In the back garden, where silence dwelled like a living being breathing between the trees, only the blows broke the stillness.
The sound of the sword cleaving the air, then striking solid wooden dummies—made to endure anger before impact—echoed in a harsh rhythm, like a metallic pulse that knew no mercy. Wood chips scattered with each strike, and the scent of torn bark mixed with the morning dew.
"You will continue dueling… while a party awaits you?"
The voice came from behind, clear, stern, cold as a blade's edge.
"Useless as always. Didn't I tell you to seek out that old man?"
It was her.
Selina.
The woman who had held Damian in her arms the day he was born and raised him not out of love, but out of duty. His governess, his old shadow, his harsh voice when the world softened more than it should. She raised him long… but she never let him forget that cruelty, in her view, was a necessity, not a choice.
Damian did not turn.
He repositioned his feet, raised the sword again, and struck.
"I didn't find him yesterday…" he said in a low voice, barely escaping his breath.
"I will search for him again. There is still time. The party is at night."
But Selina was not one of those appeased by justification.
"You always postpone…" she said it with deliberate coldness, as if stabbing an old word into his chest.
The sword stopped for a moment.
Damian breathed deeply, then turned his head halfway, a sidelong glance carrying more warning than anger.
"Didn't I tell you…" he said with slow heaviness, "not to interfere?"
Selina approached. Her steps were steady, neither hurried nor hesitant.
Then she said, in a tone that knew where to strike:
"Or do you not wish to reclaim your mother's right?"
She paused a moment, then continued in a sharper voice:
"That Emperor lives his life in tranquility… while another woman pokes her nose in to become Empress."
Damian's grip on the sword's hilt tightened.
The veins in his hand bulged, and his breath trembled.
"That Emperor…" he whispered, his voice saturated with suppressed fire, "I will kill him with my own hands."
Selina laughed a short, sarcastic laugh, devoid of mirth.
"He is your father, after all."
The sentence was like a match thrown into a powder keg.
Damian's eyes ignited. His face changed, not just with anger, but with disgust at the very idea.
And with a violent, uncalculated movement, he threw the sword away. The blade shot through the air, then struck the ground at Selina's feet, embedded in the dirt like an irrevocable verdict.
"I hate myself…" he said in a hoarse voice, "for being the son of such a fool!"
He turned violently and left the garden with angry steps, leaving behind the torn wood, the embedded sword, and the silence that returned heavier than before.
Selina stood alone, watching his trace, then muttered in a low voice not devoid of ancient certainty:
"He is still… clinging to his mother's past."
And in the garden, the silence remained a witness.
…
The old quarter breathed with broken breaths, like a chest wearied by age that had not learned to rest. The alleys were narrow, the walls cracked like the skin of an old man carrying seventy years of silence on his back.
At one corner, an old man sat on a rocking chair, his robe simple, its colors faded as if washed by years, not water. He watched the children running and laughing, and his eyes did not laugh with them… but remembered. As if in their laughter were little ghosts of a distant past.
Damian approached with hesitant steps and stood before him.
"Sir… how long have you been here?"
The chair stopped groaning for a moment, then resumed its slow rocking.
"Seventy years…" the old man said in a rough voice, "I've seen boys and girls turn into ghosts, their traces fading in these alleys like smoke."
Damian followed his gaze towards the children, then turned his eyes back to the old man.
"Have you ever seen a woman… from a long time ago? Perhaps she was eighteen then?"
The old man smiled, a smile of one opening a box full of faces.
"Many… they were treasures in their time. But one of them… was different. I've never seen her like, nor have I seen her for a long time."
Hope flickered in Damian's eyes before he requested permission.
"Blonde… with violet eyes… short in stature."
At that moment, the old man's eyes gleamed, as if dust had been shaken off them.
"This… matches my granddaughter."
He stopped, then uttered the name like an ancient prayer:
"Doga."
Damian's features relaxed, as if a heavy burden had lifted from his chest.
"Finally…" he whispered, then bowed with deep reverence, his voice low so no one would hear:
"Sir… forgive me for not introducing myself. I am the Second Prince Damian… son of Doga."
The old man collapsed.
