1. Snow Never Stays White

Winter was always cruel in Valkathra, but that day, it was especially bitter. The sky stretched gray and endless above us, the air sharp enough to sting my lungs. Snow covered the courtyard in an untouched blanket of white, until we ruined it with our game.

Rylan led, of course. He always did. Meliora stood beside him, whispering strategies, her hands tucked neatly into her fur lined sleeves like the perfect lady she was expected to be. Kaelen, too young to lead but too eager to be left out, followed them like a shadow.

And me? I was never meant to lead. Never meant to decide anything.

But I tried anyway.

I built my own wall of snow instead of adding to Rylan’s. I shaped it carefully, patting it firm.

"Cessalie, stop," Rylan snapped.

I didn’t.

Meliora sighed. "You’re ruining the game."

"No, I’m not," I shot back. "I’m making my own. It’s better."

Rylan still noticed. His jaw tensed.

"Cessalie." His voice was sharp, impatient. "You don’t get to make the rules."

I ignored him.

And then I won.

It was a stupid thing. A ball of snow thrown too hard, striking his right in the center. His fort of snow was destroyed.

He hadn’t expected me to win. I wasn’t supposed to win.

Before I could react, before I could run, his hand lashed out.

Something sharp bit into my skin. I barely saw it, just the glint of a broken shard of ice clutched in his fingers. The pain hit a second later, sharp and burning, tearing across my cheek.

I hit the ground hard, the cold seeping into my bones, but all I felt was the sting. Hot, wet, seeping down my face.

The world blurred.

Snow. Blood. The taste of iron in my mouth.

Rylan let out a slow breath, shaking his hand like I was the one who made him do it.

"You shouldn’t have done that," he muttered.

Meliora sighed, stepping forward. "You made him mad."

My cheek throbbed, my breath coming fast, too fast. I pressed my hand to my face and it came away red. My blood.

Kaelen fidgeted beside me, but he didn’t say anything. No one did.

Then the maids arrived.

I expected them to rush to me, to take my face in their hands, to ask if I was alright, to do something.

But they didn’t.

They went straight to Rylan.

"Oh, young master," one of them fretted, brushing at his coat. "Please don’t be angry. It wasn’t worth your temper."

Another took his hand, the same hand that had struck me, the one streaked with my blood.

"Your hands must be cold," she murmured. "Come inside. Let’s warm them."

No one even looked at me.

The cold stung at my wound, but the pain in my chest was worse. Why is no one saying anything?

Mother arrived next.

She took one look at me, blood staining my dress, dripping onto the snow, and sighed.

"Cessalie." Her voice was clipped, impatient. "What have you done now?"

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

Meliora answered for me. "She was being difficult."

"Disrespectful," Rylan muttered.

Mother’s gaze hardened. "You always bring trouble upon yourself."

That was all.

No scolding for Rylan. No punishment. Not even a question about why I was bleeding.

Father was told later. He didn’t even look up from his papers when he spoke.

"She needs discipline," he said. "A daughter should know her place."

That night, the maids cleaned the wound in silence. The sting of the stitches barely registered anymore.

The pain faded. But the scar stayed. A faint crescent moon carved into my left cheek. A mark that would never fully disappear.

That was the day I understood, I was the only legitimate child. But I was worth the least.

I exhaled slowly, eyes flickering to the mirror. The scar was still there. Unlike the others from my childhood, it never faded. A reminder of what happens when I step out of line.

Valkathra belonged to men. Every kingdom did. They ruled, we obeyed. There was no other way. I learned that lesson early, the day Rylan struck me for the first time. After that, everything changed. Fear, resentment, hatred, each one swallowed whatever love I had left for my family. I never looked at him the same way again. I never looked at him at all.

Fingers curled into fists. A deep breath, then another. I pushed myself to my feet and stepped outside.

The air was hot, the sky a pale, endless blue. And there she was, my mother, waiting.

I wanted to walk past her, pretend I didn't see her. But I couldn’t. In this family, in this prison, she had no one but me.

And yet, I hated her. Because she was the one who taught me to endure. To stay silent. To bow. She bore it too, her own scars hidden beneath layers of powder and silk. But no amount of makeup could erase what had been done to her. Or to me.

I loathed the resemblance between us. The same turquoise eyes that mirrored hers, always betraying that quiet, lingering sadness. My hair, a striking coral inherited from my father's red, was a constant reminder of a legacy I wanted no part of. I never wished to look like them.

Even her hair had lost its luster. When I was a child, it gleamed like the pale gold of early dawn, touched with hints of silver that caught the light just right. Now, it was faded, muted like an aging portrait left too long in the sun.

I couldn’t even hold her gaze for long. My eyes flickered away, but I stepped closer anyway. "Good morning, Mother."

She nodded, offering a small, tired smile. "Cece, your father expects you in the dining room today."

I frowned. Why me? I never joined them for meals. That was Rylan’s place. He was the one who discussed duchy affairs with Father. The rest of them, his mistresses, sat at the table like silent insults to my mother’s existence, their children nothing more than decorative statues.

I was the only legitimate daughter, the only one born of his marriage. In Valkathra, only the royal family was permitted to take multiple wives as no child born of royal blood should be illegitimate or bastard. Nobles and commoners weren’t granted that right, but my father didn’t care. He had three mistresses. One before he married my mother, two after.

"Cece, what are you thinking?" Mother’s hand closed around my arm.

