Chapter 35
Two hours had slipped by without them even noticing. Between the laughter, the teasing, and the shared stories, time seemed to have stood still. Lying in the warm grass with the sun gently caressing her skin, Vidalia hadn't felt such peace in a long time. Not since her grandfather's death.
One year earlier, that terrible day had left a permanent mark on her life. Edward had collapsed in the middle of a family meal—a scene she still revisited in her nightmares. That day, she truly believed the world was ending. He remained bedridden for several days, frail and fading, while she and her cousins never left his bedside for a single second. He had been a pillar, a rock in her often unstable life. He was the first adult to ever look at her without judgment or coldness. Even though her mother had been an illegitimate daughter, Edward had welcomed Vidalia with love, as one of their own.
≈≈≈≈
The sky was clear, and the birdsong was peaceful, almost jarringly so. The memory of a happy summer afternoon vanished abruptly, swept away by the memory of another day… the day everything changed.
"Grandfather?" Silas asked, his uncertain voice breaking through the cheerful chatter of the lunch table.
Edward had just dropped his fork. His hand was trembling. His eyes, usually so sharp, seemed lost in a void.
Vidalia, seated between Eleanor and Isaline, felt her heart tighten without knowing why.
Then, suddenly, the dull thud of a body hitting the floor.
"GRANDPA!"
Chairs scraped against the ground, dishes overturned, and voices rose in a chaotic panic. Vidalia didn't understand right away. She saw Silas throw himself to the floor, gently shaking his grandfather's body. She saw Isaline, her face deathly pale, pressing her hands over her mouth to stifle a scream. Eleanor, with a calm born of desperation, was already calling for help.
Vidalia, however, couldn't move. Time had frozen around her.
No. No. Not him.
Her breath caught, as if an invisible hand were strangling her. She wanted to step forward, but her legs refused to budge. Everything around her blurred into a haze.
She still remembered those days like a cold fog. Edward, bedridden and pale, weaker than he had ever been. She spent her days sitting by his side, holding his hand and speaking softly, hoping he would open his eyes every time he closed them. Silas and Isaline did their best to smile and joke, trying to keep hope alive. But they had known him their whole lives. They had years of memories—summers spent playing in the gardens, stories told by the fireside, entire nights spent dreaming by his side.
She didn't.
She had met him far too late.
She'd had… what? Two short years? And already, he was leaving.
And yet, despite the little time they had shared, Edward had loved her. It was as if he had always known her. He had recognized in her a spark of his lost daughter—a part of himself, perhaps.
She had been there that day. Until the very end. Sitting beside him, holding his already cold hand. He had offered a weak smile, then closed his eyes. And Vidalia knew it was over.
A light breeze brushed through the girl's hair, pulling her back to the present. Around her, her friends were still laughing. Arzhel had fallen asleep against her, his face peaceful. Silas was chatting with Camélia while pouring another round of lemonade. Isaline shot her a curious look, likely noticing the watery glint in her eyes.
Vidalia smiled softly.
Because of him, she had been recognized, protected… loved. Because of him, she had a real family. She had discovered Silas, Isaline, and her uncles. She had found her place.
She would have wanted to spend a thousand more summers with him, to show him she could be happy, strong, and worthy of his name… But at the very least, she had been there for his final breath. She had been able to say thank you. For everything.
And today, as the breeze gently stirred the tall grass around them, as Isaline and Camélia's laughter echoed softly under the tree, with Silas wandering nearby and Arzhel asleep on her lap, Vidalia smiled.
She would never forget.
And she would never stop being grateful.
≈≈≈≈≈
Arzhel woke slowly, his eyelids heavy with sleep, and rolled onto his back. His gaze met Vidalia's as she leaned over him, a gentle smile playing on her lips.
"You've been asleep a long time… Haven't you been resting lately?" she asked, her voice tinged with a motherly concern.
A hung silence settled between them, broken only by the warm breeze in the leaves. Arzhel stared at her for a moment, his eyes sparking with a mischievous glint, before flashing a lopsided smirk. Vidalia couldn't help but let out a small giggle. He remained as wild as the day they met—unpredictable and free. It was, among many other things, what she deeply appreciated about him.
"I've been working on a project for several weeks…" he replied, sitting up slowly and stretching languidly, like a great forest cat. The movement, graceful and nonchalant, brought a rosy tint to Vidalia's cheeks, causing her to briefly look away.
Without a word, she handed him a plate of small triangular sandwiches and a glass of cold lemonade. Arzhel thanked her with a grateful nod and went to settle against the trunk of an old oak tree, tucked within the benevolent shade of its branches.
Vidalia watched him for a moment, her heart warming at the simplicity of the moment. Then, her gaze drifted to the light dancing between the leaves.
The story… It had resumed its course, tireless and implacable. After so many diversions and unforeseen decisions, the narrative seemed to be pulling her back, slowly but surely, toward its promised tragedies. She knew it; she felt it in her very marrow. The major events were approaching. The grand plots were being set in motion in the shadows, and she—once a mere insignificant pawn—risked finding herself at the center of the storm.
