The False Victim

"Yes."

The single syllable slipped from Isolde's lips without a trace of hesitation. She simply could not be bothered to argue with her brother's baseless accusations anymore. Her mind was made up. The emotional detachment anchoring her soul was absolute. She tightened her grip on her rough wooden stick and attempted to physically bypass him, eager to leave the oppressive confines of the freezing shed.

Sylvan clearly did not expect such a flat, unapologetic admission. Reflexively, he reached out his free hand to stop her, the medicine pot in his other hand sloshing precariously.

"We grew up together," his voice rose, lacing the damp air with sharp chastisement. "We both know we need to protect Cecily. She has already suffered so much out there in her life. How could you be so incredibly cruel to your own sister?"

In his frantic haste to block her exit, he shoved her.

It was a hard, aggressive push. The sudden physical force sent Isolde's already battered and weakened body crashing backward. She hit the unforgiving dirt floor with a heavy thud, her makeshift cane clattering away into the shadows. The throbbing ache in her knees flared intensely for a second before abruptly going numb. The sudden loss of sensation felt like a physical manifestation of her severed familial bonds.

Lying in the dirt, a faint, almost imperceptible ironic smile tugged at the corners of her cracked lips.

Sylvan froze. He stared down at his own hand, flustered by his own aggression. A fleeting wave of guilt struck his chest. He had come here worried about her health, meaning to get her out of the cold so she would not fall ill, but now he had knocked her down.

Attempting to awkwardly salvage the tense situation, he took a breath and forcibly softened his voice. "You have been pampered in this estate for so long. Cecily lived a hard life. You just need to show some understanding and familial warmth. If you just—"

"If that is what you truly think, then so be it," Isolde replied with chilling coolness.

She did not wait for his hand. Ignoring the shooting pain, she painfully pushed herself up from the damp dirt. She brushed the soil from her thin dress and stepped past him with deliberate, albeit unsteady, steps.

Sylvan trailed after her, his unease growing. He urgently pressed her back. "Isolde, nobody is perfect. If you just repent and apologize properly, I will go and beg Father not to lock you up in this freezing shed again. Just—"

"Where is Cecily?" She brutally cut through his self-righteous lecture with a single, flat question.

Sylvan’s expression brightened. Eagerly misinterpreting her direct question as genuine submission, he hurried to answer. "She is resting in Radiant Court. If you go to her, apologize, and beg her to stay and accept Father’s care, his wrath will surely subside. Everything will go back to normal."

Isolde let out a short, bitter laugh.

Radiant Court.

Formerly known as Blossom Hall. It was a beautiful, sprawling courtyard that Darius had custom-built just two years ago. He had meticulously designed it with excellent light and wind shelter. Its sole purpose was to protect Isolde from the harsh autumn winds that severely worsened her seasonal allergies. She still remembered her father’s warm smile when he promised the courtyard to her, telling her it would be her sanctuary.

Yet, ironically, she had never been allowed to set foot inside it.

The exact moment Cecily arrived at the estate, Darius had joyfully gifted the prized courtyard to the timid newcomer. He promptly erased Isolde’s presence from it, renaming Blossom Hall to Radiant Court. Now, Sylvan was telling her to drag her battered body to her stolen courtyard and beg the thief not to leave.

She did not say another word to her brother. She just walked.

The estate pathways were long and manicured, lined with intricate stonework. As they walked toward Radiant Court, the mocking, cruel whispers of the estate servants echoed clearly around them.

"Look at her... serves her right."

"Only because Lord Sylvan is kind-hearted does he bother with someone so selfish. She needs a good lesson to fix her attitude."

"She is not even worthy to carry Lady Cecily’s shoes. If Lady Cecily had lived here all these years instead, she would be the most respected young lady in Oakhaven City. She would be a hundred times better than Lady Isolde!"

The sneering remarks drifted through the crisp air, openly laughing at Isolde's miserable, dirt-stained state while loudly praising Cecily's supposed virtues. In the past life, these whispers would have pierced Isolde’s heart like poisoned needles. She would have cried, argued, and demanded justice. Now, she let the insults wash over her like a passing breeze.

Beside her, Sylvan remained completely deaf to the servants' blatant disrespect. He shot a glance at Isolde’s quiet profile, merely viewing the public humiliation as a necessary, character-building lesson for her past mistakes. He figured a bit of shame would keep her grounded. Once she properly repented, he would silence the servants.