His tears fell as he embraced Damian with a trembling strength, as if all of time had wrapped itself around that moment.
"Oh God… my dear granddaughter's son… my light that was taken from me."
---
They sat in a small, dark hut, candles casting flickering shadows on the walls. The scent of burning wax mixed with the dampness of wood, with the smell of memories that never leave.
The old man breathed deeply, then began to speak, his voice like a thread pulled from his heart.
"Doga fled from the Baron's palace…" he said, his eyes on the ground, "She couldn't bear the cruelty she lived there. She came to me broken, but her eyes remained beautiful… beautiful to the point of pain."
He fell silent for a moment, then continued:
"She lived with me for eight years. She sewed fabrics and sold them in the market… for my sick grandson. She loved him as if he were her little brother, made him happy, and restored the taste of life to this house."
He smiled sadly.
"I used to believe that her beauty—her fairy-like beauty—was what drew customers. They were captivated… then she would be snatched from them and drift further away."
He fell silent.
As for Damian, he listened without interrupting, like one afraid the voice would collapse if not held gently.
The old man suddenly stood up and headed to a dark corner. He pulled out a long, ornate chest, on its lid was a carved crest of a known family. The moment Damian glimpsed the crest, the old man hurried to cover it with his hand, as if hiding a living secret, then opened the chest.
A white wedding dress.
Opulent to the point of silence.
Embroidered, heavy, a dress of nobility unmistakable to the eye.
"She told me that day…" the old man whispered, "If you need to, sell it. But… her scent is in it. Her goodness is still clinging to the threads. I couldn't."
Damian reached out and touched the fabric.
He recognized it immediately.
Luxurious fabric, woven in the East and North, worn only by nobles of the highest class… not lords, nor barons.
He froze in place.
For he knew… that his mother, since her marriage, had left the palace only once.
The old man said in a burdened voice:
"This is her wedding dress… her marriage to a man she truly loved. But the marriage lasted only one month… then she was reported."
Damian raised his head with pure shock.
"What do you mean? Did… my mother marry before?"
The old man nodded slowly.
"Yes. But I won't mention his name now. Not yet. You must grow a little more… for the truth, my son, is not as easy as you wish."
And the candle dimmed slightly,
as if the room itself felt the weight of what had not yet been said.
The old man said in a quiet voice, soft as the sound of a faint fire on a winter night:
"My son… the matter is bigger than your age. And when you grow more, I won't hide a single letter from you."
His words were saturated with sincere paternal affection, without pretense. He rose slowly, made warm tea, his movements familiar, like an ancient ritual practiced whenever the heart grew heavy. He placed the two cups before them, and steam rose carrying the scent of warm herbs, different from any tea Damian had ever tasted.
"So much… so much that I know about your mother."
The old man breathed deeply.
"She was a woman who sacrificed more than she lived. She tired more than she smiled."
Damian remained listening, took a small sip.
At that moment—for the first time in his life—he felt something strange… familiarity.
A warm feeling creeping into his chest, telling him he was not as alone as he had always thought.
That there was a thread… connecting him to the world.
The old man continued his talk, his voice lowering slightly:
"In the days when she sold fabrics, she would stay up with me. She talked a lot… about one person. Someone who defended her for a long time and endured the unbearable for her."
He raised his eyes slightly, as if seeing those memories hanging in the air.
"Not a mother, nor a father, nor a brother, nor a husband… but a sister. A half-sister."
Damian listened to every letter, unaware that his mother—whom the world later knew as a great woman—had lived a life full of fractures before that.
"She lived with her mother…" the old man continued, his voice growing heavier, "a woman who married a nobleman. But she hated Doga… specifically her. She used to beat her when she was little, repeatedly, without mercy."
Damian gripped his cloak without realizing.
"Doga endured…" the old man said, "and no one defended her… except her sister. Even that sister was subjected to violence as well."
Every word planted a thorn in Damian's heart.
He felt a lump choking him, a pulse accelerating, eyes burning with unshed tears.
His mother… whom he had only seen as a child… whose features he didn't remember well…
He knew only one thing:
that she had loved him.
