Shattered bonds: Sisters in the shadows

In the undercity, the air was thick with grime and despair. The cobblestone streets were choked with trash, and the acrid stench of decay clung to every corner. Children dressed in patched rags darted between crumbling buildings, their laughter somehow piercing the gloom like the only surviving melody in a ruined symphony. They played amidst the wreckage, finding joy in broken toys and discarded cans, their innocence a striking contrast to the misery around them.

Beggars lined the streets, their hollow eyes pleading for mercy from an indifferent world. Each day, they positioned themselves in front of abandoned shops, hoping a kind-hearted passerby—or a drunken gambler with loose pockets—might toss them a scrap or coin. The council had long ago turned its back on this part of the city, allocating funds to build shimmering glass towers in the wealthier districts while the undercity crumbled beneath their feet.

It was a haven for the forgotten and the desperate, but also for those who thrived in chaos. Thieves, informants, and outlaws blended into the crowd, using the poverty-stricken neighborhood as a shroud.

In The Angels Drink, the smoky atmosphere buzzed with chatter, laughter, and the sound of clinking glasses. The pub, a beacon of life in the undercity's gloom, was packed with its usual mix of down-on-their-luck workers, sharp-eyed rogues, and rebels itching for change. A small band played a jaunty tune in the corner, their instruments as worn as their fingers were nimble.

At the center of it all was a large, bearded man sitting at a battered wooden table, his beer sloshing as he spoke animatedly. "The cowardly councilmen must be scared out of their wits!" he proclaimed, slamming his mug down with a grin. The table erupted in cheers and agreement.

"Scared out of their palaces and silk robes!" someone chimed in.

"Cheers to Daisy!" shouted a wiry man with a scar that curved down his left cheek. He raised his glass high, and the whole room followed, the collective toast echoing through the pub.

"To Daisy!" they roared in unison.

Daisy had become the undercity's unexpected hero. No one quite knew where she had come from, only that her rise had been swift and unrelenting. She wasn't some noble outlaw with an oversized sense of justice; she was one of them—a survivor of the council's greed, a victim who'd decided she wouldn't take it anymore. In the past month alone, she and her crew had sabotaged shipments of luxury goods meant for the council, rerouting them to feed and clothe the undercity instead.

At the bar, a shadowy figure swirled her glass of whiskey, listening to the crowd with an unreadable expression. Daisy herself, hiding in plain sight.

"Think she'll go after that pompous fool, Councilman Harrold next?" asked a man near the bar. His voice carried just enough that Daisy could hear.

A slow smile spread across her face. Councilman Harrold—one of the architects behind the council's abandonment of the undercity—had indeed been in her sights for weeks. His obsession with acquiring art pieces had made him an easy target. Tomorrow night, a particular shipment of rare paintings destined for his private gallery would meet an unfortunate "delay."

As the pub roared with drunken delight, Daisy drained her whiskey, stood, and made her way out the door, unseen and unnoticed.

The stars, dim as they were in the smog-laden sky, seemed brighter in her eyes. "To Daisy," she whispered to herself, pulling her hood low over her head. If they wanted to toast her tonight, she'd make damn sure to give them a reason to cheer tomorrow.

Edward pushed through the heavy wooden doors of the mansion, their weight almost matching the burden on his mind. Inside, the dim light of a chandelier flickered above him, casting dancing shadows across the walls. The butler bowed stiffly.

"Good evening, Master Edward," the butler said, his tone respectful but measured.

Edward ignored him, his boots clicking sharply against the polished marble floor as he strode past. His thoughts were far too tangled to bother with niceties. His destination was the study, a place where he could nurse his swirling emotions in the solitude of dark liquor and ancient books.

But his mind couldn't settle. Victoria is alive.

The afternoon's revelation had struck him like a thunderbolt. Years ago, when the Marquis and his wife perished in that tragic fire, their eldest daughter vanished without a trace. Most believed she had died, consumed by the same flames that claimed her parents. But the whispers that had started shortly after the tragedy were impossible to ignore. They said Daisy—known across the region for her supposed witchcraft and rebellion—had stolen the girl away. Some even claimed Victoria had been cursed, transformed into something unholy and hidden from the world.

Daisy, Edward thought bitterly. The very name churned his stomach. The woman had wreaked havoc across the land, and now, tied to her in shadow and secrecy, Victoria had returned.

The butler's voice broke through Edward's thoughts as the man reappeared at the study door. "Master Edward, shall I have refreshments sent up?"

Edward waved him off impatiently, throwing himself into the armchair by the fireplace. "No. Leave me."

