Several months passed as pages turned too often in a well-handled book.
Vleresia remained seated in the same place—by the window of her chamber, where the gentle daylight filtered through thin ivory curtains and settled softly upon her lap. Resting there was a novel already worn beyond what would be expected of a child's possession.
I Hate & Love: Original View.
Even its title bore a strange gravity, as though hatred and affection were not opposites at all, but twin forces forever entwined. She had long since memorised the illustrations—especially one figure in particular: a villainess with an elegant smile, eyes keen yet hollow, clothed in dark finery that seemed to devour the light around her.
Vleresia was not reading.
She was watching.
There was something within that illustration which called to her—something painfully familiar, like a memory she had never lived, yet somehow mourned.
"Why are you always alone…?" she murmured, as though the woman upon the page might hear.
Scelox, who had been perched upon the window ledge, suddenly leapt forward and landed upon her head. His black feathers tickled her scalp faintly.
"Hm?" Vleresia raised a small hand, attempting to reach him. "What is it?"
The raven gave no answer. He straightened instead, wings parting slightly, his head turning toward the world beyond the window.
Then—
The sound of iron wheels striking stone.
The groan of timber, the measured stamping of hooves, the restrained snap of a whip.
Vleresia went still.
It was not a sound she knew.
Closing her book, she slid down from her chair, dragged a small wooden stool to the window, and with some effort climbed upon it. She peered outside.
A carriage had come to a halt before the main gates of House Zeneris.
It was no ordinary conveyance.
Its body was lined with thinly engraved metal bearing geometric sigils—light magical warding. The wheels were large, reinforced, built not merely for long journeys, but for the possibility of hostile ground.
And when the carriage door opened—
Vleresia held her breath.
A young girl descended.
Her hair was gold, bright as harvested wheat, yet at its rear burned a dark crimson gradient, like embers not yet extinguished. Her dress was simple, though unmistakably fine—precise stitching, heavy fabric, no excess.
Her eyes—
Green.
With calm violet pupils.
Something tightened in Vleresia's chest.
"A stranger…" she whispered.
Without pausing to consider, she climbed down, flung open her chamber door, and ran.
Scelox took to the air behind her.
In the entrance hall, Friesy stood greeting the guests alongside several attendants—her posture graceful, her voice gentle yet deliberate.
"It is an honour to receive House Clusris," she said with courteous warmth. "Please, enter."
Before her stood the clan's representative—a middle-aged man with the sharp eyes of a seasoned merchant. Behind him, the young girl stood quietly, hands folded with practised composure.
House Clusris.
The name was not unfamiliar.
For three millennia they had supplied armaments to the great houses—including Zeneris. Neither warriors nor rigid nobility, they were armed merchants—those who understood that weapons were not instruments of war, but of negotiation.
What made them feared was not their armies, but a singular art:
The Management of Imprint.
A blessing granted by the Hersie of Fortune.
The ability to read a weapon's true potential—and to imprint it, forcing it to reach its utmost limit, even if it were of Mythic class, beyond the grasp of ordinary men.
Yet the Clusris were notoriously sparing.
They measured all things.
Loyalty, to them, was currency.
And then—
Vleresia emerged from behind a pillar.
"My Lady!" a servant gasped. "Please, do not run—!"
Too late.
Vleresia stopped directly before the Clusris girl.
For a moment—
Time faltered.
Shimmering violet eyes with star-shaped pupils of sea-blue met calm green eyes rimmed with violet.
The air tightened, as though two narratives had brushed against one another by accident.
The golden-haired girl blinked once.
Twice.
Then—something rare for her—
She spoke first.
"What is your name?"
Her voice was steady, unhesitating.
Vleresia met her gaze without fear, without doubt, with only pure curiosity.
"I am Vleresia," she replied simply. "Who are you?"
The girl paused, as though weighing something far heavier than a name.
"…I am of Clusris," she said at last. "You will hear my name in time."
Scelox settled upon Vleresia's shoulder, his black eyes fixed upon the girl.
