Episode 5

~The Second Daughter~

The soft clinking of fine porcelain and the delicate rustle of silk filled the candlelit dining room as Regina, Lillian, and Vivian sat clustered around an elegantly set table. The twin sisters nibbled delicately on their chosen treats—the honeyed almond crescents and sugared rose petals—while Regina’s gaze drifted subtly to Vivian.

The young girl sat quietly, eyes lifted beyond the flickering flames and gilded cutlery, fixed instead on the window beside them. Outside, the peaceful river wound lazily through Granzholm, its surface catching shards of fading amber twilight, reflecting the silhouettes of swaying willows and dancing lanterns on the quay.

Vivian’s expression was distant, the quiet serenity of the flowing water a balm to something unspoken within her. Her delicate fingers rested lightly on her lap, absent from the small morsels she barely touched. Regina’s brows knit in concern. Though the child now appeared calm, it was only a fragile reprieve. The truth—the cruel weight of the past—would one day need unveiling. The coachman’s grave words earlier haunted her thoughts: Vivian’s memories, flickering yet persistent, threatened unravelling in the dark.

With a deep sigh, Regina turned her gaze back to the bright-eyed Lillian, who balanced by energetically kicking her legs beneath the chair, her laughter dissolving into the stillness. Noticing her mother’s watchful eyes, the little girl beamed and leaned toward Vivian.

“Sister, do you like the taste?” Lillian asked with innocent eagerness.

Vivian’s face brightened with a shy smile, and though no audible word escaped her lips, she mouthed carefully, “Yes!” Her small hand instinctively rose to graze the tender spot on her throat, where the invisible injury robbed her voice. Her mouth moved silently—lips parted, teeth shifting as if to summon sound—but the effort yielded only a breathless whisper lost between the flickering candles.

Regina leaned closer, attempting to unravel the silent language. “Hee... huu... aa?” she guessed uncertainly, the sounds awkward in her tongue.

Vivian’s hopeful eyes met hers briefly before she faltered and lowered her gaze, conceding silently to the cruel barrier constraining her voice.

My throat hurts, she thought wearily, but I will be better tomorrow. Eating was harder than she let on, and so her gaze returned to the window’s invitation—the river, endless and calm, a quiet refuge from the turmoil within.

Noticing the fruitless struggle and the growing wistfulness shadowing the little girl’s face, Regina sighed softly. Gently raising her hand, she signaled to the passing waiter, who approached with practiced grace.

“Kindly bring two cups of hot chocolate milk,” Regina requested, her voice smooth yet tender, “for the young ladies here. Something comforting for this chill evening.”

“Certainly, Madame,” the waiter replied with a courteous nod, then moved swiftly toward the kitchen where the rich aroma of cocoa mingled with freshly steamed milk.

As the warm scents floated back through the softly murmuring dining room, Regina settled back, her eyes resting once more on Vivian—silent, brave, and still gazing beyond the glass at the shimmering river’s edge.

The flickering candlelight danced gently across the lacquered wooden table as the warmth of the room embraced them. Lillian’s eyes sparkled with a mixture of curiosity and concern as she turned to Regina, voice bubbling with the earnestness of youth.

“Mommy! My name is Lily! Our puppy's name is Vivi. But my sister’s name is Vivian... and we already have Vivi. What could we call her?” she pondered aloud, brows knitting in genuine worry.

Regina took a slow sip of her chamomile tea, the amber liquid catching the light, before offering a thoughtful hum. “Your sister’s full name is Vivian Noella Dorothea Iris—quite a mouthful, I admit, but—,” she smiled gently.

Lillian’s face lit up, a joyous realization dawning upon her. “WOW! My full name is Lillian Lilac De Olvestri Vendreich! We both have flower names!” she exclaimed, the delight clear in her sparkling eyes. “We have something special in common!”

“Indeed,” Regina mused warmly. “So, for her nickname... what do you think of… Ellie?”

“Lilly and Ellie? Yess!” Lillian clapped her hands with excitement, then turned to Vivian with hopeful eyes. “Do you like, Ellie?”

Vivian’s gaze sharpened immediately, a sharp, disapproving look flashing between her violet eyes as if silently declining the offered nickname.

“Oh... you mustn’t have liked that one,” Regina said, undeterred, her brow furrowed lightly in thought. “Then what about Dory?”

Lillian looked at Vivian eagerly once more, but the same stern glare was returned—unyielding and clear.

“Perhaps… Ris?” Regina tried again, twisting the end of her silver dagger-shaped hairpin thoughtfully.

Vivian’s stare remained unchanged, her small mouth pressed firm.

