Bastian couldn't believe his ears. His parents weren't who they claimed to be. Their real names weren't the ones he'd always known, and they weren't gypsies—well, not entirely. The revelation was hard to swallow. Their lives felt like a lie, an illusion. That's how the young gypsy saw it.
"Son, are you all right?" his mother asked nervously, seeing him frozen in silence.
"Are you a fairy, Mother?" he asked in a barely audible voice. But she heard him—and nodded. Words failed her.
"Yes," she whispered.
"Melody and Melibeth… are they fairies too?" he asked, needing confirmation.
"Yes, Bastian. Your sisters are fairies—still developing. Their magic is there, but without training, it may be involuntary or dormant. Technically, they're human until their awakening," Lluvia explained, taking a seat.
"Could Melody be found with magic?" he asked, hope flickering in his voice.
"Yes, she could. But it's not that simple…"
"Why not?"
"Because your sister doesn't know what she is, Bastian. Without that knowledge, she's like any other human. She might have moments—but she may not recognize them."
"But could you do it? Could you use your magic to find Mel?" he asked, excitement rising at the thought of seeing his sister safe at home.
Gaston had remained silent until then. But the idea of Lluvia using magic to locate their daughter brought more risks than solutions. He didn't want to endanger their family.
"If your mother uses her magic, someone very dangerous could sense it. That someone is the reason we ran, Bastian."
"So we're not going to help my sister because we're afraid of being found?" he said, frustration flaring.
"It's not that simple, Bastian. You, your mother, and your sisters—you're my life. But I won't put others at risk."
"She's my sister, damn it! And you were a soldier! This is hard to believe!" he snapped, losing his temper.
"Enough, Bastian! Don't disrespect your father," Lluvia said firmly. "It's not cowardice to oppose my magic. I've already decided—I'll use it to find my daughter, even if Gaston disagrees. I'll do it when the time is right. And I'll tell Melibeth what she truly is, so she's ready if anything happens."
Gaston stared at her, stunned by her resolve. Emerald and ebony locked eyes in silent tension, until the young gypsy stormed out of the cabin, visibly upset.
Lluvia sighed, weary. She understood her partner. She knew the risks—magic could expose them. But none of that mattered. She just wanted her little girl back.
Gaston watched her silently, his dark eyes reflecting a storm of conflict. He understood her determination—but also the danger of the path she'd chosen. Finally, without a word, he left the cabin. The door closed behind him with a thud, echoing through the space like a reminder of the rift now between them.
Silence fell. Lluvia remained still, staring at the closed door, her thoughts swirling like a storm. Her emerald eyes, once warm, now shimmered with fear and resolve. She knew what she had to do—even if it meant walking away from Gaston.
"Melody, you'll come home," she murmured at last, a promise carried into the night like a whisper on the wind.
⋯ ❈ ⋯
The morning sun filtered through the maroon velvet curtains of the royal bedchamber, casting golden rays that crept across the remnants of a restless sleep. The air still carried traces of distant smoke from the tavern fire, mingled with the scent of melted candle wax and polished wood from the furniture lining the walls. A smudge of soot lingered—a shadow that refused to fade.
Damien tossed and turned between crumpled silk sheets, their folds still warm from his agitation. The image of the girl with the butterfly mask returned to him: the vivid green of her eyes, like sunlit moss, and those black curls cascading like waterfalls of ebony. He clenched his fists, feeling the slippery texture of the bedspread beneath his fingers, while a breath of fresh air carried the ghost of her scent. Jasmine flowers—sweet and fleeting—a memory that clung to him.
"Damn it, I can't get that green-eyed girl out of my head. You look like a fool, obsessing over someone you don't even know. That's not you, especially not over a woman," he muttered. "Focus, Damien. Focus on what matters." He grabbed his red hair—tousled like smoldering embers—and sat up, the bed frame creaking beneath him.
Just then, the door creaked open, and the sound of light footsteps—bare feet whispering across the carpet—preceded Odette. She entered with a basket in her hands, releasing the sweet, earthy aroma of freshly picked blueberries. Her cheeks, flushed from running, contrasted with her white dress embroidered in gold thread. The pink ribbon that had once held her golden hair now hung loose, brushing her shoulder.
"Who can't you stop thinking about, Damien?" she asked, her voice tinkling like bells in the silence.
