Just great. We're turning her debut into a royal circus, just because the 2nd prince return is on sameday as that."
'She deserves more than this. Not some parade which brings Luinor envoys and please the Queen's endless hunger for pageantry.'
He grabbed his coat from the back of the chair. "I'll speak to her myself."
"Shall I escort you?"
"No," Thorne said. "If I walk in with you, she'll think it's about some rules. Or politics. I'll go by myself."
He paused at the threshold.
"And Wystan?"
"Yes, my lord?"
"If the Second Prince so much as looks at my sister the wrong way…"
"Yes?"
"…Remind me to poison the punch."
A ghost of a smile tugged at Wystan's mouth.
"As you wish Young Lord."
'Eldest Young Master really care for My lady.'
.—.—>>>>●●●●<<<<—.—.
"A Knife Beneath the Vail"
Words rustled.
The gardens behind the west wing were quiet at this hour. Dew still clung to the petals, and the hedge walls cast long shadows across the flagstone paths. Elira sat on the edge of the marble fountain, fingertips trailing through the cool water as she stared into the rippling surface.
She already knew.
Of course she did.
The servants whispered louder than bells, and the house buzzed like a hive of secrets trying to out-scheme each other.
Her debut.
The banquet.
The Second Prince.
She sighed.
'So this is how it begins again.'
'Back then, it was unofficial debut of mine, barely anyone noticed–'
The sound of boots crunching gravel made her glance up leaving her thought.
Thorne.?
He walked toward her, coat slung over one shoulder, his expression unreadable.
"Trying to drown yourself before the party?" he asked, voice deep yet lighter than his eyes.
Elira offered a faint smirk. "It'd be more poetic in the river. More dramatic, too. Floating gown. Tears. A final swan song."
He came to a stop beside the fountain, then sat on the stone rim across from her.
She looked at him fully. For the first time in a long while.
Not just as her brother—but as the man who would soon inherit everything. Who had survived wars, led battalions, and carried the weight of Rothermere on his back since they were children.
"You hate it," she said softly.
Thorne blinked. "Hate what?"
"The idea of my debut being lumped in with the Second Prince's welcome parade & banquet."
"I don't hate the idea," he said slowly in deep firm voice. "I despise it."
Elira let out a breath of laughter.
"It's fine. I'm not fifteen anymore, dreaming of flower crowns and waltzes. If Father wants to use me to balance diplomacy and trade negotiations, so be it."
"No," Thorne said. "It's not fine. That's the problem."
A silence stretched between them, birds chirping somewhere overhead.
Then Thorne leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees.
"You scare me sometimes, Elira."
She tilted her head. "I thought I was your favorite."
"You are," he said. "That's why."
She didn't answer right away.
Then she asked, "Do I really seem so different?"
'Is my behavior really that different?'
Thorne studied her face. The way her amber eyes glinted like candlelight. The way her voice carried steel beneath silk.
"You used to flinch when Father raised his voice. Now you stare him down like a tactician plotting a siege."
'I had to burn the weakness out of me. You wouldn't understand. No one can… maybe till you know the untold truth.'
"Do you want to back out?" Thorne asked, suddenly serious. "Say the word, I'll handle it. I'll make Father & even the Royalty change the date. I'll drag the Prince by his ridiculous ponytail and lock him in the cellars if I have to."
That made her snort.
"You're being dramatic, Brother."
"I've been fighting wars, Elira. Believe me, a banquet of nobles is much worse."
'I know brother, I have faced numerous than you in previous. In here people don't bring diggers and swords they are one with their tongues. '
She stood then, brushing imaginary dust from her skirts. The wind stirred her wenge hairs, around her face like a crown.
'But it's fine as it don't really affect any worse. Majority of nobles and kingdom peoples don't know me as I never showed up much'
"No. Let it happen."
'Coz this time it will be 2nd Prince who'll fall on face.'
He frowned. "Why?"
Elira looked past him, toward the distant hills, voice soft as dusk.
"Because the pieces are already moving."
'And If they won't I'll move them myself. '
Thorne squinted. "What?"
"Nothing Brother," she said quickly. "Just—thank you."
He stood as well, eyeing her with reluctant concern.
"I'll at make sure the Debut Banquet look like Debut and not like some envoys welcome ceremony."
"That's… appreciated."
