Chapter 4 (Seraphina’s POV)

I stood in my room, bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun, holding a worn book that had weathered countless readings. Its pages, now yellowed with age, held the familiar tale my mother used to read to Lyra and me—a tale about the only thing linking our Empire to the Vices Empire if it's not for the ongoing war and hatred for each other, it's about the benevolent witch who once dwelled in the border of our Empires now a no-man's land. As I traced the words with my fingertips, memories surged forward, memories of warm evenings spent nestled against my mother, our laughter mingling with the lilting cadence of her voice.

Tears welled in my eyes, unbidden and unwelcome. Blinking them away fiercely, I fought against the tide of emotion threatening to overwhelm me. I couldn't afford such weakness, not now. Mother had always said that strength lay in controlling one's emotions, in wielding them like weapons instead of succumbing to their grasp. This story had been a sanctuary in my youth, a refuge shared with Mother and Lyra—a time when the world seemed kinder, and our family felt whole.

I remembered vividly the evening when we had finished reading, gathered in this very room. Mother, with her gentle countenance framed by cascading blond hair and eyes of pale green, had sat beside us. She wore a simple gown, modest yet elegant, which reflected her preference for practicality over ostentation. Lyra, my dear sister, stood beside her, her hair like spun silver and her eyes a pale blue that bordered on translucent, a mirror to her innocence and curiosity.

"Seraphina," Mother had begun, her voice a soothing melody that still echoed in my heart, "do you truly believe every word woven into these tales?"

I glanced at Lyra, whose eyes sparkled with wonder. "But Mama," she had protested, her voice earnest and pure, "the cat in the story—it wouldn't deceive, would it?"

Mother's smile had been tinged with melancholy. "My loves," she had sighed, a hint of sadness softening her features, "stories often carry deeper truths, hidden beneath layers of enchantment. Perhaps the Whispering Grove holds secrets yet untold, mysteries waiting for those brave enough to seek them."

Those words had lingered, etching themselves into my soul like ink on parchment. She believed in the possibility of magic, of hidden realms awaiting discovery—a belief that had instilled in me a yearning for knowledge, a thirst for truths obscured by the veil of reality.

I tore myself from reverie, blinking away tears as I placed the book gently on my bedside table. Glancing up at the painting that hung on my wall—a portrait capturing Mother and Lyra in a rare moment of peace—I felt a sharp pang of longing and loss twist in my chest. The canvas seemed to breathe with their presence, drawing me into a world where Mother's kind-heartedness and Lyra's ethereal beauty transcended mere paint and canvas.

Mother's gaze in the painting, soft and serene, mirrored the gentle warmth of her heart. Her pale green eyes, flecked with hints of gold, held a depth of understanding and unconditional love that had always been my anchor. Her hair, a cascade of golden waves interwoven with strands of silver, framed a face etched with the lines of wisdom and care. She wore a simple gown, the fabric draped with the ease of someone who valued comfort over opulence, yet every brushstroke captured the essence of her gentle spirit, radiating warmth and reassurance.

Beside her, Lyra stood with a quiet strength that belied her youthful innocence. Her pale blue eyes, clear as a winter sky, gazed out from the painting with a mixture of serenity and determination. Her white hair, like spun silver under the artist's hand, cascaded in soft waves around her shoulders, a stark contrast to Mother's golden strands. Despite the stillness of the canvas, their bond seemed to pulse with life, an unspoken connection of shared moments and unbreakable familial ties.

As I stood before the painting, my fingertips almost reaching out as if to touch their faces, I felt the weight of their absence keenly. The room around me faded into insignificance as memories flooded my mind—of evenings spent gathered around the fireplace, of whispered secrets and laughter shared between sisters, of Mother's lullabies that had once lulled me to sleep.

The painting was more than a mere representation; it was a portal to a time when their presence filled my world with warmth and love. With a sigh that carried the weight of years spent longing for their embrace, I allowed myself a moment to linger in their presence. 

