Act I: Kingdom of Nobodies
Chapter VIII: Cecilia Dyter
"Father, why does everyone from Mornhal hate everyone from Tarwyn?" I asked as I perched on his lap, twisting my small fingers in the folds of his robes. I hardly weighed anything, as most seven-year-old girls do, although my father himself was not much sturdier. His body was all angles and bones beneath skin far too pale, as if life had been leached from him by years of stress and study. Still, to me he was strong and immovable, like the Moon in front of the Stars.
"You see, Ceecee, our ancestors in Tarwyn and all across the rest of the Velgrin continent committed great sins to others across the world. Especially to Mornhal." Father's bony hand moved in slow, deliberate strokes across my back. They were careful pats, as though I were made of glass. I never knew if he touched me this way because he was afraid of breaking me, or if he himself was too fragile to show more warmth.
"But why is that our fault?! We weren't the ones that did that!" My protest came out in a shrill burst, tiny clomping noises following as I clambered onto his desk. My feet pressed down on maps and ledgers, smudging ink and wrinkling the corners. I knelt on the surface so I could meet his gaze evenly, the desk creaking in complaint. "Why do we have to get in trouble for other people?"
Father's mouth tightened. With a groan, he reached to rescue a scroll that had rolled to the floor. Then, carefully he crossed one thin leg over the other, acting as though regaining his composure was the only way to endure me.
"It doesn't matter to them - nor should it to us - if we were the ones who committed the crimes," he said after what felt like minutes of patience. His voice had taken on that low, deliberate rhythm he always used when he wanted me to learn something important. "It was still our ancestors who did all that damage to all those people. And if we do not pay for those actions, Ceecee, who will?"
I blinked at him, trying to string together the sense from the heavy words. Unfortunately, they slid through my mind like throwing pebbles into a stream, scattering and sinking.
It was always like this. Father spoke to me as if I were so much older and wiser. It was as if he thought I was someone who could wrestle with the philosophies of kings and history. But I was only a kid. The most complicated thought I had entertained that morning had been whether honey tasted better on bread or apples.
I bit my lip, frowning. "So… it doesn't matter if it's not fair?"
He did not answer right away. His eyes were tired and shadowed from work, shifting towards the window where the late afternoon Sun bled through stained glass. The colors painted the study in red and gold, yet his face remained pale. Then he began to tap his heel against the wooden floor. Tap, tap, tap - a sound I had come to know meant only one thing: pay attention, child.
Finally, he looked back to me. "Tell me then, Ceecee. How do you think we should regain their trust after all that has been done? Is there a way that makes everyone happy?"
The question left me stunned. My mouth opened, closed, and opened again. I rocked on the desk's edge, my legs swinging. My mind churned with the same earnest determination that often drove me to solve puzzles far beyond me.
"So they won't forgive us?" I asked slowly. "Not even if we say sorry?"
"Not easily," Father murmured.
My frown deepened, and then, like sunlight breaking through clouds, an idea burst into my mind. "Then why don't we just do something nice to make them forgive us? We can make something everyone can share! Then everyone can be happy!"
Father's lips curved into something that might have been a smile, faint and weary. It was the kind of smile adults wore when they humored me, though I was too young to see it as anything but real.
"Oh? Really? And what would that be?"
The question bloomed into a smile upon lips, "What if…" I paused, bouncing a little as excitement overtook me. "What if we held a big feast in the capital for everyone in the world to come to?! A really, really big one! With roasted chickens and sweet cakes and all the fruit ever! Then everyone could eat together and laugh and be friends again!"
I stretched my arms wide to show just how big the feast would be, nearly knocking over his inkwell in the process.
Father let out a sound between a sigh and a laugh. The lines in his forehead softened, even if it was only for a breath. "A feast for the whole world," he repeated. His tone was thoughtful, almost wistful, as though he were imagining it in spite of himself. "That is a brilliant idea, Ceecee. I think you should go tell Mother about it. She would love to hear of your plans."
My smile flashed an even brighter tone. "Okay! I'm going now!" I chirped, leaping down from the desk with more enthusiasm than grace. The papers I had knocked around fluttered to the ground like startled birds.
