Shattered bonds: Sisters in the shadows

The carriage rattled over cobbled streets, its wheels groaning in protest against the uneven path. Within the dimly lit interior, tension filled the space as father and son sat opposite each other, the silence between them as loud as a storm. The Duke, eyed his son carefully.

Edward stared out the window at the passing cityscape. His jaw was set, his expression unreadable, but his clenched fists betrayed his simmering emotions.

After several agonizing minutes, the Duke finally spoke, breaking the stillness. "I don't know whether I should be angry or proud of you," he said, his voice low but laced with authority. His eyes narrowed as they bore into his son.

Edward shifted his gaze slightly but did not meet his father's stare. "You should be proud, Father," he replied coolly, his tone devoid of emotion.

"Proud?" The Duke's voice rose slightly, filled with frustration. "Proud that my only son—my heir—is risking his life for some stupid revenge? Proud that you've decided plunged yourself into needless conflict?"

The carriage jolted slightly as they hit a pothole, but Edward remained steadfast. He still refused to look at his father, keeping his focus on the outside world. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he replied calmly, though his hands tightened further.

"Don't act dumb with me, Edward," he said, his voice sharp as a blade. "I know that little act of yours at the council meeting was to get revenge for Victoria." He paused, his hands clenched into fists as he leaned closer to his son. "It's been seven years. Victoria is dead, and so should your stupid crush. Killing her sister will do you no good!"

"You've gone too far this time, Edward."

Edward turned to face him, his gaze calm, but his eyes burned with barely concealed rage. "Do not refer to that witch as Victoria's sister," he said, his voice low and measured. "And I will get my revenge one way or another."

The Duke's fists tightened, his face lined with frustration. "Revenge for what? For a love that was never meant to be? She is dead, Edward, and dragging us all into your crusade will not bring her back."

Edward's silence was deafening, his cold stare cutting deeper than words ever could. He leaned forward and tapped sharply on the wooden panel separating them from the carriage driver.

"Stop," he commanded.

The horses neighed and the carriage rolled to a halt.

The Duke straightened, his expression shifting from anger to alarm. "Where are you going?"

Edward loosened his cloak from its folds, draping it over his arm. "To get fresh air," he replied evenly, then stepped out of the carriage without another glance at his father.

The afternoon sun greeted him with a hot embrace. He adjusted his cloak, fastening it around his shoulders,his boots clicking against the uneven cobblestones.

Behind him, the Duke leaned out of the carriage, his voice carrying a tone of desperate warning. "Edward, listen to me. This path you've chosen—it will only lead to ruin. Revenge doesn't heal, it destroys."

Edward halted mid-stride but did not turn. "It is not destruction I seek," he said softly, his words laced with bitterness, "but justice. You can call it what you will, Father, but I will not rest until her death is avenged."

"Justice?" the Duke scoffed, his voice rising. "You think slaying her sister will bring you peace? It won't, Edward. It will make you no better than those who took Victoria from us."

Edward finally turned, his cloak billowing slightly in the breeze. The sunlight cast sharp shadows across his face, accentuating the resolve etched into his features. "Then let it be so," he said, his voice cold. "I would rather live as a villain avenging Victoria than as a coward doing nothing."

Without waiting for a response, Edward walked into the busy crowd, leaving his father to sit in the carriage, torn between chasing after his son and resigning himself to the futility of stopping him.

Edward pulled the hood of his cloak over his head, shadowing his face against the hot sun. The Duke's words echoed in his head: "Revenge won't bring her back, Edward. Let her rest."

Rest? How could Victoria rest, knowing her killer still walked free? His hands tightened into fists beneath the folds of his cloak as anger coiled tightly in his chest. He loved Victoria too much for that—forgiveness wasn't an option.

The streets narrowed, and the noise of the city dimmed, but Edward didn't notice. His mind had wandered back to the happier times, moments with Victoria that felt like a lifetime ago. Her laughter—bright and pure—had once made even the coldest days feel warm. But now, that warmth was a distant memory, replaced by the biting cold of grief.

