Episode 7

~Sugar for the Silence~

Maria’s eyes gleamed anew. “Did you think that only swords and glory fashion power, my sweet? No—a quiet mind sharp as any blade cuts deeper. That man’s name is on every tongue from the gilded halls of the Emperor to the shadowed alleys where secrets crawl. And soon, Regina, you will learn when and where your own path intersects with his.”

Regina’s mind raced as the crackling fire filled the room with a comforting, yet somber rhythm. The Society will no longer swirl unseen beneath my feet. The game is changing, and so must I.

With a curt nod, she sank back, folding the parchment as the morning light shifted to herald the promise of new reckonings—and new alliances forged in the flickering half-light of Granzholm’s sprawling empire.

Regina looked up from the sprawl of documents, her quill poised over the parchment. “Mother, have he and I ever met by chance?” she asked, voice uncertain for the first time that morning. How could he know my childhood nickname? No one outside this estate ever heard it, least of all a man like him… Her mind spun uneasy circles, suspicion knotting with dread. Mother always hated that name—it was Father’s alone. Is the world so small, or are games being played far cleverer than I see?

Maria’s expression flickered between amusement and puzzlement before tipping over into unrestrained laughter—rich, ringing, and echoing off the high frescoed ceilings. “Regina, dearest, sometimes the past creeps where even rumors are afraid to tread,” she announced, snapping her fan shut with a flourish.

The sudden thunderclap of oak doors thrown wide cut her mirth short. “REEEEEGINAAAAAAA~” sang out an exuberant voice. Jett, Captain of the Coral Elite, swept in with his usual tornado of energy, shockingly informal for a man in embroidered uniform and bright orange sash.

Behind him swaggered Caspian, Captain of the Azure Elite, cool-eyed and sharp-jawed as ever, and the brooding, deep-green-cloaked Damien, Emerald Elite’s Captain, whose very gait radiated a forest-born nonchalance.

Regina’s gaze turned from iron to ice. “What in all the devils’ names are you bastards doing storming my study this early? Couldn’t let me enjoy one morning without your idiocy, could you?”

Jett flopped onto the brocade chaise like a cat in sunshine, grinning irrepressibly. “Here to rescue our favorite Archduchess! Heard you got buried under paperwork and rumors, so we figured you needed a little sunshine and a lot of sarcasm.”

Caspian, ever the diplomat, sketched a languid bow. “Translation: Emperor’s orders. Sylvain’s practically inhaled half the scribes’ ink waiting for you to organize the Knight Order for National Day. Besides, you know you’d just burn the summons if we mailed it.”

Damien—mischievous glint in his emerald eyes—leaned on a bookcase with practiced nonchalance. “Our dear Emperor’s in a proper state today. Apparently, some big-wigs are fussing about formation drills, and he’s worried your sword’s rusting in solitude.”

Jett, bouncing like an overgrown springer spaniel, piped up, “And since you wouldn’t know a headline if it slapped you, we drew straws for who’d come drag you out. I lost to these two stone-faced old men.”

“Stone-faced, am I?” Caspian said, feigning offense. “And here I thought you just couldn’t resist the chance to raid Regina’s pantry.”

Amid their banter, Damien and Caspian offered Maria a mock-regal bow. “Always a pleasure, Lady Rose. Granzholm’s finest tactician—and sharpest critic,” Caspian drawled.

Maria inclined her head, lips twitching with conspiratorial smile. “Gentlemen, it’s rare you manage to corral my daughter for anything short of war or wine. Color me impressed.”

But the reunion broke into somber notes as Damien seized on the latest gossip, voice dropping. “Speaking of headlines, O Queen of Hermits—hear yet about the Cernava business?”

Regina’s brow furrowed, unease prickling at her spine. “Don’t tell me he finally gambled away his last thaler,” she deadpanned.

“Oh, it’s juicier than that,” Damien replied, lowering his voice. “Found dead in the forests just below the old estate road. The whole bloody family. Not only is the estate under condemnation by the Crown, but rumor has it his holdings alone breached the trillion Reichstaler mark. That’s more gold than half the dukedoms in two continents.”

Jett whistled. “Makes you kinda wish you’d married for money, huh, Reggie?”

Caspian grinned, “Or at least buried him yourself.”

Regina rolled her eyes, sinking back in her chair. “With friends like you lot, who needs assassination attempts? Give me five minutes to read these damn documents, then I’ll pull your sorry arses through whichever protocol Sylvain’s panicking over today.”

The scent of sharp ink, leather, and old iron mingled with the autumn sunlight pressing through mullioned panes. For the moment, laughter and shadows danced with morning’s urgency—and in the heart of Granzholm’s grandest estate, another day’s intrigue was already well underway.