Her fingers tightened slightly on the fabric of her skirt. The story, as it had been written, wasn't fundamentally cruel. But those who stood by Angela's side… often paid the price. And characters like her, whose names appeared only in the margins, weren't entitled to a future. They died forgotten.
She was afraid.
She hid it. She smiled, she laughed. But anxiety gnawed at her thoughts like a silent poison.
And that sinking feeling grew harder to ignore with every passing day.
Especially since she was bound, body and soul, to her sister.
"Oh, honestly!" Isaline sneered with an acidic tone, jolting Vidalia from her thoughts.
"She is simply execrable," she added, directed at Camélia and Silas, who had just reappeared.
Silas arched an eyebrow, intrigued.
"That bad?"
Camélia looked away, visibly embarrassed, while Isaline shook her head vehemently, a bitter pout on her lips.
"What's going on?" Vidalia asked softly, attentive.
The three young people turned toward her.
"I saw your half-sister the other day at a tea party hosted by my friend Lauréline," Isaline explained, gesturing animatedly. "Well… believe it or not, she was even more insufferable than usual. It was as if she had forgotten the very role she's supposed to play in society. She spent the afternoon simpering and acting precious, and even took the liberty of speaking about you in very unflattering terms… out loud, no less."
Vidalia frowned slightly, troubled. For Angela to let her mask slip like that, and in the middle of a formal reception? That didn't sound like her. She had always known how to be subtle, even in much tighter spots.
"Yet, at first, she seemed almost… harmless," Isaline continued, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret. "But everything changed when a knight passed by—a rather handsome one, I must admit."
Silas choked discreetly, looking at his sister in mock outrage.
"Victor, Lauréline's cousin," Isaline specified with a raised eyebrow. "Naturally, all the young ladies were curious… including your sister. But the moment she learned his identity, her behavior transformed."
She crossed her arms, clearly annoyed by the memory.
"She drew herself up with such a haughty air, as if she had just discovered a secret we were all too foolish to understand. And when she realized he belonged to the Order of the Greenwood… she froze, before turning icy, almost arrogant."
Vidalia blinked. Victor… he wasn't just a side character, but his relation to Lauréline had never been mentioned in the book.
"Victor Linwood?" Camélia repeated thoughtfully.
The change in Silas's expression did not go unnoticed. He looked surprised… then briefly annoyed.
"I don't know him personally, but… he was assigned as my escort during my last visit to the palace. He is a discreet and respectful knight."
She shrugged slightly, her gaze serene.
"I made a point to memorize the names of the knights in the Order, but that doesn't mean I've had the chance to meet them all."
Behind Camélia, Silas let out a quiet sigh—one he thought he'd hidden. But Arzhel, who had remained in the background until then, easily caught the fleeting emotion, and his gaze darkened imperceptibly.
"You're impressive, though," Isaline commented admiringly. "Learning the names of the entire Order is no small feat! There are over a hundred men, after all…"
Then she caught herself, struck by an unpleasant memory:
"And when your sister realized Victor worked for your family—and therefore for you—she changed completely. She turned bitter, as if you had stolen her 'knight in shining armor' from her."
She sniffed indignantly.
"She really has no shame, that little homewrecker."
Silas immediately frowned.
"Watch your language, little sister."
The girl stuck her tongue out at him impertinently.
"To be fair," Arzhel intervened, setting down his empty plate, "she didn't exactly break up a home… Camélia and Edgar aren't married, after all."
"True…" Camélia replied, her voice a bit tight and her fists clenched. "But I was raised with the expectation of becoming his wife. That isn't nothing, regardless."
Her gaze landed on Arzhel, harder than usual.
He wasn't intimidated. A mischievous smile stretched across his lips.
"But look on the bright side," he said with a mockingly light tone. "You've discovered your fiancé's true colors. A perfect coward, ready to betray at the first smile. At least you no longer have to wonder what was hiding behind that pretty face."
Vidalia nodded gently. But a sincere smile blossomed on her lips as she watched Camélia. Since she had started spending her days with them, the young Duchess seemed to be slowly breaking her chains. She laughed, she spoke frankly, she lived… like an ordinary girl. No longer like the "haughty rival" described in the novel.
And Vidalia was profoundly happy for her.
≈≈≈≈≈
The library of the Reinhardt manor was bathed in the soft clarity of the afternoon. Large arched windows, framed by thin ivory curtains, filtered the rays of a warm sun that caressed the high dark-wood shelves overflowing with leather-bound volumes. Silence reigned supreme, interrupted only by the discreet rustle of turning pages or the whispering wind in the foliage outside. Golden light danced across Persian rugs and made the gilding of an old globe in the corner sparkle.
Seated near one of the large windows, like a delicate illustration escaped from a forgotten fairy tale, a young girl read in silence, absorbed in her book. Vidalia, barely fourteen, already seemed made of grace and mystery. Her dress, though casual by noble standards, was nonetheless exquisite: a cream fabric with pearl reflections, highlighted by silver floral embroidery, fell lightly to her crossed ankles. Her long, deep midnight-blue hair stretched in supple waves down to her hips, the ends fading into an almost ethereal ice blue. Beneath her long white lashes, two emerald-green eyes shone with a thoughtful glow, and her fine, delicate alabaster skin gave her the look of a porcelain statue animated by melancholy. One might have taken her for a small goddess lost among men.