I had nearly made it to the door when his voice called me back. "Ceecee."
I turned, still bouncing on my heels.
He regarded me for a long moment, his face blank. Then, with a sigh, he said, "I will likely be busy for the rest of the day. Would you be a dear and ask Mother to handle all the arrangements for today?"
My chest swelled with pride at the responsibility. "I can be a messenger!" I declared, and with that I bolted from the room, my footsteps echoing through the long halls of our home. The manor was enormous - so large that even running at full tilt, I knew it would take time to find Mother. But to me, the journey itself was a joy. I darted between high pillars, skidded across polished floors, and leapt over rugs like rivers.
As I raced, I imagined the feast I had proposed: long tables stretching farther than the eye could see, heaped with delicacies from every land. Musicians played from dawn until dusk. People from Mornhal and Velgrin as well as from Skeldane and Caelthys, all sat shoulder to shoulder, laughing with mouths full, forgetting for once the blood and bitterness of their ancestors.
In my mind, it was so simple. So easy. I never wondered why Father had smiled the way he did, or why his eyes had dimmed as soon as I left.
By the time I found Mother, I was breathless yet triumphant
"Mommy!" I yelled as I rushed into her arms. She must have been sewing me a new toy as when I came into view, she hurried to hide a bundle of yarn behind her back. Her smile was as bright as always as she stuck out her arms for a hug.
"What is it, Ceecee? Did something good happen?" Her voice was as kind as any and silkier than the finest dress. Whenever I was in her arms, there wasn't a single bad thing in the world.
Perfect.
She was a perfect mother.
"I was telling daddy about my plan, okay?" I sat in her lap as she braided my hair, listening attentively to whatever childish delusions I had. Her fingers were delicate in a way that I wished mine were – not a single mistake to be found and precise to a T. I could have only gotten my beautiful hair from her. Its red color may have come from my father, but I was lucky to say its texture did not.
"What plan, Ceecee?"
"You know how all the people from Mornhal hate us?" My mother slightly twitched at that, but her smile stayed just the same. Whether it was the practice of politics or simply a maternal instinct, I had never seen my mother truly sad. If the truth was all in her eyes, I was too young to notice.
At her nod I continued, "What if we make a big feast for everyone to eat together and be happy? Then everyone will be happy!"
The giggle that escaped my mother was as brilliant as she was. My already happy mood turned even giddier at the melody, each note like another step to heaven.
"I think that's a great idea," she said as she lifted me off her lap. "Speaking of dinner, shall we see if it is ready?"
I bounced up and down, imagining what the chefs had cooked for us tonight. My fingers interlaced with mothers and we made our way to the dining hall. Even strolling around our home felt amazing when it was with her. It needed to be this way forever.
But reality is cruel.
It was just a week later when men arrived from the capital. They were royal men, stiff in polished armor that gleamed with the crest of the crown, the Moon within the Sun. They did not knock as much as pound the doors until the wood threatened to give in. I stood near my mother as father greeted them, the crease of her lips scaring me of the worst.
"Mommy, are they evil knights?"
"They're not evil. They just… need something." Her hands were shaking against mine, almost as much as fathers were as he feigned composure. Their words were nothing but ramblings from where we stood, yet it was clear an argument was occurring. One of the men raised their fist as to seemingly strike father - quickly refraining from doing so a moment later. Each passing moment stressed my mother more until they all made their way in our direction.
"Mommy, why are they so angry? Are they going to hurt us?" I asked as I timidly hid behind her back, flinching at the men's sharp gazes
"Grisell Dyter, you do understand what it is we are asking of you, do you not?" It was the man in the middle who was first to speak. Much like the others, this man wore silver armor plated with gold shoulders and navy-blue cloaks to mask their identities. And yet this man was far from forgettable. A scar crossed from his ear and to his brow, resting at the tip of his nose.
The look in his eyes only added to his frightful appearance, each being like cold grey stones. He was the biggest of the men there, likely the most significant as well. His scruffy blonde hair was multiple shades darker than those near the capital, meaning he was likely born on the western edges of Dravorn.