Cernava? The name chimed like a distant echo in Maria’s mind, each syllable weaving through the long corridors of memory. She flicked open her fan with a practiced snap, concealing the knowing smile playing at her lips. The morning sun, filtered into golden ribbons through stained glass windows, caught the edge of her silvery hair as she paused at the threshold.

“Dears, be home for dinner—all of you,” Maria commanded, her tone light but edged with undeniable authority, as though orchestrating the movement of a grand chessboard. Her slippers whispered across the parquet as she swept through the door.

“Ey Ey, Captain!” Jett chimed brightly, saluting with two fingers to his brow, his boots thudding in counterpoint to Maria’s elegant glide. The camaraderie in Regina’s study dissolved for a moment in gentle laughter as the door clicked shut, muffling the riotous energy behind a veneer of household decorum.

Now alone in the gentle hush of the morning, Maria glided down the wide, echoing corridor lined with ancestral portraits and the hush of distant voices preparing the estate for another day. The cold, mirrored surfaces of polished furniture flickered as her thoughts turned inward, the name Cernava repeating itself like an incantation in her mind.

Interesting, she mused, the word shimmering with intrigue. Each step drew her cloak more tightly around her, the tap of her heeled slippers measured and precise.

So. The Count finally took the leap, just as the Crown Prince once predicted—calamity to follow, always. Suicide, masked in scandal—the palace so quick to seize a fortune too wild for one man’s keeping. The Empress… ah, such a woman has ever possessed a taste for chaos and clever men undone.

The faint clang of distant kitchenware and the muffled scoldings of a governess arranging the day’s lessons faded behind her as Maria vanished into shadow-draped halls. Glittering sunlight traced her silhouette, painting her journey with the weight of secrets and the surety of a mind forever maneuvering behind the scenes of Granzholm’s great play.

The estate, for a moment, seemed to hold its breath—a single chess piece moved, watched by painted eyes, marking the opening gambit of a day that promised nothing less than intrigue and revelation.

The grand double doors to the chamber swung open with a ceremonious creak, sunlight spilling into the plush room where Lillian and Vivian shared their quiet sanctuary. The walls, draped in soft damask tapestries embroidered with lilacs and ivy, seemed to brighten under Maria’s presence.

“MY DARLINGSSSS~” Maria’s voice rang clear and melodic as she stepped inside, arms wide in joyous proclamation.

“Granny!” Lillian’s face lit with delight as she leapt from the silken bed, her bare feet scarcely making a sound upon the thick Persian rug. On the floor, Vivian sat cross-legged, tenderly offering morsels to their small white puppy, Vivi, who wagged its tail happily.

“Grannyy~” Lillian sang again, wrapping herself tightly around Maria’s waist, drawing in the scent of lavender and aged parchment that always trailed her grandmother.

Vivian rose from the floor, the soft light catching the delicate curve of her jaw and the wistful depth of her violet eyes.

“Oh, my love~” Maria cooed, scooping Lillian into her arms with practiced grace. “Vivian, won’t you come greet me as well?” she asked sweetly.

Vivian hesitated but then stepped forward with quiet poise and bowed, placing a hand decorously upon her chest—a silent salutation befitting the grand houses of Granzholm.

“Oh! DARLINGG~” Maria exclaimed with theatrical fondness, stepping down to enfold both girls in a warm embrace, lifting them like tender blooms into the curve of her arms.

Lillian giggled and playfully pinched Vivian’s cheek. “Nyx! Granny is not the Queen! We only bow to the Emperor, Empress, and Crown Prince!!”

In that moment, a sudden tide of memories surged within Vivian’s mind, vivid and haunting:

“Dearest, I don’t think the brown shoes match your outfit,” Elise’s gentle voice had cautioned, arranging ribbons with motherly care.

“But I think it does, my dear!” Edouard’s laughter echoed in the sunlit room as he danced flamboyantly in the shoes, lifting one foot high into the air.

Vivian’s laughter had joined his—pure, bright, a child’s joy unfettered. She clapped happily as she sat on the velvet sofa, the room fragrant with fresh linens and polished wood.

“Doesn’t it, Vivi?” Edouard teased, beaming as she joyfully leapt to hug his legs.

He had smiled in return, picking her up, pressing his nose to hers in a tender nuzzle. Elise’s laughter filtered from the corner where she’d been folding lace-trimmed towels.

“Vivian,” Elise had said softly, her eyes full of warmth and care. “Darling, do you remember everything I taught you? You will meet the Emperor soon.”

“YESS, Mama!” Vivian had exclaimed, springing from her father’s embrace with a deep, graceful bow.

