My suitcase, compared to Isolde's, looked more like a handbag. Just the essentials: my pistol, some clothes, and the Scriptures of Paradox. Isolde, on the other hand, was lugging extra clothes, her shotgun, bedtime stories, perfumes, toys, accessories, and some pencils.
"What are the pencils for?" I asked, glancing at her skeptically. I genuinely doubted they'd be useful.
"Oh… I guess for studying," she replied, struggling to zip her suitcase shut. "We'll be away from the academy for a while, but we still have to be responsible about learning."
"I never saw you pack them before we left home…"
"It was a last-minute thing. I thought you'd need one too. You know… you're the one who studies theory the most out of us."
"Lucius! Isolde! Hurry up or the carriage will leave us!" Mom's voice cut through from outside the ship. She sounded impatient. Our parents were already ready, while we, as if time were malleable, were still chatting casually.
Yeah, we were behind. But after what happened, after the chaos that forced us to repack everything, could we really be blamed? Maybe we should've brought less.
"Ready? We gotta go."
"I'm ready."
We turned, dragging our suitcases toward the ship's exit.
"Isolde, sweetheart… You brought too much for the short time we'll be here," Mom said, watching Isolde wrestle with her luggage's weight.
"I thought it'd be nice to bring some toys to play with the grandparents… I don't know. Guess I was being silly."
"You don't just have the grandparents to play with," I cut in, looking at her seriously. "You know that, right?"
She smiled at me, as if that gesture could dispel an invisible shadow.
"You're right. Thanks, Lucy… But it's so cold…" She shivered, her breath visible for a moment.
"We should've brought coats and gloves… We'll need to buy some later," Dad said to Mom.
"You're right. Isolde and Lucius won't handle this cold well…"
I rubbed my hands, blowing on them in a futile attempt to regain some warmth. February… yeah, it'd be cold in this part of the continent too. Funny thing is, in a week, it'd be our thirteenth birthday. Coincidence? Maybe. But coincidences tend to make me uneasy.
"Alright, family, let's go," Dad announced, starting to descend from the ship.
We followed. We reached a carriage where he and Mom struck up a conversation with the driver. Isolde and I handled loading our suitcases. That's when I noticed something off in her behavior.
"You okay?" I asked cautiously.
"It's nothing," she replied, but her voice carried a visible unease. "I mean, it's something, but it's silly…"
"Silly? What's got you so… nervous?"
"You know that feeling on the back of your neck? Like a tingle, a chill down your spine… like something bad's about to happen."
I nodded. That feeling was all too familiar.
"Well… I've got that. Like a warning I can't explain. I've got a bad feeling about this continent. I feel like something bad's gonna happen."
I stepped closer and hugged her gently.
"Easy, Issy. We already went through something bad a few months ago. Don't you think it'd be too much of a coincidence for it to happen again, on another continent? If it did… I'd think the universe is conspiring against us."
That's what I said. But inside, another thought was already forming. I clearly remembered feeling something similar before Vritra's attack in Millford. It wasn't just a hunch… more like the prelude to something just beginning, something that'd take a long time to end.
And in the last two months, no sign of Dante or Vritra. Hard to read those who stay out of reach.
"Lucius, Isolde, time to go," Mom said, opening the carriage door.
"Alright," I replied, taking Isolde's hand as we climbed in together. The carriage was surprisingly luxurious… cushioned seats. A minor luxury, but appreciated.
The ride was quick, uneventful. Actually… pleasant. Plants were waking under the retreating snow, trees showed green buds, and some carriages headed toward the port. There were peasants too, baskets on their shoulders, carrying vegetables. A serene scene.
For Isolde, that meant boredom. Though not entirely. At one point, a lake caught her eye. She leaned out the window so eagerly she nearly fell; if I hadn't grabbed her in time, she'd have ended up on the road.
The lake was worth it: crystal clear, surrounded by flowers, the sun reflecting on its surface like scattered liquid gems. You could even see the fish. Compared to the artificial lake in Millford's central park, this felt like another world. So clean and alive it almost hurt to know not every place was like this.
