Chapter 196: Isadora
"Waaah! You hit
again!" Isadora shrieked, her dramatic wails echoing through the castle as the maids helped her to her feet.
Her cries were loud enough to reach every corner of the estate, stirring up the usual commotion.
In the garden, Benedict was peacefully sipping his afternoon tea when the piercing sound reached his ears. Startled, he choked on his drink, coughing violently.
"My Lord!" Albert rushed to his side, dabbing at Benedict’s face with a handkerchief, concern etched on his face. "Are you alright?"
Benedict waved him off with a weak hand, glancing up toward the third floor where the source of the ruckus undoubtedly was.
With a weary smile, he shook his head. "Those two... every ti they’re together, chaos is sure to follow."
Albert chuckled, nodding in agreent. "Miss Isadora always stirs things up, but she never seems to win against Miss Lyra. Yet she keeps trying."
Just then, Genevieve Calvin, Isadora’s mother, stord into the garden. Her perfectly styled blonde hair was pinned back, and a delicate rose nestled beside it, though her expression was anything but delicate.
Lifting her gown slightly, she approached Benedict with frustration written all over her face. "Dad, why did you bring HER back? Isadora’s upset again, and this ti you’ve really made her suffer."
Benedict looked at her with a soft, almost amused smile. "Genevieve, Isadora’s twenty-nine. She doesn’t need you running to her rescue every ti sothing goes wrong."
Genevieve pursed her lips, clearly not thrilled with the remark, but she managed a curt nod. "I understand," she said reluctantly, giving a stiff curtsy before turning to leave.
anwhile, upstairs, the drama was still in full swing.
"Oh my, you’re an absolute brute in a woman’s body!" Isadora fud as one of the maids attempted to smooth out her disheveled dress. "You’re terrifying! How can a lady be so violent? You haven’t changed at all!"
She was still rattled, the mories of their childhood clashes flooding back. She thought of the first ti she t Lyra—who had sat on the couch like a quiet, mysterious little doll. Excited, Isadora had gone to shake her hand, only for her own to nearly be crushed, swelling up like a balloon.
"You’ve been plotting to steal Grandpa’s favor since the day we t! You can’t fool !" Isadora’s voice rose with indignation.
Lyra rembered that incident all too well. "I told you it wasn’t intentional."
Back then, she had been so naturally strong that even her father had caught the occasional accidental injury. For soone as delicate as Isadora, well... there had never been a chance.
"You’re lying!" Isadora spat, flouncing around the room with a dramatic flick of her skirt. "Just wait. I’ll make sure you and your filthy little soul fall beneath my feet!"
With that final declaration, she stord out, her heels clattering as loudly as her entrance.
Lyra barely batted an eye as she watched her cousin go, thinking privately that Isadora had missed her true calling—she would have made an excellent opera star with all that drama.
As the afternoon gave way to dusk, a sleek Lev glided smoothly through the estate’s iron gates. Kritt Calvin, Lyra’s cousin and military officer, had returned.
The maids scurried to greet him, taking his cloak and cap with respectful bows. Albert approached, his smile warm. "Lyra has arrived," he inford Kritt, who was as tall and stoic as ever.
Kritt simply nodded, his face unreadable. "I’ll change first," he said in his usual no-nonsense tone before heading upstairs.
Later, at the maids’ prompting, Lyra made her way to the dining room.
When she entered, her uncle stood there, looking exactly as she rembered him—sharp, composed, and distant. Rising from her seat, Lyra lifted her skirt and offered a formal greeting. "Uncle Kritt."
The brown-haired man, dressed in a perfectly tailored silk shirt and adorned with jeweled cufflinks, glanced at her with a complex expression.
Lyra’s resemblance to his late sister was undeniable, and it stirred a ss of emotions in him. He gave a curt nod in response. "Hmm."
That was the extent of his acknowledgnt. The tension in the air was thick—Kritt had been the most vocal opponent of his sister’s marriage to Lyra’s father, Tyro Shedd, and ti had proven him right.
The news of his sister’s tragic death had shaken the family, and now, facing Lyra, he didn’t know quite what to say.
Benedict, ever the peacekeeper, smiled gently at the younger generation around the table. The flickering candlelight danced in his eyes as he raised his hand. "Let’s eat," he said softly.
For a while, the only sounds were the delicate clink of silverware against fine china as the family dined. But the uneasy calm was abruptly broken by the sharp screech of tal scraping against porcelain.
Isadora, her face twisted in frustration, shoved her plate away violently. "I’ve lost my appetite," she announced loudly, breaking the silence.
Genevieve set her utensils down, dabbing her mouth with a napkin before speaking, her tone sharp but controlled. "Isadora, we have guests. Show so decorum."
