Author's Note: Bonus Chapter!
✦⋆✦⋆✦
The soft glow of a computer screen fills my room.
Keys clatter beneath my fingers in steady rhythm. The mouse clicks in short, precise intervals as the cursor dances across the monitor.
I sit perfectly still in my chair, spine straight, shoulders relaxed, eyes fixed to the center of the screen with absolute concentration.
The situation before me is… complicated.
Not impossible.
Merely complicated.
The enemy party has cornered me near a riverbank. My health bar is unpleasantly low, my cooldowns are half spent, and my teammates have scattered in what can only be described as a masterclass in strategic abandonment.
A salvageable position.
With proper execution.
“You are so adorable when you are focused.”
“Try right click!”
“No no, use your ability, not your shield.”
“Group combat is ill-advised. Therefore try retreat.”
…
I pause.
My mouse stops moving.
The stars continue talking.
Of course they do.
My fingers hover over the keyboard as four separate suggestions arrive simultaneously, none of them remotely aligned with the others.
One recommends aggression.
One recommends escape.
One appears to be narrating my aesthetics.
This is not helpful.
My character is struck by a fireball while I am considering the tactical implications of celestial interference.
The health bar drops further.
I close my eyes briefly.
Then reopen them.
“I cannot focus properly,” I inform the stars.
They continue back-seating.
Naturally.
“Use the stun!”
“Too late for the stun.”
“You should have stunned earlier.”
“That mage is judging you.”
I watch my character get hit again.
A small sigh escapes me.
My window has been unblocked for a few months now, and I made the unfortunate mistake of placing my desk beside it, giving the stars a direct line to my gaming session.
And I have determined three things with reasonable certainty.
First: the stars possess opinions on nearly everything.
Second: those opinions are delivered immediately and without consensus.
Third: none of them have ever played this game.
I press a key.
My character rolls sideways, barely avoiding another spell.
“See! Movement!”
“I told you to retreat.”
“That was not retreating.”
“She improvised.”
“Improvisation is very stylish.”
Another click.
Another dodge.
Progress.
Marginal, but measurable.
Behind me, my window is open.
The night sky is visible above the rooftops.
Hundreds of tiny lights scattered across the dark.
Watching. Commenting. Encouraging. Interrupting.
I narrow my eyes at the screen.
“If I lose this match,” I say calmly, “I will be blaming all of you.”
The stars consider this.
Then one of them says,
“Acceptable.”
Another adds,
“Still, try right click.”
I lose the game.
Tragic.
The defeat screen fades in with quiet finality, politely informing me that my strategic brilliance was, unfortunately, insufficient.
I stare at it for a moment.
Then I exit the match.
It has been four years since my hair began turning white.
I am thirteen now.
The white has completely overtaken it.
Not a strand of black remains beneath the dye.
My eyebrows followed shortly after.
Maintaining the illusion has become… tedious.
The maids never learned to dye my eyebrows properly. No matter how many were assigned, the same mistake repeated itself—chemical dripping into my eyes, stinging tears, quiet apologies, and their silent disappearance from the household roster soon after.
Eventually I decided it was more efficient to do it myself.
Annoying.
I sigh softly and queue for another match.
Victory will come.
Eventually.
“See?” one of the stars says brightly. “Wasn’t my recommendation good?”
It was.
Over the past year Mother and Father have gradually run out of ways to occupy my time.
Lessons became redundant.
I surpassed the teachers.
Etiquette examinations ended quickly once they realized there was nothing left to correct.
All discussions followed the same pattern. Questions turned into conversations, and conversations eventually turned into quiet irritation when my answers became better than theirs.
And so the stars began recommending alternatives.
Games. Anime. Stories.
Distractions to occupy the empty spaces between sleep, meals, and lessons that had long since stopped accomplishing anything useful.
A very good suggestion.
One I am quietly grateful for.
Not that I would say that out loud.
“It was alright,” I say instead.
“That was—”
“Right?”
“Totally a tsundere.”
“Adorable.”
I shift my gaze slightly to the side.
A knock at the door interrupts me.
My expression shifts before I consciously decide to change it.
The faint embarrassment disappears. The natural curve of my lips flattens.
The mask settles back into place, smooth and practiced, my thoughts neatly concealed behind composure.
“Enter.”
The door opens with a quiet creak.
A maid steps inside.
A new one.
I can tell immediately.
The way she pauses half a step too far from the threshold. The way her hands clasp together slightly tighter than necessary. The careful way she avoids meeting my eyes for more than a second at a time.
She is afraid.
Not visibly.
Just enough.
As though she expects me to do something unpredictable.
It is an odd reaction to have toward a thirteen-year-old girl.
Which means she has heard the rumors.
There would be no other reason for someone to fear me during a first meeting.
If I looked like Elizabeth, I might understand.