Regina sighed softly, tapping a finger against her lips. “Hmm...” she hummed, racking her mind for the perfect name.

“Mommy, why does she not like the names?” Lillian asked, worry creasing her youthful brow.

A sudden spark lit Regina’s eyes as realization dawned. “What about Nyx? It means ‘night.’ Doesn’t that sound mysterious and beautiful?”

At that, Vivian’s gaze softened, her lips curling into a silent giggle, a gesture shyly mimicking laughter—her quiet approval.

Yet beneath that gentle smile, a question nestled deep within Vivian’s heart: Why does Lillian call me her sister? And why does Miss Regina care for me as her own, buying me so many dresses and kind words?

Minutes passed in the warm, fragrant air, the rich glow of the dining room heightening the sense of rare tranquility. Soon the waiter approached with a silver tray bearing two steaming cups of hot chocolate milk, their surfaces frothing invitingly.

“Please be patient, Madame. It will take a few moments to cool,” he cautioned politely.

“I understand,” Regina replied with a nod. Turning to Lillian, she extended a graceful hand. “Would you care for a tour of the kitchen, dear? Every chef delights in sharing his world, and I know you’ve always wished to see behind the scenes.”

Lillian’s eyes widened like a dawning sunbeam. “Yes! Dear sir, might you take me?” she asked politely, batting her lashes with endearing puppy eyes.

“Of course, Mademoiselle!” answered the footman, his voice cheerful and accommodating.

“Well then,” Regina said with a faint edge of steel shining beneath maternal kindness. She fixed the man with a sharp glint, unspoken yet clear as crystal. “I’ll leave my girl in your care.”

Lillian sprang up with lively energy, taking the man’s hand eagerly. Together, they crossed into the bustling kitchen beyond, the clatter of pots and aromatic scent of simmering sauces enveloping them as the door closed gently behind.

Regina settled back in her chair, eyes lingering on Vivian, whose silhouette was framed softly by the richly embroidered curtains swaying in the evening breeze—as if silently welcoming the night, the mystery, and the unfolding journey yet to come.

Regina knelt beside Vivian, her eyes heavy with sorrow as they searched the child’s wide, fearful gaze. The murmurs of the bustling restaurant faded into an indistinct hum; only the gravity of the moment remained, pressing thick and unyielding.

"My dear..." Regina began softly, hesitating, her voice trembling with the weight of the truth she must reveal. The flickering candlelight caught the tear glistening on her cheek.

Vivian’s young heart thundered fiercely against her ribs, each beat an echo of rising dread she could not yet name.

"I will tell you something," Regina whispered, voice barely more than a breath, "but on one promise. Can you promise me?" She lifted her delicate hand, pinky extended in a timeless gesture of trust.

Vivian, the memory flickering faintly in her mind, quickly intertwined her fragile pinky with Regina's—an unspoken bond made from trembling hope.

"Promise me you will never tell anyone that you are Count Cernava’s daughter. Okay?"

The words hit her like shards of ice. Her stomach twisted in a cold, sinking ache. She remembered—vividly—the grand halls, the whispered anticipation of meeting an Emperor she barely understood. The life she was torn from, now shrouded in shadow and silence.

She jerked, lips moving desperately, forming sounds that fell dead upon the air, strangled by invisible chains.

"My dear," Regina continued, voice steady but kind, "you lost your voice in the accident you survived. You will not be able to speak—not ever again."

Vivian’s lips quivered in silent protest, her attempts to argue swallowed by the cruel quiet where her voice once lived.

"The shard of glass cut deeply into your vocal cords," Regina explained gently, "destroying them beyond repair. It was by great fortune you survived, though your beloved parents, I’m so very sorry, did not."

A wave of devastation crashed over Vivian, fierce and unrelenting—a torment no child should carry. Her body shuddered as sobs burst forth, wrenching and raw in their silent agony. Tears streamed unchecked, carving wet paths down her pale cheeks. The weight of loss surged like a storm raging inside her small frame, swallowing her breath, fracturing her fragile spirit.

Visions of warm embraces lost, laughter faded, and the tender presence of loving arms vanished into endless night. The cruel reality of silence etched deeply in her soul, a silent scream trapped where no sound could reach.

Regina wrapped her arms around Vivian, drawing her close like a shield against the darkness. Her touch was firm, tender, an anchor in the swirling sea of grief.

“Shh, my sweet one,” she soothed, voice soft as velvet yet filled with unwavering strength. “You are not alone. I will take care of you, protect you, and help you find your place in this world. You are family now. And I will stand by you, always.”

