Episode 8

~The Color of Tears~

The afternoon sun filtered through the tall arched windows of the Vendreich estate’s sitting room, casting a warm glow and mingling the scents of fresh roses and polished wood. Maria clapped her hands sharply, and soon a designer arrived with servants wheeling trolleys laden with exquisite children’s dresses—gowns of gossamer lace, satin ribbons, and shimmering embroidery.

“Well then!” Maria exclaimed, eyes sparkling. “Shall we have a Fashion Show, my darlings?”

Lillian’s violet eyes shone with excitement, while Vivian’s icy blue gaze held a shy smile. The room became a stage as they tried on the flowing dresses—Lillian in pale pink chiffon, twirling joyfully; Vivian in delicate lavender, moving with gentle grace.

The designer and his assistants delicately adjusted hemlines and ribbons, while Maria watched with pride as the girls blossomed in their finery.

Afterward, the girls gathered at a low table with vivid crayons. “Now, my young artists,” Maria said, “show us the colors your hearts hold.”

Lillian drew bold crimson strokes, while Vivian shaded softly in pastels. Maria, poised before a canvas, began to paint their visions—castles, gardens, and fluttering butterflies—bringing their imaginations to life.

The room hummed with the scratch of crayons and brush, the distant toll of church bells blending with the gentle breeze stirring ancient oaks outside. In that quiet afternoon, laughter and creativity wove a tender, timeless tapestry beneath the estate’s gilded ceilings.

-Imperial Indoor Training Grounds; 3.10 PM- 

The Imperial Indoor Training Room was alive with the sharp clang of steel, the echo of each strike and parry reverberating off towering stone walls adorned with banners of ancient houses and polished suits of armor. The air was thick with the scent of warmed leather, oiled wood, and the faint tang of sweat — a battlefield confined within the majestic heart of the palace.

Regina, her posture fluid and fierce, faced Sylvain, Captain of the Bianca Elite, whose every movement bore the precision and discipline of a born warrior. Their blades flashed like lightning, carving arcs of shimmering steel through the heavy air. The crowd gathered around—knights, courtiers, and retinue alike—held their breath between the rhythmic clash of swords.

“Come now, Regina,” Sylvain sneered, his voice sharp as his carefully wrought blade. “You will lose this duel. If I triumph, my vision for the National Day Festival will set the orders’ contributions forth as precedent. But if you win... well, your ideas shall reign supreme—and with them, the fate of the entire Imperial Knight Order.”

The stakes hung heavy, the draft for the grand festival’s program to be finalized on the outcome of this contest—a battle not mere of blades, but of wills and policies.

Jett, the buoyant Captain of Coral Elite, bounced on the balls of his feet, shouting encouragement. “All in for Regina! Show ‘em what you’ve got, Reggie!”

Damien, cloaked in emerald, his voice a quiet growl, muttered, “She’s got this—we wouldn’t have come this far otherwise.”

Caspian, ever composed in his azure garb, nodded solemnly, adding, “No one dances with steel like she does.”

Suddenly, from beside the three men, a new figure stepped forward—tall, regal, draped in a cloak embroidered with imperial heraldry—the Crown Prince himself. His presence pulsed through the room like a surge of electric current. The three knights froze, the air thickening as recognition dawned.

“Ugh... Crown Prince?” Jett gasped, hastily stepping back, eyes wide in a mixture of respect and nervous awe.

The Crown Prince, poised and regal with finely tailored robes that gleamed beneath the light, offered a sly smile. “Oh, hello, gentlemen,” he greeted, eyes twinkling as they settled instead on Regina. “I was merely here to admire the formidable Lady Regina’s artistry with the blade.”

Regina’s heart skipped as her sword tip paused mid-air, blade gleaming beneath the flickering torches. The room erupted into murmurs and scattered applause, the tension momentarily broken by the rare honor of the Prince’s visit.

Sylvain’s eyes sharpened, but the flicker of uncertainty that crossed his face revealed the deeper stakes now wreathed in royal scrutiny.

Steel sang once more, the duel resumed beneath the watchful eyes of destiny—and the flickering shadows of the Imperial hall.

Regina’s blade sang through the air with graceful precision, each strike parrying Sylvain’s assaults as she steadily gained the upper hand. The crowd’s cheers swelled with each deft maneuver, their voices cascading like a tide through the vaulted Imperial Indoor Training Room. Her eyes burned with fierce determination, her every movement a dance of power and control.

Then, in the charged hush just before victory, the radiant voice of Crown Prince Evander rang out, sharp and commanding: “SYLVAIN!”

