The wind off the Greymire Hills was sharp, slicing through the narrow streets and biting at Eleanor’s cheeks. She yanked her cloak tighter, though it did little to soothe the raw irritation that had settled into her bones. Hours wasted—Lord Ryven had kept her in his drafty hall, spewing pleasantries and half-promises. All bluster, no substance. A man too comfortable in his own vanity to offer anything useful.

“Arrogant fool,” Eleanor muttered, her fingers flexing with the temptation to summon flame, just for the satisfaction of it. Had her reputation not been at stake, Ryven’s tapestries might’ve been ash by now.

She was halfway through a mental list of creative ways she could’ve burned the man’s estate when a flicker of movement ahead caught her eye. A girl, weaving through the crowd with an unnervingly light step, her golden hair tied back in a loose knot.

Eleanor’s pulse stumbled. Elnora.

Of course, it was her. That hair, that walk—it couldn’t be anyone else. A reckless, familiar annoyance gnawed at her. How typical, Eleanor thought, lips pressing into a thin line. Her sister, playing dress-up as some vagabond. No doubt convinced she could hide in plain sight, as if Eleanor wouldn’t recognize her own blood.

Eleanor quickened her pace, slipping through the thinning crowd until she was close enough to call out without drawing unnecessary attention.

“Elnora.”

The name cut through the murmurs of the market square. The girl stilled, hesitated, and then turned.

For a brief, disorienting moment, Eleanor found herself staring at a mirror image of herself. The same delicate features, the same deep-set blue eyes—yet not quite right. There was something in the way the girl held herself, in the softness of her expression, that set Eleanor’s teeth on edge.

The girl blinked, her eyes widening with a gentle, almost innocent curiosity. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice light and melodious, as if trying to soothe. “Do I know you?”

Eleanor’s eyes narrowed. The game. She was playing the game again. Pretending. Acting like they were strangers.

“You’ve always been a terrible liar,” Eleanor snapped, stepping forward, her tone cold and commanding. “Enough of this. I know who you are.”

The girl’s smile was warm, almost disarmingly kind, her lips curling into something tender and patient. “Do you?” she asked sweetly, tilting her head in a manner that seemed to invite conversation rather than challenge. “Tell me, who am I then?”

Eleanor’s patience frayed, her words sharp as broken glass. “You’re my sister, Elnora.” Her voice was cutting. “You can drop the act. It’s over.”

But the girl’s soft smile didn’t falter. Instead, it deepened, eyes sparkling with something almost childlike, yet far too knowing for someone who looked so young. “Oh,” she said with a lilting laugh, her tone pleasant, inviting, “your sister? How sweet! I’ve always thought it would be nice to have a sister.” Her eyes lingered on Eleanor’s face with a calm, measured curiosity, as if she were savoring the moment.

That laugh—it curled through the air like a gentle breeze, light and airy, yet it sent an uncomfortable chill up Eleanor’s spine. The way the girl moved, slow and deliberate, her hands folded neatly in front of her, every gesture graceful and serene—none of it matched the words leaving her lips.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Eleanor’s skin prickled, and she felt an unease begin to coil in her gut. This wasn’t Elnora. This was something else.

The girl took a step forward, her eyes soft, brimming with an almost motherly affection. “You know,” she said, her voice lilting like a lullaby, “I think I could get used to that. Having a sister. We could share so many things... memories, secrets...” She paused, her smile never wavering. “Even pain.”

Eleanor’s fingers twitched, instinctively readying to summon fire if the need arose, but something about the girl’s calm demeanor made her hesitate. The girl’s smile was gentle, yet there was a quiet power behind it—a kind of stillness that spoke of something far older than her youthful face.

Her voice dropped, quiet but firm. “Who are you?”

The girl’s eyes twinkled, her head tilting slightly as if she were considering the question with genuine care. “Oh, but I could be your sister,” she said softly, her voice lilting with an almost playful warmth. “I could be anyone you want, really. Isn’t that what sisters do? Become whatever you need?”

Eleanor took a step back, her pulse quickening as the girl followed, her smile remaining impossibly soft, her expression one of serene kindness.

“But I’m not your sister,” the girl continued, her tone sweet and apologetic, as though explaining a simple misunderstanding. “I am called Elladora.” Her smile brightened, almost shy, as if she had shared something personal. “And what shall I call you?”

Eleanor’s jaw clenched, her composed mask barely concealing the unease that gnawed at her insides. “Eleanor,” she replied coolly, her eyes never leaving the girl’s face. “Are you the Ellie Liddell I’ve heard so much about?”

Elladora’s eyes gleamed with amusement, the pleasant expression never leaving her face as if Eleanor had just said something charming. “Perhaps,” she said with a little giggle, almost as if sharing a joke. “I did use that name once... to write a little tale. Quite the lovely story.” She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a soft whisper, intimate yet unsettling. “But names... they’re such slippery things, aren’t they? Like water running through your fingers.”

She beamed, her smile gentle, as if offering reassurance. “Just like people. Always shifting, always changing.”

Eleanor’s pulse raced. As she locked eyes with the girl, she caught a glimmer of something deep, something ancient lurking behind those wide, youthful eyes. Her face was calm, innocent even, but there was a sharpness, a depth there—like staring into an abyss disguised as a smiling face.

Elladora’s expression softened, her gaze becoming more focused, as if she were seeing Eleanor for the first time with real interest. “Tell me something, Eleanor.” Her voice remained sweet, but there was an unmistakable edge, a razor hidden within the silk. “Are you... a Valquinn?”

“I am,” Eleanor said, her voice steady, every muscle in her body coiled tight, ready.

Elladora’s smile deepened, her eyes narrowing just slightly in satisfaction, as if she had uncovered a delightful secret. “Of course you are,” she whispered, her voice filled with quiet delight. She took a small step closer, her presence unnervingly gentle yet commanding. “You have that air about you... that certain arrogance.” Her eyes twinkled, the warmth in her tone making the insult feel like an affectionate tease. “It always gives you away.”

Eleanor’s fingers twitched again, the magic thrumming beneath her skin, but she held back. “And why does that matter to you?” she asked, her voice like ice, the tension palpable.

Elladora’s smile softened, her expression almost wistful now. “Because,” she said in a voice so light and sweet it could have been mistaken for a lullaby, “a good Valquinn... is a dead Valquinn.”

The words hung in the air, gentle and serene, yet they sent a cold shock through Eleanor’s veins. She felt the magic surge within her, but Elladora didn’t seem concerned. She tilted her head, her smile bright and sweet as ever, eyes twinkling as if she had just shared a delightful secret.

And then, with a soft, lilting laugh, Elladora’s expression softened into something impossibly sweet. “Just kidding!” she chirped, her tone light and pleasant, as if brushing off the dark words like a harmless jest. “Maybe.”

Eleanor would pretend she didn’t hear the last part. That wasn’t very reassuring.