A few months passed, and Serelith turned seven—finally eligible to begin her education. Celene had now turned five. Marlena seized this opportunity to push Celene into learning etiquette, despite her being far too young.

She hired a strict governess, well-known among the nobility for her harsh yet effective teaching methods. Secretly, Marlena bribed her with a cruel instruction:

“Make sure she never becomes a noble lady,” Marlena said coldly.

“Yes, Countess,” the governess replied with a curt nod.

It was the first day of their etiquette lessons. Serelith stood straight, hands folded neatly in front of her, her posture graceful despite her young age. When the governess entered, Serelith bowed her head politely and said,

"Good morning, Madam. I am Serelith Veylor. I look forward to learning under your guidance."

The governess raised an eyebrow, surprised by the girl's precision and poise.

Celene, on the other hand, stood sloppily by her chair, fidgeting with the ribbon in her hair. She made no attempt to greet the governess—just stared blankly before muttering,

"Hi."

The governess gave her a tight-lipped smile, then glanced briefly at Serelith. Something shifted in her eyes.

“Today, we begin with basic court manners,” she said in a clipped tone. “Posture, greeting, speech. A noble lady must carry herself like porcelain—elegant and untouchable.”

As the lesson began, Serelith listened intently. She mimicked the gestures almost perfectly, her movements fluid and controlled. She remembered everything the governess demonstrated.

Celene, however, slumped in her chair, mispronounced formal phrases, and tripped over a curtsy. The governess gently corrected her, voice soft.

But when Serelith made a minor mistake—confusing the placement of a teacup—her tone turned sharp and cold.

“Clumsy. Again.”

Serelith nodded silently and repeated the motion with even more care.

Marlena, watching from the doorway, smiled faintly. The governess caught her glance—and returned it with a subtle nod of understanding.

At last, the lesson came to an end. The governess gave a stiff nod of dismissal and turned away, her heels clicking sharply against the polished floor.

Celene immediately slumped into a nearby chair with a loud sigh.

“That was so hard,” she whined, pouting. “I don’t want to do this again. My feet hurt.”

Marlena, who had entered the room moments earlier, swept forward with a feigned look of concern.

“Oh, my poor darling,” she said sweetly, kneeling beside Celene. “Of course it was difficult. You’re just a little girl—still too young for such tiresome lessons.” She cast a sideways glance at Serelith, her tone shifting slightly.

“Some children learn faster than others, but that doesn’t make them better.”

Serelith said nothing. She stood quietly, eyes lowered, hands still folded in front of her. She didn’t complain. She never did.

The governess looked at Marlena, waiting. Marlena gave her a subtle nod before turning back to Celene.

“You’ll do better tomorrow, my sweet. I’ll have the cook prepare your favorite pudding to cheer you up.”

Celene beamed.

Meanwhile, Serelith was left standing in silence—no praise, no comfort, only the weight of expectations and bruises hidden beneath grace.

The family dined in the great hall that evening. Silverware clinked softly against porcelain plates, and the warm glow of candlelight cast flickering shadows along the stone walls.

Serelith, who usually chatted quietly with her grandfather during meals, sat in silence tonight. Her gaze remained fixed on her plate, her hands carefully placed in her lap.

Lord Tharald Veylor, seated beside her, noticed the change instantly. His brows furrowed slightly as he looked at her with quiet concern.

Across the table, Marlena sipped her wine with a serene smile, but there was a flicker of tension in her eyes whenever Tharald glanced her way. She masked it quickly beneath a veil of charm.

Count Elric, as always, remained distant—his focus elsewhere, detached from the table, from the family, from Serelith.

Tharald finally broke the silence.

“I hear young Celene has begun her etiquette lessons,” he said gently, looking toward Marlena.

“Yes,” Marlena replied smoothly. “She’s doing so well. I thought it best to have her learn alongside Serelith. A head start never hurts, does it?”

Tharald’s expression didn’t change, but his voice lowered slightly, calm yet pointed.

“She is still quite young, Countess. Perhaps it's better to let her reach an age where she can truly grasp what’s being taught.”

Marlena’s smile didn’t waver. “With the right guidance, even a child can surprise you. Celene is bright. She’ll catch up quickly.”

Tharald didn’t press further. Instead, he turned to Serelith, his tone softening.

“And how was your first day of lessons, little flame?”

Serelith looked up at him, eyes steady despite the quiet ache beneath them.

“It was good,” she said, forcing a small smile. “I got to learn new things.”

Tharald studied her face for a moment longer. He knew the child too well. There was something she wasn’t saying—but she wouldn’t say it. Not yet.

He gently placed a hand over hers beneath the table.

“That’s my brave girl,” he said warmly.

Marlena looked away, her fingers tightening around her wine glass.

Tharald’s eyes lingered on Serelith a moment longer.

Her hands were too still. Her smile, too careful. She hadn't touched her favorite dish. That wasn’t like her.

He glanced at Marlena. She was busy feeding Celene bits of sweetened fruit, cooing softly. Too sweetly. Too perfectly.

And Count Elric—his own son—seemed almost carved from ice. He hadn't looked at Serelith once during the entire meal.

Tharald’s fingers drummed lightly on the tablecloth as a familiar chill crept into his chest.

"She's only seven," he thought. "And already she’s learning how to hide pain."

That wasn’t a lesson a child should ever have to learn.

He leaned back in his chair, watching. Not speaking. Not yet. But the seed of suspicion had taken root.

The days passed slowly, each one heavier than the last.

Serelith rose each morning to face the same cruel routine. The governess, sharpened by Marlena’s gold and spite, grew harsher by the day. Her instructions came like commands on a battlefield—any slip, no matter how small, was met with a pinch, a slap, or a scathing insult masked as correction.

Celene, still clumsy and inattentive, was met with laughter and patience.

Serelith bore it all in silence.

She no longer smiled at breakfast. She barely touched her food. Her eyes, once bright when speaking to her grandfather, now held a dull sheen, like frost settling over a flame.

Even during her rare free hours in the stable, where hay and dust smelled of comfort and where laughter used to echo, Serelith remained quiet. She sat on the edge of a wooden crate, hands clasped in her lap, staring at nothing.

Shyamu, her only friend, watched her with growing concern. He approached with half a biscuit in hand—the same way he had when they first met behind the statue in the east wing.

“You’re not pretending to be Lady Silverwind anymore,” he said, sitting beside her. “Did the dragons finally win?”

Serelith didn’t respond.

He tilted his head. “Did... someone say something bad to you?”

She blinked, as if waking from a dream, then gave a small shake of her head. But her silence was louder than any answer.

Shyamu narrowed his eyes, then gently nudged her shoulder. “You don’t have to say. But if they’re mean to you, I’ll bite their ankles.”

It almost made her smile—but not quite.

In the manor’s upper halls, Lord Tharald noticed more than he let on. Serelith’s quietness. The bruise that was barely hidden by her sleeve. The way she flinched when touched, even gently.

He had served kings, governed armies, and read lies in the eyes of the cleverest men. He knew when someone was being hurt. And he knew when a child was hiding it.

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

And he intended to uncover it.