I was born in the coastal city of Virsel. I was the youngest child of the wealthy di Cortello family. Once, we were a respected house. Our lineage traces all the way back to the founding of the city. The di Cortellos played a vital role in developing overseas trade, which made Virsel world-renowned. Over time, however, the city's main attraction became the famed Ashkantt Academy of Magic. The di Cortello family gradually began to lose ground. Their former status crumbled, and the coffers dried up like a puddle on a sunny summer day. By the time I was born, there was truly little left of the family's former wealth and prestige. During my grandfather's time, the family estate moved to the outskirts of the city, into a villa district—our last remaining residence. The name di Cortello still held a degree of respect in Virsel, but outside the city, few people spoke of it anymore.
My father—Marquess Agdan di Cortello—was more of a military commander than a merchant, as tradition would have demanded of our house. He rejected old customs and became one of the generals in the Margol military. That, along with his personality, earned him a solid reputation. He was a strict, stern, and sometimes cruel man. Long after his death, I still heard stories about his campaigns and merciless methods. But always only in whispers, as if the storytellers were still afraid, he might hear them from his grave, come for them, tear out their tongues, and shatter their finger bones like he used to do to prisoners and deserters.
Thankfully, I don't remember him well. I know I would have hated him. I remember him as a dark silhouette by the flickering fireplace, his strict, angular face illuminated by the flames, quietly puffing on a large, curved pipe—one that remained hanging above his desk as an ornament for many years after his death. I don't even remember the occasion when I saw him like that. I must have snuck quietly out of my room one night and peeked into the salon. The sight probably seemed eerie and exciting to me. But I'd be making that up—no such memory has stayed in my mind.
I have two more memories of my father. One is of a garden celebration. It must have been late spring or early summer. The sun was warm, but pleasantly so. The air was sweet with the scent of white and red roses, and tulips in the colours of the rainbow. I think I wore some stiff little dress that made me feel terribly hot in it. We were all seated around a table, and the sound of teaspoons and forks lightly clinking against dessert plates echoed in my ears. I especially loved the ones with lemon icing. I wasn't paying much attention to anyone else, nor had I ever been interested in table etiquette, so I reached out for the sweets and grabbed one. I was just about to bite into it when something struck my fingers. Startled, I dropped the pastry, which splattered on the silk tablecloth. I had no idea what had happened. At first, I felt nothing, but soon my fingers began to throb in pain. I started crying. From what felt like far away, I heard a scornful, icy voice.
"That is not how a lady behaves at the table. Remember that daughter." Those are the only words of his I recall.
Through the streams of tears, I saw a blurred silhouette beside me. It must have been my father who struck me—and who then scolded me. My mother quickly took me away, and I cried for hours. My fingers throbbed with pain, and a large purple bruise was left behind.
The last memory I have of him is not of the man himself, but of his funeral. It was a beautiful autumn day. The sun was as warm as in summer. I found it strange that everyone was in such a gloomy mood. I would have rather gone to play in the garden than stand around listening to endless speeches. Everyone was dressed in black, with prayer beads wrapped around their necks and wrists. I had a few myself. I played with them discreetly and barely noticed the people around me. But I do remember that my mother cried a lot. She never told me so, but I'm certain she wasn't mourning her husband—but her son.
Akko di Cortello, the oldest and only male heir of the family, followed in our father's footsteps—whether willingly or not. He was a soldier. I barely remember him either, as he studied at the military academy in Takarad and was rarely home. But whenever he did come to Virsel, he was always kind to me. A bit distant, but I know he cared. Once, he brought me a small oriental perfume from a campaign in the south, in a beautiful green-glass bottle. It smelled of orange and almonds.
If I remember correctly, my brother died in the same battle as our father. He died from severe magical burns. Later, I learned that the burns were so extensive that it isn't even certain whether the body laid to rest in our family tomb is really his, or just some ordinary soldier charred beyond recognition.
The last member of the family was my mother—Gismonda Daldis di Cortello. I have the most memories of her. When I close my eyes, I can picture her face. When she had to attend formal events, she would usually have her hair done up in some elegant, complicated hairstyle. At home, she preferred to wear it in a simple bun. Sometimes a few unruly strands would fall free and dance before her eyes. Her face was kind, and she tried to smile as often as possible, but even as a child, I often saw her with a tired and slightly troubled expression. She tried not to show it, so I wouldn't worry. She would always stroke my hair and whisper, "Everything's fine. You don't need to worry about me. Mommy's just happy to be here with you."
When I was very little, we spent a lot of time together, but she was often away with my father on diplomatic and formal occasions. Agdan di Cortello was obsessed with restoring the family's former glory, and he dragged my mother into his plans—mostly just for show. So I still spent much of my childhood alone or looked after by nannies.
Our time together diminished even more after my father died. All responsibilities for the house fell on her shoulders. I can't even imagine how heavy a burden that must have been. She spent even less time at home, and when she did return, she'd spend hours in her study going through piles of documents, signing and sealing letters. Sometimes I would play in there and constantly pester her. I desperately wanted her attention. She did her best, but usually let me play alone. I now realize that I was only making things harder for her. Eventually, I stopped going in there. I don't even know why she did it all. Maybe my father's dream became hers too. But I don't blame her for it.
And so, in the solitude and vastness of the estate, I gradually grew bitter. I felt lonely and unwanted. I was just a small, foolish girl who didn't understand anything. I regret it. I regret not helping my mother. Instead, I turned my back on her.
At the age of ten, I began attending boarding school in Quenti. It was still a fairly prestigious school, though certainly not luxurious. But we couldn't afford anything better. It was I who insisted on going—pleaded with my mother until she agreed. I wanted to get away from the family villa. To escape the emptiness of its halls—and my heart. But in Quenti, my outlook on life didn't change much. I remained constantly dissatisfied and arrogant. I felt I was better than all those children from small noble families. I was a di Cortello, after all! But that led to me becoming the target of nearly everyone's hatred. I think, deep down, I wanted that. I wanted to be despised because it affirmed my uniqueness. I wanted to feel discontented and sorry for myself. There was something strangely comforting about it.
I spent four restless years there. I saw my mother only rarely. I returned to Virsel only when absolutely necessary, though I began to realize that I felt even lonelier in Quenti than at home. But I didn't want to admit it, so I stubbornly stayed.
One October day, I received a letter from my mother saying she needed to discuss something urgent. I realized it must be something truly serious, because she hadn't asked anything of me in years. Occasionally, she would send a letter asking how I like it at school, whether I had made any friends, and so on. I always responded briefly, almost coldly. We had attended a few formal events together as representatives of our house, but she had never written me with such an urgent request.
I set out immediately. Though my relationship with my mother was rather cold, I did care about her. Deep down, I still held an immense love for her—I just didn't want to admit it.