Even amid the hatred and torment, Serelith fought to endure it all. Every day, she reminded herself of the strength her grandfather had believed in. And through it all, Shyamu cheered for her, his presence a small beacon of hope that reminded her she was not entirely alone.

The weather was clear that day, sunlight spilling into the castle halls and reflecting off the polished floors. Shyamu and Serelith had just finished their etiquette lessons and were playing quietly in the courtyard, their laughter mingling with the soft rustle of leaves. For a moment, the world felt calm, as if nothing could touch them.

But peace never lasted long in her family. In the dining hall, Marlena’s sharp voice pierced the air. “Look at you, Serelith. Always so clumsy, so slow,” she said, her words dripping with mockery. “My Celene, now there’s efficiency. She learns quickly, follows instructions perfectly. Not like you.”

Serelith lowered her gaze, holding her hands together, forcing herself to remain silent. Her heart ached, but no tears came. She had learned long ago that defiance brought only harsher punishment. The servants shifted uneasily, some avoiding her mother’s gaze, others whispering in corners. None dared defend her.

Shyamu noticed the tension immediately. His small hand brushed against hers as if to remind her she was not completely alone. “Don’t mind them,” he whispered softly. “You’re strong. I know you can handle this.”

For Serelith, his words were a small flame in the darkness—a reminder that not everyone in the world saw her as worthless. She clenched her fists, drawing courage from his quiet faith in her. Marlena’s voice continued, cutting through the room, but Serelith did not respond. She focused instead on Shyamu’s steady presence, the one person who still cheered for her, the one who reminded her she could survive.

Even amid humiliation and cruelty, Serelith fought in silence. Her spirit bent but did not break. And with Shyamu by her side, she found the strength to endure another day.

But the irony was that Serelith, though far more skilled and well-versed in etiquette, remained unnoticed. Celene, clumsy and often making mistakes, received all the applause. The servants clapped for her, their expressions betraying the truth they dared not speak. If anyone dared to point out the reality, they risked being expelled without a recommendation letter—or worse. Serelith remained silent, her hands folded neatly, heart aching yet unbroken. She endured the false praise of her sister, drawing strength from the quiet knowledge that her own skill and diligence far outshone Celene’s, even if no one admitted it aloud.

In her leisure time, she would read books from the library. She liked reading most. When Elric knew which books she enjoyed, he banned her from entering the library. The only books she could read were about etiquette or how to become a good wife. 

For Elric, she was nothing more than a product of a political marriage. He banned her from reading her favorite books, fearing that knowledge might give her the courage to protest against him in the future. Better to control her now, just as he always did.

This made her sad.

When Shyamu noticed her sadness while playing, he asked,

“What happened, my lady?”

“Nothing… It’s just that I was banned from the library,” she replied.

Shyamu was shocked and enraged. He didn’t like that they had even banned her from the library.

“The books I can only read are about etiquette or how to become a good bride,” she said quietly.

“Whatever books you want to read, I will give them to you!” he shouted.

“But Shyamu… how will you bring me books?”

Shyamu rubbed proudly under his nose.

“Hah, my friend’s a book peddler. He gets all sorts in big bunches. I can fetch some for you, easy.”

Shyamu would borrow books for a few days from his friend, the book peddler, and keep them tucked away in the stable. Whenever Serelith found a free moment, away from the noise of noble life, she would slip into the quiet of the stable and read. The scent of hay, the stamping of horses, and the soft rustle of turning pages became their secret world.

When she left, Shyamu would carefully hide the books or carry them home, as if guarding treasure. At first, he only watched her lips move as she read aloud, the strange letters meaning nothing to him. But Serelith was patient, and slowly, she taught him. What had once been marks on a page became words, and words became worlds.

The boy who had never held a book upright now traced lines with clumsy fingers, sounding them out under his breath. He read about warriors who wielded blades like lightning, kings who rose and fell, and fables that made him laugh. Sometimes they read together; sometimes apart, giving each other space but sharing the silence.

Books became their bridge—between stables and palaces, between ignorance and learning, between a stable boy and a noble girl.

Sometimes they would sneak out at night, a lantern flickering between them as the stable turned into their secret library. Shyamu read slowly, stumbling over words, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“Through the mysterious caves I lent through and tighting with dem—deminic bist…”

Serelith chuckled, her voice gentle as she leaned closer.

“Through the mysterious caves I went through and fighting with the demonic beast.”

Her correction only made him grin, proud just to be reading at all.

Serelith went back to her book, reading about paintings.

“I never knew a single painting could say so many things,” she murmured. “It can even become a riddle.”

She rubbed her chin, thoughtful.

Shyamu glanced at her. “My lady… perhaps you like paintings?”

“Of course,” she replied with a soft smile. “They are so colorful and meaningful.”

She sat there in the stable, not minding the stench of hay. She was not lonely—and that was enough.