" Tyche? " xanthe called out softer now.
Tyche's posture was straight, composed as always, but there was a faint tightness around her eyes-likee someone holding back a tide that refused to be seen.
Xanthe approached her slowly. "What's wrong?" she asked as her eyes drifted to Ourania who stood in front of her vanity and back at Tyche.
Xanthe knowing fully well the relationship between Tyche and Ourania wasn't sweet she couldn't help but sense something was off.
Since they were children Ourania always felt she was under Tyche shadow. before the tragic accident, Tyche was the village sweet heart. She was friendly and positive with everyone,she learnt how to read clearly at the age of six while Ourania was still struggling till she turned nine.
Tyche memorized hymns quickly during temple gatherings, She asked thoughtful questions that impressed the village priest.
She learned embroidery patterns in half the time.
She could calculate grain portions without counting stones.
If adults praised her in front of Ourania, even casually, that would sting.
"Tyche has such a quick mind."
"Ourania, you should learn from your cousin."
As children, Tyche laugh was bright and musical. Her copper-red hair simmered under the sunlight, and her white skin seemed to glow after running outdoors.
Even though Ourania was a beauty goddess , Tyche had a presence that drew attention naturally. Anytime Ourania and her friends got into trouble tyche would jump at the matter not minding if she got affected, and this made most of Ouriania's friends cherish and value her actions.the mear site of her friends disloyalty made her skin crawl, and her blood boil.
She began to Harbour hostile feeling towards Tyche. After the death of her parents and the drastic change in her appearance, Tyche started living with her uncle Demetrios and his wife lysandra,
At first, the shift seemed merciful. A home was a home, and she was no longer alone.
But Ourania saw it as an invasion
All her life, Ourania had lived in quiet comparison to her cousin - the village's once-beloved little star. Even after tragedy altered Tyche's eyes and hushed her laughter, that quiet light within her had not dimmed. And Ourania hated it.
Where others saw a grieving child, Ourania saw unfinished rivalry.
The first time Lysandra struck Tyche for some minor fault, Ourania did not intervene. She waited.
Later that evening, she slipped into Tyche's small chamber. No blows followed - only words. Sharp, deliberate words. Words meant to press into fresh wounds.
Tyche had known her cousin was distant. Cold, perhaps. But cruelty? That, she had not expected.
It did not end there.
When Lysandra assigned Tyche chores - washing linens, scrubbing floors, polishing silver - Tyche would complete them quietly and thoroughly. And then, when no one was watching, Ourania would undo it all.
Freshly washed laundry would be flung into the dirt.
Folded cloths scattered.
Swept floors muddied again.
When Lysandra returned and saw the mess, Tyche was blamed.
Punished.
Ourania would watch.
Sometimes, when she was certain her mother would not interfere, she struck Tyche herself - quick, calculated acts meant to leave little trace. Not rage. Not loss of control. But intention.
And still - maddeningly - Tyche remained gentle.
That gentleness enraged Ourania most of all.
So she moved beyond bruises.
She began isolating her.
Village gatherings - Founder's Day celebrations, harvest feasts, naming ceremonies - slowly became forbidden to Tyche.
Lysandra would declare her unwell, unworthy, or too busy with work. Ourania encouraged it, whispering that Tyche's presence drew attention. That her beauty unsettled people. That whispers followed her emerald gaze.
Tyche's dresses - the few pretty ones she owned - were torn "by accident." Lace ripped. Silk slashed. Hems ruined beyond repair.
When Demetrios departed on extended royal duties barely a year after taking Tyche in, the house shifted completely. His absence became permission.
Money for education still arrived faithfully. Letters full of concern. Plans for Tyche to continue her studies.
But Tyche never returned to formal schooling.
Ourania persuaded her mother that Tyche's presence among higher tutors would invite gossip. That the girl was unstable. Strange.
Instead, Tyche was left with the basics she knew.
Books became contraband.
Whenever Tyche borrowed one - usually smuggled secretly by loyal Xanthe - it was confiscated if discovered. Sometimes burned. Sometimes torn. Lysandra claimed books filled Tyche's head with dangerous thoughts.
So Tyche read in fragments. In whispers. In stolen hours.
Her access to learning shrank to almost nothing.
And when even that did not crush her spirit, the punishments grew subtler.
On certain nights, Lysandra would send Tyche on errands just as dusk deepened into darkness. By the time she returned, the doors would be barred.
Sometimes rain would fall.
Tyche would wait outside in silence, soaked and shivering, until dawn. When the servants opened the doors in the morning, they pretended not to see her.
At first, some pitied her.
But when a maid who spoke too boldly lost her position, and another received punishment for "interfering," silence settled over the household.
Tyche endured fever more than once. Long nights of burning skin and trembling limbs. Only when her condition worsened to the brink - when even Lysandra feared scandal - was a physician summoned.
Treatment was minimal. Enough to preserve life.
And somehow, impossibly, Tyche survived every time.
Through hunger.
Through isolation.
Through humiliation.
The light within her dimmed at times - but it never fully went out.
And that, more than anything, was what Ourania could never extinguish.
" Tyche, what's wrong, tell me what happened " xanthe asked again showing that she wasn't letting this go until she got a satisfying answer.
