Chapter 27
Moonlight spilled through the white sheer curtains, casting a silvery glow across the room. Everything was quiet now. The manor itself seemed to be holding its breath, as though the silence wished to grant her a moment of peace.
Vidalia sat on the edge of the large canopy bed, her bare feet brushing the soft carpet. She held a wooden comb Isaline had lent her, but her fingers had frozen halfway through her loose hair.
The room smelled of lavender. A scented candle, forgotten on the vanity, crackled softly.
It felt… strange.
Strange not to have anyone to serve.
Strange to be here, in a bedroom so large, so bright, so calm.
Strange to have a bed entirely her own, a window opening onto a garden instead of a gray wall.
Strange not to fear the coming dawn.
She took a long, steady breath.
Everything was so different. Perhaps too different. A part of her was still afraid it was a dream—an illusion too beautiful—and that in the morning she would wake on her straw mattress, Angela shouting at her.
She rose slowly and walked to the window.
The garden stretched beyond the courtyard, bathed in moonlight. In the distance, she could make out the glass rooftops of the greenhouses and the peaceful silhouettes of trees. A deep, soothing calm emanated from it all.
She leaned against the wall and lifted her eyes to the sky.
"Mama…" she whispered soundlessly.
Silent tears slid down her cheeks.
"Do you see? I made it… I'm safe. They're kind. They welcomed me. I'm not alone anymore."
Her heart clenched painfully. This new happiness—she wanted to share it. She wished she could go back, just for a moment, to see her mother smile in this manor, speak with Edward, gently scold Isaline, laugh with Camélia, watch over her.
But life did not go backward.
It moved forward.
And tonight, for the first time, Vidalia chose to follow it.
She returned to the bed, slipped beneath the covers, and let her gaze drift toward the carved ceiling. The fabric of the canopy stirred faintly in the night breeze.
Just before sleep claimed her, she whispered softly:
"Thank you, Mama."
And in that silent, moonlit room, a little girl once forgotten fell asleep in peace—for the very first time.
A crash. A scream.
Vidalia twisted sharply—but too late.
CRACK.
The flowerpot struck her squarely. Pain exploded through her skull. Everything blurred. Colors spun as she collapsed to her knees, warm blood running down her forehead.
Rushed footsteps. A cold voice.
"Clean that up—and make sure she's not seen!"
Elysia's icy tone echoed through the room.
Arms grabbed her. She was dragged roughly down the corridor. The floor swayed beneath her. Her head throbbed. Voices reached her ears, distant, muffled, as though underwater. She was thrown into her room.
Then… nothing.
Darkness.
But the dream did not end there.
Another memory overlaid it.
A soft, aquatic blue light. A floating silhouette above her. A small translucent creature with wings shaped like droplets of water.
Her fairy. Her silent companion.
As Vidalia reached out to her… other voices rose from the shadows.
Two women. No—one woman, and a little girl.
The scene shifted, hazy and vaporous. Vidalia lay there, still dazed. A maid leaned over her, holding something.
A quill.
A sheet of parchment.
And a drop of blood.
"Good. That settles it," Elysia said, straightening, satisfaction gleaming in her eyes.
"Do you think she'll understand?" Angela asked, perched on a stool, her feet dangling. Her voice was that of a six-year-old… but cold as ice.
"She doesn't need to understand, my dear. She only needs to obey."
Elysia leaned over Vidalia, her smile sharp as a blade.
"With this signature… your blood on this contract, you now belong to Angela."
She handed the parchment to the maid, who sealed it with a magical gesture.
Elysia continued:
"You will do everything she tells you. You will dress her, serve her, and you will not be able to disobey her. Nor me."
Angela giggled, her eyes shining.
"Like a real doll!"
Elysia stroked her head fondly.
"That's my girl. And don't worry—she won't remember. A little magic, and it will be as though it never happened."
She turned back to Vidalia one last time.