I flinched, instinctively pulling back. She noticed and withdrew her hand, masking the hurt in her eyes. "Your father doesn’t tolerate indiscipline. Be on time."

I nodded, though in her world, indiscipline just meant me refusing to stay quiet about my father’s bullshit.

Without saying anything more, I stepped ahead. She followed, her steps soft behind mine.

We reached the heavy grand double doors. The guards on either side moved in sync, pulling them open without a word. I walked in after her.

Of course, he wasn’t here yet. How poetic. I was the one who had to be "on time," yet the man enforcing it couldn’t bother to show up himself.

Mother took her usual seat along the long side of the table, right next to the head, Father’s throne, basically. That spot had always been hers. The first chair on his right, angled just enough to feel like privilege but still a few inches away from actual power.

And beside her, like polished, poisonous statues arranged for display, sat the other two mistresses. Perfectly aligned on that same long side, all three of them dressed in silent competition, their smiles stiff and surgically placed.

Anwen didn’t even look up. Tall, rigid, elegant in a way that felt cold. Her dark hair, deep black with silver streaks running through the waves, was pulled into a low twist at the nape of her neck, so precise it looked sculpted. Those sharp jade green eyes stayed fixed on nothing, like the room was beneath her notice. She was the only woman in this house taller than Father, and somehow that made her presence louder, even in silence. She sipped her wine like she was bored of existing. Like this dinner was just another performance she’d long stopped clapping for.

Amara, though...Amara lived to talk. She tilted her head, platinum blonde curls falling just right over her shoulder like she practiced the move in front of a mirror. "Oh? She decided to join us today?" Her voice was honey laced spite, all sugar and venom. "We almost thought you’d forgotten where the dining room was."

Her hazel eyes raked over me, the smirk on her perfectly painted lips sharp enough to slice. Always too pretty for her own good, always ready to bite. A vixen, through and through, and no secret she couldn’t stand me.

I didn’t bother replying. She wasn’t worth the effort this early.

I pulled out a chair without waiting for a servant, the screech of it dragging against the marble a little too loud in the stiff silence. Amara’s gaze snapped to it like a hawk locking onto prey, her smirk deepening.

I sat down, trying to seem unfazed, but the moment I lifted my eyes, my breath caught.

Directly across from me sat Rylan, the duchy’s golden boy. Twenty-five, my older half-brother, and Father’s pride when it came to managing Ferendia. He never smiled. Not once in my memory. His face was all sharp edges and calm authority, like he was carved out of responsibility itself.

He was taller than even Anwen. Lean, athletic frame, dark auburn hair that always looked like it never moved out of place, and jade green eyes that were already locked on me. Watching. Judging.

I always managed to get under his skin somehow, walking out of line, saying the wrong things, not knowing when to shut up. But after that incident, we barely spoke. A few cold exchanges here and there, nothing more.

I hate admitting it, even to myself, but… he scared me. Every time I saw him, the scar on my cheek burned like it remembered.

"What happened, Cece?"

The voice came from beside him. Meliora.

My older sister. Beautiful, poised, and so insufferably perfect it made me nauseous. Her golden hair fell in soft waves, and her hazel eyes sparkled like she’d practiced that look in the mirror. A mirror she probably still kissed goodnight.

She was her mother’s mirror image, and just like Amara, she knew it. Knew she was pretty, knew how to use it, and knew exactly how to dig her manicured nails into your worst insecurities.

As stunning as she was, she was twice as awful.

I forced a smile, barely swallowing the bile that threatened to rise. "There’s nothing you should worry about, sister."

My other siblings weren’t there. Kaelen, Isla, and Evelyn. Too young, too irrelevant, at least in Father's eyes.

Kaelen was eighteen, the only boy after Rylan, which basically gave him a free pass to do whatever the hell he wanted. Isla was fifteen and Evelyn barely ten. Pretty little things with big eyes and bigger silences, tucked away from the table like decoration pieces that hadn’t been unwrapped yet.

I adjusted my posture, sitting up straighter, refusing to meet anyone’s gaze. Their eyes always came with knives.

A servant walked by and poured wine into my goblet. I didn’t touch it.

Rylan was still staring, arms folded, his expression unreadable, except for that one twitch in his jaw. That was his tell. He was annoyed. Probably already writing a report on how I’d messed something up without even opening my mouth yet.

Meliora leaned slightly toward him, whispering something behind her hand.

Whatever.

The doors creaked open again, and every posture straightened like strings being pulled.

Footsteps echoed in sharp rhythm across the marble floor. I didn’t have to look. I already knew the weight behind them.

Duke Cyrion Draevin had arrived.

He passed behind me without a word, the air shifting just slightly in his wake. He smelled like the same godawful cologne he’d worn for years, strong, musky, suffocating. Like everything else about him.

He took his seat at the head of the table, finally ending the silent play we’d all been pretending wasn’t happening.

His eyes scanned the room once. Landed on me.

"You’re late," he said.

I wasn’t. But I didn’t say anything.

He didn’t wait for a response anyway. Just looked down at the documents laid beside his plate, picked one up, and started reading like none of us mattered. Not even the meal.

Mother sat still, her hands folded tightly in her lap, jaw set like stone. She didn’t look at him. She never did.

I clenched my hands under the table, nails digging into my palm, just to keep myself grounded. Just to remind myself I still existed.

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