Mother took a deep breath, "I assume it is regarding the king's pursuit of a new queen? If so, then I can assure you that I am not fit for such a role."
"You very much will. As I am sure you are aware, the Dyter household has long lost their chance to pay the expected rate of taxes in the past year, meaning that is not our only concern. You will be expected to give up a large amount of your equity. And as well as that-" The man couldn't finish before he was interrupted by no one other than my father.
Tears gleamed in his eyes as he pleaded, "We will pay you more! We shall earn more so as to pay you back all that we owe! By the mercy of the Moon, please tell our king all mighty to grant us grace!" Father dropped to the floor, begging for anything they would grant.
Never in my life had I seen my parents anything like this. Father had always been a sensitive man, perhaps not ever going so far as tears, but always listening to our people with such empathy that you would have thought he was one of them. And for my mother, she had been a regular civilian prior to marrying my father.
"And if I am not deemed suitable?" mother asked. "Will I be allowed to return home?"
The silence that followed felt endless.
Finally, the commandeer responded:
"Then she will remain to provide the castle her services. The king believes a complete overhaul of the servants in the palace is necessary after what happened to the late queen..."
I had not understood what the man meant at the time.
But father clearly did as the color drained completely from his face. "She will not be returned...?" he asked, his voice only a sliver.
"No."
Mother closed her eyes.
And in that moment, I understood something terrible:
They had not come to ask for her.
They had already decided to take her.
Their message was mercilessly simple: the crown demanded more than our household could possibly give. More gold than even our remaining estate could gather. More than could ever be collected without starving every servant and tenant beneath our name. And they demanded even more than our property.
Father tried everything.
Reason.
Bargaining.
Begging.
But it quickly became obvious the royal collectors had never come to negotiate.
They came to claim.
By dusk, our home no longer belonged to us.
The crown seized our deeds, our lands, and our halls where I had run laughing only days before. Servants were dismissed like livestock while others were forcibly conscripted into labor for the capital.
And Mother - my beautiful, gentle Mother - was "invited" to accompany the royal entourage back to court.
An invitation no one was permitted to refuse.
They claimed her talents were wasted upon the eastern coast. That women of refinement belonged near the king.
I did not fully understand those words then.
Only the terrible finality beneath them.
Mother kissed my forehead in the courtyard before leaving. Her veil trembled while she fought to maintain her smile.
Father could not even meet her eyes.
I screamed for her to stay, clutching desperately to her skirts until one of the soldiers physically tore me away from her.
Then the carriages departed, taking with them my home, my family, and my belief that royals could ever be kind.
From that day forward, I knew the truth: the crown was not something to admire. It was a weapon, and weapons only took.
***
"Father, you can't be serious!" I shouted, my voice shaking with anger. "I will not marry a bloody royal!" The word royal curdled on my tongue like poison. It always did.
Father's fist, the same ones that once patted my back in comfort, now clenched against the sides of his desk. "And I will not hear this insolence from you again, Cecilia. You will marry Prince Ambrose Anderfell."
The name nearly made me retch. Ambrose Anderfell. I had met him only briefly a few years ago, but I could already tell he was no better than the rest. His eyes - blue and blank as the sky - had looked through me - past me - as though I were just another face in a long parade of obligations. That look had never left me. The look of a boy born to power, who had never known what it meant to be powerless.
"I'd rather be sold to some decrepit duke twice or thrice my age," I spat. "Then chained to a crown."
Father slammed his fist down, scattering papers. "You're speaking like a child, and yet you are nearly a grown woman! Of all people, your fifteen years of life should have taught you the right answer! Do you think you have the luxury to choose?! Look around you, Cecilia - look at what's left of us!"
I did look. The Dyter estate was a ghost of its former self. The halls that had once been filled with servants and laughter were stripped bare, our lands diminished, our coffers bleeding. And whose fault was that? Not ours. Not mine. It was the royals, the crown that had gutted us, and now they had the gall to offer me as a balm to their sins.
