The clock in the nearby central tower had not yet chimed the fifth hour when Dalia awoke. There were no lazy yawns, no lazy stretching of those who reluctantly pull themselves out of sleep. His awakening was an event as silent and efficient as the fall of a blade. Her dark violet-hued eyes opened, instantly focused, without any trace of the sleep haze. The discipline, cultivated over years under the harsh aegis of the Valemortis, was her purest and clearest morning tea, invigorating her even before her feet touched the cold ground.
With a fluid, almost feline movement, she sat on the edge of the narrow bed. His muscles, long and strong, stretched in a series of controlled stretches, each movement performed with the precision of a morning ritual. Then, without hesitation, he lay down on the cold stone floor. His arms crossed behind his head as he began a series of rigorous sit-ups, the steady rhythm of his body rising and falling breaking the dawn silence. Without rest, she turned on her belly, her arms firmly planted on the floor, and began the push-ups, each repetition performed with impeccable technique, her body maintaining a straight and firm line.
After her brief but intense morning workout, Dalia stood up with the same quiet grace with which she had begun. He made his bed with military efficiency, every fold of the blanket and sheet executed with surgical precision. He took his belongings, meticulously organized the night before, and put on his noble robe. The garments, of a simple but elegant cut, in sober tones, concealed the defined curves of his body, the dense musculature forged by years of arduous training and the fierce discipline instilled by the Valemortis. Her appearance was that of a loyal and efficient soldier, discreet and reserved, without revealing the silent strength that resided beneath the fabric. Every detail, from the tight knot in her dark hair to the understated polishing of her boots, screamed order and self-control. Dalia was ready for another day of service, the silent wolf wearing the skin of discreet loyalty.
Dalia slid her hand into the sleeve of her tunic, from which she pulled out a small hardcover notebook and a neatly trimmed quill pen. The to-do list, meticulously written in elegant, concise handwriting, contained the tasks she set herself before the sun even came up. With a firm and quick risk, he marked the first entry: "Morning exercises (04:00 - 04:30)".
Tucking pen and notebook back into his sleeve, his lips moved in a barely audible whisper, a rare manifestation of his thoughts out loud.
"There is still a lot to check before eight. East wing security reports, inspection of training equipment... and Elyandra. A subtle shadow crossed his dark eyes. "I need to know if Lord Valemortis will allow me to resume her training today." Since his isolation... Your discipline is being lost.
Dalia let out an almost imperceptible sigh, her hand returning to her chin in a thoughtful, quick gesture. His dark eyes stared for an instant at a fixed point on the wall, but his mind seemed distant, processing information with the speed of a military calculation. After a few seconds, her hand fell again, and she shook her head slightly, in a silent rebuke to herself.
"I have no time for rambling now," he murmured, discipline cutting any thread of contemplation. "Routine awaits.
With an efficient movement, she turned the knob and opened the door to her room, ready to face the demands of the day.
As she turned the handle and pulled the door open, Dalia's dark eyes widened slightly, surprise breaking her usual composure. In front of her, leaning against the wall of the hallway, was Elyandra. Her white hair, usually more tidy, seemed scruffy, and her training clothes, loose over her slight frame, had not been completely adjusted. There was a visible tiredness on her face, the dark circles under her golden eyes betrayed a bad night's sleep. But behind the exhaustion, Dalia perceived a shadow of something more, a quiet determination she hadn't seen before. Elyandra's eyes were fixed on her, an intense and persistent gaze, as if the young noblewoman had spent the whole night there, waiting. That vision was charged with a quiet tension, a harbinger of something that had disturbed Elyandra's usual isolation.
"You don't look the best, Lady Elyandra," Dalia remarked, her voice flat and nonjudgmental, maintaining her impeccable posture with her hands clasped behind her back, like an officer in front of a subordinate.
"I agree," Elyandra replied, approaching her tutor a few steps. His golden eyes, despite his tiredness, maintained an unusual glow. "I want to get back to training, Dalia. But not to the routine of before. I want something more... hard. If possible, a routine that really challenges me.