"Forget. Obey. And smile, my sweet little thing."
The voices faded.
In her dream, Vidalia tried to scream. To struggle. To cry out. But her body would not respond. The parchment glowed faintly in the room, burning itself into her mind like a branded symbol.
And in a burst of water, the fairy appeared once more.
This time, she placed her hand upon Vidalia's forehead.
The dream shattered.
Vidalia jolted awake.
Her breath was ragged, her body shaking, her chest tight.
She was in her room. She knew it. She could see it.
But the pain in her skull still felt real. Elysia's words echoed in her mind. And that contract…
She pressed a hand to her temple. Her heart hammered wildly.
The water fairy hovered nearby, serene, but her eyes shone with silent concern.
Vidalia whispered hoarsely,
"That wasn't… a dream, was it?"
Silence.
The little fairy drifted closer and placed her hand against Vidalia's cheek.
A tear slipped free.
She remembered.
The room was bathed in pale light. Dawn had not yet broken the horizon, but the shadows had softened, as though the nightmare were slowly dissolving into the folds of silence.
Vidalia sat on the edge of the bed, trembling, breath shallow, hands clutching the rumpled sheets.
Her wide eyes stared into nothingness. She had screamed when she woke—but no one had come. Perhaps the Reinhart manor respected nocturnal privacy far more than she was used to.
She murmured, her voice raw:
"A contract…"
She closed her eyes. The image was clear. The flowerpot. The searing pain. The blood. Then—the maid. The parchment. The golden script that danced upon it. And Elysia, leaning close, her syrupy voice:
"You will love her like a sister, like a princess, and you will do everything she desires. Understood? You will forget this. All of it."
Then Angela's small, laughing voice:
"I want her to serve me forever."
Vidalia rose abruptly, staggered, then moved to the mirror. She stared at her own reflection, stunned.
"That wasn't me… it wasn't weakness…"
She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling her heart pound, confirming she was still there. Still alive. Still free.
She had believed she chose to stay. To endure. She had hated herself for it—for years.
But she had been… programmed.
Bound.
Broken without ever knowing it.
Tears rose, slow and burning.
The door opened silently.
Arzhel stood there, hair tousled, eyes full of worry.
"Lia… you screamed." He stepped closer. "Are you crying?"
She didn't answer at first. Then she turned toward him, lips trembling.
"I wasn't free…"
He froze. Then he crossed the room in two quick strides. She collapsed into his arms, sobbing.
"They… they stole even that from me. Even my will. I thought I was a coward. I told myself I was too weak to run away. But it was… a spell. A blood contract. Since I was five."
Arzhel held her tighter, rocking her gently without a word. Then he whispered, his voice low and tightly controlled:
"You were never weak. Never. They cheated. But now it's over. You're out of their cage—and you will never go back."
She nodded against his chest, crying.
"I want it to stop. I want to break it."
He stroked her hair and kissed her forehead.
Vidalia stayed curled against him for a long time, shaking but calmer. Then, hesitantly, she told him everything—every image, every word that had resurfaced. Arzhel listened without interrupting, growing increasingly rigid, his hands slowly tightening around her.
When she finished, he straightened, his eyes burning with dangerous light.
"A blood contract… bound to absolute obedience… signed while you were injured and unconscious?"
He clenched his teeth. "That's forbidden magic, Vidalia. Dark magic."
She nodded faintly.
"I didn't even know it existed… until tonight."
Arzhel began to pace. Sparks slid along his arms, danced at his fingertips. His breathing was uneven, as though something were roaring beneath his skin.
"We'll break it. I'll find someone. An archmage. An exorcist. There has to be a way!" he snarled.
Vidalia hesitated.
"I… I asked Naya. She remembered too. She said contracts like this can only be undone in two ways."
She stood slowly.
"Either… by the death of the giver."
Silence.
"…or by the death of the enforcer."
Arzhel stopped dead.
