The Halo That Should Not Have Existed
Morning light within the Zeneris residence always arrived with impeccable manners—never hurried, never indolent. It slipped through the stained-glass windows, fractured itself into tender hues, and came to rest upon the marble floor like a prayer that had forgotten how to conclude.
Within a chamber perfumed by warm milk and freshly pressed linen, Vleresia was engaged in the most sacred of infant rituals: nursing.
Yet behind the plump cheeks and wide, innocent eyes, her thoughts were anything but simple.
Something was wrong.
That was the first conclusion she reached—her lips still pressed against her mother's breast.
Above the head of Friesy, her mother—who hummed softly as though soothing the world itself—hovered something imperceptible to ordinary sight. A thin ring of pallid golden light pulsed gently, as though it breathed.
A halo.
Not a sacred symbol.
Nor an illusion.
It was a mark of narrative protection—a fragile grace bestowed by the world upon those deemed worthy of preservation.
"…?"
Vleresia narrowed her shimmering violet eyes, star-shaped blue pupils edged in white quivering faintly. Her tiny hand lifted, reaching for the ring above her mother's head.
Naturally, it failed.
From Friesy's perspective, her daughter appeared nothing more than an adorable infant grasping at empty air.
"Oh? What is it, my dear?" Friesy chuckled, patting Vleresia's small back with gentle affection. "You look positively upset."
Why do you have one… and I do not?
The complaint never escaped as sound. The world had not yet granted her that privilege. Yet the irritation was real—sufficient to crease her tiny brow.
At last, she relented.
And resumed nursing—far less gently than before.
"Ow—!" Friesy startled. "Good heavens…?"
She pulled Vleresia back slightly, eyes widening—then softened into a laugh, touched by wonder.
"Her teeth… they've come in already."
The words rang out like a proclamation of triumph.
In the world of Fletcher, early growth was an omen: the sign of an uncommon soul.
That day, the Zeneris estate grew livelier than usual.
Servants hurried through the halls, smiles barely restrained. Each seemed compelled to confirm a single truth: that the small infant was real, present, and unmistakably… extraordinary.
"Our little lady has grown teeth," whispered a kitchen maid, her tone akin to one sharing a matter of state.
"At that age?" another replied. "The Hersie blood truly is different."
Friesy, her joy unguarded, hurried toward her husband's study.
"Blenoris! You must see this—!"
But happiness, like fate, often possessed a cruel sense of humour.
Her foot slipped.
Time slowed.
Blenoris—standing behind a desk cluttered with documents—looked up and, without hesitation, strode forward.
He caught Friesy just before she fell, lifting her into his arms with a motion far too smooth to be coincidence.
"…I believe I must forbid you from running indoors," he said, a small smile touching his lips.
Friesy looked at him.
And the world—paused.
Blenoris Zeneris, with dark green hair and eyes perpetually calm, was the sort of man who rendered words obsolete. Friesy knew this. She had always known it. Yet every time—
"Put me down," she murmured weakly. "Vleresia is still—"
Her words were cut short by soft laughter, and a closeness too warm to ignore.
Cradled between them, Vleresia felt… forgotten.
Splendid. The protagonist of this world has not even appeared, and I am already a background figure in my own family.
With a movement entirely devoid of drama, she slipped free—landing upon a pile of cushions on the sofa, whose presence no one questioned.
No one noticed.
No one heard.
And for the first time, Vleresia crawled—not from infant instinct,
but from conscious choice.
The bookshelf in the corner called to her.
She struck it.
A single book fell.
Its cover opened.
Illustrations spilled forth.
Colour, line, and worlds unmoving—yet more real than her own life.
Vleresia's eyes sparkled.
In that moment, she understood.
Books bore no halos.
Yet they endured.
And for a side character who wished to live long, narrative immortality was far more alluring than the protection of fate.
On Images More Honest Than Destiny
Vleresia did not know how long she stared at the page.
Time, since she had fractured the monotony of its looping habits, no longer behaved predictably. It curved—sometimes slowing merely to observe, sometimes leaping ahead as though refusing explanation.
But one truth remained certain: the image did not deceive her.
