Lament for My First Life

The Dukes Visit

Morning came bright and calm. The sun spread gold across the rooftops of Velrithia, and birds chattered in the trees beyond the tall iron gates of the Varra estate. Servants hurried through the halls carrying linens and trays, their shoes clicking on polished floors. The household was in motion, today was important.

The Duke had arrived.

Xylenne had not seen him. She was busy since dawn, dusting shelves and sweeping the back hall. The air smelled faintly of rosewater and the polish used on silver. From the window near the servants' corridor, she caught glimpses of the gardens, flashes of blue cloth, glimmering sunlight, the curve of the fountain, but that was all.

It didn't matter, she told herself. A Duke had no reason to look her way.

Down in the gardens, Lady Marinel sat at the stone table, her finest gown fluttering around her like petals. Her laughter rose now and then, high and sweet. Xylenne could hear it even from inside. Every sound that left Marinel's lips seemed to say Look at me. Only me.

Then came the sharp voice from across the hall. "Xylenne!" Lady Varra's tone sliced through the air like glass. "They're running out of tea! Go deliver more, now! I will not have the Duke thinking we cannot host him properly!"

Xylenne startled, nearly knocking over a vase. "Y-yes, my lady!"

She balanced a silver tray in her hands, the teapot steaming, the cups clinking softly. Her fingers trembled just a little, but she steadied herself with a breath. Then she pushed open the door to the back garden.

Outside, sunlight flooded the world in gold and green. Tall hedges framed the path, roses and lilies swaying gently in the breeze. The garden smelled like summer, sweet, fresh, alive. Birds darted between the trees, their wings brushing the leaves.

Xylenne followed the path slowly, careful not to spill a drop. Ahead, the stone table gleamed. The Duke sat there, his dark hair catching the light, his shoulders straight beneath a coat of royal blue. Marinel sat opposite him, chin lifted just so, eyes shining.

As Xylenne approached, she kept her head bowed. Her heart thumped. She could feel Marinel's gaze burning into her like a warning.

"Ah, the tea!" Lady Marinel's voice carried faintly from the terrace. "Quickly now!"

Xylenne reached the table and began to pour. The scent of jasmine and bergamot drifted up with the steam. Her hands moved gently, quietly. But as she leaned forward, a soft gust of wind slipped through the garden, and her cap loosened.

Before she could catch it, the white cloth fluttered to the ground.

Her hair spilled free, long, silvery-white, glowing in the sun like spun glass.

There was silence.

Marinel froze, her painted smile cracking. The Duke blinked, his cup halfway to his lips. For a moment, only the birds dared make a sound. Then Marinel's laughter burst like breaking glass. "Unbearable, isn't it?" she said sweetly, turning toward the Duke. "That color, so strange, so tasteless. We're such kind people, truly, to have taken pity on such a thing."

Her words stung, each one cutting deep. Xylenne bowed her head, ready to grab the fallen cap, but then she felt it. A gaze. Heavy, steady.

When she glanced up, she saw the Duke looking at her. Not with mockery. Not even curiosity. There was something else, something quiet and searching in his expression. "May I ask..." he said slowly, "what is your name?"

Marinel's smile faltered. "Oh, her?" she said quickly, waving her hand. "Just a lowly servant. Pay her no mind, Your Grace. I'm so sorry you had to see such a disgusting—"

But the Duke didn't look away. "Her hair," he murmured, almost to himself, "it's like jasmine in the moonlight. I've never seen anything like it before."

Marinel's jaw tightened. "Your Grace... you're not complimenting her, are you?"

Xylenne's voice came out small and careful. "My name is... Xylenne, Your Grace."

Her eyes stayed on the stone at her feet.

Marinel stood suddenly, her chair scraping the ground. "Who told you to speak, wretch?!" she snapped. "You're dismissed! I demand another servant from now on!" Xylenne bowed, her hands trembling as she turned to leave. But before she could take a step, a warm hand caught her wrist. "Wait," the Duke said quickly. His voice had softened. "Don't go yet." He looked at her like someone seeing something rare and unreal. "I've never seen someone with hair so white... and eyes so blue."

