As Mireyna stood there, inhaling the crisp, refreshing air, her mind wandered back to a recent visit to Italy. Before she returned to the village of Kokushibu for the summer holidays, her mother had taken her back to the Lyssander family estate. The mansion stood tall and unyielding, its walls strong, free from any cracks, much like the family it represented.
There, Mireyna had met all her cousins, uncles, and aunts. However, she had felt uneasy from the moment she stepped into the grand house. She knew that, to them, she was an outsider—a mere stranger in the world of the Lyssanders. The moment she crossed the threshold, the weight of their judgment hung in the air, even if unspoken. She could feel their eyes on her, their whispers just beneath the surface, knowing they saw her as different from the rest. It was a place where she didn't truly belong, no matter how much her mother tried to make her feel at home.
As Mireyna and her mother, Anne, stepped into the grand Lyssander estate, the vastness of the main hall unfolded before them like a royal stage.
The drawing room was enormous—spanning high ceilings crowned by a glittering chandelier, its crystal teardrops catching the light and scattering it across the marble floors like fragments of a dream. The chandelier alone looked as though it could pay for an entire house; it hung with regal weight, a testament to old money and ancestral pride.
Along the walls stood tall arched windows draped with thick, embroidered curtains in deep burgundy and gold. The furniture was arranged with such precision it almost felt ceremonial—elegant armchairs and carved wooden sofas, upholstered in velvet and arranged around polished tables that gleamed under the chandelier's glow.
Portraits lined the walls—stern-faced men in military coats and elegant women in corseted gowns—generations of Lyssander ancestors, each watching silently from their gilded frames. A particularly massive oil painting of Mireyna's great-grandfather hung over the grand fireplace, his expression distant, his presence imposing even in death.
To either side of the hall stood tall suits of armor, polished to a silver sheen, their visors down, hands resting on ceremonial swords—like silent sentinels guarding a forgotten age. The room exuded power and restraint, the kind of grandeur that demanded quiet reverence.
It was a room built not for comfort, but for legacy. A place that whispered: You are standing on history. And for Mireyna, who had always felt like an outsider, that whisper echoed like a warning
As Mireyna and her mother Anne stepped further into the resplendent drawing room, the regal atmosphere only thickened. And then—they saw them.
The Lyssanders.
Seated in the very heart of the room, on the grand velvet armchair that might as well have been a throne, was Zio Marco, her mother's older brother. He sat with one leg elegantly crossed over the other, a glass of aged wine in one hand, his posture relaxed yet commanding, like a king surveying his dominion. His eyes flickered toward Mireyna and Anne with unreadable intensity.
To his right, on another ornate chair, sat his eldest son, Alessandro Lucien Lyssander. He too sat with legs crossed, calmly sipping tea from a porcelain cup trimmed in gold. Though only a few years older than Mireyna, there was an air of quiet maturity about him—composure honed by expectation. His hair, like spun sunlight, glowed in soft waves of golden blonde, the signature hue of the Lyssander legacy. His expression was unreadable, but his silence said enough. Alessandro did not engage in small talk. He only spoke when necessary, and only when the matter was worthy of his time.
Beside him, with the poise of a young duchess, sat his younger sister—Isabella Fiorella Lyssander. Her golden-blonde hair fell like silk down her back, never tied, never pinned. "Papa doesn't like it when I tie my hair," she had once told Mireyna with a soft smile. "He says a Lyssander's beauty should flow as freely as her bloodline."
Isabella was breathtaking. Two years older than Mireyna, she was already well-known across the upper circles of nobility—not just for her radiant looks, but for her exceptional intellect and talent. She was the pride of her elite academy, the top student in all her subjects, and a renowned champion in horseback archery, often seen gracefully loosing arrows from horseback like a warrior princess reborn.
Both Alessandro and Isabella were regarded as the crown jewels of the Lyssander family—their greatest hope. The embodiment of prestige, brilliance, and noble grace.
Alessandro was currently pursuing his higher education at the Università di Aureum Regalia, an exclusive institution reserved only for royalty, nobility, and those of legendary bloodlines. A place where titles mattered—but intellect, even more so. The tuition was said to rival that of haute couture, and admission was rarer than a royal pardon. Isabella was expected to follow in his footsteps the following year.
Though Alessandro rarely spoke to any of his cousins, no one ever dared label him arrogant. He was respected—deeply so. To be silent and dignified was expected of a Lyssander heir, and Alessandro wore that silence like a crown.
Isabella, on the other hand, was different. She was warm, social, and utterly magnetic. Among all the Lyssander cousins, she was the closest to Mireyna. She adored her. While others viewed Mireyna as an outsider, Isabella treated her like a sister. She would often be the first to greet her, walk beside her, whisper secrets meant only for the two of them.
And now, as Mireyna stood watching them from the entrance of the grand room, with its high ceilings and whispering chandeliers, she felt the familiar mix of awe and discomfort twist quietly within her chest.
