Miralen stood alone in Delayna's room.
She moved slowly, deliberately— her fingers brushing along polished surfaces, her gaze lingering on every detail as if the room might reveal something if she looked long enough.
Then her attention shifted to the tall wardrobe.
Her reflection wavered faintly across its smooth wooden surface as she stepped closer. She opened it.
Inside, dresses were arranged with careful precision— layered neatly, folded without a crease out of place. Everything spoke of discipline. Control.
Too much control.
Her eyes drifted lower towards two drawers.
She pulled the first one open.
There were ribbons, a few pieces of jewelry. There was nothing unusual, nothing worth hiding.
She closed it.
Then opened the second.
Her hand paused.
For a moment, she simply stared.
Inside lay knives.
Not one. Not two. But ten of them.
Each were of different design, yet equally refined. Elegant. Lethal.
Their sheaths were dark, polished, almost decorative— if not for the quiet danger they carried.
Miralen reached in and picked one up. She unsheathed it slowly. The blade caught the light, gleaming faintly. Her reflection stared back at her from its surface-sharp, clear.
"...Why are these here?" she murmured. No answer came.
She slid the blade back into its sheath and returned it carefully.
That was when she noticed it a diary. Placed to the side. Almost hidden, but not entirely.
Miralen picked it up.
It was of royal blue with gold embroidery, worn, but preserved.
She closed the drawer and the wardrobe, then walked back to the bed and sat down.
Opening the diary, she turned the first page.
Delayna Evander.
The name was written in elegant script.
She flipped to the next page.
A date rested neatly in the corner—
17/05/1845.
Three months ago.
So... Delayna kept a diary.
Miralen's eyes scanned the page— but before she could read a single line—
knock.
She froze.
Quickly, she slid the diary beneath her pillow and straightened her posture.
"Come in," she said, her tone calm, measured.
The door opened. The same servant from earlier stepped inside.
"Miss Delayna," he said politely, "Sir Evander has requested your presence immediately. Please come with me."
Miralen blinked once, then nodded.
"Alright. I'm coming."
She stood, her gaze flicking briefly toward the pillow.
Then she followed him out.
The corridor stretched long and quiet.
Their footsteps echoed softly as they walked.
Eventually, the servant stopped before a door and knocked at it, "Come in," a voice answered from inside.
The servant opened the door and stepped aside.
"Miss, you first."
Miralen gave a small nod and entered.
The room was larger. More refined. Every object placed with intention.
A man sat near the fireplace, the fire casting a warm, controlled glow across the room. Zyran Evander.
They approached.
"Sir Evander, Miss Delayna is here," the servant said.
Zyran nodded. "You may leave."
The servant bowed and exited, closing the door behind him.
Silence settled.
Zyran looked at Miralen.
"Sit."
She did.
Their gazes met— hers steady, composed; his unreadable.
"You're aware you'll be visiting the palace today," he said.
"Yes," Miralen replied.
He nodded once.
"Good. You should also resume your training soon. There's no need to waste time now that you've recovered."
Training.
The word echoed in her mind— but her expression did not change.
"Of course," she said calmly. "But I think I may need a little more time. I don't feel completely well yet."
Zyran studied her for a moment.
Then he nodded.
"Fine. Take your time." His tone remained even. "But I expect your performance to remain the same as before. I will not tolerate decline."
"Understood, Father."
"You may go."
His gaze had already returned to the fire.
Miralen stood and left the room quietly.
By the time she returned to Delayna's room, her mind was
already racing.
Training?
What kind of training?
What was Delayna doing before?
She shut the door behind her— and locked it.
Then she moved quickly to the bed, lifting the pillow.
Nothing.
She froze.
The diary was gone.
"What...?"
Her eyes widened as she searched— under the blanket, beneath the sheets, under the bed.
Nothing.
She stepped back slowly, her heartbeat picking up.
"It can't just... disappear," she muttered.
Her gaze shifted toward the window.
"Did someone take it?"
Silence.
"Or..." she whispered, frowning slightly, "does this place not want me to read it?"
She sat down on the edge of the bed, unease settling deep within her.
For the first time since arriving— something felt actively hidden from her.