The butler hesitated for a fraction of a second before bowing once more and retreating.

Edward stared into the fire, his face illuminated by its soft orange glow. What was Victoria now? The girl he remembered—sweet, dutiful, and with a kindness that made her parents proud—couldn't have survived in the care of someone like Daisy.

His fists clenched as the thought stabbed at him. Was she even human?

A light knock at the study door startled him. Edward turned sharply, his voice terse. "I said leave me be!"

The door opened anyway.

Standing there was his father.

Edward stiffened at the sight of the Duke entering the room. Without waiting for an invitation, the Duke strode across the study and sank into the armchair opposite Edward.

"The butler told me you looked... troubled," the Duke began, his voice measured but sharp. "Your outburst a now confirmed it. So, what happened?"

Edward met his father's piercing gaze briefly before turning his eyes back to the fireplace. The Duke's ability to read people was infuriatingly keen. Still, Edward decided to keep the truth buried. If his father learned about Victoria's return, he would demand answers—and worse, action.

"Just pondering the council meeting today," Edward lied, leaning back into the chair. He forced a calm tone, hoping it would throw off his father's suspicions. "Nothing of note, really."

The Duke arched a brow, his silence heavier than words. His scrutiny made Edward's skin prickle, but he didn't break. Finally, the Duke leaned back, the firelight casting shadows across his face.

"Lady Felicia came here today," he said casually, though his eyes didn't leave Edward. He paused deliberately, gauging his son's reaction.

Edward scoffed, his mask of calm slipping. "What does she want?" he asked, bitterness seeping into his voice.

The Duke sighed heavily, his usually stoic demeanor cracking ever so slightly. "Why don't you like Felicia? She's a sweet young girl, from a respectable family," he said, his voice carrying an undertone of frustration.

Edward didn't look at him immediately. Instead, he traced the edge of his whiskey glass with a finger before setting it down with a faint clink. "When I'm ready to settle down, I'll find someone," he replied evenly, his tone devoid of emotion.

The Duke flared his nostrils, his patience slipping. "And when will that be? When you finally get over your stupid crush on a dead girl?" he spat, his voice rising with each word.

Edward's hand tightened around the glass, his knuckles white.

"Victoria is dead, Edward!" the Duke bellowed, standing abruptly, his imposing figure casting a long shadow across the room. "The sooner you get that into your head, the better it will be for all of us."

Edward shot up from his chair, his calm veneer shattered. His dark eyes burned with a fury his father rarely saw. "Don't you dare speak about her like that," he hissed, his voice low but seething.

"She's gone!" the Duke yelled, cutting through Edward's words. "Gone, like your mother! Like your foolish ideals of the past! Stop living in a fantasy, Edward. You have duties—to this family, to this estate, and to the future we've built."

Edward turned away, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached. The fire crackled behind him, a cruel reminder of the tragedy that had stolen Victoria away all those years ago. Or so they thought.

"I'll live my life as I see fit," Edward said finally, his tone cold and detached. He refused to let his father's words needle deeper into his already fractured heart. "And I'll marry when I'm good and ready, not because you want me to play politics with a girl I have no feelings for."

The Duke's expression softened slightly, his anger waning into something that almost resembled pity. "Feelings, Edward?" he muttered, shaking his head. "Feelings won't secure alliances or rebuild what we've lost. You need to start thinking like a leader."

Edward didn't respond. He didn't trust himself to. His chest felt too tight, the walls of the study suddenly suffocating.

The Duke straightened his coat and exhaled deeply, regaining his composure. "Victoria is dead," he repeated, this time softer, almost like a plea. "And she's not coming back."

Edward remained silent, his gaze fixed firmly on the floor.

The Duke rose from his chair with deliberate slowness, the weight of his authority pressing down on the room. His boots echoed against the polished floor as he strode toward the door. Just as his hand reached for the doorknob, he paused, turning his head slightly.

"You will meet with Felicia tomorrow," he said firmly, his tone brooking no argument. "And you will propose to her, whether you like it or not."

Without waiting for a response, he opened the door and left, the heavy oak slamming shut behind him.

For a moment, Edward simply stared at the closed door, the Duke's command ringing in his ears. His father's absolute certainty—his unyielding grip over Edward's life—made his chest tighten with frustration.

The anger simmered until it finally boiled over. With a sharp motion, Edward grabbed the glass from the table beside him and hurled it against the wall. It shattered on impact, shards of crystal scattering across the room like fragments of his thoughts.

Breathing heavily, Edward collapsed back into the armchair, his hand raking through his dark hair. The fire in the hearth crackled, mocking him with its warmth.