The flames along his arms flared, incandescent. His eyes—usually warm gold—burned with raw fury.
"They… chained you for life? At six years old?"
He slammed his fist into the stone wall. Fire erupted, but he restrained it before it could melt the woodwork.
"Those monsters. Those scum! She stole your life, your will… and now you're condemned to obey as long as she lives?!"
Vidalia trembled. She had never heard him shout like that.
But when he turned back to her—his gaze, though blazing, was filled with pain.
"You did nothing to deserve this. Nothing. You were just… a child."
He dropped to his knees before her, cradling her face in his hands.
"And I'm here telling you we'll get through this—when I can't do anything! Nothing!"
She gently took his hands, despite the heat.
"You're here. That's already everything I need."
He stared at her, lips trembling, the fire on his skin slowly subsiding.
"I swear… on everything I am… the day she raises her hand against you again will be her last."
Vidalia closed her eyes and leaned into him.
The weight of the contract remained—but for the first time, she did not carry it alone.
Calm gradually returned, like the sea after a storm. Vidalia stayed curled against Arzhel, her face buried against his shoulder, lulled by the steady rhythm of his heart. They did not speak, but they understood each other in silence. Arzhel remained kneeling, unmoving, as though he wished to keep her safe like this forever.
"We won't say anything," she murmured at last. "Not yet. All right?"
He nodded slowly, his hand sliding through her hair.
"Not until I'm sure I can protect you from that pact," he replied gravely. "But I swear it, Lia. I will destroy anyone who forces you to bow. Even if it's your family… even if it's the empire."
She didn't answer—but her heart beat faster. Not with fear. With certainty.
A little later, as morning light filtered through the curtains, Vidalia lifted her head, curious.
"How did you even get in here? The estate is supposed to be warded against teleportation."
A sly smile curved Arzhel's lips.
"I'll always find a way to reach my Lia."
She flushed crimson, tugged at her veil to hide her face—but couldn't stop smiling.
The day passed beneath gentle skies and a warm atmosphere, as though the house itself were adapting to its newest member.
The Viscount Reinhart, anxious by nature, found himself unconsciously searching for Vidalia whenever she left a room. He spoke little, but sometimes rested a gentle hand on her head, calling her "my niece" with paternal respect—and visible emotion.
The Viscountess overflowed with affection. She personally adjusted Vidalia's ribbons, gifted her an array of dresses, and each time she passed her by, called her fondly "my pearl fallen from the sky."
Silas, her seventeen-year-old cousin, was awkward but attentive. By lunchtime, he had shown her the stables, gardens, kitchens, and even the greenhouse. Whenever she stumbled, he offered his hand like a true older brother, cheeks faintly pink.
"You can ask me anything, okay?" he said as they stopped near an old cherry tree. "And if you want me to scare off a suitor… I'm very intimidating. Apparently."
Vidalia laughed softly. Silas smiled, a little proud.
Her younger cousin Isaline then dragged her into board games and favorite books, talking at lightning speed, laughing often, clinging to Vidalia like a long-lost sister.
At dinner, the mood was light. Vidalia had never known a meal so lively, so joyful. There were stories, laughter, animated debates. And though she remained quiet, every time she spoke, all eyes turned toward her with genuine interest.
She slowly understood:
Here, she was not a burden.
Not a servant.
Not a mistake.
She was… loved.
On the morning of her eleventh birthday, Vidalia was pulled from her thoughts by a crystal-clear shout, followed by the hurried rustle of fabric.
"Up, up! It's today! Hurry, Vida—we're turning you into a princess!" her cousin exclaimed, cheeks flushed with excitement as she nearly bounced onto the bed.
Still foggy with sleep, Vidalia blinked, bewildered. She had never been woken like this. It felt like living inside a strange, gentle dream.
Three maids soon entered the room with respectful urgency, carrying delicate fabrics, velvet boxes, and a case holding a dazzling jewelry set. Vidalia instinctively retreated on the bed, uncomfortable with their presence—but they did not rush her. They spoke softly, gently, almost tenderly, perhaps aware of her nerves.