Mom and Dad enjoyed the view too. Me… I just wanted to sleep.
The sound of the crowd woke me as the carriage slowed. I was disoriented, a bit of drool on my face. Not an elegant wake-up.
The door opened. Mom and Dad got out first. Isolde stood, and I followed, rubbing my sleepy eyes.
"Enjoy your stay," the driver said. I didn't turn to look, but I heard the carriage pull away.
I looked up. The light forced me to squint. Mansions, modest houses, shops… everything less vertical than Millford, but with a wider layout, more room to breathe.
Mom took my hand firmly. Dad hoisted Isolde onto his shoulders.
"Don't wander off, Lucius," she warned, looking at me seriously.
I smiled and nodded.
"It's easy to get lost in this part of the kingdom. Let's move. The mansion should be… near the city's edge. The Rosecourt neighborhood."
And so we walked, weaving through people, dodging carriages, avoiding merchants. The crowd thinned gradually. It didn't vanish, just transformed: now more orderly, better dressed… people accustomed to luxury.
Until the streets changed completely.
Everything was luxury, no need for signs or fanfare. The cobblestones gleamed with a polish that suggested more than mere cleanliness: as if they'd been washed with red wine and scrubbed with silk. On either side, houses—no, mansions—stood with silent majesty, separated by alleys where climbing plants wove, as if nature itself aspired to nobility. Private staircases hidden behind ivy curtains, windows reflecting light like enchanted mirrors… Everything smelled of ancient wood, meticulously tended gardens, a silence only money could buy.
And then I knew we were in Rosecourt. No one said it. They didn't need to. The air whispered it on its own.
If someone asked me to describe this place, I'd say it's the Beverly Hills of our world… though here, social judgment comes with more lineage labels than expensive watches.
The shift felt abrupt when Mom stopped in front of one of the mansions. She was tense, lips pressed tight as if held by invisible nails. She climbed the steps with determination and knocked on the door with a firmness that betrayed more than haste. The sound echoed, deep, resonant, like it announced more than a visit.
Instinctively, Isolde took my hand. I didn't pull away. In fact, I nearly did the same. The door opened inward, revealing a young woman with white hair tipped purple and yellow eyes. Uniformed. A maid, judging by the serene gesture trained to perfection.
"How may I assist you?" she asked, with a courtesy bordering on indifference.
"Is Lady Sif St. Clair here?" Mom asked. Her voice wasn't weak, but… cracked inside.
"Yes… though you can't see her without an appointment," the young woman replied, unmoved.
"I know… But I don't need an appointment. The thing is—"
"She's my daughter," a voice interrupted from inside.
I tilted my head. Isolde did too. What we saw was an older woman, identical to Mom except for silver hair and the weight of years on her shoulders.
She wore red. Brown eyes, like mine. Like Mom's.
From where I stood, I could see the grand staircase inside, servants paused in their steps, some confused, others watching with the kind of look that learns not to interfere.
"Mom…" my mother whispered. So faint I thought I'd imagined it.
Dad, meanwhile, smiled. Not a joyful smile. Something more complex. Acceptance, maybe.
"Let them in," the older woman ordered. "And serve them tea. Our talk will be… long."
She didn't sound excited. In fact, she seemed almost annoyed. At our arrival? I didn't know then.
The maid stepped aside, bowing. Mom entered first. Then Dad. Isolde and I were last. Just before crossing the threshold, Isolde stopped in front of the maid and gave her a smile.
"Lucy," she called, not taking her eyes off the girl.
"What's up?" I asked, turning to her.
"Do you have ten florins?"
"What? For what?"
"Just lend them to me."
It was a request I didn't understand, but it was Isolde. And when it came to her… I rarely said no. I pulled a coin from my pocket and handed it over.
"Thanks," she said, turning to the maid. She took her hand, opened her palm, and placed the coin gently. "It's for you."
"Thank you very much," the maid said, with a more heartfelt bow.
