The central tower clock had not yet struck the fifth hour when Dalia awoke. There were no lazy yawns or languid stretching. Her awakening was as silent and efficient as the falling of a blade. Her dark eyes, tinged with violet, opened immediately—focused, without a trace of fog. Discipline, forged over years under the severe aegis of the Valemortis, was her purest morning tea.
With a fluid, almost feline movement, she sat on the edge of the narrow bed. Her long muscles stretched in a controlled sequence. Then, she lay on the cold stone floor. Arms crossed behind her head, she began a rigorous series of sit-ups. Without pause, she flipped onto her stomach and moved to push-ups, her body maintaining a perfect line, each repetition executed with military precision.
When finished, she rose with the same silent grace. She made the bed with surgical efficiency, every fold of the sheet in its exact place. She dressed in her noble decorum clothes—simple cut, sober tones—which hid the dense musculature forged by years of training. Her dark hair was tied in a firm knot, her boots polished with discretion. Nothing revealed the silent wolf that inhabited that appearance of discreet loyalty.
Dalia slid her hand inside her sleeve and pulled out a small hardbound notebook. With a well-trimmed quill, she crossed off the first entry on the list: "Morning exercises (04:00 - 04:30)".
She put the items away and murmured, almost inaudibly:
— Still much to check before eight. Security reports for the east wing, equipment inspection... and Elyandra. — A subtle shadow crossed her gaze. — I need to know if Lord Valemortis will allow me to resume her training today. Since the isolation... her discipline is fading.
She shook her head slightly, rebuking herself in silence.
— I have no time for digressions.
She turned the handle and opened the door.
Her eyes widened for a fraction of a second—the only crack in her habitual composure. Leaning against the corridor wall was Elyandra. Her white hair was messy, her training clothes baggy and poorly adjusted, deep dark circles under her golden eyes. There was exhaustion, yes, but also something new: a silent and tense determination, as if the girl had spent the entire night there, waiting.
— Your appearance is not at its best, Lady Elyandra — Dalia observed, her voice flat, hands joined behind her back.
— I agree — Elyandra replied, taking a few steps forward. Despite the fatigue, her golden eyes carried an unusual brightness. — I want to go back to training, Dalia. But not the old routine. I want something more... arduous. A routine that truly challenges me.
Dalia remained silent for a few moments, processing the request with calculated coldness.
— Lady Elyandra, I was brought to this mansion with a specific purpose: to instruct you in discipline, in the control of your magical abilities, and in the precepts of the House. Military training was not part of the orders.
— I know that, Dalia — Elyandra countered, her tone firm, with no trace of the previous night's fragility. For a fraction of a second, an ambitious and cold gleam appeared in her gaze. — But this request is not from my father. It is mine. From Elyandra Valemortis.
Dalia assessed the girl from head to toe. She looked at the disheveled clothes, the dull hair, the ashen paleness.
— The lack of care is... evident.
The words hit Elyandra like a blow. Her fingers gripped the fabric of her own clothes tightly, her knuckles whitening.
Dalia let out an almost imperceptible sigh.
— If your determination is genuine, start from the beginning. Improve your posture. Learn to be self-sufficient. Do not be like a delicate flower that withers when its caretaker steps away to get it water.
The comparison cut deep. Elyandra tightened her grip on the fabric even more, frustration and bitter recognition mixing in her chest.
Dalia turned on her heels but kept her eyes on her for one more moment.
— If it is teaching you seek, I will instruct you. But only when you understand that, in this world, growth is a solitary journey. Waiting for convenience is the refuge of the weak. Every gain requires a loss.
When Dalia's imposing figure disappeared down the corridor, her words echoed in Elyandra's mind like a funeral bell.
The girl turned slowly and found her reflection in the cold surface of the window. The image staring back was almost unrecognizable: dull and tangled white hair, ashen skin, deep dark circles. Siris's absence was not just emotional—it was a practical void that bled into every detail. Without the servant, Elyandra saw clearly her own dependence, her fragility. The pain in her chest tightened, making it hard to breathe. The memory of the forest, the blood, Siris's solitary tear... it all accused her. Impotent. Weak. Incapable of protecting those she loved.
