“I know… that you are not my sister.”
The faint scent of roses, usually Alia’s constant, almost sentient companion, seed to recede, overwheld by the sudden, acrid tang of shock. The West Wing study, her sanctuary of ancient silence and undisputed dominion, felt abruptly, unpleasantly… violated.
A flicker of sothing unreadable crossed Alia’s face, a montary stillness that was more terrifying than any outburst Freya had ever witnessed. The gentle smile vanished, replaced by a chilling blankness, and her luminous blue eyes, usually so clear, seed to darken, to sharpen with an intensity that made Freya’s heart constrict with a sudden, visceral fear.
Freya had wanted to explain, to pour out the complicated truth of her well-intentioned deception, the genuine affection that lay beneath it. But looking at Alia now, at that sudden, profound shift from indulged ‘sister’ to sothing ancient, powerful, and undeniably formidable, the carefully rehearsed words died in her throat.
This was not the mont for heartfelt confessions. Alia looked… not just surprised, but truly, deeply angered, a cold fury emanating from her that Freya had never felt so directly. With a knot of apprehension tightening in her chest, Freya knew she had to leave, now. Perhaps her letters, penned with care from the distance of the capital, could bridge the chasm her words had just opened, could explain the truth of her heart when Alia’s imdiate shock had passed.
Alia stood frozen, her usually fluid grace locked into an unnatural stillness. The heavy oak door had clicked shut, the sound a final punctuation mark to Freya’s departing carriage wheels crunching on the gravel outside. For a long mont, the only sound was the frantic, silent screaming within Alia’s own ancient mind.
Since when,” Alia breathed, her voice a low, dangerous whisper that held none of its forr sweetness, “have you known?”
Her composure, the serene mask she presented to the world – to Freya – fractured internally, invisible cracks spreading through centuries of carefully constructed artifice. Fragnts of mory, sharp and unsettling, rose unbidden. The wildflowers, left wilting at her threshold, year after year. The clumsy paper trinkets. The earnest, upturned face, crimson eyes wide with a concern Alia had dismissed as naive pity. ‘I hope you feel better soon, Sister Alia.’
Sister Alia. A title Freya had bestowed with such artless devotion, a devotion Alia had… indulged. Cultivated, even. She had allowed the charade, found a certain perverse amusent in the child’s innocent attempts to bring light into her shadowed existence. The girl’s unwavering belief in her fabricated illness, her tragic loneliness… it had been a predictable, controllable narrative.
But this? This changed everything.
A cold fury, sharp as glacial ice, began to uncoil within her. The little Starlight, her father’s precious, innocent darling, the child who had looked at her with such wide-eyed adoration after the lake incident… that child was a phantom.
"No re child, then," Alia breathed, the words a venomous hiss in the sudden, oppressive quiet of her study. "She understood. And she used ."
Alia Valerius. The ancient power, the shadow behind the Valerius throne for generations uncounted. Used by a girl whose lifespan was but a blink in the vast expanse of Alia’s own. The audacity was monuntal. The thought of it, the sha of it, was a burning coal against her pride.
Were all those years a performance? Each earnest question, each shared story, each hug freely given at breakfast – a ticulously crafted play? The idea was deeply unsettling, implying a level of sustained cunning, of patient dissimulation, she hadn’t credited the girl with. Had Freya always known?
“So, this is how she plays,” Alia murmured, her voice dangerously soft. Her hands clenched, pale fingers digging into her own palms. The feeling of being outmaneuvered, of her condescending indulgence being t not with gratitude but with a knowing, hidden assessnt, was an exquisite wound. How dare she? How dare this child keep such a secret, play along with the charade with such convincing innocence, only to reveal it with such calm, devastating precision as a parting shot?
The West Wing felt suddenly… empty. The silence, usually a comforting blanket, now pressed in, amplifying the absence. Freya, with her bright chatter, her earnest readings, her persistent, irritating hopefulness – she was gone. And the quiet she left behind was no longer peaceful. It was hollow.
Alia’s eyes, darkening to the stormy hue they’d shown Freya in that last mont, narrowed. This required… clarification. Swiftly.
She swept from her study, a torrent of erald velvet and cold fury, her movents silent, predatory. The East Wing. She hadn’t ventured there so… purposefully, so openly consud by rage, in an age. Mr. Finch, sensing the shift in his mistress, materialized by the connecting door, his face even more impassive than usual, if that were possible. He opened it without a word, a silent sentinel acknowledging the storm about to break.
Lord Alaric and Lady Iris were in their private sitting room, the air still thick with the bittersweet sorrow of Freya’s departure. They both started violently as Alia burst through the door, not gliding, but striding, her presence radiating an almost visible aura of frigid displeasure.
