Oxinon 6th, DF (5 years later)
The light of the sun pierced through the tall glass windows into the cold mansion—needles into a corpse.
Sion sat by the fireplace, his shadow stretching long and thin across the floor. He was fifteen now. The chubby boy was gone. His jaw had sharpened, his shoulders had broadened, and his eyes—still sapphire, still full of wonder—had learned how to hold a different light: colder, harder, less forgiving.
He turned his gaze to his mother, who sat on a couch adjacent to him, smiling at his sister, Harrieta. The girl played the piano and sang a familiar song—her voice a sweet melody in the cold rain. She was three years younger than Sion, a jewel among roses.
Sion watched her. The way her delicate fingers danced across the keys, the way her voice rose and fell like the soft kiss of the wind. His eyes wrinkled as his lips curved into a smile.
She turned to meet his gaze—forest green eyes blazing with childish innocence as she mirrored his smile.
"Brother," she said softly, "sing with me."
He shook his head. "Sister, you know I don't sing."
"You used to," she said.
He sighed. "Well, I don't anymore."
He turned his gaze to the fireplace.
She got to her feet, her peach linen dress making a soft swish against the cold marble floor. She gathered her skirt and began to move toward him, swaying gently like a leaf tossed by a gentle wind.
She sang as she came to stand before him. She let go of her skirt, stretched out her hands, and took hold of his. She tugged on them gently. His body felt heavy at first—then he yielded. A bird that had found its way back.
They waltzed through the room as she sang, her smile calling to him—a ray of sunshine in the bitter cold.
His mouth opened. Then closed. He looked away and said nothing.
"Brother," she said.
He turned to meet her gaze.
"Please. I miss your voice."
He sighed.
He opened his mouth and sang along with her—his voice a mirror of hers, yet deeper, fuller. Divine. An opera singer with the voice of a songbird.
Sion caught his mother's reflection in the window above the piano. She wasn't smiling anymore. Her gaze was fixed on them, her hand pressed to her chest, her lips trembling. She looked like she was about to cry. Or already was.
The door at the end of the hall creaked open. Sion's voice faltered. He stopped singing.
His father walked into the hall with Roseline, the same woman he had seen through the keyhole. Beside them stood Isamu, his stepbrother—the exact replica of his mother, with his father's cold eyes.
Sion let go of his sister and gave a curt bow. Harrieta's warmth faded as she stepped back, her gaze dropping to the floor.
His father's gaze swept over them—cold, dismissive, the same look he had given Sion all those years ago. It was no different for his sister. They were both beneath his notice.
Harrieta shrank back, her delicate hand finding Sion's. He felt her fingers tighten around his—desperate, frightened. He squeezed back, just once, then let go. He couldn't protect her. He never could.
Isamu's cold eyes slid over him—assessing, measuring. A flicker of something crossed his face. Not recognition. Not hatred. Just... awareness. He had seen Sion. And he had already decided what he was.
Kamani's smile held for a breath. Then the crinkles around her eyes smoothed away, the corners of her mouth dropped, and what was left was just a face that had forgotten how to look happy.
"Both of you to my study," his father said in a flat tone.
He turned and walked away.
Sion and Harrieta walked behind him hurriedly. They entered the study and stood at the entrance while their father took his seat behind the table opposite them.
Sion looked at Harrieta. Her gaze kept drifting toward the window—waiting for movement that never came. She looked back at her hands. Then at the door. Then the window again.
He reached out and held her hand. She met his gaze. His lips stretched into a smile, and he winked.
Her shoulders fell as she mirrored his smile.
"You both will be sent to Edimun High to begin your studies," he said, as they met his gaze.
"You leave in three weeks." He dropped the piece of paper on the desk.
He met their gaze—his eyes, ice in summer. "You may go."
"Why do you despise us so?" The words rolled off Sion's tongue before he could swallow them.
His father's head tilted slightly. His eyes narrowed.
"You are sending us west, far from home," Sion continued, "while you send Isamu to Rauta, which is very close to home. What did we ever do to you?"
"Being born," his father said.
Sion's jaw tightened. His hand clenched into a fist. He held his father's gaze.
"Leave."
Isamu stood behind the door of the study, watching. His cold eyes slid between Sion and his father—assessing, measuring. A small smile touched his lips. It didn't reach his eyes
Harrieta turned to leave—but when she looked at Sion's face, she stopped. His eyes were narrowed. His jaw was tight. His face was flushed, his nostrils flared, his gaze fixed on his father.
She squeezed his hand gently. "Brother, please. I want to leave."
He turned his gaze to her, then back at his father.
She tugged gently, walking toward the door. He turned and walked out with her.
They walked down the hallway into the garden—a colorful mosaic of flowers. Sion moved in hurried steps, his hands clenched into fists, his face dark—a cloud of thunder in a raging storm.
"Brother, wait!" Harrieta called, holding her skirt as she hurried after him.
He didn't stop. He didn't look back.
"Brother, please!"
Sion stopped. His chest was rising and falling.
"Brother," she said, "please calm down."
He chuckled. It was dry. Hollow.
"Calm down," he said, his voice filled with venom. "'Being born.'"
He turned slowly to meet her gaze. "Did you hear that? Being born. Like we were the ones who told him not to keep his manhood in check."
She reached out and touched his cheek. "Ignore him, brother," she said. "Let his words slide. You are the most beautiful gift the gods gave to me. I wouldn't dare ask for any better."
He sighed. He touched her hand.
"And we will always have each other," she said. "There is nothing he can do that will change that."
Sion's lips stretched into a smile. She mirrored his smile.
Kamani stood by a pillar in the hallway that led to the garden, her gaze fixed on her children. Her hand pressed to her chest. She wanted to shield them from this nightmare—she really did. But how could she?
Her hand tightened into a fist. She had to find a way. She just had to.
For the ray of sunshine, the gods had given her would not be quenched by the blizzard.
She thought of the letters she'd hidden beneath her bed. The ones she'd written to her sister, years ago, begging for help. She had never sent them. But now, watching her children hold each other, she wondered if it was finally time to fold one, seal it, and pray it reached someone who could save them.