Seated regally on a velvet chair across the grand salon was Rochelle Lyssander, Anne's younger sister and Mireyna's aunt. Her posture was flawless—spine straight, legs crossed with the cold poise of a queen accustomed to commanding attention. Her bob-cut hair gleamed under the chandelier light, matching Mireyna's own style. In Italian circles, a bob symbolized refined elegance, and Rochelle embodied it perfectly. She detested long hair, often calling it impractical, outdated, and far from fashionable.
But elegance did not make her kind.
Rochelle never looked at Mireyna directly. Her eyes shifted subtly—side-glancing with contempt, then forward again. Though her expression remained calm, Mireyna felt the weight of unspoken judgment. She knew she was not welcome.
Beside Rochelle sat her eldest daughter, Viviana Ginevra Lyssander. Her pixel-cut brunette hair was nothing special in a family of golden-haired nobles, but her face was striking—sharp, with piercing blue eyes and a perfectly sculpted nose. Even without the Lyssander trademark of golden hair, her beauty was undeniable. Viviana never greeted Mireyna. She only glanced at her, slowly and deliberately, as if evaluating a stranger from a lower world.
Though not academically gifted, Viviana was the undefeated champion in the annual Cavalcata dell'Arco Reale, the Royal Horseback Archery Tournament held exclusively for noble heiresses. Her dominance in the sport, paired with her beauty, made her Zio Marco's favorite. He had once said that Viviana reminded him of the Lyssander women of old—fierce, graceful, and commanding. And Rochelle, of course, basked in that glory.
Behind them stood another girl—young, radiant, and nearly identical to Isabella: Celestina Aurelia Lyssander, the youngest daughter of Rochelle. Though lacking talent in both academics and sports, she was still cherished by Zio Marco. Her long golden hair flowed like silk, inherited from her noble father, whose status rivaled even Marco's. Many in the household referred to her and Isabella as the golden twins, even though they weren't sisters.
Celestina's beauty masked something sinister. In public, she smiled sweetly at Mireyna, spoke kindly, even embraced her like a close cousin. But in private—when no one else was watching—she changed. Her voice would grow cold, and venom laced her every word.
"You really think you're beautiful, don't you?" Celestina said, her voice calm—too calm. A slow, poisonous smile curled on her lips.
"Zio Marco only endures your presence because of Zia Anne. If she weren't your mother, you wouldn't have made it past the gates."
She stepped in slightly, her blue eyes glinting like frost.
"Let's not pretend. You don't belong here. You don't look like us, you don't speak like us. You're not one of us."
A pause—long enough to burn.
"If anything, you look like a dressed-up prostitute trying to play princess."
She flicked her golden hair over her shoulder and turned her back, the cold finality of her gesture louder than the words she'd just left behind.
Mireyna couldn't shake the words from her mind: "Do they really think I'm like a a street girl?" The thought gnawed at her, deep and unforgiving. What kind of mindset is that?
It felt so familiar—almost like how Julian saw her, like she was nothing more than an object, something to be disregarded or used.
Maybe it's the history of the Oiran or the concept of prostitution in Japan, she wondered, that makes them think of me like that…
Her chest tightened as the sting of Celestina's words lingered, settling in her heart like a shadow. How could anyone look at her like that? How could they reduce her to nothing more than an object to be judged, to be scorned?
Mireyna's wandering thoughts were abruptly halted when her gaze fell upon her fourth uncle—Zio Lucas Lyssander, the younger brother of Aunt Rochelle. Unlike Zio Marco, there was no trace of cruelty in his expression. Lucas had never once treated her like an outsider. On the contrary, his eyes always held warmth whenever he looked at her.
To Mireyna, only Zio Lucas and Zio Ferdinand had ever truly shown her kindness within the Lyssander clan. Though he wasn't the type to strike up long conversations, the way he greeted her was enough. It was respectful, sincere. It made her feel… human.
Zio Lucas sat quietly in a grand armchair near the bookshelf, flanked by his twin sons—Evander Theodore Lyssander and Matteo Seraphin Lyssander. Both boys had inherited the family's signature golden hair, nearly indistinguishable from Alessandro's or Isabella's. They were striking, handsome, with sharp features and calm, refined auras.
Evander, the elder twin, was absorbed in a thick, leather-bound book, legs crossed, brows slightly furrowed in thought. He didn't even notice Mireyna's presence. Matteo, the younger one, sat beside him with spectacles perched delicately on the bridge of his nose. Every so often, he'd adjust them before flipping another page, his eyes darting through lines of dense text.
Both brothers were known as prodigies after Alessandro—brilliant, diligent, and deeply studious. Evander was said to have a near-perfect recall of world history, while Matteo was fascinated by geography and speculative literature.
They rarely spoke to Mireyna, but neither did they treat her poorly. It was as if her presence simply didn't register—books were their entire world. The only thing that separated them was their reading habits: Evander preferred the open courtyards, enjoying the breeze as he read; Matteo, on the other hand, buried himself in the vast family library for hours.