The old man noticed the boy's change. He reached out and placed his hand over his, pressed it gently, and whispered:
"My son… Doga is dear to my heart. I raised her as my daughter… even more. She was the light of my days, and she left."
He fell silent for a moment, then continued in a firmer voice:
"But you must be patient. And you must listen to all your senses… to the person with whom you feel comfort. Those who have left will not return, but those who remain… deserve care."
His words were simple, but they fell into Damian's heart with the weight of truth.
He raised his eyes, a mix of sorrow and longing gleaming in them, then drank from the tea again, trying to keep himself steady.
The old man felt the heaviness of the atmosphere, so he chose to change the course of memories.
"Nevertheless… she and her sister endured. That sister who defended and sacrificed, until the day came when Doga fled with her help."
He smiled a sad smile.
"She broke a precious treasure of the family… and sacrificed herself for her. After that, I found Doga in the streets… and I raised her."
Damian wiped his brow with a handkerchief, his voice coming out hesitant:
"Does… this mean I have an aunt?"
The old man nodded slowly.
"Two."
He lowered his voice further.
"One is a blessing… and the other a curse. One sacrificed, suffered, and defended… and the other did the exact opposite."
He paused, then added:
"The blessing was blonde, with green eyes. Doga used to call her… Revy."
At that moment, Damian's features changed.
A mix of astonishment and anger appeared on his face.
"I think I… know them."
He raised his head slowly.
"Isn't their full name… Revellina… and Elina?"
The old man nodded.
And that nod was enough.
Damian froze.
It suddenly became clear to him what had once seemed strange:
The tension between the Empress and the Duchess…
It was not a power struggle.
Nor a historical coincidence.
But because they…
were sisters.
But behind the lights…
not everything was as it seemed.
There were scenes.
Scenes not announced, not explained, and no one wanted to admit their existence in the first place.
People saw what was not supposed to be seen:
The Empress… and the Duchess.
A long conversation at night, outside the party, away from eyes, in a place not meant for coincidences.
Back then, I found no explanation.
Just rumors tossed by empty minds, or so I convinced myself.
But now…
everything is clear.
It was shocking.
Not a fleeting shock that could be ignored,
but the kind that confuses the order of your thoughts and forces you to reconsider everything you previously believed.
Yet…
it was logical.
Elina's imprisonment.
That decision never explained publicly by Vershi.
That heavy silence that surrounded the case,
was not emptiness… but deliberate concealment.
Only now do I understand.
As my grandfather said:
Elina was not good to my mother.
And if that is true,
then it is impossible that she was good to Revellina either.
And Karina's words…
those words she said with a coldness unbefitting a child,
returned to knock on my head insistently.
She said she does not like her aunt.
There was no childish hatred in her voice,
but knowledge.
As if she were speaking of a stranger…
not a family member.
That alone,
is reason enough for imprisonment,
if there is something deeper behind it.
But…
what if Karina is part of all this?
What if she is indeed my cousin's daughter?
If so,
she is not just a little girl.
She carries information.
Information not spoken idly, nor known by chance.
Her dislike for her aunt was not baseless,
but the result of something she saw…
or something she knew.
That girl…
if she knows a secret,
how did she reach it?
Her behavior does not match her age.
Her maturity is not natural.
Her calm is not innocent.
And her glances…
the glances of someone who thinks before speaking,
and weighs every move as if it were a step on a chessboard.
Her request for my friendship…
without a convincing reason.
Her claim that she has no friends,
though I am certain she is not.
That was not weakness.
It was a choice.
There was something behind this request.
Something she did not want to say explicitly.
I understand now.
My relationship with her… is not an ordinary relationship.
It is a relationship of interest.
But what I want,
is not her friendship.
I want what she knows.
I want to understand why she chose me.
And why she approached in this deliberate manner.
And in any case…
I will make her talk.
Whether she wants to… or not.
It is my right to know.
It is my right to understand what you are planning,
my cousin's daughter.
I don't know yet
whether you are a victim…
or an enemy.
But one thing is certain:
I will find out everything on my own.
In my own way.
I will pierce that artificial calm,
and reach what you hide behind your eyes.
Because what you don't realize yet…
is that I am not an ordinary person.
I am Damian.
And I am not someone who can be deceived.