I smiled too. There was warmth in that gesture. A small light that contrasted with what I knew, instinctively, was coming.
We turned and walked inside. But Mom and Dad were no longer in the entryway. They'd passed through a large door at the back of the hall.
Isolde hurried, but I stopped her with a word:
"The suitcases."
"Oh… right."
She turned. But the maid had already taken hers and was heading upstairs. Even mine followed. Did everyone in this house move that fast?
We said nothing. Just followed our parents.
We found them seated on a wide sofa, facing our grandmother, who sat in the opposite armchair. Isolde and I sat beside them.
No one spoke. The air was thick, each particle heavier than the last. Uncomfortable was an understatement.
Finally, our grandmother broke the silence with a question that felt more like a gunshot.
"What are you doing here, Erika? Why'd you come back?"
Mom took a moment to respond.
"I thought… it'd be good to see you."
"After all these years? You left without a word. Do you know how long I searched for you, not even knowing if you were alive? How many nights I spent imagining the worst, begging for a sign, a letter, a damn word? And now you come back… without warning. Just like when you left."
"At least you know I'm okay. Can't you be happy about that?"
The silence returned. Sharper this time.
I looked at Isolde. Her expression mirrored mine: discomfort, confusion… and something harder to name. Maybe the quiet sting of realizing our mother, the woman who always knew how to act, now seemed… lost.
"And them?" our grandmother asked, her gaze landing on us for the first time. "Did they come to see the mess you left behind too?"
Dad tensed. Mom didn't answer right away.
"Don't drag them into this," she said finally, her voice low. But it was too late. We were already in it.
"How can I not? They're your new family, Erika. Your perfect world. Do those kids have any idea what kind of person you were?"
"Enough," Mom cut her off. Her tone… dry, sharp. I'd never heard it before.
"You're telling me to shut up? You, of all people? After disappearing, rejecting us, slamming the door like we were enemies…"
"You made it that way!" Mom's voice exploded. "You never let me live. You decided everything for me, watched every step, every thought. You think I ran away on a whim? I ran because living with you was like living in a cage!"
Her voice echoed in the hall like a broken bell.
No one moved.
Dad stayed still.
I felt a knot in my chest. Seeing her like this… so broken, so hurt, yet so resolute, it hurt me. I didn't know this version of her existed.
"Everything I did was to protect you," our grandmother murmured. But even her words couldn't hide what she really felt.
"No. You tried to own me."
This time, Mom didn't shout. She whispered. And in that whisper was a deep, dark, worn-out sadness.
Then she turned. Walked to the other end of the hall. Opened a door. It creaked faintly.
And disappeared behind it.
No one followed.
No one said a word.
I just sat there, staring at the closed door.
And for the first time, I understood that my mother had wounds too.
And not all of them had healed.
Dad stood from the sofa and walked toward the door Mom had vanished through. Not a word, not a glance. Just that steady step, as if he knew he had to be with her, even if he didn't know what to say.
Isolde and I looked at each other. We nodded at the same time, as if sharing a thought that didn't need explaining. We didn't know if what we were about to do would help, if it'd make a difference… or if we'd just add fuel to a fire already burning on its own. But still, there was a chance. Tiny, almost laughable. And that was enough.
We stood from the sofa and walked to our grandmother, positioning ourselves one on each side. She barely looked at us at first, her gaze still fixed on that closed door.
"Do you hate us?" Isolde asked, with a deliberate sweetness, almost too innocent. Her expression was sad, carefully measured.
"What?" Our grandmother frowned, caught off guard. "You're Erika's daughter, aren't you? That makes you my granddaughter." She smiled, as if that conclusion could erase the weight of the past.
Isolde nodded. Then our grandmother looked at me. She raised her hand, tried to touch my cheek. I pulled back, not aggressively, but with clear intent. Before allowing any affection, things needed to be said.
"Why are you fighting with your daughter?" I asked. There was no anger in my voice, just coldness. "You should be happy she's alive. What if, instead of coming here, you'd gotten news they found her body in some alley? Would you have reacted the same?"