Dalia listened in silence, his expression unalterable for a few moments, as if processing the information with the coldness of a calculator.
"Lady Elyandra," he said at last, his voice maintaining the same neutrality, "I have been brought to this manor by Lord Valemortis for a specific purpose. My duty is to instruct her in discipline, in the control of her magical abilities, and in the precepts of our House. Training her for military affairs was not among the orders.
"I know that, Dalia," Elyandra countered, her tone firm, without any trace of the fragility she had shown the night before. Her eyes fixed on Dalia's, and there, for a split second, there appeared an ambitious, cold glow, an icy determination that Dalia instantly noticed, awakening an instinctive caution in her experienced tutor. "But this request is not from my father. It's mine. By Elyandra Valemortis.
Dalia evaluated Elyandra from top to bottom, her professional and analytical gaze running over the noblewoman's slight figure. His eyes rested on the scruffy robes, on the white hair that seemed to have lost its usual brightness and on the paleness of his face.
"The lack of care is... "Obvious, Lady Elyandra," Dahlia pointed out, her voice neutral, but the remark loaded with a clear implication. Siris's absence had left not only an emotional but also a practical vacuum in the girl's life, and Dalia did not shy away from noticing this visible disqualification.
Elyandra listened to her owner's words, her face twitching in a mixture of frustration and bitter acknowledgment of the truth contained in them. Her fingers gripped her own robes tightly, the texture of the rough fabric beneath her whitish knots.
Dalia let out an almost imperceptible sigh before continuing.
"If your determination is genuine, Lady Elyandra, then start at the beginning. Improve your posture. Learn to be self-sufficient. Don't be like a delicate flower that withers if your caregiver is away to give you water.
Dalia's words struck Elyandra like a shock, a cold, cutting pang of truth. The comparison with the dependent flower made her tighten the fabric of her clothes even more, frustration bubbling in her chest.
Dalia spun on her heels, ready to go about her morning routine, but kept her eyes fixed on Elyandra for a moment.
"If it is a teaching you seek, Lady Elyandra, I will instruct you. But only when you understand that in this world, growth is a lonely journey. Waiting for convenience is the refuge of the weak. In the real world, every gain requires a loss.
After Dalia's imposing figure disappeared into the hallway, the harsh but undeniably true words echoed in Elyandra's mind like a funeral bell. She turned slowly, as if carrying an invisible burden, and her eyes met the reflection on the cold surface of the window. The image that stared at her was almost unrecognizable. Her white hair, once a luminous halo framing an angelic face, now seemed dull and matted, silent witnesses to sleepless nights and furtive tears. The paleness of her skin was no longer the delicacy of a protected flower, but the grayish tone of exhaustion and deep sadness. The weight of her grief-worn appearance was palpable, every strand of hair scruffy, every shadow under her golden eyes screaming the absence of Siris's gentle care. It was as if Elyandra's own inner light had dimmed, reflecting the darkness that consumed her.
Siris's absence was an open wound that bled constantly, a visceral pain that Elyandra still couldn't fully name or comprehend. It was not just the absence of a loyal servant, but the loss of a silent confidante, a constant smile, a comforting presence that had woven the days of her young life. The void left by Siris was a black hole that swallowed her joy, her security, her very identity. She felt lost in a labyrinth of silence, where memories of Siris' soft voice were ghosts that haunted her. The pain was physical, a constant tightness in her chest that made it difficult to breathe, a deep fatigue that made her want to just shrink and disappear.
Over all this hung the shadows of his own failure. The memory of the dark forest, the blood, the loss of Siris... everything silently accused her. He felt powerless, fragile, unable to protect those who were dear to him. The harshness of Dalia's words, though cruel, resonated with a bitter truth: her dependence, her lack of self-sufficiency, had contributed to the tragedy. The shadow of failure enveloped her like a heavy cloak, whispering in her ears the futility of her efforts, the futility of trying to move on. The urge to isolate oneself, to hide under the covers and simply cease to exist, was almost irresistible, an illusory refuge from pain and guilt.
