The chamber was silent, save for the faint rustle of curtains swaying in the midday breeze. Catalina lay on her bed, her eyes fixed on the high window where sunlight poured in, harsh and unrelenting. She should have been asleep, yet rest would not come. Restlessness gnawed at her, thoughts circling like vultures.
With a small sigh, she turned her head away from the light and shut her eyes, willing herself to drift off.
But the darkness behind her lids betrayed her.
Flashes came unbidden—pools of blood seeping into muddied snow, fire devouring the horizon, and the sky above, heavy and grey as ash. She knelt in the midst of it, the stink of iron and smoke filling her lungs. And there, beyond the wall of flame, a figure emerged. A knight—dark-haired, resolute—her form carved into Catalina's memory like a wound that refused to heal.
Catalina's eyes flew open with a sharp gasp. She shot upright, breath ragged, sweat clinging to her brow. For a brief instant, her gaze shimmered, her green eyes burning with flecks of jeweled amber-gold, before fading back to their mortal hue.
She pressed a hand to her face, steadying herself. Her voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper.
"These dreams…Why is it always her…?"
Her hand dropped, and her eyes drifted back toward the window. A shadow of frustration passed over her features, her brows knitting tight.
"It was years ago… Yet she never left my mind once.."
Throwing aside the sheets, Catalina rose from her bed. She crossed the room to the small vanity table, the kind noble ladies might use for their powder and jewelry. Yet for her, it was nothing but a mirror—a reminder that no matter what shone on the surface, she could never erase what lay beneath.
She met her own reflection, staring into her own weary eyes. Slowly, she closed them, drawing in a deep breath. When they opened again, that same golden jeweled shimmer danced in her irises.
"If not for this…" she muttered under her breath, her lips curling in disdain.
"I should have died back then."
Her reflection blurred as her thoughts drifted elsewhere—an open field, endless and green, wind warm against her face. She stood there clad in golden armor, untouched by war, untethered from grief. It was a place she longed for, a place she would never reach.
Her eyes opened once more. Reality returned.
"If only I could stay there forever," she whispered, her voice sharp with longing. "Away from all of this."
Her gaze fell to the table. Resting upon it was a small blade, simple but keen. She picked it up, turning it over in her hand, watching the light glint across its edge.
Without hesitation, she pressed it against her palm and drew it swiftly across.
Blood welled red against her skin, a vivid reminder of mortality. Yet within moments, her eyes flickered like gold. A bright light shines down into her palm. The wound glowed, searing bright, until flesh knitted itself shut. When the light faded, no scar remained.
Catalina stared at her palm in silence. Her lips parted, the words slipping out flat, stripped of emotion.
"Cursed thing…"
Later inside the estate, in the quiet hush of the library, Catalina moved among towering shelves. Her gold hair flowed freely, her attire simple and modest. She scanned the endless rows of books, her mind occupied.
If only I could manage these political matters properly, she thought, fingers brushing the spines of tomes.
Maybe then I could rise on my own… but words… they slip past me sometimes.
Her lips pressed into a thin line, annoyance flickering faintly across her face.
"Why… Why is it so hard to make sense of these words?" she muttered under her breath.
Frustration mounting as her fingers traced the lines of print. The letters seemed to twist and shift before her eyes, stubborn and unyielding.
The afternoon sun shines in the lower city. Jean's workshop smelled faintly of ink and cloth, a comforting chaos of sketches, spools of thread, and mannequins draped in Jean's latest creations.
He bent over a piece of parchment, shading a delicate clothing requested by Lady Liana, when the bell above the door jingled.
Jean looked up and saw none other than Sylvester himself stepping inside.
Musing aloud, Jean said, "If this is about Lady Liana's commission, I assure you, I'm working tirelessly."
Sylvester chuckled, waving a hand.
"Oh no, no. Not here to rush you, Jean. Quite the opposite, in fact. I'm here about something else entirely."
He strolled past the mannequins, inspecting the dresses with an appreciative gaze, hands trailing over the fine fabrics.
Jean slumped over his sketchbook, letting his face fall onto the page.
"Then what is it? I hope it's not another commission… I'm already drowning in Lady Liana's requests." Each sketch felt like failure under his exhaustion.
Sylvester leaned against a finished gown, his eyes still scanning the fabric.
"It's about a lady…"
"Lady Heather."
Jean's head snapped up, eyes wide. The name alone made him jump, his heart skipping. Nobody in high society knew Erika's true identity—not even his friend Sylvester, a nobleman.
Impersonating a noble was punishable by law, after all.
"Oh?"
Jean asked, trying to sound calm though his pulse raced.
"Why do you ask about her? You've sought my work through her dresses just a few days ago."
Sylvester turned to him, a teasing smile on his lips.
"Who wouldn't? A fine lady like her is the talk of every high-society gathering. Even her red hair… it demands notice. I wouldn't be surprised even… Marquess Castell himself took note."
Jean's thoughts went wild.
Erika… you'll be the death of me someday. slumping further into despair and amusement at the same time.
"And since I keep hearing from noble women about this fine establishment of yours," Sylvester continued.
"I suspect she must be your loyal patron, sponsoring your workshop?"
Jean wiped sweat from his brow.
"Uh… yes, but I'm not particularly close to Lady Heather. She just… appreciates having her dresses made personally."
Sylvester smiled knowingly.
"Well, you see… I've been tasked with something important. I'm looking for a female tutor."
Jean blinked. "A female tutor?"
"Yes," Sylvester replied.
"But all the noblewomen with proper education rejected my proposal to teach a girl—up north from here, far from the capital. Seems no one wants the journey."
Jean closed his sketchbook and shrugged.
"Can't say I blame them. Up north, the forests are dense, the roads are rough and a bit cold… and even the wolves don't make it friendly for delicate ladies." He smirked.
"Women are… picky, after all."
Sylvester sighed in agreement.
Jean tilted his head. "Why must it be a woman? Wouldn't a man be easier?"
Sylvester's smile wavered. "It's a special request from my… client."
Jean laughed lightly. "Your client must be stubborn, then."
Sylvester chuckled nervously, then reached into his coat and pulled out a folded letter. Handing it to Jean.
"I couldn't find Lady Heather's address anywhere. She is quite the mysterious lady. Since she frequents your workshop, can you give her this?"
Jean accepted the letter, nerves and exasperation warring across his face.
" Of course, no problem," brow furrowing slightly as he smiled awkwardly.
Sylvester adjusted his coat and headed for the door, glancing back with a faint smile.
"I'll be on my way now, Jean. Make sure she gets this."
Jean waved awkwardly, "Yeah, yeah… I'll get it to her."
Sylvester chuckled lightly and stepped out into the bustling streets of the lower city, the bell above the workshop jingling as it swung closed behind him.
Jean let out a long sigh, leaning back in his chair.
God damn it… why is she always causing trouble, whether as Heather or herself?
A crooked smile tugged at his lips, mingled with exasperation.
Somehow, I don't think this is the last of it either.