Turning away from the painting, I shifted my focus to the task at hand. With gentle reverence and a hint of nostalgia, I shed my everyday attire, opting instead for the cherished dress that had once graced Mother's form. The gown, fashioned from a sumptuous fabric of deep emerald silk, exuded a subtle sheen in the soft glow of lamplight that filled my room. Its bodice was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, adorned with delicate lace that traced intricate patterns along the neckline and sleeves. The silk flowed in gentle cascades, draping gracefully around me as I fastened the delicate buttons at the back. The skirt, layered with a whisper of chiffon, swirled softly at my ankles, a testament to the gown's impeccable tailoring and timeless allure. As I adjusted the final folds and smoothed the fabric against my skin, I couldn't help but feel a connection to the past, to the evenings spent in Mother's company, where stories and laughter intertwined in the warmth of our study.

The lace, like fine spider's silk, adorned the neckline in delicate scallops, each edge bordered by tiny seed pearls that shimmered like dewdrops in the morning sun. Embroidered tendrils of ivy wound their way along the sleeves, their verdant threads contrasting softly against the rich emerald hue. It was a dress that spoke of heritage and tradition, a garment passed down through generations, each wearer leaving a trace of their own story woven into its fabric.

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I descended the staircase, the emerald silk gown whispering softly around me, a comforting echo of my mother's embrace. The warmth of the lamplight bathed the hallway in a gentle glow, casting long shadows that danced along the walls. Each step felt weighted with nostalgia and purpose, my heart beating in rhythm with memories of Mother and Lyra.

Halfway to the dining table, I paused as Solara emerged from an adjoining corridor. Her golden hair was swept up in an elegant chignon, adorned with jeweled pins that caught the light with every move. Her eyes, a striking grey tinged with pale violet, seemed to pierce through me with their cool scrutiny. She wore a luxurious red dress, its fabric flowing around her like a cascade of blood-red silk. At first glance, her smile appeared kind, but I knew better than to trust such superficial gestures.

"Well, well," Solara greeted warmly, her voice honeyed with charm, "Seraphina, what a lovely gown. It suits you perfectly."

"Thank you, Solara," I replied, my voice measured and polite. "It's one of my mother's favorites."

Solara's eyes flicked over the gown, her smile widening with a hint of malice. "That gown is quite striking on you, a bold choice."

I arched an eyebrow at her compliment, sensing the hint of surprise in her tone regarding my choice of attire.

"Mother always knew how to choose timeless pieces," I said calmly, refusing to let her subtle jab unsettle me.

"It's interesting to see you in such an old-fashioned dress," Solara continued smoothly. "Nostalgia must be in fashion."

Her words dripped with subtle mockery, implying that my attire was outdated, if I didn't know her I wouldn't have understood the underlying meaning.

"I prefer to appreciate tradition over fleeting trends," I replied to her, meeting her gaze without flinching.

"You always manage to stand out, even when clinging to the past," Solara remarked, her tone light but the barb unmistakable.

I can't believe she is insinuating that I'm an attention-seeker when I barely attend any party and even if I do attend I make sure that I'm not noticeable while she enters the ballroom dressed like it's her wedding.

"Your dedication to tradition is admirable, even if it seems a bit... rigid," Solara added, her smile sweet but her meaning clear.

I can't believe that now she's suggesting that my commitment to tradition might be viewed as inflexible, when we're only going to have a family dinner.

"As Mother always said, some things are worth preserving," I replied, my voice steady even if I was fuming inside. "Even if others prefer to chase after novelty."

Solara's smile didn't falter. "It's charming how you uphold these old customs. Some might find it endearing."

Her words were laced with condescension. I can't believe that now after all she said about me she's even implying that my actions are outdated.

"Your taste in fashion is... unique, to say the least," Solara continued, her tone carefully neutral.

I really can't even with how cunning I am , I can't believe how such a fox came to be, her with her oversized gown is saying that my fashion choices are unusual. 

I resisted the urge to respond, unwilling to escalate the confrontation further. Instead, I turned away, masking the anger inside me beneath a mask of serene composure. With each step towards the dining room, I could still feel Solara's gaze boring into my back, it was like she was examining each of my steps, well she is but it's still disturbing I can never get used to this life.

I finally reached the door to the dining room. I took a deep breath and entered the dining room, the familiar scent of roasted herbs and spices greeted me, mingling with the warmth of the hearth that crackled softly in the corner.