Marinel's face twisted. "Duke Aerond, you're here to see me, not my servant!"

Xylenne swallowed hard. "I'm sorry," she whispered. She pulled her hand free and hurried away before either of them could speak again.

The rest of the day passed in silence. The Duke stayed only a short while longer before taking his leave. But by the time the sun began to sink, the mansion was thick with tension. Behind the drawing-room doors, muffled sobs echoed. "She ruined everything, Mother!" Marinel's voice cracked through the air. "He looked at her, at her! He called her beautiful! Do you know how humiliating that is?"

Lady Varra tried to soothe her daughter's cries, but her own face was twisted with fury.

"That thing," she hissed, "has done nothing but stain this household. I warned your father against taking her in! Useless girl. Ungrateful girl. How dare she turn his eyes from you?"

Marinel sobbed harder. "Make her pay, Mother. Please... make her pay!"

That night, the mansion was quiet.

The servants had gone to their quarters. The candles burned low. The moonlight painted silver stripes across the kitchen floor where Xylenne scrubbed the last of the dishes. Her hands ached. Her eyes were heavy.

She thought about the Duke's voice, how soft it had been, how strange. For a fleeting moment, she felt warmth bloom in her chest. But the memory only made her sad. Nothing good ever lasted in this house.

As she stood to leave, footsteps clicked across the floor behind her.

"Still awake?" Lady Varra's voice was calm, too calm.

Xylenne turned, startled. "I—I was just finishing—"

"Good," Lady Varra said, stepping closer. "You've been such a help today. Truly. You must be tired. Here, drink this."

She held out a small cup. Steam rose from it, carrying the faint scent of herbs and honey.

Xylenne blinked. "For me?" she asked softly.

Lady Varra smiled, though it didn't reach her eyes. "Of course. For you."

Xylenne hesitated, but then she nodded. It wasn't often anyone offered her kindness, even a small one. She lifted the cup and took a slow sip.

The taste was strange. Sweet, then bitter. Her tongue tingled.

Almost immediately, a coldness spread through her chest. Her breath caught. The cup slipped from her hand and shattered against the floor.

"M-my lady..." she gasped, clutching her throat. "W-what—"

Lady Varra's smile faded. "You shouldn't have drawn his attention," she said quietly. "You should've kept your head down, like a good girl."

Xylenne's knees buckled. She fell hard onto the tiles, her palms slipping in the spilled tea. The edges of her vision darkened.

"M-mother, is it done?" Marinel's voice came from the doorway, trembling but expectant.

Lady Varra didn't turn around. "Yes," she said. "It's done."

Xylenne's fingers curled weakly. Tears slid down her cheeks, warm and helpless. She tried to speak, but no sound came out.

In her mind, fragments of her life flickered, her parents' laughter, the sun through the carriage window, the feeling of wind on the mountain road. Then the crash. The screams. The silence.

And now, again, silence.

She thought of the Duke's eyes, the way he looked at her like she was something beautiful. The thought hurt. It was too kind for the world she lived in.

Her body grew heavy. Her breathing slowed. The last thing she saw was the moonlight spilling across the kitchen floor, pale and cold.

Her lips parted. A single tear fell. This life... was nothing but humiliation, she thought faintly. From beginning to end. Then everything went dark.

The next morning, no one spoke of her. Lady Varra told the servants there had been an accident, a fall, a misstep, a foolish girl not watching where she walked. The story spread quietly, easily believed. By noon, no one dared ask questions. The mansion carried on as always: silver polished, curtains drawn, roses trimmed. And beneath the house, the ground was cold and still. That night, a soft breeze brushed through the garden, carrying a whisper only the moon could hear.

"Not yet..."

The petals shivered, though no one saw.

Xylenne's story was far from over.