However, in the darkness of her room, as her eyes scanned the haggard reflection in the window, a small flame of stubbornness began to flicker. Dalia's words, though harsh, had planted a seed of truth in her wounded heart. The image of Siris's serene smile, even in the painful memory, paradoxically prevented her from giving in completely to despair. Siris wouldn't want to see her languish. And, for a reason she still couldn't fully articulate, Elyandra knew she needed to be stronger. Not for herself yet, perhaps, but for a vague honor to the memory of the one who was gone. With a heavy sigh, charged with reluctance and an incipient determination, Elyandra moved, moving away from the window and the image of her own fragility, determined, even if unwillingly, to tread the arduous path that Dalia had presented to her. The journey would be painful, but the thought of remaining in that darkness was even more unbearable.
Dalia, for her part, continued with her relentless routine. When he had completed all his tasks before the break of eight, he found himself in the courtyard of the mansion Valemortis, a cup of hot coffee in his hands. The cold morning breeze danced among the fallen leaves, and she allowed herself a brief moment of quiet contemplation. That day, Elyandra did not show up for training. A twinge of disappointment hit her, fleeting and controlled, but soon dispelled by a tacit understanding of the emotional turmoil the young noblewoman must be facing. "She needs to digest this," Dalia thought, her mind already focused on the next day.
Surprise awaited her the next morning. When he opened the door to his room to start his routine, his eyes met Elyandra. The girl was there, wearing her workout clothes, now impeccably arranged. Her white hair was braided in an austere style, remarkably similar to Dalia's usual hairstyle. His gaze still carried a melancholy distance, but there was also a complex mixture of expectation, lingering anguish, and a hint of resolute frustration.
Dalia maintained her upright posture and her unwavering military aura.
"What servant helped you get ready at this hour, Lady Elyandra?"
"No one," Elyandra replied, her voice still a little hoarse. "I was locked in my room... trying to understand... Fight against what I feel. And then... I began to hate my own weakness. I understood what you said, Dalia. But it's not easy... adapt to all of this immediately. But I want to... I want to get over it. And even though he knows his words seem to go against the idea of depending on anyone... I need help.
At that moment, something unexpected happened. Elyandra lowered her head, a clear and vulnerable gesture of pleading.
"Please, Dalia... I need your help.
Dalia felt a wave of something close to admiration run through her usual rigidity. A faint, almost imperceptible smile of recognition formed on the corner of his lips. She crouched in front of the little noblewoman, placing a firm hand on her slight shoulder.
"Raise your head, Lady Elyandra," Dalia said, her voice now carrying a new nuance, a tone of grudging respect. "This was an excellent first step.
Elyandra looked up, her golden eyes meeting Dahlia's. The tutor showed a silent approval, a tacit recognition of that small but significant step. The gaze once charged with melancholy now gained a faint glow, a spark of determination igniting itself in the midst of lingering sadness.
Dalia stood up, her posture upright and her voice resuming its usual rigidity.
"Lady Elyandra, are you ready?" He waited, his dark eyes fixed on the girl.
Before answering, Elyandra reached into the pocket of her training robes and pulled out a small photograph. His delicate fingers held the image carefully, his eyes fixed on the face depicted there. Dalia watched the scene, recognizing the familiar face of Siris in the faded photo. For a long moment, silence hung between the two, burdened with the absence of the woman who had meant so much. Then, with an unexpected movement, Elyandra pressed the photo to her chest and hugged it tightly, as if looking for some residual comfort there. Letting out a last silent breath, she undid the embrace, her eyes now turned to Dalia, a new focus on her brilliance.
"I'm ready," Elyandra said, her voice firm, charged with a newfound resolve.