For an instant, the urge to curl up under the covers again and simply disappear was almost irresistible.
But deep within that darkness, a small flame of stubbornness flickered. Siris's serene smile, even in the painful memory, kept her from yielding completely. Siris wouldn't want to see her wither. And, for a reason she still couldn't name, Elyandra knew she needed to be stronger—not for herself yet, but as a vague honor to the memory of the one who was gone.
With a heavy sigh, laden with reluctance and incipient determination, she pulled away from the window.
Dalia concluded her relentless routine before eight. In the courtyard, with a cup of hot coffee between her hands, she allowed herself a brief moment of contemplation. Elyandra did not show up for training that day. A fleeting sting of disappointment arose, quickly controlled. "She needs to digest this," she thought.
The surprise came the following morning.
Upon opening her room door, Dalia found Elyandra already there. Training clothes impeccably arranged. White hair braided in an austere style, almost identical to her own. Her gaze still carried melancholy, but also expectation, persistent anguish, and a resolute frustration.
— Which servant helped you get ready at this hour, Lady Elyandra?
— No one — Elyandra replied, her voice still hoarse. — I stayed locked in my room... trying to understand what I feel. I fought against it. And then... I started to hate my own weakness. I understood what you said, Dalia. It's not easy to adapt immediately... but I want to overcome it. And even knowing your words seem to go against depending on someone... I need help.
Elyandra lowered her head—a clear and vulnerable gesture of supplication.
— Please, Dalia... I need your help.
Dalia felt a subtle wave of admiration cross her habitual rigidity. A slight, almost imperceptible smile formed at the corner of her lips. She crouched in front of the girl and placed a firm hand on her thin shoulder.
— Lift your head, Lady Elyandra. This was an excellent first step.
Elyandra raised her face. Her golden eyes met Dalia's with a new spark of determination.
Dalia stood up, her posture upright again.
— Are you ready?
Before answering, Elyandra took the small photograph of Siris from her pocket. She held it carefully, pressed it against her chest for a long moment, as if seeking one last scrap of comfort. She let out a silent sigh, put the image away, and looked at Dalia with renewed focus.
— I am ready.
Dalia began the training with implacable intensity, without condescension or mercy.
They started with basic self-sufficiency. Elyandra, accustomed to legions of servants, now made her own bed, cleaned her quarters, organized her belongings, and cared for her clothes. Surprisingly, driven by a growing stubbornness, she adapted quickly. Each completed task brought a small sense of pride that Dalia observed in silence.
Next, Elyandra began to follow Dalia's morning routine—rigorous exercises, inspections, reports. The pace was exhausting. Often she stumbled from sleep and muscle pain, but the tutor's unwavering presence, without reprimands, only silent expectation, forced her to continue.
Then came the physical training itself: pre-dawn runs, intense bodyweight exercise sequences, stretches that burned unknown muscles. Elyandra suffered. Muscles protested, lungs burned, sweat ran mixed with suppressed tears. But day after day, her movements became firmer, her endurance increased, and a new strength began to awaken in that thin body—forged in pain and determination.
One morning, while Elyandra caught her breath, her face flushed and her white hair damp with sweat, Dalia approached with silent steps.
— Lady Elyandra. What is your current goal?
The question hit Elyandra like a bolt of lightning. Her eyes widened. She straightened her posture despite her irregular breathing and looked at her own trembling hands.
Finally, she raised her gaze, frustration and anguish evident.
— I... I still don't know. I don't know if people have a real goal... maybe just ambitions. Right now... my ambition cries out for a path. The only one I can see clearly is that of self-preservation, of preparation... of building something. I'm afraid of losing myself on the journey to discover my true ambitions. But... I cannot answer now. Not yet.
Dalia observed the honest hesitation. She noted the unresolved shadow that still hung over the girl. Her posture became even more rigid, her eyes gaining a piercing intensity.
— Then, Lady Elyandra — she said, her voice laden with cutting severity —, the time has come to find out if your determination is genuine. If the ambition you claim to feel is strong enough to overcome the shadows that still haunt you.