Elizabeth is already beginning to resemble a competent young woman. Taller, confident, presence naturally filling the room in a way people instinctively respond to.
I do not.
My body has barely changed in years.
I am shorter than every other girl in my “friend” group.
Noticeably so.
And while they have begun developing the shapes expected of young women, I have gained precisely zero horizontal mass on my chest.
To the point that I often appear several years younger than I actually am.
A side effect, perhaps, of whatever turned my hair white.
Annoying.
“Young Miss, it is time for bed,” she says.
I blink.
Getting lost in my thoughts has become more common recently.
Mildly concerning.
I incline my head.
“I will soon.”
She hesitates.
“The Master and Missus have instructed me to tell you to go to bed immediately.”
Oh.
This one has a spine.
Most of the maids do not.
The rumors have been circulating for months now. Ever since the incident, few of them are willing to contradict me directly.
Almost none are willing to meet my eyes.
About eight months ago, one of the maids slipped while carrying linens down the main staircase. The fall was… unfortunate.
The injuries were severe.
She will spend the remainder of her life in a wheelchair.
The other staff believe I pushed her.
Mother and Father do as well.
A rather imaginative conclusion.
If I wished to remove a maid, there are far more efficient methods available. Getting someone dismissed is simple.
Paralyzing them for life is wildly inconvenient.
The maid remains where she stands, clearly unsure whether she should press the issue.
Ah.
I drifted again.
“I will ensure I go to sleep within the next hour or two,” I say.
She hesitates.
“Young Miss—”
I lift a hand.
She stops immediately.
I meet her eyes.
“Interesting,” I say calmly. “You seem to believe you are the one giving orders to me.”
A bead of sweat forms along her temple.
The decision takes less than a second.
She bows quickly, murmurs a polite goodnight, and withdraws from the room.
The door closes.
A lock slides into place.
Then another.
I tilt my head slightly.
Mother and Father have added another lock to my door.
For safety, I am sure.
They produce many such explanations these days.
The slow fortification of the house.
Additional locks. Reinforced doors. Soundproofed walls. Tempered windows.
All introduced gradually.
Quietly.
Almost carefully enough that it might go unnoticed.
Almost.
It is absurd.
All of it is for me.
They believe I do not see it.
The tension in their shoulders when they speak with me. The measured distance they maintain. The careful way they choose their words.
Fear.
Not of what I have done.
Of what I might do.
They set expectations for me once.
Unrealistic ones.
I met them.
Then surpassed them.
And eventually—
They were the ones unable to reach mine.
The world splits.
—
Laughter fills the hall.
I blink once.
Elizabeth is laughing at something another member of our group said. The sound is light and unrestrained in a way that would surprise most adults who only see her at formal events.
I am the only one who sees it for what it truly is.
Strategically placed.
The culprit is the boy standing beside her.
His name is long, aristocratic, and entirely impractical for daily use, so the group collectively shortened it to Rod several years ago.
Rod makes the mistake of looking directly at Elizabeth after delivering whatever comment earned the laughter. The moment he notices her expression, he quickly looks away again, a faint red creeping across his cheeks.
His control over his expressions remains poor.
Consistently so.
Rod is in love with Elizabeth.
This is not a secret.
Most of the group has noticed it, and Elizabeth certainly has as well.
Elizabeth Sterling is the only person in the world who has earned my genuine respect after all.
She is well trained, socially precise, and a manipulator of remarkable competence for someone our age. More importantly, she is almost impossible to read when she decides she does not wish to be.
The only person I know who operates on something close to my own wavelength.
She allows Rod his feelings.
Not cruelly, and not kindly either.
She keeps him close enough to remain useful in conversation while maintaining a slight but unmistakable distance. Just enough attention to keep him hopeful, just enough detachment to prevent him from becoming inconvenient.
Rod interprets this as affection.
He is incorrect.
He is a tool.
A mildly convenient one.
Unfortunate.
Our conversation is interrupted by the quiet approach of Mr. Sterling.
Elizabeth’s father pauses beside our group, offering his daughter a warm, genuine smile before addressing the rest of us.
“We are bringing out the board games,” he says easily. “Would you all like to join?”
His tone is relaxed and welcoming. This is an informal gathering rather than one of the larger corporate events our parents usually host.
Even so, the question contains no real room for refusal.
Elizabeth and I incline our heads at the same moment.
Agreement given.
Decision made.
The rest of the group follows shortly after.
We are led to a table already prepared for us.
A chessboard rests at its center, pieces arranged in perfect symmetry. Black and white stand in neat formation across polished wood, the lacquered squares reflecting the chandelier’s soft light overhead.
Several executives sit nearby with glasses in hand, their conversations slowing as we approach. They do not stop speaking entirely, but their attention drifts toward the board with the quiet curiosity reserved for small spectacles.