For the first time since her birth—
Fate ceased to overlook Vleresia.
And somewhere far beyond Fletcher, the world's narrative inscribed this meeting as the beginning of a bond that was never meant to exist.
Vleresia frowned.
Not the loud, fleeting pout of childhood, but a quiet one—too subdued for a girl so young. It was the expression of disappointment belonging to someone who had learned too early that the world does not always answer curiosity.
Her small lips pressed together as her star-lit eyes remained fixed upon the golden-haired girl.
"Why… won't you tell me?" she asked softly, her words too carefully formed for her age.
The Clusris girl hesitated.
Not from fear, but from habit.
From the Clusris bloodline came early instruction: information was currency, and words must always be weighed.
Friesy, observing from behind, could not restrain her smile. A soft, warm laugh escaped her lips.
"Oh my," she said gently, "you truly cannot hide your feelings, my dear."
Vleresia glanced back at her mother, cheeks faintly puffed, torn between defence and devotion to her pout. Friesy stepped closer and knelt to meet her gaze.
"Not everyone offers their name so freely," she said kindly. "To some, a name is a promise. And promises should not be given lightly."
The Clusris girl inclined her head in agreement, her composure far beyond her years.
Meanwhile, in the world of Fletcher, time advanced in uneven strides. Machines had been born; gears had reshaped cities; the sound of locomotives had reached urban ears. Yet progress was uneven.
Zeneris was such a place.
Though the age of machinery had arrived, motorised vehicles remained fragile luxuries—unsuited for unpaved land, helpless against stone roads and bandit-ridden forests. Thus, horse-drawn carriages remained the arteries of travel: slower, perhaps, but loyal.
Zeneris strove toward the future, yet its feet remained planted in old soil. Machines were studied, not mastered. Progress came cautiously, as though afraid to tread too heavily upon tomorrow.
As House Clusris entered the main residence, their footsteps echoed softly through long corridors adorned with aged wood panels and modest crystal lamps. The girl's father—tall, sharp-eyed—paused to observe.
"Interesting," he murmured.
His name was Celis van Clusris.
He was not impressed by excess. Rather, restraint—balance between purpose and beauty—caught his attention. The Zeneris halls did not flaunt wealth; they spoke instead in calculated quiet.
"Honest decor," he said to Friesy. "It does not pretend to be what it is not."
Friesy smiled faintly. "We believe a home should breathe—not perform."
While the adults conversed in the measured language of alliances and commerce, Vleresia had already resumed her chatter—this time beside the Clusris girl. She spoke endlessly: of Scelox, of books, of a villainess so beautiful that reality seemed unfair by comparison.
The girl listened.
Truly listened.
She did not interrupt, nor dismiss. At times she nodded; at others her eyes brightened with interest.
"Come!" Vleresia suddenly exclaimed, grasping her sleeve. "To my room!"
They climbed the stairs together. When the door opened, the Clusris girl stopped.
She looked around.
Shelves of books lined the walls; illustrations were arranged with care; pale curtains softened the afternoon light into gold. It did not resemble a child's chamber, but a fragment of another world drawn into reality.
"This is…" she whispered, forgetting herself. "Like stepping into a novel."
Vleresia beamed.
She retrieved a book from her desk—I Hate & Love: Original View—and offered it with both hands, as though presenting something sacred.
"I love this," she said earnestly. "The world inside… does not lie."
The girl accepted it carefully, fingers brushing the cover like a merchant discovering something priceless.
Several moments passed.
Then, without lifting her eyes from the book, she spoke:
"My name is… Lumistina."
She looked up.
"Lumistina van Clusris."
For an instant, the world paused.
Vleresia smiled—a small, genuine smile, as though a door within her had quietly opened.
"Vleresia," she replied. "Vleresia Clev Zeneris."
And within that novel-lit chamber, without vows or grand declarations, a friendship was born—slowly, deeply—like history taking root, destined to resist erasure by time itself.