"And no green dress I ordered."
She smiled faintly. "Green is for poisoners and frogs."
He gave a low chuckle.
Then she added, like little girl whoes none is serious about:
"I mean it, Thorne! "
She paused and later said .
"Thank you. For still seeing me."
His brows furrowed, as if something unspoken passed between them—something he couldn't name.
"I'll always see you, Little Thornling."
She didn't say anything to him this time on return.
And for a few seconds, in the stillness of the garden, she believed it.
She moved towards the bell table and runged the bell.
The chime of the bell echoed softly through the garden. A moment later, a pair of maids emerged from behind the hedge arch, curtsying as they approached.
"Yes my lady?" one asked gently.
"Have the final gown options brought to my room?"
One of them glanced up in hesitation and said "The dress in green was ordered cancel by Eldest Young Master."
"Resume it."
Strong deep command came from behind of Elira.
"Y-yes Eldest Young Master ."
The maids stumbled by voice, trembled.
who won't when you just hear a voice that might be more deep and terrifying than some death lord.
Elira said. "And tell Madam Lien I'll need my accessories early better way with dress."
"Yes, my lady."
"And," she added, turning slightly over her shoulder, "prepare a cloak. Dark . Something plain."
The maids exchanged a brief glance—but did not question her.
"Just keep it along with dress. "
"As you wish My Lady."
As they left, Thorne watched her with arms crossed, jaw tight.
"You're planning something."
"I'm always planning something," she replied without turning.
"Just make sure it doesn't explode."
"Define 'explode,'" she said sweetly.
He groaned. "You're mother's child."
—.—>>>>●●●●<<<<—.—
The air shimmered faintly in the northern gardens of Hysenberg estate. Summer had touched the land with warmth but not heat, and a cool wind teased the silken curtains of the drawing room windows. The pale morning sun painted long shadows across the marble floors.
Inside, Serina Hysenberg sat at the harp, Soft indicolite hairs fluttering with mild breeze her fingers hovering over the strings—but unmoving. Her mind was elsewhere, as it often was when the season turned to midsummer.
That day was coming.
The day of the debut.
A soft knock at the door broke her stillness.
"My lady," her maid entered with a slight bow, holding a silver tray, "a letter has arrived. From the Rothermere Duchy."
Serina blinked.
"…Rothermere?"
"Yes My lady, it's from Her Grace Young Lady Rothermere. "
The maid offered the tray. The envelope atop was bound in navy ribbon, sealed with the sigil of the phoenix-in-thorns—distinctly Rothermere.
Her breath caught.
She hadn't seen that crest in eight years.
With trembling fingers, she took the letter and broke the seal.
The parchment inside was thick, smooth, and the handwriting was unmistakably Elira's—still elegant, still fierce in its precision.
°Dearest Serina,
I don't know if you'll still remember me the way I remember you—but I hope you do.
Eight years is a long time, but it didn't dull my memories. It only made me hold them tighter.
This month, I turn eighteen. As do you, if I recall right. We were born beneath the same sky. The same eclipse.
And though the palace chose to host my debut alongside the Second Prince's return, I'd still like you by my side.
The formal letter is already sent along with this to Duke Hysenberg.
Come, Serina. Visit me. Let's stand under the sun again, even if the moon once tried to swallow.
—Elira.
Serina read the letter twice.
By the third time, her eyes were stinging.
She folded it gently, like one handles something sacred, and pressed it to her heart.
"…So you remembered too."
Outside the window, the garden stirred as if the world had briefly exhaled.
A week ago, the royal palace had informed her that her own debut, originally meant to coincide with Elira's, would be postponed—delayed by a week to accommodate the grand welcome of the Second Prince and the sudden merging of events.
Serina hadn't complained aloud.
But she had felt it.
The slight. The way her celebration had been pushed aside—like her shared birthday with Elira had never mattered.
But now… this letter.
She stood abruptly, her voice calm and sure.
"Prepare my carriage. I will depart for the Rothermere Duchy by evening."
"My lady?" her maid blinked. "Your debut preparations—"
"There is still a week."
Serina looked toward the distant southern horizon.
Her emerald eyes shined with rear spark.
"Elira's debut will be under the eyes of the Emperor, the Empress, and even the Holy Pope."
She closed her fingers around the letter.
"So will mine."
"Together. "