Early spring arrived without ceremony.
Snow melted quietly at the edges of the gardens, leaving the earth soft and dark beneath budding grass. The air carried a faint chill, but sunlight lingered longer now, warming stone walls and window ledges like a promise that hardship did not last forever.
For Lyria, every morning still felt unreal.
She woke in a real bed.
Not straw. Not floorboards. Not thin blankets layered against the cold.
A bed.
She lay stiffly at first, afraid to move, afraid the warmth would vanish if she breathed too deeply. Only when a small weight shifted beside her did she relax slightly.
"Elio…" she whispered.
Her brother slept soundly, cheeks no longer hollow, fingers curled loosely instead of clutching in fear. His breathing was steady—soft, peaceful.
Alive.
Safe.
Lyria pressed her hand over her mouth, eyes burning.
Don't cry, she told herself. If you cry too much, this will feel like a dream.
The household adjusted quickly.
Servants were instructed gently—but firmly—to treat the siblings with care. Meals were smaller but frequent. Elio gained color first, his steps growing steadier by the day. He followed Aneria like a duckling, clutching her sleeve whenever she passed.
"Aneria," he said proudly one morning, holding up a piece of bread.
"I ate all of it."
Aneria examined the plate seriously.
"…Impressive."
He beamed.
Lyria watched from the doorway, heart swelling so tightly it almost hurt.
She worked hard. Too hard.
She woke before the bells, cleaned until her fingers ached, bowed too deeply, apologized too often. Every correction made her flinch—not because it was harsh, but because kindness still felt like something she could lose.
Aneria noticed everything.
One afternoon, Lyria stood frozen beside the tea table, hands trembling slightly as she poured.
"A little more to the left," Sasha said casually.
The cup rattled.
Lyria sucked in a breath. "I'm sorry—!"
A small hand reached out and steadied the teapot.
"Breathe," Aneria said calmly, her touch light but certain.
Lyria blinked.
"You're doing well," Aneria added quietly, eyes soft instead of sharp.
"You don't need to be perfect to stay here."
Lyria's breath hitched.
"…Yes, my lady."
Aneria sighed gently.
"And stop calling me that when you're nervous. It makes you look like you're about to faint."
Sasha turned away, shoulders shaking with laughter.
Count Rohan's departure was announced two days later.
Three days outside the state. Routine work. Nothing dangerous.
The Count acted as if the world were ending.
He knelt before Aneria, gripping her hands dramatically.
"While Father is gone, you must be strong—"
"I always am," Aneria replied flatly.
He swallowed emotionally. "And eat your vegetables—"
"I do."
"And sleep early—"
"I don't."
He choked.
Countess Melissa entered quietly, took in the scene, and pinched the bridge of her nose.
She kissed Aneria's cheek softly.
"Be good."
Then she seized her husband's sleeve.
"Rohan."
"Yes, dear—OW—!"
She dragged him toward the door without hesitation.
"You are leaving for three days, not embarking on a heroic farewell tour."
"I just wanted to give fatherly advice—!"
"Which you have given for five consecutive years."
Lyria and Elio watched wide-eyed as the Count waved tearfully, half-dragged across the hall.
Aneria lifted one hand.
"Travel safely."
The Count sobbed harder.
After the gates closed, a quiet settled over the estate.
Countess Melissa turned to Aneria with a faint smile.
"Take care of the household while we're gone."
Aneria straightened.
"Leave it to me."
Lyria felt something steady inside her chest.
That night, she tucked Elio in carefully, smoothing his hair the way she'd always wanted to—but never had the time to.
"Lyria?" he murmured sleepily.
"Yes?"
"…This house won't disappear, right?"
She paused.
Then smiled softly.
"No. It won't."
From the doorway, Aneria watched silently.
Early spring wind brushed through the curtains.
Roots had begun to grow—quietly, deeply.
And this time, fate would find it very hard to pull them out.
....