The hallways of the Veyldan estate were unusually quiet that morning.
Elara moved along the grand corridor, her footsteps silent on the polished marble.
A faint, persistent sound drifted to her ears, the wail of a baby. She paused, tilting her head.
Come to think of it… it's been a year since Father married Isolde. Could it be… that she has given birth to the child Father thought was his?
Curiosity and quiet caution guided her steps as she followed the sound, winding through the hallways until she reached a softly lit room.
The cries subsided as she opened the door.
Inside, a baby lay in a crib, staring up with wide eyes. For a moment, there was silence. Then the faintest curve of a smile touched the infant's lips.
How sad your life will be… innocent, yet caught in the shadows of your mother and sister's ambitions.
Her thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the soft click of the door opening.
"What are you doing here? What have you done to him? Why has he stopped crying?" Isolde's voice rang with restrained anger, sharp but controlled. "I know you dislike me, but do not trouble the child. He is only a baby."
Elara said nothing.
She observed her stepmother, the way her jaw tensed, the subtle narrowing of her eyes, the restrained frustration in her posture.
After a long pause, her voice was barely above a whisper, she said, "At least you're aware…"
Isolde stiffened. "Did you say something?"
"Nothing," Elara replied, serene and measured. "I'll leave you with your baby. Have a good day, Lady Isolde."
Isolde's eyes flashed with indignation.
Once again, Elara refused to address her as "Duchess." The slight, quiet defiance gnawed at her stepmother.
Later, during tea time, Isolde attempted a more public demonstration of authority, arranging Seraphine and her friends to subtly mock and intimidate Elara.
"Elara, you seem… different today," Seraphine said sweetly, her tone honeyed but laced with mockery. "Didn't sleep well? Or did someone finally teach you some manners?"
Elara's lips curved faintly, like a shadow of a smile.
"I sleep well, thank you," she replied evenly, placing her napkin neatly beside her cup.
Another girl, Mirielle—Seraphine's friend—snickered. "Oh, look at her, so proper! Does she think she's grown up now?"
Elara tilted her head, her calm gaze sweeping over each girl.
Her voice was soft and deliberate, yet carried an unyielding weight. "Do you find mockery fulfilling? Or is it only entertaining when you witness weakness?"
Unlike before, when she would tremble and cower in fear, Elara now met each sly comment with perfect composure.
A hush fell. Whispers stifled in their throats as Elara's gaze met theirs. Her words were precise, her poise unshakable. She now faced them with quiet, formidable elegance.
Weeks passed. Now, Elara needs to go to the Imperial Palace. Ever since their engagement, Adrienne and Elara had followed a simple routine: one day each week set aside to meet, talk, and deepen the bond expected of them.
It had become a tradition, quietly approved by the Emperor, a small thread of connection in the intricate tapestry of court life.
This week, as sunlight spilled over the marble floors of the Imperial Palace, Elara entered the garden and sat at the table the servants had prepared for their tea with the Crown Prince.
She carried herself with serene authority, a sharpness in her gaze that Adrienne immediately noticed.
"Your Highness," she said, inclining her head slightly.
The words were polite, deliberate, and carried a weight beyond her sixteen years.
Adrienne blinked, momentarily taken aback.
"Elara… as I have observed, you seem different lately." His voice carried curiosity rather than reproach, as if he sensed the shift but couldn't quite name it.
Elara allowed the faintest smile.
"Perhaps I am," she replied softly. "But I trust the routine of our meeting remains unchanged?"
Adrienne nodded. "Indeed. One day each week. Always," he said in a bland tone.
They spoke little that day.
Adrienne found it odd, he had always been on the receiving end of her lively remarks, but now she was quiet, guarded.
When Elara was about to bid farewell, the Empress entered the garden.
"Elara, why don't you join us for dinner tonight?" she suggested, her tone casual but insistent.
Elara paused, considering.
Declining would have been simple, yet she realized that refusing might draw unnecessary attention.
She inclined her head slightly. "Thank you, Your Majesty. I would be honored to join you."
The Empress smiled approvingly. "Good. Adrienne, please escort her."
Adrienne's lips twitched reluctantly. "Of course," he said.
That evening, the grand dining hall was quiet except for the soft chime of cutlery. Only four people sat at the table: Elara, Adrienne, and his parents.
"How are you these days, Elara?" the Emperor asked.
"Well, Your Majesty. Thank you for asking," she replied, dabbing the corner of her mouth with a napkin before taking a sip of water.
The conversation continued.
Elara navigated it with grace, her voice clear, eloquent, and measured. She complimented the chefs, offered insightful comments on recent diplomatic developments, and responded to the subtle probing of the Imperial couple with tact and poise.
The Emperor watched her closely, impressed.
Here was a girl not merely aware of her surroundings but capable of guiding the conversation with wisdom far beyond her years.
It was no wonder, he thought, that she had been betrothed to Adrienne.
Adrienne, seated beside her, stole glances as she spoke.
He could sense the subtle difference, the calm authority, the eloquence, the way she carried herself.
When dinner was about to end, the Emperor smiled. "Why don't you take Elara home, Adrienne? Spend more time together. After all, you will wed in the future."
Elara opened her mouth to decline, but Adrienne spoke first. "It'll be my honor, Father. Come… Elara, let's go."
Puzzled, Elara followed him.
She didn't mind and simply stepped into the carriage. Throughout their journey, she looked out the window, admiring the moonlight on the fields of grass.
Crown Prince Adrienne watched her silently.
Her blue eyes and violet hair glimmered under the silver glow. And yet, for the entire day, she had barely spoken.
"Your Highness?"
Adrienne blinked at the sound. Your Highness? But she usually calls me 'Adrie.' I thought she was only being formal during tea time or dinner earlier.
Adrienne cleared his throat. "Yes, Elara?"
She turned to him, her expression unreadable.
"As I was wondering, Your Highness… why don't we annul our engagement? You don't seem to like it either." Her tone was soft but without remorse.
The Crown Prince froze.
Annul? Is she even the same Elara I know? Why would she suggest that?
He rubbed his forehead, as if the question itself gave him a headache. "If this is your new way of getting my—"
"I mean it." She looked directly into his eyes.
Adrienne could not shake the feeling rising in him. Without realizing, he blurted, "Who are you?"
Elara did not answer him. The carriage stopped. They had reached the Veyldan Dukedom.
Adrienne stepped out and escorted her.
"Welcome back, My Lady. I hope you had a pleasant ride," the butler greeted.
Elara simply nodded and turned to face Adrienne. "Thank you for taking me home, Your Highness."
Something in Adrienne tightened.
She had always kissed his cheek before parting. But now, nothing.
"Aren't you forgetting something?" he asked.
"Oh, I decided to stop doing it now, Your Highness. I thought you found it uncomfortable."
Out of pride, he said nothing. He only nodded and returned to the carriage.
It's your loss, he thought.
"Have a good night, Your Highness," Elara murmured, bowing as she watched the carriage fade into the distance.
Inside her room, Elara collapsed onto her bed, exhausted. The Imperial Family drained her energy.
Suddenly, a thought surfaced: she had little time left. She must find a way to acquire a true death without being regressed again. She was tired. She needed answers, and it should be as soon as possible.