The Cecilia estate was as grand as she remembered — towering silver walls dusted with frost, elegant glass windows that shimmered like crystal, and the snow-kissed gardens that stretched across the hills like a dream too fragile to last.
It had always been beautiful. But beauty was no shield.
Not against betrayal.
Not against death.
Elle paused just inside her doorway, her fingers resting on the frame as she steadied her breath. Everything was the same — the scent of snowmint and lilac wafting faintly through the halls, the soft hum of magic layered beneath the structure like a sleeping beast, the subtle glint of enchantments woven into the walls to preserve warmth without melting the frost.
But she wasn't the same.
She had died here. Lived here. Lost everything here.
And now, she had come back.
Her hand tightened on the doorframe, and she stepped out into the corridor.
"Elle?"
The voice stopped her heart.
She turned, slowly.
Elijah and Eleazar stood at the end of the hall, still dressed in their morning fencing attire, wooden swords slung lazily across their backs. They were both tall, even as teenagers — Elijah with the posture of a soldier, straight-backed and alert, and Eleazar with that familiar relaxed grace, like he was always half a step from twirling a girl in a ballroom.
Their faces were the same. The lines she remembered from portraits and dreams. Their eyes shone with vitality — not the distant, empty echoes she had seen on gravestones.
They were alive.
"Are you finally done sulking?" Elijah teased, raising an eyebrow.
"Don't tell me you're still heartbroken after seeing the second prince flirting with half the noble ladies at last night's banquet?" Eleazar added, grinning.
Elle blinked.
The sound of their voices. The sharpness of their jabs. The way their energy filled the hallway, loud and normal and painfully bright. They had no idea. No idea what was coming. What would be taken from them.
Her throat closed. Her legs threatened to give out beneath her. But instead of crumbling — she laughed.
It was a small sound, light and quick, but real. Even she was surprised by it.
"I didn't know you two were such experts on heartbreak," she replied, lifting her chin. "Should I be taking notes?"
The twins paused.
Then, in perfect unison, they grinned.
"Oh, she fights back now," Eleazar said, elbowing Elijah.
"She's definitely not heartbroken," Elijah added. "Too smug for it."
Their laughter filled the corridor like sunlight.
Elle swallowed the lump in her throat and smiled — because if she didn't, she'd cry.
You're alive. Both of you.
Then came the gentle sound of approaching footsteps, like silk brushing stone.
"Elodie," her mother's voice called, soft and warm. "Are you feeling well?"
Elle turned.
Marielle Cecilia stood in the hallway, dressed in pale blue with her silver hair pinned elegantly. Her eyes were kind — and concerned. There was a softness to her features that Elle had not seen in so long, it felt like remembering a lullaby.
"I'm fine, Mother," she answered quickly, forcing steadiness into her voice. "Truly."
Marielle studied her carefully, brow furrowing.
"She's probably just embarrassed," Elijah cut in, slinging an arm around Elle's shoulder. "Too much wine, not enough dancing."
"More like too much staring at Prince Charming," Eleazar added with a wink.
Elle rolled her eyes and shoved him lightly away, earning a chuckle from them both.
Marielle smiled, though her gaze lingered a moment longer than comfort allowed.
Then, a familiar voice echoed down the stairwell.
"Is my daughter finally gracing us with her presence?"
Elle's breath caught.
Duke Nigel Cecilia descended the grand staircase, stately as ever — tall, broad-shouldered, his presence calm and commanding. He wore his usual deep navy coat, the crest of House Cecilia pinned proudly at his breast. His eyes — so stern to others, but always gentle for her — crinkled as he smiled.
She had not seen him alive in years.
Elle held her breath as he approached.
"I was feeling… nostalgic," she managed.
He stopped before her and leaned down to kiss her forehead. "You're just in time. The estate's been far too quiet without your steps."
So have I, she thought.
---
Later, Elle wandered the estate grounds alone.
She'd told the servants she needed air, but that was only half-true. She needed to remember. She needed to burn every moment into her mind.
The training yard still bore faint marks from old sparring matches — she traced her fingers over them, remembering the sounds of wooden blades clashing and her brothers' laughter as they pulled her in to cheer them on.
The rose garden was in bloom, pale blossoms dusted in frost. Her mother had once taught her how to tend them gently, magicless hands working alongside enchanted shears. A memory wrapped in warmth and petals.
The library smelled of aged parchment and lavender oil. Her spot — second chair from the window — was just as she'd left it. Books lined the walls, thick tomes on spellcraft and theory she once devoured in desperate hope, even when she couldn't cast a spark.
And then there was the western corridor.
She stopped.
That hallway had once led to nothing more than a sitting room. But soon, it would welcome a guest — a girl who would wear Elle's name and face like a mask. A girl with ice in her veins and lies on her tongue. The beginning of the end.
Elle stood there a long while.
The wind picked up, rustling the frost-covered ivy along the walls.
And then the memories returned — not the happy ones, but the ones that came with ice daggers buried in her chest.
Her mother's body, still and pale.
Her father, imprisoned behind iron bars, too proud to beg.
Her brothers — letters sent too late, their names spoken only in eulogies.
Her own body, unable to move, slowly fading in a bed no one visited.
Her knees gave way.
She collapsed into the corner of her carriage, silent tears sliding down her cheeks. Her fingers clutched the velvet cushion, knuckles white.
"I won't let it happen again," she whispered.
Not this time.
---
That night, Elle lit a single candle in her bedroom.
She sat at her desk, ink and parchment laid before her like a battlefield map.
No more innocence.
No more pretending.
Everything she had once ignored — court politics, estate records, noble alliances, whispers in the ballroom — she would master it all. She would wield information like a blade. Magic would come, too. She would find it. Carve it from stone if she had to.
She dipped her quill.
The plan began now.
She would tear every lie apart before it was ever spoken.
She would shield her family — not as a helpless daughter, but as a strategist.
As a Cecilia.
And the world would learn:
The forgotten girl was not so easily erased.