The prince narrowed his eyes, catching the mischievous gleam in his sister's gaze. The light danced in her hair, but Damien saw only shadows—the tavern's flames reflected in the mask, the way the girl had moved through the chaos, untouched, as if she were part of it.
"They should tie a bell around your neck, dwarf," he growled, plucking a blueberry from the basket. It burst in his mouth—tart and sweet—and stained his fingers purple.
Odette, oblivious to his discomfort, hovered with the persistence of a hummingbird. The rustle of her dress across the carpet mingled with the ticking of the pendulum clock, setting the rhythm for a conversation Damien wished to avoid. When she puffed out her cheeks, mimicking a squirrel with pockets full of berries, he couldn't help but laugh. The sound was brief, hoarse—a crack in his mask of irritation.
But when she mentioned a violinist, his attention sharpened. "The girl had emerald eyes. She gave me this," Odette said, showing him a pink ribbon, now undone in her hands. It carried the echo of a distant melody. He vaguely recalled the touch of a bow on strings, the creak of violin wood, and how the wind had scattered the notes like dry leaves.
Odette, unaware of his reverie, kept chattering. And Damien wondered—absurdly—if the ribbon she waved had absorbed the same vanilla and jasmine perfume worn by the mysterious gypsy girl.
"…And I'll never see her again, little one," he finished in a whisper—more to himself than to her—while she kept talking.
The girl looked down, twisting the pink ribbon between her fingers. For a moment, Damien saw not the stubborn child who defied every rule, but the fragile creature he'd feared losing in the fire.
"It was the day you ran away, wasn't it?" he said, his voice stern, though it couldn't quite conceal the relief of seeing her safe. "You know how dangerous that was, Odette. I've told you so many times, haven't I?"
His tone softened, though his frown remained. "I showed you the passageways so you'd be safe—not so you could play fugitive." He exhaled, the weight of responsibility pressing on him since their mother's death. "If anything had happened to you…"
Odette looked up, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, and Damien felt his irritation dissolve. With a resigned grunt, he offered her a blueberry from the basket.
"All right, eat. But don't ever leave without telling me again. And no talking to strangers, understood?" His voice was still gruff, but his hand rested briefly on her head, ruffling her golden hair with quiet affection. "No violinists. No ribbons. No—"
"But she was nice!" Odette protested, though her voice lacked conviction.
"Nice or not, she's a stranger," he replied, feeling a pang of hypocrisy as the masked girl's image returned to him. "Promise me."
"I promise," the girl murmured, wiping a tear with the back of her hand.
Damien sighed, defeated by that angelic face stained with berry juice. He took another fruit from the basket and bit into it, the tartness mingling with the lingering taste of smoke. In the silence that followed, only the creak of a floorboard and the distant caw of a crow in the garden could be heard.
"It's time for your piano lesson, Your Highness," announced a maid from the doorway.
Odette darted out, her white dress fluttering behind her like a flag of truce. Damien remained alone, the pink ribbon abandoned on the carpet, and the echo of his own warning still ringing in his ears.
No violinists. No ribbons… he thought, fingers closing around a velvet cushion. But in his mind, the butterfly mask still shimmered in the shadows, and the green of those unknown eyes lingered—half fear, half curiosity—something he dared not name.
The Amcoba, bathed in gold and luxury, held one more secret: a prince who guarded his sister from a dangerous world… while struggling not to lose himself to the darkness of his own curse.
⋯ ❈ ⋯
The night breeze slipped through the mansion's half-open windows, carrying the scent of wild herbs from the garden. Melody, seated before the mahogany dressing table, gazed at her reflection in the oval mirror, its gilded edges glinting under the gas lamps. Her pale blue silk dress—a gift from the duke—rustled with every movement, and the contrast between the delicate fabric and her golden skin made her look almost ethereal. This isn't me, she thought, as her new appearance reminded her of the reality she now inhabited.
Lilly, the maid, ran an ivory brush through her black hair, which fell like a dark river to her waist. The silence in the room was broken only by the bristles against her hair and Lilly's soft humming, which sounded distant to the gypsy girl.
"What are you thinking about?" Lilly asked, noticing the young woman's vacant gaze. Her green eyes, reflected in the mirror, seemed fixed on something beyond the walls.
