As they entered the shelter, the dim lighting and close quarters made Estelle feel more like an intruder than a returning sister. Mira didn’t pause, dragging Estelle through the narrow corridors, deeper into the heart of the refuge. The walls were rough, carved from the stone itself, and the air was thick with the scent of earth and dampness. Estelle’s mind raced, still unable to piece together the strange events of the evening, but she followed Mira without question, trusting her sister’s urgency.
They reached a heavy door at the end of a hallway, and Mira pushed it open without hesitation. Inside, the room was sparsely furnished, with a few makeshift beds and chairs scattered around, and a small table covered with maps and papers. Dante, Iris, and Finn were huddled together, their faces etched with worry. At the sight of Mira, their expressions shifted from concern to a mix of relief and anger—until they saw who she had brought with her.
Dante, the eldest after Estelle, was the first to react. His tall, broad-shouldered frame tensed, and his usually sharp eyes, a deep shade of brown, widened in shock. His dark hair, usually neatly kept, was slightly disheveled, adding to the air of exhaustion that clung to him. For a moment, it seemed as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. But then, in a flash, he moved, positioning himself between Mira and Estelle, his body radiating aggression.
“What have you done, Mira?” Dante’s voice was low and dangerous, barely masking his fury. “Get away from her!”
Before Estelle could react, Dante lunged at her, his flaming fist aimed directly at her chest. The attack was quick, and precise—meant to incapacitate rather than kill. But Estelle’s instincts kicked in, and she raised her sheathed sword just in time, blocking the blow with a solid, resonating thud. The impact jarred her, but she held her ground, her expression a mixture of surprise and determination.
“Dante, stop!” Mira screamed, but her voice was drowned out by Dante’s next words, filled with bitter disbelief.
“How dare you bring this… this imposter here?” he spat, his voice trembling with a mixture of rage and pain. “Do you think this is funny? Mocking me with some stranger wearing her face?”
Dante pressed the attack, his movements sharp and controlled, but Estelle continued to defend herself, parrying his blows with her sheathed sword. She didn’t strike back, only trying to stop his assaults without causing him harm. The room felt smaller with every swing, the tension thick and suffocating.
“Dante, please—just listen!” Estelle pleaded, her voice strained as she blocked another strike. But Dante wasn’t listening. His anger boiled over, and he kept pushing forward, each attack more desperate than the last.
Finn, standing to the side, was usually the quick one to jump into the fray, but now he stood frozen, his lean, wiry frame tense with uncertainty. His sandy blonde hair, tousled as though he had been running his hands through it in frustration, partially obscured his wide blue eyes, which darted between Dante and Estelle. He looked as if he wanted to say something, to do something, but he was paralyzed by the shock of seeing his sister—no, someone who looked like his sister—standing in front of him.
Iris, ever the calm one, moved slightly closer, her sharp eyes scrutinizing Estelle with an intensity that made her shiver. Her auburn hair was pulled back into a tight braid, and her expression, usually composed, was now edged with suspicion. Even Iris, with her usually unshakeable demeanor, seemed unsure, her composure shaken.
Mira, however, clung to Dante’s back, her grip tight with desperation. “Dante, stop it! This is Estelle! I know it is!”
But Dante wasn’t listening. He swung again, and Estelle deflected the blow, her movements fluid despite the confusion and chaos surrounding her. She could feel the force behind each strike, the weight of Dante’s grief and anger driving him forward.
“That thing is not our sister!” Dante shouted, his voice cracking under the strain of his emotions.
Estelle raised her hands defensively, still holding her sheathed sword, her voice a mix of pleading and frustration. “Dante, please, just listen to me—”
But before she could finish, Iris stepped forward, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “Wait.” She held up a hand, stopping Dante in his tracks. “There’s something… different. Let’s not jump to conclusions.”
Dante hesitated, his eyes narrowing as he glanced at Iris, clearly torn between his instincts and her calm reasoning. But the doubt was already creeping in, and Estelle could see it.
“What do you mean, ‘different’?” Dante demanded, his voice still harsh but wavering slightly.
Iris didn’t answer immediately, her gaze still fixed on Estelle, as if she were trying to read something beyond the surface. Finally, she spoke, her voice quieter, more contemplative. “I don’t know yet… but this doesn’t feel like a trick.”
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Finn finally found his voice, though it was strained and uncertain. “What if… what if it really is her?”
The room fell silent again, the weight of his words hanging in the air. Estelle could feel their eyes on her, probing, questioning, doubting. But mixed with that doubt was something else—something she hadn’t seen in their eyes since she walked in. Hope.
Mira, once again holding onto Estelle, looked at her siblings with pleading eyes. “I know it’s her. Please, just give her a chance.”
Dante’s fists slowly unclenched, the anger in his eyes dimming but not disappearing entirely. “If this is some kind of sick joke…” he muttered, but he didn’t finish the sentence. He couldn’t bring himself to say the rest.