“You!” Alia’s voice was a low snarl, stripping away all pretense of the gentle ‘Sister Alia’ they had beco so uncomfortably accustod to. “Explain yourselves!”
Lord Alaric, his face paling, instinctively moved to stand slightly in front of Iris. “Lady… Lady Alia? To what do we owe this… unexpected visit?”
“Do not play the fool with , Alaric!” Alia spat, her blue eyes blazing. “Your daughter. She knows.” Each word was an accusation. “She knows I am not her sister. How? And for how long have you abetted this… this charade, this mockery?”
Lady Iris let out a small, terrified gasp, her hand flying to her throat. “Knows? Alia, I… we… we only just learned it ourselves. Truly! Just before she… she left. Freya told us then. We were as stunned as… as you must be.” It was a desperate truth, a shield thrown up against Alia’s wrath.
“Stunned?” Alia’s laugh was a harsh, brittle sound. “You expect to believe that this… revelation was a fresh surprise to you as well? That for years, as she played her devoted little gas, bringing her weeds and her scribbled nonsense to my very threshold, you were blissfully unaware of her true understanding?”
“It is our fault, Alia. Entirely our fault,” Lord Alaric said, his voice strained but firm, trying to draw Alia’s fire. “We… we told her you were her sister when she was a child. A little girl, arriving at this grand, intimidating house. We thought… we thought it would help her adjust. A kindness, we believed. To give her a sense of family, of belonging.”
“A kindness?” Alia sneered. “You filled her head with lies, and then you stood by, for years, as those lies festered, as she built her entire perception of , of this family, upon that deceit! You let her believe I was so poor, sick creature, deserving of her pity!”
“The lie… it just kept evolving, Alia,” Lady Iris whispered, tears welling in her eyes. “Once it was told… it was so hard to undo. And then… then you started to join us. For als. You… you seed to enjoy her company. Freya was so happy. We… we didn’t want to spoil that fragile peace. We thought… perhaps it was for the best.”
“Best?” Alia’s voice dripped with scorn. “Fools! It was all a performance! A farce! And I… I was played by a child!” The humiliation of it burned anew. “She used my… my indulgence, my willingness to entertain her childish fantasies, against !”
“But… but Alia,” Lord Alaric ventured, his voice hesitant, “we… we saw how you were with her. Especially after… after the lake. There were monts… we truly believed you… you cared for her. That her presence brought you… so comfort.”
Alia scoffed, a dismissive, airy sound, though a strange, unwelco warmth flickered deep within her at the mory of Freya’s small, determined face offering a clumsily made paper flower. “Comfort? I tolerated her intrusions. Her incessant… optimism. It was… a diversion.” She waved a dismissive hand.
A flicker of irritation crossed Alia's mind. But why had I played along for so long? The question, unbidden, pricked. Was it rely… easier? Was I so bored that her simplistic sincerity seed… a novelty? The thought, like a shard of unwanted light, was ruthlessly extinguished.
She turned, pacing the room like a caged panther, her fury still simring but now mixed with a disquieting brew of other, less familiar emotions. “She is gone now. To the capital. To be ‘prepared well’.” Alia’s own words, spoken with such condescending approval only that morning, now tasted like ash. Prepared well for what? To return and continue her charade on a grander scale?
“She promised to write,” Alia said suddenly, her voice flat. “Every week.” She looked at Alaric, her eyes narrowed. “You will ensure I receive these… epistles.”
Lord Alaric nodded quickly. “Of course, Alia. Imdiately.”
Without another word, Alia swept from the room, leaving behind a silence thick with terror and unspoken recriminations.
Back in the vast, cold emptiness of her study, Alia sank into her chair. The quiet was profound. No light patter of footsteps in the corridor. No bright, childish voice calling her na. No earnest questions about forgotten kings or the language of the stars. It was… unsettling.
Freya would write. Every week. She plays with again, Alia thought, a surge of familiar anger rising. So, this is the ga you wish to play now, little Starlight? Across distances? With carefully crafted words instead of wilting flowers?
But beneath the anger, sothing else stirred. A grudging, almost imperceptible curl of… respect. Freya was not the naive innocent Alia had believed her to be. There was a depth, a hidden steel, a capacity for cunning that Alia, a connoisseur of power and manipulation, could not entirely dismiss. This child, this woman now, had managed to surprise her, to wound her pride, yes, but also… to intrigue her.
A slow, contemplative smile touched Alia’s lips, a genuine smile this ti, cold and sharp as a winter dawn. “You have my attention, Freya Valerius,” she murmured to the empty room. “You truly do.” The fury was still there, a simring coal, but it was now overlaid with a new, keen interest. “Now that you are an adult… this becos far more stimulating indeed.” The wait for Freya’s return, for the next move in their strange, convoluted dance, suddenly held a new, almost thrilling, anticipation.
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