Both fighters’ eyes snapped toward the luminous figure of the Prince, whose presence gleamed like a beacon beneath the torchlight. In that fleeting moment of distraction, Sylvain seized the opportunity with ruthless cunning. His blade flashed upward, knocking Regina’s sword from her grip with a thunderous clang that echoed throughout the hall.

The crowd erupted instantly—an uproar of cheers and applause for Sylvain’s sudden reversal. Laughter and shouts filled the air, their voices a roaring tide of approval.

Caspian, Damien, and Jett stood agape, their mouths hanging open in stunned disbelief. The triumphant cheer had silenced their hope.

“My, my~” came a smooth voice behind Evander.

The three knights whipped their heads toward the sound as a figure cloaked in rich brown stepped forward—hood shadows falling away to reveal piercing magenta eyes. The mysterious man’s gaze swept coldly over the defeated Regina, who sat on the polished floor, gasping for breath and reeling from her loss.

Following protocol with grand flourish, Sylvain knelt beside Regina, the tip of his sword resting ominously at her neck. “Hear ye,” he proclaimed loudly, voice dripping with triumph, “Archduchess of Vendreich, Regina De Olvestri Vendreich, I, Sylvain Friedrich Von Hohenberg, Your Commander-in-training, do declare myself victorious in this duel. Thus, the final draft concerning the Knightly Order’s contribution to the National Day Festival shall be mine to finalize.”

Fury ignited within Regina. With a swift, fierce shove, she pushed the blade away from her throat, refusing the humiliation. Rising with grace tempered by rage, she brushed past Jett’s astonished shoulder, moving fiercely through the crowd toward the Crown Prince and the hooded stranger.

“EVANDER!” Regina’s voice rang through the hall, sharp and challenging as she vaulted over the ornate railing to stand before them.

“HOW DARE YOU—” she began, but Evander anticipated her with cold calm. Turning to face her fully, he revealed the man beside him whose magenta eyes flickered with unsettling light.

The Heir of Drosnik, Regina thought, heart pounding. Why is he here?

The murmurs swirled among the spectators as eyes fixed hungrily on the tableau of the three figures atop the dais. Secrets whispered beneath the vaulted ceiling, speculation crackling like static in the warm air.

“Dare me what, exactly?” Evander asked, lifting his chin with unwavering confidence.

“N-nothing,” Regina stammered, fear and pride wrestling within her as she tried to retreat, but Evander’s hand closed around her arm, firm and commanding.

His coral hair caught the torchlight, a fiery crown, while his green eyes shimmered with expectancy as he knelt on one knee. Bowing with elegant solemnity, his other hand extended toward her.

“Oh dear Archduchess of Vendreich,” he intoned with courtly charm, “would you do me the honor of accompanying me to the banquet held by House Drosnik? It would be my greatest pleasure to be your partner, Your Grace.”

The room exploded into cheers, voices mighty and echoing, urging Regina to accept.

Behind them, the hooded heir leaned forward, a slow smirk tracing his lips. His voice, though low, pierced Regina’s thoughts like a whisper of iron and ice.

“Go on, Leah,” he urged, eyes gleaming with dark amusement. “Take his hand. Everyone is watching.”

A shiver crawled down Regina’s spine, icy and unwelcome. Around her, Jett and the others watched—helpless. Jett, bound by birth and station, could only clench his fists; Caspian’s alliances forbade opposition; Damien, torn by family enmity, dared not interfere lest ruin fall.

Torn between fear and resolve, Regina stood frozen—a lily poised between petals of steel and shadow.

The heir sighed, boredom faint in his breath. Stepping forward with commanding grace, he seized Regina’s hand and gently placed it in Evander’s outstretched palm.

“The Archduchess has agreed to accompany the Crown Prince to my banquet!” he declared with a bright, unsettling smile.

The crowd’s jubilation thundered through the hall—claps thundering, whistles piercing the heavy air—as fate wove its intricate tapestry beneath shimmering chandeliers.

The garden that stretched beyond the marble terraces was a symphony of late evening hues—soft lavender skies melting into twilight, the air heavy with the scent of blooming jasmine and freshly turned earth. The gentle rustle of leaves whispered a lullaby as the first stars began to twinkle overhead.

“Granny~” Lillian’s sweet voice floated above the quiet, her small hand woven delicately with Vivian’s as they walked side by side, their tiny footsteps light against the cobblestone paths lined with roses and ivy.

“Yes, my dear?” Maria replied, her voice as warm and steady as the golden light that bathed them.

“Where is Mama?” Lillian asked, her small yawn betraying her weariness.

“Regina? Ah, she must be at the Imperial Palace,” Maria answered calmly, brushing a strand of her silver hair from her face.