And at the heart of that grief stood her.

Emma. No, not Emma—Daisy. Edward had erased the name Emma from his heart the moment he learned of her betrayal. She wasn't the kind, gentle friend he'd known in their youth. That girl was dead, buried under the weight of her crimes. What remained was Daisy—a cold-blooded killer who had orchestrated the massacre that claimed Victoria's life and that of her parents.

How could someone so close, so trusted, turn into such a monster?

Edward's jaw clenched. He didn't care for explanations or reasons. The only thing he cared about now was justice—or perhaps vengeance, though he no longer cared to differentiate between the two.

"Daisy," he whispered to himself, the name dripping from his lips like poison. "You can't run from me forever."

The sun blazed mercilessly overhead, and Edward adjusted his cloak, cursing the unbearable heat. Sweat trickled down his back, adding to his mounting irritation. He maneuvered through the bustling streets.

He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't notice the cloaked figure walking toward him until they collided. The impact was enough to jolt him out of his haze, and he stumbled slightly.

"I'm sorry, sir," the figure muttered, their voice low and hurried. They didn't wait for a response, slipping past him and continuing on their way.

Edward blinked, ready to yell in frustration, but the voice froze him in place. It was unmistakable—a voice he hadn't heard in seven years but would recognize anywhere.

That voice…

His breath hitched, his chest tightening as panic and disbelief overtook him. His wide eyes darted toward the retreating figure, their form quickly disappearing into the throng of people.

"No," he whispered, his pulse hammering. "That can't be possible."

The crowd thickened, threatening to obscure the figure completely. Without thinking, Edward spun around and pushed his way through the sea of bodies. "Excuse me," he muttered repeatedly, shoving past vendors, pedestrians, and carts blocking his way. His heart raced faster with every second that the figure was out of sight.

The cloaked person turned into an alley just ahead, and Edward increased his pace, his mind racing as quickly as his feet. He was certain he'd heard wrong—or perhaps his grief had finally made him mad.

It's just the heat. Just my imagination, he tried convincing himself, but doubt clung to him like a shadow.

Reaching the corner, he darted into the alley. The air here was cooler, the towering buildings shielding the narrow path from the sun, but the claustrophobic space offered no relief from the tension coiling in Edward's chest.

Ahead, the figure moved with quick, determined steps, their cloak swaying with every stride. Edward's voice cracked as he called out, "Stop!"

The figure didn't falter.

Fueled by desperation, Edward sprinted, his boots slamming against the cobblestones. He caught up enough to reach for their shoulder, grabbing it with a firm hand. "Wait!"

The figure froze, their back still to him. For a moment, all Edward could hear was the sound of his own ragged breathing.

"Turn around," he demanded, his voice trembling slightly.

Slowly, the figure obeyed. They turned, and Edward felt the world tilt on its axis. The hood slipped just enough to reveal her face.

For a moment, the world seemed to stop.

It was her. Or at least, it looked like her. The same piercing eyes, the same delicate features, though they were harder now, more shadowed.The softness he remembered was gone, replaced by something hardened and cautious.

"Victoria?" he breathed, disbelief and shock battling for control in his voice.

The figure—she—regarded him coolly, her expression unreadable. Her lips parted slightly, as though she wanted to speak, but instead, she wrenched herself free from his grasp and stepped back.

"No," Edward said, shaking his head. "You're supposed to be dead. How—"

"I'm sorry, Edward," she said softly, her voice laced with sorrow. She turned to leave, her movements swift and deliberate.

"Victoria, wait!" he yelled, reaching for her again, but she was gone, disappearing into the labyrinth of alleys as if she had never been there at all.

Edward stood in the stifling heat, his chest heaving, his mind racing. He wasn't imagining it—he couldn't have been. That voice, that face—it had to be her.

But how?

And more importantly—why?