Estelle, still holding her breath, looked at each of them in turn. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m telling you the truth. I am Estelle. I don’t understand why you’re acting like this… but I swear to you, it’s me.”
The tension in the room was palpable, the air thick with unspoken fears and uncertainties. Though Dante had lowered his fists and Iris had stepped back, the silence that followed was anything but comfortable. The imminent violence seemed to have passed—for now, at least—but the questions, the uncertainty, and the fear remained, hanging over them like a dark cloud that no amount of reasoning could dispel. Estelle could see the wariness in their eyes, the way they exchanged uneasy glances, as if they were struggling with something far deeper than the shock of her sudden appearance.
Mira and Finn, on the other hand, seemed caught between hope and disbelief. Mira’s hand still clung to Estelle’s arm as if letting go would make her vanish, while Finn shifted uncomfortably, his gaze flickering between his siblings.
Estelle couldn’t take it anymore. The silence was oppressive, and the confusion swirling in her mind needed an outlet. She took a deep breath, her voice steady but laced with frustration as she broke the silence.
“I don’t understand what’s going on here,” she began, looking from one sibling to the next. “I took a break today because I finished my work early yesterday, and I just wanted to relax. But I come here to find you all… like this? And then you attack me?” Her eyes narrowed slightly, her frustration growing. “Even if I argued with Al this morning, I don’t think he’s the type to play some kind of cruel joke involving all of you.”
At the mention of Alaric’s name, she noticed their expressions shift—not with recognition, but with even deeper confusion. Dante’s brow furrowed, and Iris exchanged a quick glance with him before focusing back on Estelle. Mira’s grip tightened slightly, and Finn’s mouth opened as if to say something, but he hesitated.
Finally, Dante spoke, his voice tinged with both anger and desperation. “Who… no, what are you?” His question hung in the air, heavy with accusation.
Estelle blinked, taken aback. “What do you mean? I’m your sister, Estelle. What is wrong with you?”
Dante shook his head, his eyes narrowing as he stared at her. “No. You can’t be. Our sister… she died years ago. I saw it with my own eyes.”
His words hit Estelle like a physical blow, her breath catching in her throat. “What? No, that’s impossible. I’m right here.”
Mira’s eyes welled up with tears again, but this time there was a hint of uncertainty in her gaze as she looked up at Estelle. “We were told… we were told you died, but we didn’t see it ourselves…”
Dante’s voice grew harder, more resolute. “I did. I was there.” He paused, “…She had pure white hair, and she wasn’t… she wasn’t like you.” He gestured toward her sword, still sheathed but clearly a weapon of war. “She didn’t swing a sword around like that. She was a healer… a special kind of Aeth. She had a weak constitution, always tired, always needed rest. That’s who our sister was. And you’re not her.”
Estelle’s mind raced as she tried to process what Dante was saying. Pure white hair? A healer? None of this made any sense. “Dante… I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never been… a healer? And my hair… it’s always been like this.” She ran a hand through her dark hair, confusion etched on her face.
Iris finally spoke, her voice calm but cold. “We don’t have any pictures of her before she… changed. But the only one we have, after everything, shows her with white hair. She was nothing like you, 'Estelle'.”
Estelle felt the world tilt, everything she thought she knew slipping away. How could they believe she was someone else? How could they say she had died when she was right here, standing before them? But her thoughts felt hollow, even to her. The way they looked at her—as if she were some ghost or imposter—it was too much. Estelle’s heart pounded in her chest, a growing sense of dread tightening its grip around her.
Dante’s eyes softened slightly, a flicker of the brother she remembered shining through the hardened exterior. “You can’t be her,” he repeated, but this time, the words were more of a plea than a statement. “We… we failed her, Estelle. We couldn’t protect her when she needed us most.”
Estelle’s breath hitched, her mind struggling to keep up. The sister they described—this fragile, kind healer—was so far removed from the warrior she had become.
“But I’m here,” she said again, more firmly, trying to anchor herself in the present. “I don’t know how or why, but I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”
The room was silent again, but it was a different kind of silence now. One filled with uncertainty and fear, but also the smallest sliver of hope. A hope that maybe, just maybe, the impossible could be true.
But for now, that hope was buried under layers of doubt, and Estelle could feel the weight of it pressing down on her, threatening to crush her under its enormity.
Dante looked at her, his eyes a mix of anger, confusion, and something else—something more vulnerable. “We’ll figure out what you are,” he said quietly, “but until then… don’t expect us to trust you.”
Mira’s hand tightened around Estelle’s arm again, and she nodded resolutely. “I don’t care what anyone says. I know you’re my sister.”
Finn remained silent, his eyes filled with a mixture of emotions too complex to untangle.
Iris simply watched, her sharp gaze never leaving Estelle, as if she were waiting for something—anything—that would confirm what her mind refused to believe.
Estelle nodded, though her heart was heavy with uncertainty. She didn’t know what was happening or how to convince them of the truth, but she knew one thing: she wasn’t going to give up on them. Not now, not ever.