"Child…"
I wasn't stopping. And apparently, Isolde understood where my words were headed.
"Mom was nervous about seeing you," I continued. "I heard her so many times talk about what she wanted to tell you… about what it'd be like to reunite with you. And this is how you greet her?"
"We're kids, yeah. But we know parental love isn't shouted. It's felt. It's warmth. It's refuge," Isolde added, soft but firm.
Our grandmother didn't respond. Her face showed no rejection, no anger. Just bewilderment. For the first time since we'd arrived, she seemed truly… disarmed. Her eyes flicked between us, as if unsure whether what we said really came from us. Maybe she thought we'd just be spectators, decorative pieces in an adult conflict.
"We didn't come to fight," I said, lowering my voice slightly. "We came because Mom wanted to see you. Because despite everything, you're still her mother. And you, our grandmother."
"She didn't need another battle. She just wanted to be heard… even with doubts. Even with distance. But with care," Isolde said, her eyes glassy.
Our grandmother brought a hand to her lips. As if something broke inside her. She didn't speak. But her breathing trembled. And her gaze grew wet. It was no longer hard. Just… defeated.
"I know you're hurt," I said. "That you missed her. But you can't punish her for wanting to live. Mom didn't leave on a whim. She left because she couldn't breathe here."
This time, when her hand reached for my cheek again, I didn't pull away. It was trembling. Not from age, but from everything she'd held in until that moment.
Isolde stepped closer and hugged her waist, no permission needed.
"We wanted to meet you, you know? Mom talked about you… even if it hurt her to do it."
Our grandmother's arms lowered slowly. She was no longer a statue. Just someone tired of pretending they felt nothing. She closed her eyes tightly, as if holding back something too old. Too vast.
And though she didn't say a word… for us, that was enough.
Showing ourselves like this, so… "mature," might seem like a game. But it wasn't. Not for Isolde. Not for me. Not for this consciousness.
Isolde impressed me. She's done it many times. But moments like this… I feel her mind intertwines with mine in a strange way. Intuitive. Silent. As if she remembers things she never lived, but I did.
Because, unlike her… I was speaking from experience.
In my other life, my murders were logged as disappearances. Parents searching for bodies. Some gave up. Others didn't. There was one mother, in particular… who kept putting up her daughter's missing poster at the same convenience store. Every day. Every damn day.
And every time I passed by, I'd take one of those posters.
Not because I regretted it. Because it made me feel alive.
Sometimes I'd sit and talk with her. Vague, trivial conversations. But enough to realize the love that woman felt… was nothing like what my mother gave me.
That's why I felt guilty. Not entirely. Just… partially human.
I never forgave myself for killing that girl. And I don't plan to now. But at least… I remember her mother with the respect she deserves.
Now, in this life… I don't forgive myself for any of the lives I took in the last one.
We left our grandmother alone. She didn't say anything else. Just sat in silence, staring off, her thoughts churning what was left of her pride.
We left the room. On the stairs, we ran into the maid who'd greeted us. She bowed, as formal as before.
"Allow me to take you to your respective rooms," she said, stepping aside so we could climb.
That level of respect… it made me feel big. Important. But I knew it could feed my ego in a toxic way. So I spoke:
"No need to be so formal. We're kids, you can treat us casually."
"My apologies, young master," she replied, bowing again. "My etiquette doesn't allow informality with the St. Clair family."
"Hmm…"
That gave me an idea. Isolde looked at me, already anticipating what I'd say.
"But we're D'Arques…"
"Even so… you're relatives of Lady Erika," she said, not blinking.
"And? Come on, at least for today, alright? You can relax. We won't rat you out," I said, forcing a pout that was hardly convincing.
Isolde jumped in immediately, with a conspiratorial smile.
"Please. We won't tell anyone. When we're alone, okay?"
The maid held firm… but something in her expression shifted. A slight smile, barely a gesture. But enough.
"Alright. But only when we're alone. Understood?"
Isolde grinned ear to ear. I didn't quite match her enthusiasm. Just nodded, satisfied. I'd accomplished my goal.