An illustration of a woman stood upon the page, gazing outward with eyes not merely cold, but aware. Her long hair flowed like midnight ink; her dark gown folded upon itself as though hiding secrets. Upon her lips rested a smile—not of joy, but of one who had understood the world… and chosen to despise it with elegance.
A Villainess.
The word was not emblazoned.
Not displayed.
It lingered like a whispered confession.
And for reasons she could not articulate, warmth spread through Vleresia's small chest—previously hollow since she had recognised the absence of a halo above her own head.
So… I am not alone.
She did not know where the thought arose. She was an infant. The world should not yet have granted her language for such conclusions. Yet the image did not work upon logic, but upon something deeper—the place where narrative wounds resided.
For the first time since her awareness had awakened, Vleresia did not feel defeated.
She felt… understood.
Across the room, the two adults—having returned from their moment of warmth—finally sensed the unusual silence.
"…Blenoris," Friesy said softly, adjusting her collar. "Do you hear Vleresia?"
Blenoris turned. His eyes—accustomed to clan ledgers, blood contracts, and ritual reports—paused upon a sight that lifted his brow slightly.
Their daughter sat upon the floor.
Still.
Far too still.
Her tiny hands held a large book decidedly unsuited for play, and her gaze… did not wander. She stared at the page as though reading, not merely seeing.
"…Since when have we owned that book?" Blenoris asked at last.
Friesy shook her head slowly. "I've never seen it before."
She approached, knelt, and gently lifted Vleresia into her lap.
"My love," she said in the voice she used to soothe the world itself. "What are you looking at?"
Vleresia did not answer.
Of course she did not.
Instead, her small finger tapped the illustration of the Villainess once—lightly, as though in greeting.
Friesy followed her gaze.
And fell silent.
The book was thick—far too thick to be a child's tale. Its cover was dark, the title etched in silvery ink that appeared ancient yet untouched by decay:
I Hate & Love — Original View
"…Strange," Friesy murmured. "It reads like a confession."
She opened the first page.
The words were not kind.
They did not welcome.
The opening sentence was long, winding, and steeped in irony—as though written by someone too honest for a world fond of lies.
If you despise me, then do so with all your heart.
For only those who love me will curse me in silence.
Friesy swallowed.
"Is this truly… a novel?"
Blenoris leaned closer, scanned a few lines, then exhaled softly. "The language is far too heavy. This is no light amusement."
Friesy looked down at Vleresia—whose eyes now shimmered strangely, as though every word fell precisely where it belonged.
"…Yet she enjoys it," Friesy whispered.
And for reasons she could not name, closing the book felt like an error.
So she read.
Not hurriedly.
Nor did she pause to simplify.
She read as one reciting an oath—with reverence, with weight, as though each word possessed the right to be heard in full.
"Once," Friesy began, her voice slowly changing, "there was born a girl whom the world deemed excessive… because she refused to be good merely to be accepted."
Vleresia leaned against her mother's chest.
Friesy's heartbeat was steady.
Warm.
Safe.
Yet the book itself offered no safety.
It offered truth.
And as Friesy read, something peculiar occurred—the Zeneris study faded away. The walls, the shelves, even the morning light retreated, replaced by another landscape: a world cold with intrigue, merciless to those too sincere.
"She was called a Villainess," Friesy continued, her voice trembling faintly, "not because of her wickedness… but because she refused to kneel before a narrative that was never hers."
Vleresia let out a small yawn.
Not from boredom.
But as one who had found her way home.
So this is what it feels like… to be protected not by a halo, but by choice.
At the edge of her consciousness, something pulsed softly.
Not a system.
Not a notification.
But a bond—between a halo-less infant, a book that should not exist, and a concept that no longer sounded like a curse.
After several pages, Friesy closed the book gently.
She exhaled, as though returning from a long journey.
"…I do not know why," she said to Blenoris, "but it feels as though this book did not choose us."
She looked at Vleresia.
"This book chose her."
Vleresia smiled—a small, infant smile.
Yet behind it, a role began to take shape.
Not a protagonist.
Not a hero.
But something far safer.
A false Villainess—
who lives long because the world is afraid to lose her.