Even Lilies Bleed
The Valehart estate was a garden of silver lilies.
Every petal gleamed like moonlight on steel, every step echoed grace and silence — exactly as the house demanded.
For centuries, House Valehart had been the Empire’s diplomats, the voice that soothed where others shouted.
They were the noble house of peace and polish — the masters of negotiation, the Empire’s silver tongue.
But Serene Valehart had always felt wrong in her own home.
When her cousins practiced curtsies, she watched the guards spar in the courtyard, her eyes tracing every swing of the blade.
When her tutors recited the laws of diplomacy, she memorized them — then imagined how to parry each argument as if it were an attack.
She excelled in every lesson.
Her words were soft, her steps measured, her smile flawless.
She was the perfect daughter of a perfect house.
But that wasn’t the only her.
---
When the manor slept, Serene crept into the old forge behind the eastern gardens — a place half-swallowed by ivy and shadow.
Once, it had been used to craft ornamental blades for noble ceremonies.
Now, it was forgotten — quiet, cold, alive only with the scent of soot and iron.
Old Joren, the blacksmith, never told on her.
He simply watched as she stood beside him, eyes bright with something fierce and unspoken.
“Doesn’t it hurt?” she asked once, when a spark leapt and burned his arm.
“Every strike leaves a mark,” he said with a faint smile. “That’s how you know it’s becoming something.”
Serene touched the glowing metal, feeling its warmth pulse through her skin.
> “Then I’ll learn to take the marks,” she whispered.
---
Years passed.
The silver lilies bloomed each spring, and the Valehart daughter grew into the image her family had crafted — calm, articulate, unblemished.
She spoke with grace that silenced rooms, smiled in ways that ended arguments, and bowed with elegance that won peace.
Yet beneath her silk gloves were faint scars — pale lines across her palms, hidden proof of who she truly was.
So when the Royal Knight Academy sent its call for new initiates,
when noble daughters dreamt of betrothals and noble sons of command —
Serene Valehart packed her sword instead.
Her father called it folly.
Her mother said nothing — only tied her daughter’s braid with a silver ribbon and whispered, “Keep your balance, my dear.”
The morning she left, the manor was silent.
The lilies swayed in the wind as if bowing farewell.
At the gate, Serene looked back once.
The marble walls glimmered under sunlight, perfect and distant — the prison she’d once called home.
She stepped into the carriage, her blade resting across her knees.
> Grace is might unseen.
That was the Valehart creed.
She had lived by it all her life.
Now, she would show them what it truly meant.
The carriage wheels turned.
The estate faded into the morning haze.
And softly, as the road stretched before her, Serene whispered —
> “Even lilies bleed.”