Dalia began Elyandra's training with a relentless intensity, stripped of any shred of condescension or pity. The starting point was the most basic: self-sufficiency. Elyandra, accustomed to having her needs met by a legion of servants, was now responsible for her own chores, from the simplest tasks, such as making her bed and cleaning her rooms, to the most complex, such as organizing her belongings and taking care of her clothes. It was Dalia's way of forging fundamental discipline, instilling in the young noblewoman responsibility for herself, without the crutch of constant assistance. Surprisingly, Elyandra, driven by a stubborn determination that Dalia was beginning to recognize, was quick to adapt to the new routine. With effort and a growing sense of pride, she learned to accomplish each task with astonishing efficiency, absorbing the order and organization that Dalia imposed.
The next step was the integration, albeit hesitant, into Dalia's own routine. Elyandra began to accompany her tutor in her morning activities, observing her iron discipline, her precision in every movement, her unwavering dedication to her duties. It was an exhausting pace, a brutal shock for the young woman accustomed to indolent mornings. But Dalia's constant presence, her unbreakable posture, and the absence of any reprimand, just the silent expectation that Elyandra would make an effort, began to have an effect. With difficulty, staggering from sleep and physical exhaustion, Elyandra struggled to keep pace, absorbing discipline by osmosis, by the sheer force of repetition and observation.
Then, Dalia polished a physical training routine for Elyandra that the girl had never tried or even imagined. Far from the gentle and recreational exercises that were part of his noble education, this new routine was intense, focused on muscle strengthening, agility and endurance. Morning runs before dawn, exhausting sequences of exercises with your own body weight, stretches that stretched muscles that were previously unknown. Elyandra suffered. Her muscles protested with searing pain, her lungs burned with every breath, and exhaustion made her stagger. But within the margins of quiet anticipation of Dalia—who watched her progress with a cold but attentive eye—Elyandra adapted. Each day his movements became firmer, his endurance gradually increased, and a new strength began to awaken in his slender body, a strength forged in pain and determination.
Watching Elyandra, whose face was reddened by the effort and beads of sweat moistened her gray hair, Dalia pondered the goals that drove the young noblewoman now, after the loss of Siris. The determination she saw in the girl's eyes was undeniable, but the motivation behind it was still unknown. What moves you now? Revenge? Search for power? Or just the need to fill the void left by Siris with something more?
Dalia approached Elyandra, her footsteps silent in the damp grass. Elyandra noticed his presence, turning her exhausted face towards him.
"Dalia..." murmured Elyandra, her voice still panting from the exercise.
"Lady Elyandra," Dalia replied directly, her dark eyes fixed on the girl's. "What is your current goal?"
Dalia's question struck Elyandra like an unexpected bolt of lightning. His eyes widened slightly, surprise stamped on his exhausted features. She straightened her posture, despite her still ragged breathing, and stared at her own hands, her fingers trembling with fatigue. His eyes ran along the lines of his palms, as if the answer could be inscribed there. His mind spun, a whirlwind of thoughts searching for a clear and concise answer, but nothing solidified.
Finally, she looked up at Dalia, the frustration evident in her golden eyes.
"I... I still don't know," he confessed, his voice choked by a hint of anguish. "I don't know if people have a real goal... maybe just ambitions. And now... my ambition cries out for a way. The only thing I can see clearly is that of self-preservation, of preparation... of the construction of something. I don't know what potential resides in me. I'm afraid I'll get lost on the journey to discover my true ambitions. But... No, I can't answer your question right now. Not yet.
Dalia noted the hesitation and raw honesty in Elyandra's response. She noticed the subtle weight in her words, the shadow of something unresolved that still hung over her heart, holding her to a past of pain and loss. A strange aura began to emanate from Dalia, an intensification of her presence, her posture becoming even more rigid, her dark eyes gaining a piercing intensity. Elyandra felt the change in her owner's countenance, a cold, unwavering determination that made her swallow.
"So, Lady Elyandra," Dalia said, her voice now charged with a biting severity, "the time has come to find out if your determination to evolve is genuine. If the ambition you claim to feel is strong enough to overcome the shadows that still haunt you.