1. Snow Never Stays White

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 they trampled all over it with their game.

Rylan led, of course. He always had to. Tall for eleven, with that sharp jaw and messy dark auburn hair falling in his eyes, already carrying himself like the whole world was his responsibility. Those jade green eyes of his had that look that always made people think he was older than he was.

Meliora stayed close beside him, whispering strategies like some pocket-sized tactician, her short platinum blonde hair 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, well, he trailed after them like a stray pup, all messy light red hair sticking to his forehead, too-long for his round face, hazel eyes wide with clueless, stubborn curiosity. Six years old, mischievous enough to be ignored, but just determined enough to never actually stop.

And then there was Cessalie, the straight coral-haired little thing standing just behind them. She wanted to run ahead alongside Rylan. But she wasn’t supposed to lead, wasn’t supposed to decide anything. But 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 clipped and cold. "You don’t get to make the rules."

She ignored him.

And then, she did something.

It was dumb. Just a snowball, but it hit him dead in the chest and he staggered back, shattering his fort. Perfect shot.

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? 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. No scolding for Rylan. No punishment. Not even a why.

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 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 flickering to the mirror as she shook off the memory that had crept into her mind. A childhood memory.

Useless now.

She was nineteen. Thirteen years passed since that day, but the scar stayed. Unlike the others, it never faded. It clung to her like a reminder of what happenes when she stepps out of line.

Valkathra belonged to men. Every kingdom did. They ruled, Women obeyed. That was the way of things. She’d learned that the day Rylan struck her for the first time.

Everything shifted after that.

Fear, resentment, 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 the color of sunlit embers slipped through her fingers as she ran her hands through them, the same strands her hairdresser insisted on straightening, even though they were already straight.

They all just want to control what I have.

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 retend 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.

Hated the way her mother had taught her to endure. To stay quiet, to bow. She bore it too. Her own scars 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 turquoise eyes that gave away every quiet, lingering trace of sadness. Her hair were stolen from her father's red, 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 gleamed like the pale gold of early dawn, kissed with silver strands that shimmered in the light. Now, it was dull and faded, likee an old portrait left too long in the sun.

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. Their children, 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. 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.

She thought, Of course, he isn't here yet. Typical.

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 next to the head. Cyrion’s throne, basically. That spot had always been hers. First chair on his right. Close enough to look like privilege, 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 quiet competition, their smiles stiff and surgically placed.

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, immaculate twist 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, like dinner was another performance she stopped clapping for years ago.

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, that sharp, perfectly painted smirk slicing through the air. 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, rehearsed 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. Cyrion’s pride when it came to managing Ferendia.

He never smiled. Not once in her memory. His face was all sharp edges and calm authority, like responsibility had carved him out of stone.

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.

Her 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. A mirror she probably still kissed goodnight.

Meliora was Amara’s mirror image, and she knew it. Knew she was pretty, 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 weren’t there. Kaelen, Isla, Evelyn. They were too young or irrelevant, at least to Cyrion.

Kaelen was nineteen. The only boy after Rylan, which basically meant a free pass to do whatever he wanted. Isla was fourteen. Evelyn 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, strong, musky, suffocating. Just like everything else about him.

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. 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. Not even the meal.

Elysande sat frozen, hands clenched tight in her lap, jaw locked like stone. She didn’t look at him.

She never did.

Under the table, Cessalie’s hands curled into fists, nails digging into her palm, just to remind herself she still existed.

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