Surrounded by several scattered books, she turned the pages with infinite gentleness, her gaze deep. Since the start of the holidays, Vidalia had taken advantage of every moment to educate herself with silent fervor. She had never thought she would one day reclaim her old pleasures—reading, learning, thinking freely—but now, thanks to her family's support, she could. Her uncle had hired hand-picked tutors who taught her economics, politics, geography, and history three times a week. These were subjects traditionally reserved for heirs and rarely offered to young girls—especially those of secondary rank.
She still remembered the surprised looks when she had made the request. In their world, only the daughters of ducal or marquisal families might, on rare occasions, receive such an education. Yet, she had pleaded her case with carefully chosen words and a nearly feverish honesty. No, she did not wish to become an heiress or covet any rights; she simply wanted to grow, to build herself, to be free. For a moment, she had feared her family would reject her for her unconventional ambition.
But they had understood.
Her aunt Eleanor had suggested she study etiquette and decorum instead—things she already mastered after years of imitating Angela in the shadows. Her grandfather, touched, had claimed she reminded him of his own daughter, gentle and reflective. And her uncle, moved by her determination, had finally given his consent, much to her aunt's quiet chagrin. Vidalia, moved to tears, had thrown herself into his arms.
She knew she had a generous family who provided everything she needed. But she refused to be a burden. Silas would soon become the head of the house, with a worthy and strong wife by his side. Isaline would one day marry a loving noble knight—Vidalia would see to that personally. As for her…
She would remain the shadow behind Angela.
A fleeting thought crossed her mind, a bittersweet image: her and Arzhel in a small house bathed in light, children with ruffled hair running in the garden, laughter filling the air… The illusion shattered as quickly as it was born.
Vidalia discreetly brushed away the tear that beaded at the corner of her eye. She knew that life would never exist. She was and would remain her sister's servant. When Angela became a princess, Vidalia would end up forgotten, locked in some cold room in the palace… or worse.
But she would not let herself be defeated. If she could not love, nor live as she wished, then she would at least ensure she had skills, to build a form of independence, however illusory. She wanted to understand the gears of power, the keys to freedom, even if she didn't possess the lock.
She had suffered too much in her first life, always subject to others, a stranger to herself. She had worked hard, learning sewing, cooking, management… without ever being able to break free from the authority of an odious stepmother or a jealous half-sister. Nothing had changed, deep down. Her fate, in this life as in the other, seemed sealed.
But there was one difference: before, she could have fled and hadn't dared. Today, she was truly a prisoner, chained to Angela by a cruel destiny… and death alone seemed able to set her free.
She grit her teeth.
But she didn't want to die.
She wanted to see Arzhel smile. She wanted to see him free, happy, and fulfilled, even if she wasn't part of it. Because yes… she loved him. She knew it now. It wasn't friendship, nor mere admiration: she was in love with him. But she could not, must not, tell him. She had no right. A free mage and a nameless slave? What a laughable tragedy…
So she dived back into her book, her eyes burning but her back straight. She would force herself to learn. To grow. To survive.
Even in chains.
"It's very strange to be happy and sad at the same time…" Vidalia chuckled softly, half-closing her book, her eyes still lost in the void.
She turned her head toward Naya, perched silently on the windowsill, her small wings folded delicately against her back. The fairy, as peaceful as a dewdrop in the hollow of a leaf, watched her without a word, her gaze shining with that silent compassion only she seemed able to offer.
Vidalia gave a slightly trembling smile.
"You find it ridiculous, don't you? Being happy to have a family, books, lessons… and at the same time feeling like a bird whose cage has been gilded."
She looked up at the sky, visible through the library's large panes. A slow cloud frayed lazily against the clear azure.
"I am free in this room—free to learn, to read, to dream… but not to choose my life. Not really."
She fell silent for a moment, then whispered like a secret:
"And yet, I want to become stronger. Not to run away. Just… so I won't be afraid anymore."
Naya blinked slowly and placed a tiny hand on the back of Vidalia's hand. That simple contact was enough to warm some of the coldness that had crept inside her.
Vidalia laughed softly—a discreet, light laugh, like the tinkling of a small bell.
"You're the only one I can say these things to without feeling ashamed…"
And in an almost imperceptible whisper:
"Thank you for being here, Naya."
Suddenly, a crash made the library windows rattle, brutally breaking the peaceful silence of the room. The door flew open, and a familiar silhouette burst in with a gasping breath, a panicked look in his eyes and clothes slightly rumpled from haste.
Vidalia jumped violently, nearly dropping her book. Naya, too, raised her head, her wings quivering with surprise.
"Uncle?!" Vidalia cried out, standing up hurriedly, her eyes wide. "What's happened?"
To be continued