Between a Mother's Prayer and the Excessive Sweetness of a Soul
Several weeks had passed since the day the book—that which ought never to have occupied any shelf—became the fixed centre of attention for an infant who had yet to properly grasp the language of mankind.
Within the Zeneris estate, time returned to its habitual conduct: slow, orderly, and steeped in repetition. The great clocks struck their hours without deviation, servants passed to and fro with identical steps, and sunlight unfailingly settled upon the same corners of the halls, as though the house itself feared alteration.
Yet Friesy knew.
Beneath that tranquillity, something was growing.
She now often seated herself beside the window, opening ancient volumes whose scent resembled the dust of prayers long forgotten and ink that had outlived its witnesses. These books were not light reading—their language archaic, laden with metaphor, and at times a single sentence demanded an hour's contemplation.
"Old tongues were never fashioned for children," Friesy murmured to herself one afternoon, her fingers tracing letters that seemed almost alive. "They were created for warnings… and for curses."
And precisely for that reason, she studied them.
She wished that when Vleresia one day opened her mouth to read—not merely to sound letters—the words that emerged would not be hollow, not fragile, nor easily devoured by the world. Friesy possessed no gift of magic, no legendary bloodline, nor an intellect destined for historical remembrance.
She was only a mother.
And at times, that felt insufficient.
"I still do not understand," Friesy said one evening, her voice low with exhaustion, as she sat opposite Blenoris in a dining chamber far too vast for two. "How can it be… that an infant might become the ruin of a clan?"
Blenoris did not answer at once. He rotated his wineglass slowly, watching candlelight fracture across its surface.
"Our ancestors never spoke without cause," he replied at last. "Yet they were also… seldom inclined to explain."
Friesy smiled bitterly. "That is precisely the problem. Vlerina's words—Hersie of Prosperity—sound like a prophecy of calamity. And yet this Zeneris clan…" She paused, searching for the proper phrase. "…lives like vermin. We fall, we rise, we hide, we endure. We have never been grand enough to warrant the world's destruction."
Her gaze fell to her hands.
"And now… suddenly, there is an anomaly?"
Blenoris did not deny it.
But his thoughts drifted to one unspoken detail: those eyes.
During the hours when the world lay silent, Vleresia was almost always in his study—not because the room offered comfort, but because the book resided there.
She could remain—cradled by cushions or held upon a lap—for hours, her violet eyes gleaming as they fixed upon the illustration of the Villainess with an intensity wholly unnatural for one of her age. Her green hair had begun to show faint golden threads, like sunlight lost among young leaves.
Five hours, Friesy thought one afternoon, peering through the door. Five hours gazing upon the same image.
"Are you… lonely?" Friesy whispered, though she knew her daughter might not comprehend.
Vleresia did not turn.
Her fingers brushed the page gently—not possessively, but familiarly, as though greeting someone long known.
Friesy swallowed.
One truth continued to haunt her thoughts: Vleresia bore no halo.
In the world of Fletcher, a halo was not merely a symbol of sanctity, but a narrative mark—who was recorded, who was noticed, who was protected. Its absence meant a life without guarantee, without the world's implicit mercy.
And those star-shaped eyes…
Eyes with pupils like celestial stars, ocean-blue edged in white—a sign appearing but once every five centuries. A sign that rendered a soul excessively fragrant to narrative beings, dangerously enticing to things that ought never hunger.
The natural protection meant to veil that scent had been broken.
Broken by Zefom.
Broken for the sake of survival.
A cruel irony: to save her, they had made her more visible.
"I must protect her until her eleventh year," Friesy murmured one night, speaking to her own reflection. "Until the barrier collapses. Until Vlerina's blessing reaches its stable form."
Eleven years.
Eleven years without leaving the estate.
Eleven years of confining a child who might be… far too aware to accept a cage without resistance.
At times, gentler thoughts intruded.
Perhaps she needs a companion.
Friesy smiled faintly, bitter. "A sibling, perhaps," she whispered. "So you will not be alone, my little angel."
She knew it was no solution to destiny.
But mothers rarely think that far.
The great clock struck twelve.
Midnight.
The hour of sleep.
Friesy walked toward Blenoris's study, her steps soft, as though fearful of disturbing the small world being built within. She saw Vleresia still awake—those starry eyes reflecting lamplight, her tiny face serious in a way that was almost painful to behold.
"My dear," Friesy whispered, lifting her gently. "It is time to sleep."
Vleresia finally looked away from the Villainess.
For a moment—only a moment—their eyes met.
And Friesy felt something strange: not the gaze of an infant,
but the look of someone who understood… that the world was unkind, and that the book was her first window toward a different path.