Her words, though directed at her daughter, carried an unmistakable undercurrent of displeasure aid at Lyra. It was clear who she believed was responsible for Isadora’s sour mood.
"Just seeing her ruins my appetite," Isadora complained, her voice dripping with indignation. "She attacked , the host, on her first day! How am I the rude one here?"
Lyra remained unfazed, steadily cutting into her steak with a calm, almost dismissive precision.
Her silence only made Isadora’s anger flare. It drove her mad that Lyra always acted like she wasn’t even worth acknowledging.
"Grandpa, are you just going to—"
"Isadora," Kritt’s voice cut in, stern and sharp. "The maids told
you were the one who provoked Lyra first. We’re family, and family doesn’t settle things by crying foul when they lose. Your behavior is disgraceful, and you’re embarrassing yourself."
Isadora’s face flushed red with humiliation, her eyes glistening as she fought back tears.
Genevieve glared at her husband, clearly irritated that he wasn’t siding with their daughter, but Kritt remained unmoved.
Suddenly, Isadora slamd her hands down on the table, standing abruptly. "I challenge you!" she declared, her voice trembling with fury.
The room froze for a mont, stunned by the sudden outburst.
Genevieve’s face paled in disbelief. "Isadora, don’t be ridiculous! You need to learn grace, not throw around childish challenges—"
"Genevieve, let them be," Benedict said gently, his tone calm yet firm. "It’s natural for the young to settle their differences through a spar. Don’t interfere."
Genevieve opened her mouth to protest but, seeing the quiet resolve in Benedict’s eyes, she reluctantly fell silent. She glanced toward her husband for support, but Kritt rely sipped his wine, turning his gaze to Lyra. "What’s your answer?"
Lyra didn’t even blink. "Challenge accepted."
She calmly placed her spoons down, and a maid hurried over to clear her plate, bringing out a fruit tart for dessert.
Lyra raised a hand, stopping her. "Just a glass of warm water, please."
Her health had improved dramatically since she’d gotten rid of the Soul Spikes, and she no longer needed the excessive calories.
Besides, she had developed a distaste for sweets.
The maid scurried away just as Albert entered the room with a bright grin. "Master Robin has returned."
Benedict’s face lit up. "That’s wonderful! Tell him to join us for dinner."
Genevieve’s expression darkened even further at the ntion of her son’s return, while Isadora, still fuming, let out a cold snort.
"You’ll see," she muttered under her breath, flashing a challenging smile at her father and grandfather. "You both can watch
knock her down later."
A few monts later, Robin entered the dining room, his timing impeccable. He caught the tail end of his sister’s boast but didn’t comnt, offering a polite greeting to everyone. His short black hair glead under the candlelight as he took his seat, his deanor calm and respectful.
"Robin," Benedict said, beaming at his grandson. "You’ll be working with Lyra from now on. Make sure to look after her."
Robin nodded, his face serious. "Of course."
Benedict chuckled softly, throwing Lyra a playful wink. "You know, Lyra, Robin’s as dull as his father. I bet you’ve found him boring, haven’t you?"
Lyra set her glass down, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "Not at all. Robin’s strong and interesting. I’ve learned a lot from him."
Robin’s eyes flickered with a brief hint of acknowledgnt, though he remained quiet, focused on his plate. The banter between them felt easy and familiar, warming the atmosphere at the table.
But Genevieve’s grip on her fork tightened, her knuckles white with suppressed frustration. She could hardly stand the sight of it—the bastard of her husband, and her own daughter being overshadowed in her own ho.
As the al ca to a close, Isadora eagerly pressed for her challenge. She was practically buzzing with anticipation as she led the group to the Calvin family’s training room.
The space, while designed for sparring, held the sa refined elegance as the rest of the mansion. The walls were lined with subtle wallpaper in soft shades of brown, and plush sofas were arranged in one corner for spectators to watch in comfort.
Isadora had changed into a fitted riding outfit, her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail as she stared Lyra down with fierce determination. "I’m going to make you regret accepting this!"
Genevieve had chosen not to attend, unable to bear the sight of her daughter engaging in such an unsightly display. That left Benedict, Kritt, Robin, and Albert standing off to the side as the small audience.
Lyra, as usual, was calm and composed, barely reacting to Isadora’s fiery taunts. She knew this fight was already decided.
Isadora, on the other hand, radiated confidence as she prepared to make the first move.
Her eyes glead with the certainty of victory, but beneath it all, a flicker of doubt lingered—a seed of fear, knowing that she had never truly bested Lyra.
Today, she was determined to change that, but the question remained: could she?
As the room fell silent, the stage was set, and the two cousins stood poised for battle.
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