“I greet the Sun of the Granzholm Empire with utmost respect and gratitude. I—Vivian Noella Dorothea Iris of House Cernava—present myself before your glorious presence, enlightened by generations past. I hope to earn Your Majesty’s blessing to carry the Cernava name forward.”

Elise had clapped with pride. Edouard, eyes wide and bright with emotion, had enveloped his daughter once more as she giggled, warmed by their love.

The present intruded sharply as Maria’s voice cut through.

“Vivian? VIVIAN???”

Startled, the girl blinked, tears welling as the floodgates of memory broke open—her promise to Regina echoing freshly in her mind—never to reveal her true heritage.

Tears coursed down her pale cheeks, hot and relentless, though no sound emerged from her trembling lips. Silent sobs shook her slight frame as she tried to swallow the grief lodged cruelly in her throat.

The small white puppy whimpered softly, sniffing her face, its worried barks a tender balm to the unbearable quiet.

“Vivian?” Lillian’s voice trembled as she knelt beside her sister, eyes brimming with tears. “Why are you crying?”

Maria put the girls down and with her gentle but firm hands, brushed away the trembling hands clutching Vivian’s face.

Mama…Papa…the lost child’s mind screamed silently, I miss you so much. The impossible weight of absence wrapped tightly around her, suffocating her unheard cries.

Her world was a maze of shadows and silence—her lips moving, searching desperately for the voice that would not come. The emptiness pressed like winter’s chill beneath skin too young to bear such loss.

Maria's steady hands and soothing whispers offered a fragile tether—a promise of protection, of love unyielding in the face of grief too vast for words.

The puppy pressed closer, its warm body a tiny beacon amid the storm of silent pain.

The heavy silence that had settled in the chamber was not lost on the two maids flanking Maria, their brows knit with concern as they exchanged worried glances. Sensing their unease, Maria’s eyes sparkled with a sudden resolve. “Pastries! Desserts! Anything filled with sugar! Fetch them—all of it, at once!” she commanded sharply, her voice rich with the authority that had once commanded armies now turned to domestic care.

With quickening steps and whispered urgency, the maids swept from the room, their skirts whispering against the polished floorboards as they set about assembling a trolley laden with confections delicate enough to grace the feasts of nobles. Pillows of whipped cream and honeyed éclairs, sugared marzipan fruits gleaming like jewels, and tender spiced cakes filled the cart’s shelves, conjuring a tableau of sweetness and comfort.

Meanwhile, in the heart of the room, Lillian’s small frame joined the embrace shared by Maria and Vivian, warm arms enveloping trembling bodies. Tears fell freely from the golden-haired child, soft and unsteady. “Awee… Lily, why do your eyes fall with rain?” Maria murmured, her voice a gentle balm as she drew both girls closer still.

The puppy, Vivi, stirred beneath the mantelpiece, its plaintive barks growing urgent as it circled, sensing the quiet tempest of grief.

Minutes passed, measured only by the gentle rhythm of breathing and the distant ticking of an ornate brass clock, when the maids entered, trolleys creaking under the weight of sugary promise. The sweet aroma of vanilla and cinnamon took root in the air, spiraling around the delicate room draped in lace curtains and florid wallpaper.

Maria carefully settled the girls onto a pair of cushioned chairs at the small circular table. She eased herself down between them, her silken gown whispering as she moved with practiced grace. Each delicate morsel was offered with tender care—a fragment of tart here, a spoonful of cream there—her hands steady and soothing.

Lillian’s eyes sparkled as she tasted, a genuine smile blooming with each sweet bite. But Vivian remained still, untouched by the feast. The faint pressure of her fingers pressed against the pristine white bandage encircling her throat was a silent plea, a quiet hope that Maria would read her unspoken message.

“Oh dear…” Maria sighed softly, frustration flickering behind her composed mask. The girl’s inability to partake of the delicacies weighed heavily on her maternal heart.

Turning swiftly to the waiting maids, Maria gave fresh orders—the command sharp yet filled with warmth. “Hot cocoa—thick and steaming, crowned with marshmallows—bring it to them at once!”

The maids hurried, their footsteps a staccato rhythm on the polished stone floor, setting to work with practiced efficiency.

Again? The thought gnawed at Vivian’s mind, unvoiced yet persistent. How many days had she clung to liquids alone? Soups and cocoa—her fragile sustenance since the cruel injury had stolen her voice and stolen, too, the very act of reaching for solid food.

Her blue eyes lowered wistfully, tracing the delicate patterns on the porcelain cup as the first steam curled upward—warmth on the surface, cold shadows beneath.

To be Continued...