Their quiet, distant nature was in stark contrast to their father's warmth. Still, Mireyna preferred that silence over the cruel whispers of others in the house.
Finally, Mireyna's gaze shifted towards Uncle Ferdinand, who was holding his youngest daughter, Alessia Liliane Lyssander, in his arms. The little girl was peacefully sleeping against his chest. Uncle Ferdinand waved at Mireyna and her mother, Anne, and greeted them in Italian. "Buongiorno, sorella e Mireyna," he said, addressing Anne as "sorella" (sister) because he was the youngest son in the Lyssander family. Like Zio Lucas, Uncle Ferdinand was kind-hearted and warm, but unlike Zio Lucas, he often spoke more with Anne and Mireyna. His personality was gentle and inviting, always radiating a sense of comfort. He had a calm and approachable nature, always eager to engage with those around him.
Uncle Ferdinand had three children,twin boys and one young daughter. The twins, Adrien Leontius Lyssander and Julian Elio Lyssander All of them has brunette hair like Zio Ferdinand and the eldest Adrien who was serious and focused, especially when it came to sports, his younger brother, Julian, was more cheerful and eccentric in his own way.
Adrien, much like Viviana, excelled in sports, particularly swimming. He had earned several championships, including in the prestigious Royal Aquatic Championship. Though not as academically inclined, Adrien's passion for water sports made him a favorite of Zio Marco. However, he had a complicated relationship with Viviana, as they were rivals in their respective fields. Viviana, skilled in horseback archery, had earned Zio Marco's admiration, which often put her in competition with Adrien, even though their sports were very different. Their rivalry often led to tension and disagreements between them.
Julian, on the other hand, was known for his cheerful and easygoing demeanor—at least, that's what everyone else saw. He reminded many of the ever-smiling Calestina, full of bright chatter and light jokes. But only Mireyna knew the truth. Behind that warm smile and friendly front, Julian had a disturbing side he never showed to others.
With her, he was different. His fascination with Japanese culture was harmless on the surface, but his interest in her often crossed uncomfortable boundaries. He would lean in too close, comment on her appearance with a strange glint in his eyes, and smile in a way that made her skin crawl. Mireyna kept quiet about it, unsure if anyone would believe her. After all, to the rest of the Lyssander family, Julian was just another cheerful boy with a few quirky hobbies. But to her, he was something else entirely—something dangerous lurking behind a mask.
Mireyna remembered one day clearly- a moment that never left her no matter how much she tried to forget.
She had been walking alone down one of the long, empty corridors of the Lyssander estate when she suddenly felt a presence behind her. A hand touched her shoulder, and she froze. The voice that followed sent a chill down her spine.
"Ohayou, kawaii," Julian's voice came, softly but with an edge that made her stomach twist.
Mireyna turned slightly and forced a weak smile, replying hesitantly, "Ohayou…"
Julian stepped closer, his eyes scanning her face with that same unnerving smile he wore only around her—never in front of others. "You know," he said, brushing a strand of her hair between his fingers, "you'd look even cuter with longer hair."
Before she could respond, he tilted his head, narrowing his gaze slightly. "Hmm… I always thought Japanese girls had… more impressive features. But yours are kind of… small."
Mireyna jerked back, glaring at him. "What are you talking about, Julian?!"
He laughed, low and strange, and raised both hands in mock surrender. "Whoa, chill. No need to get so worked up, sweetheart."
Then he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "You know… I've got a Japanese school uniform. You'd look adorable in it. Want to try it on? We could go to my room—"
"No!" Mireyna snapped, her voice shaking with disgust. "Are you out of your mind?"
She turned to leave, but his whisper caught her off guard.
"I love that look on your face… like a rabbit sensing a wolf."
Her blood ran cold.
Julian took a slow step closer, his voice soft and almost polite—but the weight of his words made Mireyna's breath hitch.
"Anata o tabetai"
Though the phrase was spoken gently, it sent an intense chill through her bones.
He smiled.
It wasn't a sweet smile—it was twisted, sharp. His teeth gleamed slightly as if to emphasize the threat hidden beneath his tone. Mireyna could see something unhinged in his eyes, something hungry.
Her heart pounded.
Without a word, she turned and ran—down the corridor, past the ornate vases and the echo of her footsteps—straight into her room. She shut the door, locked it, and backed into the corner before her legs gave out beneath her.
Tears streamed down her cheeks as she slid to the floor.
This wasn't the first time Julian had cornered her like that. He always waited until they were alone—always with those creepy smiles and invasive words.
But no one else ever saw this side of him.
To everyone else, Julian Elio Lyssander was just a cheerful, cultured boy. Sweet. Harmless.
If she told Mama, she feared it would only lead to conflict. Mama would be furious—she might confront Zio Ferdinand, and Mireyna couldn't bear that. He was one of the only people in the family who treated them kindly.
What if he stopped talking to her? What if he thought she was lying?
So she stayed quiet.
She hugged her knees tightly and buried her face in her arms, wishing someone—anyone—could see the truth behind Julian's smile.