" N-nothing. " she said calmly " Nothing is wrong. "
Ourania gave a light scoff from across the room and lifted a brow. "Must there always be something wrong if she stands in my room?"
Xanthe's gaze flicked to her sister briefly. "It's unusual," she replied evenly. "That is all."
"Our cousin and I were having a conversation," Ourania said, smoothing an imaginary crease from her sleeve. "Surely that is not forbidden."
Tyche inclined her head slightly. "It was a brief talk."
Xanthe looked between them again. The air still felt charged, though neither of them showed open hostility. "About what?"
Ourania's lips curved faintly. "Since when do we announce private discussions the moment someone enters a room?"
Xanthe crossed her arms. "Since the room feels like winter in the middle of summer."
A pause
Tyche exhaled softly before speaking, her tone steady. "It concerned the draw. Nothing more."
That was enough to shift Xanthe's expression.
Then Ourania's fingers tapped lightly against the windowsill. "She wished to ensure I would not be devoured by some mythical creature," she added dryly.
Xanthe blinked once. "Ah."
"So you see," Ourania continued, turning around fully now, "there is no tragedy here. Only imagination."
Tyche did not rise to the bait. Instead, she met Ourania's eyes calmly. "I asked because I was concerned. That is all."
"And I answered," Ourania replied, lifting her chin. "Mother entered my name. It does not mean I will be chosen.
Xanthe frowned slightly. "You're not upset about it?"
Ourania's expression flickered-just barely. A subtle tightening of her jaw. A quick glance away. "It is not decided," she said. "And even if it were, it would not be as dramatic as the servants make it."
" but, don't you like him? " xanthe asked her sister who came to a pause after hearing her sister's words
A moment of silence fell upon the room then-
"I love him, I am in love with him."
Ourania replied boldly and Tyche could help but widen her eyes at her froward answer.
Lifting one brow, and crossing her arms xanthe doubtfully asked. "Then if you Love him as you claim ,you wouldn't go through the trouble of all this? "
" Like I said ",she charged in " mother entered on my behalf. I didn't do it myself, and possibility of me winning are slim
Xanthe stepped closer to Tyche, lowering her voice slightly. "Are you satisfied?"
Tyche hesitated for half a breath before nodding once. "Yes."
It was not entirely true-but it was enough. She cast one final glance at both her cousins, then turned toward the door and left the room.
Xanthe seemed unconvinced, but she did not press further.
The door clicked shut.
Silence settled between the remaining sisters.
Ourania stood near her vanity, arms folded, gaze fixed on the empty space Tyche had occupied moments earlier. Her jaw tightened.
"Well?" she said at last, not turning around. "You may as well say whatever it is you're thinking."
Xanthe leaned against the edge of the writing desk, crossing one ankle over the other. "You always assume I'm thinking something scandalous."
"Aren't you?"
Xanthe's lips curved faintly. "Only when given reason."
Ourania exhaled sharply through her nose, turning now. "If you're here to scold me on her behalf-"
"I'm not," Xanthe cut in. "Tyche doesn't need a champion. She speaks well enough when she chooses to."
Ourania's brow arched. "Does she?"
"You heard her."
A flicker of irritation crossed Ourania's face, but it faded quickly, replaced by something more guarded.
Xanthe pushed away from the desk and adjusted the strap of the small bag resting against her hip.
"Oh - before I forget," she added, tone shifting deliberately lighter.
Ourania narrowed her eyes. "What is it now?"
"Someone asked me to give you this."
She reached into the bag and withdrew a carefully folded piece of parchment, sealed simply, without crest or insignia - but handled with obvious care.
The air in the room shifted.
Ourania's gaze dropped to the parchment. She did not reach for it immediately.
From whom?" she asked, tone perfectly even.
Xanthe lifted a brow. "Must I really say it aloud?"
A faint flush crept along Ourania's cheekbones, quickly suppressed as she straightened her spine.
Ourania extended her hand at last, taking the letter with careful indifference. "You shouldn't encourage foolishness."
"I didn't," Xanthe replied. "I delivered it."
Ourania examined the parchment as if it were of mild inconvenience rather than importance. "He has poor timing," she muttered.
Yet her fingers tightened slightly along the fold.
"And you have poor acting," Xanthe said under her breath.
Ourania shot her a warning look - sharp, quick - but something flickered in her eyes. Not anger. Not quite.
She slipped the letter into her sleeve.
"I'll read it later," she said, lifting her chin.
"Of course you will."
A beat passed.
Ourania turned toward the window, pretending interest in the view. "If Mother asks, you saw nothing."
Xanthe gave a small sigh. "I never see what I'm not meant to."
Ourania said nothing, but her reflection in the glass betrayed her - the faintest softness in her gaze, quickly masked.
She didn't look like someone who didn't care.
She looked like someone trying very hard to.
A faint scoff left Ourania's lips, but it lacked its usual bite.
As Xanthe turned to leave, she paused at the doorway. "He waits for an answer."
Ourania did not look up.
"He will wait," she replied coolly.
Yet when the door clicked shut behind Xanthe, the room seemed to shrink.
Ourania stood very still for several seconds.
Then - finally - she unfolded the parchment.