They began to prepare her, while her cousin fluttered around with childlike excitement.
Her dress was a soft violet, trimmed with ivory ruffles and fine lace. The satin fabric caught the morning light subtly, giving Vidalia an almost unreal glow. Small floral embroideries adorned the fitted bodice—discreet yet precious, whispering secrets in the language of flowers. The long sleeves, delicately translucent, revealed the pale lines of her slender arms.
Her hair—deep midnight blue fading into pale sea-foam at the tips—was brushed carefully, then half-pinned into an elegant style. A fine silver chain, adorned with moon pearls, golden stars, and a shimmering crescent, was placed like a diadem atop her wavy hair. A few strands fell gracefully over her shoulders, framing her pale face and large green eyes already glistening with emotion.
Finally, a delicate violet gemstone necklace was clasped around her neck, matching dangling earrings and a bracelet she barely dared touch for fear of breaking it.
When she descended, throat tight, she found her new family gathered in the sunlit dining hall. Garlands of fresh flowers adorned the walls, and a long table had been set for a ceremonial breakfast.
"Happy birthday, Vidalia!" the family cried in unison.
She froze.
Then, like a dam breaking, tears rose. She tried to hold them back—but the duke's warm smile, her aunt Eleanor's open arms, Caius's shining eyes, and the servants' joyful applause shattered her last defenses.
She was engulfed in embraces. Eleanor held her with maternal sincerity that ached in her chest. Silas ruffled her hair gently. Even her grandfather—cheerful and soft as always—rested a kind hand on her shoulder.
"You are one of us now, Vidalia," he said simply—and the quiet gravity of his words carried more weight than any speech.
She was given several carefully wrapped gifts: leather-bound books, an antique watch, an embroidered journal, ribbons in rare colors, softly gleaming magical stones…
But what came next left her stunned.
"Oh—and these are from your friends," her aunt added, pointing to a small separate pile.
She recognized Adeline's neat handwriting on a box tied with a white ribbon, and a clumsily wrapped parcel that only Mira could have prepared.
She opened Mira's first. Inside lay a rough yet brilliant protective stone in a handmade box. A small card accompanied it, simply written:
"I wish you happiness, Miss Vidalia."
Vidalia laughed through her tears.
Adeline's gift contained an elegant silver brooch engraved with a wing symbol. Inside the box, a neatly folded letter:
"I'm not good with words. But I hope one day you'll be able to fly far from your chains. Happy birthday, Miss Vidalia."
Hands trembling, heart overflowing, Vidalia felt something anchor itself within her for the first time.
Not just a dress.
Not a hairstyle.
Not a gift.
But a home.
A future.
As the meal drew to a close and laughter softened into a warm hush, her grandfather raised his glass with quiet elegance.
"Vidalia, my dear…" he said gently. "We all wished to mark this day in a more… personal way."
At his right, his son Frédéric nodded with rare seriousness.
"You may choose whatever you want. Absolutely anything."
Silence fell around the table, heavy with kind anticipation.
Vidalia sat stunned. She parted her lips, ready to refuse out of habit—when Arzhel's words resurfaced in her mind, sharp and clear:
"In that case, I'll invest… and I'll give you the profits."
A shiver ran down her spine. Slowly, she lifted her chin.
Her large green eyes—usually gentle and hesitant—suddenly darkened with something strange.
Fierce.
Calculating.
A raw light danced within them, like a flame long restrained.
She raised her gaze to her grandfather, then to her uncle, with deliberate slowness.
Then she smiled.
Not the timid smile they knew.
It was delicate. Precise. Almost cruel in its elegance—like the edge of a dagger hidden within silk.
"I would like… mines," she said calmly, her voice deep and unsettlingly steady.
A breath swept across the table.
"The Sullivan mines."