Melody took her time to respond. The image of Duke Eriol—his silver hair, his gray eyes that seemed to read her soul—haunted her. Though he was unfailingly kind, something about his presence made her skin crawl, like the chill before a storm.
"Lilly… the duke. Why isn't he married?" she finally asked, her voice aiming for casual but betraying unease.
The maid set the brush down on the marble tabletop and picked up a satin ribbon to gather Melody's hair. The warmth of her nimble fingers contrasted with the girl's subtle trembling.
"Well, according to him, he was once married to a lady from the royal family of Azrrahen. But one day she left and never returned—or at least, that's what they say around here. I hadn't arrived in Miraz yet, so I don't know if it's just gossip or truth," she explained, tying the bow with practiced precision.
Melody felt a chill. Azrrahen. The name rang in her mind like a bell. She remembered the old woman in the square, her harsh words: Daughter of Azrrahen. But she was just a gypsy from the Celestia forest. How could she…?
"Azrrahen, you say? But that place perished in the war," she murmured, clenching her fists in her lap.
Lilly continued, unaware of the storm brewing inside her mistress. Melody stood abruptly, the cold marble floor biting at her bare feet. She walked to the window, where the full and crescent moons bathed the garden in silvery light. The wind stirred the velvet curtains, carrying the scent of damp earth and the distant hoot of an owl.
"Lilly, do you know if His Excellency would allow me into the library?" she asked, turning to the maid. Her voice was firmer than expected, though her nails dug into her palms.
"I don't know, Melody. Even the servants aren't allowed in there. From what I've heard, His Excellency keeps very important texts inside. I really don't think you'd be permitted."
Melody swallowed hard. The library—with its carved oak doors and dusty display cases—was a mystery that called to her like a siren song. She had to know what was hidden in those books… and in her past.
"Maybe I can change his mind," she said, heading for the door.
"How?" Lilly asked, watching her go.
"I don't know. I'll think of something," Melody replied, vanishing into the shadows of the hallway.
⋯ ❈ ⋯
The dining room was a cavern of silence. Crystal chandeliers cast just enough light, flickering to the rhythm of the flames that danced across the stern faces of ancestral portraits.
Melody sat before her porcelain plate, feeling the weight of the duke's gaze. He was already there—as always—impeccable in his black suit, hands clasped on the table. The pendulum clock ticked away the seconds, each one echoing in her ears.
"Master Eriol… I—I'd like to make a request," she blurted out, her voice trembling but resolute.
Eriol raised an eyebrow, a flicker of interest lighting his gray eyes.
"Speak, Melody. What is it you wish?"
"I request permission to enter the library."
The duke leaned back in his chair, studying her. A heavy silence settled over the room, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Melody held her breath, tasting fear like metal on her tongue.
"I'll consider it," he said at last, his smile enigmatic. "Sebastian, take her to her room. I'm expecting someone shortly, and I don't want my little butterfly fluttering where she's not wanted."
Melody followed Sebastian through the white marble corridors, worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. Frosted glass gas lamps cast shifting shadows on the walls, their faint hum mingling with the rustle of her dress. She walked in silence, the cold floor seeping into her bones—a reminder that she did not belong in this palace of decadent elegance.
At her door, Sebastian stopped without turning.
"Good night, miss," he said, then vanished down the stairs, where the golden glow of bronze lamps faded into darkness.
Melody stepped inside, the icy marble biting at her bare feet. The room was quiet, broken only by the whisper of the night wind through the curtains. She approached the balcony, where moonlight illuminated the mosaic floor—figures of leaves and flowers, once beautiful, now faded by time. From there, she could see the mansion's towers silhouetted against the sky, and beyond them, the dense darkness of the Celestia forest—where she had once been free.
A dull sound in the hallway made her turn. The door shifted, as if nudged by an invisible hand.
"Who…?" she whispered, but the wind swallowed her voice.
Only the crackling of the lamps replied, and the distant hoot of an owl in the garden.
She sank onto the bed, the feather mattress yielding beneath her. The curtains fluttered, and for a moment, a shadow settled on the cracked marble of the balcony. A butterfly, perhaps—or just a trick of the light.
Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow I'll ask the duke again.
But in her dreams, an unfamiliar woman's laughter echoed—and with it, the name: Azrrahen.