We climbed the stairs with the maid following in complete silence. Her steps were so light she seemed to float. To the right of the second floor, a long hallway stretched like a ceremonial corridor: red carpet underfoot, golden chandeliers on the walls, and candles that flickered faintly as we passed, as if breathing with us. Too many rooms. Too many for one family. But I didn't comment. Excess rarely justifies itself with words.
The maid walked to the end of the hallway, passing three closed doors, and stopped at the last one. Isolde and I followed, a bit slower. Entering, we saw the assigned room.
A massive bed. And nothing else.
I mean, there were furniture, a decorative chest, and thick curtains muting the light, but the bed dominated. Huge. Imposing. Five adults could sleep there without touching. Ridiculous, considering it was just two kids.
"Wow…" Isolde said, her sarcasm already sharpening. "Second disappointment of the day. I thought there'd be toys, maybe a place to practice magic… but no, just a giant bed. Like that's all we do."
"If you wish to practice, you can go to Rosecourt Park," the maid interjected, unpacking our suitcases with unsettling efficiency. So that's where she'd taken them… "Kids your age often train there. Friendly matches, basic spells… And since these months are a break before the regional tournament, the park's usually full of contenders."
"I don't think going out now's a good idea. The trip was rough enough for the body to demand a break," I said, flopping onto the bed. Sinking into it was like floating.
"You sure you don't want to go out, Lucy?" Isolde said. "I think it'd be a good experience. Plus… I've got a hunch the kids here aren't weak."
The maid sat beside me, with a naturalness unfit for her role. She ran her hand through my hair.
"Lucy? Is that your name?"
I pulled away immediately, uncomfortable with the sudden touch.
"No. It's just a nickname Isolde… I mean, Issy, gave me."
"I see. May I call you that?"
I looked at Isolde. She smiled and nodded approvingly.
"Sure," I said.
"Then, young Lucy…" the maid continued, keeping her refined tone. "Miss Isolde—"
"You can call me Issy," Isolde cut in, not taking her eyes off a small chest in the corner. "If Lucy's okay with it."
I nodded again.
"Very well," she said. "As I was saying, Miss Issy is right. Compared to Veloria's children, those here have, on average, 40% more strength, nearing adult levels. In Veloria, only 20% reach a teenager's physical level."
A simple comparison. But worrying.
What do they eat? I thought. Hydromel with magical beast protein?
"What's your name?" I asked, sitting up.
Then I heard a thud. Isolde had hit her head inside the chest, probably from surprise.
"Emily Smith," the maid replied, with an almost too-perfect smile.
"You seem underage… Why do you work here?"
"I am. I'm fifteen," she said casually.
"FIFTEEN?!" Isolde shouted, shooting out of the chest like she'd found dynamite instead of toys. "Are they forcing you? Threatening you?"
An absurd interrogation… but I'll admit, I was curious too.
"None of those reasons," she smiled. "I like it. Many see it as imposed or humiliating, but for me… being a maid is a choice. I enjoy it."
No hesitation. Her voice was clear, firm. It sounded like truth. And in this world… that's rarer than it should be.
"I see…" I said. "Then, if you're underage, all the more reason to talk to us casually."
Emily just smiled and stood from the bed. Professional to the core.
"Hey, Lucy," Isolde said, sitting beside me.
"Yeah?"
"You gonna tell me what Dad did to get us to Aeloria so fast?"
Right. I owed her that. And she knew it.
"Right… almost forgot."
I leaned back and started recounting the whole sequence: Dad's strike on the ship, the absurd speed we traveled, and his ridiculous walk on water like some legendary figure or an idiot with broken powers.
Even as I told it, something didn't add up. The strike was colossal. Enough to cut a two-week journey into minutes. And the ship? Intact. Not a loose plank? Absurd. Illogical.
He must've used magic. But… what kind? At what exact speed did he move to make that possible without wrecking the ship?
Too many questions. Too few answers.
Another entry to check with the Scriptures of Paradox.