Internally, Isolde agreed with him on one thing: she had indeed learned her lesson.

She realized with absolute clarity that it was utterly pointless to chase after the affections of those who had already so easily cast her aside. Her own maid had given false testimony against her. Her brother had just shoved her to the dirt. Her father had thrown her in a shed. Why bleed for a family that enjoyed watching her suffer?

Without uttering a single syllable of complaint to her brother, she kept walking straight toward Radiant Court.

She paused just outside the heavy, ornate wooden door. The thick scent of medicinal herbs and burning coal seeped through the cracks, bringing a wave of warmth. From within the room, Cecily’s masterfully executed, tearful performance drifted out.

"Lord Viceroy, please! Please let Lady Isolde out!" Cecily was loudly pleading between dramatic sobs. "On such a cold day, she will fall ill. It is all my fault. I never should have come back to this house. If I had not returned, there would not be so much chaos!"

A heavy pause followed, then a wet sniffle. "I feel so guilty. Once she recovers, I will return to the countryside and live quietly. I will pack my things tonight. I only hope your family can be happy together without me. That would be enough for me."

Standing in the cold wind, a bitter smile crossed Isolde's lips.

She recognized this routine flawlessly. It was the exact same calculated, timid manipulation that had systematically turned her entire family against her in her past life. Cecily always played the selfless martyr. She would offer to leave, pretending she felt unworthy of the Lockhart name, and in doing so, she securely tethered the family’s loyalty to herself. It was a brilliant strategy. It effortlessly shifted all their affection toward the crying newcomer while permanently branding Isolde as a vicious, unyielding bully who drove her own sister away.

Isolde pushed open the heavy door.

The hinges creaked. She stepped inside the sweltering, warm room. Sure enough, Darius was sitting on the edge of the plush bed, tenderly comforting the weeping Cecily. He had one arm wrapped protectively around her shaking shoulders.

"Cecily, do not ever think like that," Darius vowed fiercely, his voice trembling with righteous anger. "Even if I have to expel that rebellious daughter from this family forever, I will never throw you out!"

He patted her back gently. "You have suffered so much out there. My heart aches for you. From now on, you stay here in peace. Just tell me if you need anything. This house has no place for her to speak."

Hearing the door open, Darius stopped. He looked up, his furious gaze snapping toward the entrance.

He caught sight of Isolde.

She stood there in her thin, soiled dress. Her fragile figure was wind-blown and battered. Dirt stained her pale cheeks, and her posture was stiff from the freezing temperatures she had endured in the firewood shed. She looked as though a single gust of wind could shatter her bones.

For a split second, a sudden, unexpected surge of paternal pity struck Darius’s chest. The anger in his eyes wavered. This was, after all, the daughter he had raised and pampered for years. Seeing her so thin, so broken, a knot formed in his throat. He opened his mouth, perhaps to offer a word of comfort or to ask why she looked so battered.

But before Darius could even articulate a single word of hesitation, Cecily skillfully intercepted the emotional shift in the room.

She noticed Darius’s softening gaze. Instantly, she pulled away from his embrace, wiping her tears with the back of her hand like a flawless, devoted sibling.

"Lord Viceroy, please do not blame Lady Isolde anymore," Cecily tearfully pleaded, her voice cracking with the perfect amount of strain. "It is my fault. Lady Isolde must just be upset because she is afraid of losing your affection. I... I can understand her."

She played the victimized sister to perfection, painting Isolde’s alleged cruelty as nothing more than sad, pathetic jealousy.

Then, Cecily turned her head. She looked directly at Isolde.

Her eyes held a fabricated mix of fear and longing, shrinking back slightly against the bedpost as if Isolde might strike her right there in front of the Viceroy. Offering a sickeningly sweet, hesitant smile, Cecily’s voice trembled with forced bravery.

"Lady Isolde, you do not need to apologize to me," Cecily declared softly, making sure her voice carried through the silent room. "I know it was an accident. I... I have already forgiven you."

With that preemptive forgiveness, she cornered Isolde completely, taking total control of the narrative. If Isolde argued, she was ungrateful. If Isolde stayed silent, she admitted guilt.

Seamlessly, Cecily turned her tear-filled, admiring eyes back to Darius. She reached out, gently tugging at his sleeve for her final plea.

"Lord Viceroy, please forgive Lady Isolde, won't you?"