Vivian nestled against Regina’s chest, the steady rhythm of her heartbeat offering a fragile thread of comfort in the vast shadow of loss. Even as the tears poured, a single fragile hope kindled within—a promise that though voice might fail, love would endure.

As night’s indigo mantle settled over the town, Regina moved through lamplight and lengthening shadows, arms full with her precious burdens. Lillian, golden curls tumbling, slumbered peacefully after an exuberant day, while Vivian, face stained with old tears, nestled weakly against her chest—her breath a delicate whisper in the still air.

Drawing nearer to the grand carriage, its doors gilded and crest-embossed, the waiting coachman stood alert, cap in hand. At sight of his lady, he sprang nimbly to the ground. “Madame, allow me,” he urged, haste and deference mingling in his tone.

He swung the carriage door open with a practiced hand and, stepping inside, gently took Vivian from Regina’s arms. The girl’s eyelids fluttered—betraying the edge of exhausted dreams—as he laid her with care upon the padded seat. Lillian soon followed, swaddled in blankets, cheeks rosy with innocent fatigue.

Just then, slicing through the muffled peace of the square, a shrill cry tore the night:
“AHHHHHHHH!”

Down a narrow, torch-lit alley, a figure—young and wild-eyed—stumbled into view, her voice raw with terror. Behind her thundered several shadowy men, breath hissing, knives glinting as they pursued her.

Regina’s heart jolted. Bandits—here? She whirled to the coachman, who had already half-emerged from the carriage, eyes wide in alarm.

Without hesitation, Regina leapt forward, bootheels grinding on old cobblestone. Her hand darted behind the seat, fingers wrapping around the hilt of a slender rapier—her sword, always kept hidden for moments like this. The steel sung gently as it slid from its sheath.

“Stay here!” she barked to the coachman as she darted into the street, her emerald cloak catching the wind.

The men closed on their quarry, their laughter crude and wild. The young woman tripped, nearly falling, but Regina was already between her and danger—blade gleaming in the lamplight.

“Stand back, you knaves!” Regina’s voice sliced through the gloom, commanding as war drums.

The nearest bandit sneered and lunged. Regina sidestepped with lithe, practiced grace, the memory of battlefield dances burning in her limbs. Steel flashed—a riposte and parry—her blade ringing true as it deflected the man’s crude knife, then sent a slashing warning across his sleeve.

Another charged, club raised, but Regina twisted, cape billowing, and thrust the pommel of her sword into his gut. He collapsed with a howl.

One more—grim with malice—circled behind. Regina turned, catching the glint of steel just in time, and swept his legs out from beneath him with the flat of her blade.

“No closer!” she commanded again, her glare cold and spectral in the torchlight. Two of the bandits faltered, edges of bravado fraying.

Yet in the chaos, one last man—silent and calculating—threw himself through the din, leaping high, dagger poised to strike hard and fast at Regina’s exposed back. The street gasped as their silhouettes tangled in mid-air.

Regina spun, sword half-lifted, time stretching thin. Too slow—she saw the glint of the dagger descending.

But in that instant, a new presence flashed into the fray—a figure cloaked in raven-black stepped from the shadows, sword drawn. With a single, ringing stroke, he caught the bandit’s wrist, wrenching the blade aside.

Steel met steel with a resounding clang, sparks scattering in the night. The assailant fell back, cursing, as Regina’s unknown savior landed deftly beside her, blade raised—a silent, formidable sentinel in the dark.

For a heartbeat, time stilled—bandits caught between blade and judgment, and Regina, breathless, searching the stranger’s shadowed face.

The night of Granzholm brimmed with secrets; beneath its lanterns, two swords now gleamed in tandem—and the tide, for now, had turned.

The young lady staggered to her feet, clutching her torn skirts, breath still ragged from her flight. Her eyes shimmered with gratitude as she looked to Regina, voice trembling, “Thank you—oh, thank you, my lady! You… you saved my life. I—I thought—” The emotion strangled her words, but she reached out, clasping Regina’s gloved hand in both of hers, bowing low in earnest awe.

Regina offered a gentle, reassuring smile, her voice smooth and calm despite the adrenaline fading from her veins. “You are safe now. Take heart—the likes of them shall not bother you again.” As she spoke, she righted the girl’s shawl and brushed a stray lock of hair from her tear-stained cheek.

Suddenly, the scene was flooded by the hurried clatter of boots. A cluster of city police—torches and truncheons in hand—rounded the corner, faces flushed with urgency. Their leader stepped forth, questioning with strained authority, “What’s gone on here? Who is responsible for this commotion?”

To be Continued...