“Whaaaaaaaat?!” Lillian gasped, eyes wide with disbelief. “Again? Just how many times will Mama go there? Why can’t there ever be a day when she’s just home for me?”

A soft chuckle escaped Maria as she smiled knowingly. “Dear child, your mother must visit the Palace often to prove she remains a steadfast part of the Knight Order. It’s her duty—or risk losing her place as Captain of the Xanthe Elite.”

“Oh dear, politics,” Lillian lamented, dramatically throwing her hands toward the fading sky, eyes tightly shut as though beseeching the heavens themselves for mercy. “Will-thou-ever-spare-my-life?!”

Vivian’s silent giggle rippled as she hid her mouth behind a fluttering hand, her blue eyes sparkling with delight at her sister’s theatrics.

Lillian, peeking slyly, caught the sight and bubbled with joy, her laughter a rare light in the heavy twilight—the first she’d shared that day.

Suddenly, a sharp voice called from afar, cutting through the garden’s calm. “My Lady! The Archduchess’s carriage has arrived!”

Maria’s eyes brightened with purpose. “Alright, coming!” she exclaimed, nodding toward the group of maids standing discreetly nearby, eyes fixed lovingly on the little ladies.

“I’ll be back, girls,” Maria said, bending to smooth Lillian’s hair and brush gentle fingers across Vivian’s cheek. “Behave well, and we shall dine together tonight as promised. Your mother will need rest. See you soon at the table in a few minutes!”

“Okkay, Granny!!” Lillian chirped, voice full of hope and affection. Vivian nodded quietly in agreement.

As Maria retreated down the gravel path, disappearing amidst familiar hedges, Lillian turned back with a playful burst, dashing to Vivian and enveloping her sister in a tight embrace. They collapsed onto the soft lawn, Lillian’s laughter filling the cool air as she lay atop Vivian.

The two maids nearby gasped, about to intervene—but Layla, Lillian’s personal maid, raised a calming hand. Knowing the moment’s fraught tenderness, Lillian whispered, “Nyx! You like me, don’t you?”

Lillian’s tear-brimmed eyes sparkled with desperate hope. “We’ll forever be the best sisters in the world, right? You won’t everrrrrr leave me, right? You’ll love me, right?” Her voice cracked with the weight of yearning.

Tears glistened in Lillian’s eyes, gliding down gentle cheeks until one fell upon Vivian’s, warming her skin.

Vivian raised trembling hands, wiping away Lillian’s tears with tender care, her own eyes shimmering with silent sorrow.

'Why are you crying?' Vivian lisped softly, voice laced with worry despite its silence.

Lillian’s voice hitched as she clutched Vivian’s dress to her chest. “I-I—I’ve always...” she began, overwhelmed, her sobs growing louder as her head rested on Vivian’s delicate shoulder.

The urgency within the garden tightened as maids whispered with growing concern, but Layla remained resolute, remembering her promise to protect her mistress’s intimate moment.

“You know… my… my mother died giving birth to me… and…” she sobbed harder.

What? flickered through Vivian’s mind. Isn’t her Grace—Lady Regina Lillian’s mother? 

“…and my father died in battle when I was only four,” Lillian continued through her tears. “When Lady Regina took me in, called me her daughter, and suffered the slander of every noble—but silenced by the Emperor—I remember standing at my father’s grave, holding her hand. I too am like you, Vivian. I too- am like you, Vivian. I too have no parents. I too have no siblings. And I know the cruel truth about my parents which everyone thinks I don't."

Layla’s lips pressed tightly, eyes squeezed shut as tears welled and cascaded, while the other maids stifled gasps behind cupped hands.

“I know about your parents too,” Layla said, voice breaking amidst sobs, “They… are gone.”

Vivian’s tears spilled silently, her mouth unable to voice the grief that wracked her small frame.

Ah. Ah. Ah. The puzzle pieces all aligned. This wasn’t Miss Regina’s first time shielding a child from a cruel world of truths, Vivian realized, clutching the back of Lillian’s dress with trembling fingers.

“I—I am illegitimate. The daughter of a woman disdained by my father’s kin,” Lillian cried anew, voice trembling. “Layla has been the only one in my life on my side, without betrayal.”

“Will... will you be my sister, and never leave my side?” Lillian’s voice broke as she lifted her tear-streaked face to Vivian’s, both girls awash in emotion.

Vivian, though silent, nodded firmly, eyes overflowing with shared sorrow and tentative hope.

Lillian buried her face in Vivian’s neck, whispering, “Thank you…my dear sister.”

To be Continued...