The weight of solitude crushed me. I never imagined my final breath would be drawn in this forsaken place, so far from her...my Angel. Oh, my sweet Winter, I failed you. I failed your mother. Forgive us, I beg you, for I must flee, perhaps never to see you again…
Under the cloak of night, a young woman, her face shadowed beneath a hooded cloak, knelt by the lake's edge. Her trembling hands placed a woven basket upon the water's surface, its gentle bobbing swallowed by the ripples. With a final glance, she vanished into the darkness, her footsteps fading into the whispering wind.
Moments later, the lake stirred again, disturbed by the heavy tread of a man. His steps were paradox and faltering yet resolute, as if the earth itself could not bear his weight. Moonlight gleamed off his taut frame, his worn clothes clinging to muscles knotted with tension. Veins pulsed like rivers beneath his skin, surging with each ragged breath. His eyes, dim and narrowed, held a storm of grief as he approached the water's edge. Kneeling at the shallows, he stared into the lake's depths, where silence reigned, broken only by the mournful howl of the southern wind. The ripples carried no answers, only hollow echoes.
"Why…" His voice cracked, a raw whisper. "Why wasn't I enough?" Tears carved paths down his weathered face, falling like rain as he repeated the words, a mantra of despair. His anguished cries pierced the night until a sound so soft yet fleeting halted him. The laughter of a child, bright as a star in the void, danced across the lake. "Winter," he rasped, his voice trembling with hope. Crawling through the mud, his shaking hands reached for the sound. "Win…ter."
There, adrift in the basket, was a baby with hair like spun moonlight and eyes of sapphire, wide and unyielding. In her gaze, his haunted soul glimpsed salvation. With reverence, he lifted the basket, cradling it as if it held the world itself, and walked away, entranced, into the shadowed unknown.
At the gates of a looming mansion, the air grew colder, the iron bars exhaling a chill that seeped into the bones. The estate stood desolate, its spires clawing at the sky like the ambitions of a forgotten dynasty. Inside, maids greeted him with silent bows, their eyes averted from the storm in his presence. He gestured to a red-haired maid, her face pale but dutiful. "Take this child," he commanded, his voice low, resonant with authority. "Bathe her, care for her. She will reside in the chamber beside mine."
The maid hesitated, her voice barely a whisper. "Her title, my lord?"
He gazed down at the babe, her tiny form stirring something ancient within him. "The only daughter of the Black Viremoor family."
The maid took the child and departed, her footsteps echoing in the cavernous halls. In this world, wealth was dust without a title, a truth carved into the very stones of the Viremoor estate.
Later, in the flickering candlelight of his study, Lord Viremoor summoned his sons. Six young men entered, each bearing the mark of their lineage. Beauty sharp as a blade but deadly as a curse. Draven Elion Viremoor, the eldest, stood tall, his slender frame and obsidian eyes framed by raven hair, exuding a chilling charm. Malrik Soren Viremoor, smaller in stature, his white hair accentuating dark, soulful eyes that belied his icy demeanor. Kaelith Rue Viremoor mirrored Draven's features but carried a faint scar, a whisper of fragility. Zareth Oriel Viremoor, pale as death, his shadowy eyes half-hidden by black hair, radiated a fierce intensity. Varyn Lior Viremoor, expressionless yet striking, bore eyes darker than midnight and hair a softer shade of black. Ashen Cael Viremoor, the youngest, blended innocence with a daring glint in his hard gaze. The Viremoors were a dynasty unmatched in beauty and peril.
Draven broke the silence, his voice edged with impatience. "You summoned us, father."
Lord Viremoor's sigh carried the weight of a thousand regrets. Then, a laugh.....wild and unhinged burst from him, echoing off the stone walls. "Your mother's wish is fulfilled!" he cried, clutching his face as he stared at the vaulted ceiling. "She has a daughter. You have a sister!"
Draven's eyes narrowed, his fist clenching, though he restrained the full force of his fury for his brothers' sake. "Enough of your madness, Father. We have no time for your delusions. Mother died two years ago when I was ten. This family has no place for weakness."
Lord Viremoor's gaze softened, a flicker of hope piercing his grief. "She's in your mother's chamber. Winter has returned."
Silence fell, heavy with disbelief and longing. The brothers exchanged glances, then rushed to the room where the baby slept. There, in a crib draped with velvet, lay Winter, her delicate features a mirror of their lost mother. Tears welled as Kaelith whispered, "She looks just like her."
In that moment, under the weight of their shared sorrow, the Viremoor brothers swore an unbreakable oath....
To shield and cherish their sister, no matter the cost.