Friesy held her tighter.
Unaware that she was carrying not merely her daughter—
but a possibility that history would one day test.
Beyond the windows of the Zeneris estate, the world of Fletcher continued its turning, utterly unaware that within that tranquil house,
a false Villainess was learning to love books…
before learning to hate her destiny.
On Rejected Toys and a Single Word That Shattered Resolve
Several more days passed—days outwardly identical, yet to Friesy they grew heavier, like a fine rain that never truly ceased but left the garments of the soul perpetually damp.
Morning arrived as expected.
Light streamed through the estate's tall windows, casting pale green hues upon ancient walls. Servants moved with trained steps, porcelain clinked politely, and the aroma of warm tea filled the air like a prayer repeated without variation.
And amidst all this order, Vleresia sat.
She did not run.
She did not laugh.
She did not grasp colourful blocks like other infants.
She stared at the illustration of the Villainess—again.
"My love," Friesy said, forcing brightness into her voice as she knelt before her daughter. "Shall we play for a while?"
She lifted a new toy—wooden blocks crafted by artisans of the capital, smoothly polished, painted in gentle hues, even carved with symbols believed to encourage early intellect.
The toy was costly.
Chosen with care.
And utterly… ignored.
Vleresia glanced at it.
Her expression was flat.
Then—slowly but decisively—she pushed it aside, sending the blocks tumbling to the floor with a light sound that rang far louder in Friesy's ears.
"…You do not like it?" Friesy asked uncertainly, more of herself than the child.
Vleresia returned her gaze to the book.
Not petulantly.
Not in anger.
But with the calm of one who had already chosen.
Friesy sank slowly into a nearby chair.
"You are not yet a year old," she murmured. "You should delight in such things… playing, stacking, knocking them down, laughing for no reason."
She smiled ruefully. "Not… gazing upon illustrated tragedies."
Friesy had tried everything.
Cloth dolls.
Small bells.
Picture books of animals.
Soft-sounding toys.
All met the same fate: a brief glance, then abandonment.
Only one object never left Vleresia's side save for hunger or sleep—the novel.
I Hate & Love — Original View.
A title that with each passing day felt like a subtle mockery of an ordinary mother's efforts.
"Am I wrong?" Friesy asked one afternoon, speaking to empty air while Vleresia napped. "Or… is this simply her fate?"
She looked at her hands.
Hands that had never wielded a sword.
Never held a staff.
Never etched great achievements into history.
"I only know how to love," she whispered. "And even that… feels insufficient."
Friesy began to consider other means—something that might draw Vleresia's interest without harming her attachment to the book. A small instrument, perhaps. Paintings. Something tied to stories, yet gentler.
She rose, walking slowly, still lost in thought.
And then—
A sound.
Soft.
Brief.
Yet so clear that the world itself seemed to cease breathing.
"Ma… ma."
Friesy halted mid-step.
She turned slowly.
Her eyes widened.
Her heart stopped—then raced too swiftly.
"…"
"…What?"
Vleresia looked at her.
Not vacant.
Not unfocused.
Her gaze was sharp—unnervingly so—and her small lips moved again, as though recalling something long known but only now daring to speak.
"Ma… ma."
Imperfect.
Unpolished.
But enough.
Enough to shatter all of Friesy's defences.
"O—oh…?" Her breath caught. "Vleresia…?"
Her legs weakened.
Her head grew light.
Fragments of memory—first smiles, tiny fingers gripping hers, sleepless nights of tears—flooded in all at once, unbidden.
And then—warmth.
Too much warmth.
Blood trickled slowly from her nose.
"…Ah."
She touched it with trembling fingers.
A nosebleed.
Her body finally yielding to emotions long suppressed.
Servants who witnessed the scene panicked.
"Lady Friesy!"
"A cloth—!"
"Summon the physician—!"
But Friesy heard none of it.
She knelt, clutching Vleresia tightly, tears mingling with blood, laughing and weeping at once in a manner entirely ungraceful.
"You…" her voice broke. "You called me… Mama?"
Vleresia did not repeat it.
She merely leaned against her mother's chest, calm—as though the word were no miracle, but a truth the world had finally acknowledged.
Within the infant, a consciousness far too mature for her years stirred faintly.
A first word, she thought dimly, is always the most effective.
And without anyone grasping its meaning,
on that day—within the modest chamber of the Zeneris family—
a false Villainess used language for the first time…
not to challenge the world,
but to soothe her mother.
Meanwhile, beyond the unseen layers of reality, the narrative of Fletcher inscribed a single, nearly insignificant line:
Anomalous subject displays linguistic development beyond accepted parameters.
But to Friesy—
It was no record.
It was a miracle.