Mother stands beside the table.
One chair remains empty.
The other is occupied by Father.
Ah.
So this is where this is going.
He looks up at me and smiles.
It is a pleasant expression.
Convincing at a distance.
Up close, the tension around his eyes gives it away.
He is worried he will lose.
He will.
But withdrawing is no longer an option, not with this many people watching.
Elizabeth notices it as well.
Our eyes meet briefly across the small crowd. She gives the slightest tilt of her head, her expression carrying something I cannot immediately categorize.
Pity, perhaps.
Or sadness.
I am unsure.
Elizabeth observes carefully, which means she likely understands more about my relationship with my parents than any other does.
Father gestures lightly toward the empty seat.
“Care for a game?”
I incline my head.
“This is only a friendly game,” he adds.
The statement is delivered with easy confidence.
Which means it is not.
I sit.
The chair is slightly too tall, leaving my feet suspended just above the floor. They hover there without touching the ground, an inconvenience I choose to ignore.
The board sits between us.
Father is White.
I am Black.
He gave himself the advantage from the beginning.
Around us, the other parents and children gather in a loose circle. Their conversations continue in quiet fragments while their eyes occasionally drift back toward the board.
Father makes the first move.
A standard opening.
I answer with a pawn.
He responds immediately—pawn to e5.
Predictable.
The next several moves pass quickly.
Knights develop. Bishops take their diagonals. The board begins forming its familiar structure as pieces slide into place with quiet clicks against the wood.
Elizabeth watches closely, her gaze moving between squares with careful attention.
She is following well.
Father advances his queen earlier than necessary.
Aggressive.
A faint smile appears as he places it down, confident in the pressure it creates.
He believes the initiative is his.
Technically, it is.
I sacrifice a knight.
Father pauses for the first time.
“Interesting,” one of the executives murmurs.
Father captures the piece.
Naturally.
The position tightens.
I castle.
A pawn advances.
Another piece disappears.
The structure compresses inward, the board losing its early symmetry.
Father’s smile fades.
Two moves later he leans back slightly, studying the pieces with new caution.
Around us the executives stop pretending to continue their conversations.
Elizabeth’s lips curve faintly.
Recognition.
She sees it now too.
“You’re losing pieces,” Elizabeth says softly.
I nod.
“Yes.”
The board continues to thin.
Pieces vanish one by one, traded away with quiet efficiency.
I move my queen.
Father freezes.
His eyes move across the board once.
Then again.
“Check.”
He studies the position, calculating.
There is only one move.
He takes it.
I move again.
“Check.”
Again, only one response.
He plays it.
I move.
“Checkmate.”
The word leaves my mouth calmly.
Elizabeth rises and steps closer to the table.
“May I?”
Father gestures wordlessly.
She studies the board.
A moment passes.
Then it clicks.
Her eyes lift to mine.
“The knight sacrifice.”
Impressive.
I nod.
“You traded half your pieces for bait.”
“Yes.”
I incline my head politely toward Father.
“Thank you for the game.”
He nods once and stands.
The fear in his eyes is no longer subtle.
Ah.
He finally understands.
Mother’s expression has changed as well.
Interesting.
Elizabeth smiles at me.
It is not the polite smile from earlier.
This one carries expectation.
And excitement.
“Do you mind if I play next?”
I return the smile and gesture to the seat.
She sits.
Her feet reach the floor easily.
Unlike mine.
Annoying.
My smile becomes slightly more genuine.
Behind us, my parents speak in quiet whispers they believe no one can hear.
Most of it dissolves into indistinct murmurs.
One word does not.
“Monster.”
I ignore them.
Their opinions ceased to matter some time ago.
They have already failed to reach my expectations.
Elizabeth has not.
Behind my ribs, something shifts.
Excitement.
The board is reset.
Elizabeth makes the first move.
—
A notification chimes softly through the headset resting around my neck.
I blink.
Ah.
The queue finally popped.
I accept immediately and lock in my champion before any of my teammates can entertain the idea of stealing it.
Efficiency.
The loading screen appears.
“Hey, Lyn?”
I tilt my head and glance out the window.
“Yes?”
The stars hover where they always do, scattered across the dark sky like an audience that never leaves.
“You are beautiful, you know.”
That seems unrelated to the current activity.
Still, I respond the way they want me to.
“I know.”
“You are brilliant.”
“I know.”
“We are your family.”
I pause for a moment.
“I know.”
Something warm spreads through my chest.
A strange sensation.
Unfamiliar.
Not unpleasant.
I do not fully understand it.
The stars drift lazily outside the window.
“We love you.”
My expression cracks.
I can't stop it.
The corners of my mouth lift on their own, forming a smile that feels… wrong.
Uncontrolled. Unpracticed.
Real.
I do not know what to do with it.
So I answer the only way that makes sense.
“I know.”