"You're a fool if you think tying us to the Anderfell line will save us," I hissed, my tone growing harsher each time my lips parted. "They took everything! Our lands, our mother, our dignity! And now they'll take me..."
Father flinched at the word mother. He always did since she had left. But he pressed on, his voice cold like iron, "They will not take you, Cecilia. They will raise you. They will restore our name through you. It is not cruelty - it is our survival."
I turned away, hands trembling. "Survival at the cost of my soul."
There was silence then, thick and suffocating. I wished I could hate Father the way I hated them, but the truth was more complicated. He was not cruel. He was not heartless. He was simply broken. Broken by the same machine that had stolen everything from me.
And perhaps that was the worst of all - that I could not fully hate him, even as he handed me over.
Father's words struck me harder than any slap. Survival at the cost of my soul. That was what he was asking of me. No matter how many times we had conversations similar to these, it never got easier for me. I could act like it didn't hurt. like I was dying on the inside, but it was always impossible for me to hide that from him.
I couldn't bear it. The walls of his study were beginning to close together again, the air thick with the dust of rotting books and old despair. My chest burned, and I did the only thing I could - run. To him, it must've been the same as every other time. Not to me.
"Cecilia!" Father called after me, but I was already through the door, skirt whipping around my legs as I stormed down the corridor.
The halls of the Dyter estate mocked me as I passed. Cracks spiderwebbed across the marble floors. Faded tapestries sagged on the walls, their once-vivid colors long since eaten by moths. Windows that should have shone with light were caked in grime, letting in only slivers of the evening sun. Every minute flaw was clear to my eyes when compared to our original home.
This was what was left of us. This was the ruin the crown had left behind. And now, to patch it together, Father would throw me into their den like an offering.
I clenched my fists until my nails dug crescents into my palms. Never. I'll never be theirs. I pushed through the doors into the courtyard, needing air, needing sky. The gardens - once lush and teeming with roses my mother cared for - were now choked by weeds. Statues leaned at awkward angles, their stone faces eroded by wind and neglect.
Servants scattered when they saw me. I didn't blame them. I must have looked like fury itself. My hair shook wildly, cheeks flushed with rage, and eyes brimming with fire. Let them whisper. Let them wonder. Their gossip mattered less to me than the ashes beneath my feet.
Eventually, I found myself at the fountain, the one place that still half-resembled what it once was. The water no longer flowed, but the basin still caught the rain, and sometimes, when the sky was clear, you could see the reflection of the heavens inside it. I sat on the edge, breathing hard.
"I won't do it," I muttered aloud, though no one was there to hear me. "I won't marry a prince. I won't forgive them. I won't."
But even as I said it, a gnawing doubt tugged at me. Could I stop it? Could I really? My father's word was law in this house, even if his bones were brittle and his spirit waning. And beyond him, the king's word was law in all Velgrin. I was a Dyter, a name that had once meant something, but now? Now we were a shadow, and shadows have no power.
I bit my lip until I tasted blood.
The sound of footsteps broke my thoughts. I turned sharply, expecting Father - but it was not him. It was Elira, one of the older maids, carrying a basket of linens. She froze when our eyes met, bowing so quickly I thought her neck might snap.
"My lady," she said, voice quivering.
I narrowed my eyes. "Were you listening?"
Her head shook violently. "N-no, my lady, never! I only meant to pass through–"
I waved her off, too weary to press her more. But as she scurried away, I caught the flicker of something in her eyes. Pity… for me.
That was worse than hatred. Worse than fear.
I leaned back against the stone fountain, staring at the dead sky in its shallow pool. My life was no longer mine. I was a piece in their game. A Dyter pawn on a royal board.
And yet, a spark still smoldered in me. A vow. They will not break me. If I had to be sent into the lion's den, I would enter with teeth bared. If I had to wear their silks, I would wear them like clown. If I had to bow, I would bow so low they never saw the dagger I hid behind my back. Father thought he was saving us. He thought he was handing me over as a sacrifice for our name. But he didn't understand. I wasn't going to be their sacrifice.
I was going to be someone they would learn to hate as much as I hate them.