———
Miralen stood before the mirror, dressed for the palace.
The attire felt unfamiliar— yet it fit her too well.
The upper half was soft and pristine, a white blouse with gently puffed sleeves. Fine embroidery in deep rose traced across the fabric like curling vines, gathering at her chest where a single rose bloomed. An antique pendant rested lightly at her collar, catching the light with every small movement.
The skirt flowed from her waist in rich plum layers, ruffled and weightless, shifting like quiet waves as she moved. Golden patterns, delicate as veins, spread across the lower folds. The corset, of the same hue, cinched her waist neatly— firm, but not suffocating.
Her hair was tied in a half— ponytail, secured with the same golden hairpin. Not a strand out of place.
She looked… like she belonged here.
Miralen stepped closer to the mirror.
For a moment, she simply stared.
"This dress is beautiful…" she murmured softly, her fingers brushing lightly over the embroidered rose. Then her gaze shifted, drifting past her reflection— toward the palace visible through the window. "…but I don't have time to admire it."
Her expression stilled slightly.
"So many mysteries…" she whispered, almost to herself. "And I've just walked into the center of them."
———
Downstairs, the living room was quiet, bathed in soft daylight.
Verbena was already there, waiting.
She wore a flowing white gown layered with soft blue ruffles. Golden floral embroidery bloomed along the hem, delicate and intricate. The blue corset at her waist gave her a graceful, poised silhouette— gentle, yet noble.
When she saw Miralen, her eyes lit up.
"Sister… you look beautiful," Verbena said, smiling warmly.
Miralen paused for a moment, then returned a small smile. "You don't look any less."
Verbena laughed softly. "Let's go before Father sends someone after us again."
"That would be unfortunate," Miralen replied lightly.
Both of them stepped forward and bowed respectfully to Inara.
"Be careful," Inara said, her voice calm but carrying quiet weight. "And don't stay longer than necessary."
"We won't, Mother," Verbena assured gently.
Miralen nodded. "We'll return soon."
Outside, the carriage waited.
Two white horses stood at the front, their posture disciplined, unmoving except for the faint flick of their tails. The carriage itself was polished, elegant— every detail speaking of quiet wealth rather than display.
Miralen and Verbena stepped inside.
The carriage began to move.
For a while, silence settled between them.
Miralen turned her gaze toward the window, watching the passing view— streets too clean, too controlled. Nothing out of place.
Then Verbena spoke.
"Princess Aestrin will be so happy to see you again," she said, unable to hide her excitement.
Miralen turned slightly, her expression calm, though her mind paused at the unfamiliar name. "Is that so?" she said, tilting her head just a little. "Then I suppose I should prepare myself."
Verbena smiled brightly. "You used to spend so much time with her. I think she missed you the most."
Used to.
Miralen held that word quietly but let none of it show.
"I'm looking forward to seeing her," she replied.
Verbena leaned forward slightly, excitement bubbling over. "I want to see her reaction when she sees you!"
Miralen let out a faint breath of amusement. "You seem more excited than I am."
"Of course I am," Verbena said without hesitation. "I already know what will happen."
"And what is that?" Miralen asked.
"She'll either hug you… or start scolding you."
Miralen raised a brow. "That doesn't sound very welcoming."
Verbena giggled softly. "That's how she shows she cares."
Miralen didn't respond immediately— but a small, genuine smile appeared.
The carriage passed through the palace gates.
The world shifted.
A vast garden stretched before them— orderly, precise, yet breathtaking. Guards moved along their paths in silent discipline. Servants crossed the grounds with purpose. Every movement here felt controlled, measured.
Nothing was wasted.
Nothing was careless.
The carriage came to a halt before a grand entrance.
Miralen stepped down, followed by Verbena.
She lifted her gaze to the towering doors. For a brief moment, she said nothing. Then she exhaled softly.
"Nervous?" Verbena asked gently, stepping beside her.
Miralen's eyes remained on the doors.
"…A little," she admitted. Then, after a pause, her expression steadied. "But I'll manage."
Verbena smiled. "You always do."
Miralen glanced at her— and for a second, something softer passed through her eyes.
Then she looked back at the doors.
And stepped forward.
(The end of chapter 14)