[P]ersisting in her training for a couple more hours, Ionia faced a daunting realization—an impasse of some sort.
As she wearily returned the wooden sword to the rack, her muscles screamed in protest.
In her previous life among corroders, she was able to execute the technique over a hundred times. Yet, in her current life, 15 attempts were insufficient to bring down the massive tree trunk with a wooden sword.
Lost in thoughts, she stretched her arms to soothe the soreness while walking towards the mansion's main entrance.
Suddenly, a familiar voice disrupted her contemplation, "H-hey, wait up!" Lionel, breathless from his training with the Marquis, rushed towards her, followed by Dionel and the others strolling behind casually.
"What is it?" Ionia stopped and asked calmly.
"Y-you're going for… hah…hah lunch, right?" Lionel panted.
Facing him, her expression remained blank. "Yes? I usually eat alone, in my room."
Lionel's eyes brimmed with anticipation as he quickly inquired, "Wanna join us for lunch?"
A hesitant pause momentarily crossed Ionia, but she finally conceded with a shrug, "Um, sure."
It seemed to be his way of reciprocating for the meal she had shared with him the night before. So who was she to refuse anyway.
"Great, let's go," he beamed, reaching for her wrist in an attempt to pull her along.
"Wait," Ionia interrupted, tugging her arm back. "I need to ask Marianne for some snacks first."
The implications seemed to perplex them momentarily, but they collectively grasped its significance, except for Ellora Gaillot.
"Ionia..." Lionel started, searching for words.
"I doubt they'll risk serving you lousy food again," Dionel interjected, strolling over with casual laziness. "Your father made sure she faced consequences. She won't dare mistreat anyone else. Ever."
A restrained intensity flashed in Dionel's eyes, a hint of something darker.
"What makes you think it'll end with her? Or that she's the only one?" Ionia challenged, locking eyes with him, a fleeting shadow crossing her gaze.
"We made sure to make an example out of her," Lionel cut in, trying to soothe the building tension.
Oblivious to the escalating atmosphere, Ellora observed the trio with curiosity but refrained from questioning further.
Ionia sighed. "Alright, let's go." As she tried to extricate her wrist from Lionel's grip, the ache in her muscles made her wince. Her eyes, once intense, now held a hollow gaze as she bluntly requested, "Could you let go of me?"
Initially puzzled, Lionel quickly released her, raising his hands in surrender. "I was just—"
"Cut it out," Ionia interrupted, striding toward the estate.
"Hey, wait," Lionel tried to catch up.
Dionel and Draven exchanged glances, Dionel speaking up, "When did they become so close?"
Draven shrugged nonchalantly. "Who knows? Stellia's waiting. Let's go."
As Draven walked past, a fleeting, enigmatic glint crossed his face, disappearing swiftly.
"What's happening?" Ellora, unable to contain her curiosity, questioned.
"Nothing important. Let it go," Dionel dismissed the issue, walking away.
Yet, Ellora's expression darkened, frustration evident as she clenched her teeth. No one had invited her for lunch, leaving her with no choice but to sit among ordinary trainees.
"Tsk." She shot a glare at Ionia's retreating figure, seemingly holding her responsible for the situation.
***
Guided by a maid, Stellia settled gracefully into a nearby seat, a routine adapted due to her crippled leg. Her lunches often unfolded in the garden, tailored to her specific preferences.
Specially arranged seating adorned the central area, creating an ambiance of leisurely comfort for her midday meals.
Ionia surveyed the scene with indifferent eyes, her gaze sweeping across the surroundings.
Once, envy for her younger sister's privileges had gnawed at her. Now, however, it held no weight. She had relinquished any yearning for such things, recognizing life's inherent disparities between the privileged and the less fortunate. Regrettably, she found herself in the latter category.
Ionia's younger sister's cheerful voice, so familiar and bright, called out to her, bringing a surprising warmth to the moment.
"Sister, are you having lunch with us today?"
Stellia's evident joy at the prospect of Ionia's presence puzzled her. What was it about her being there that delighted the 12-year-old? Moreover, this time as well, Ionia was certain this wasn't mockery.
"Hmm," Ionia responded with a nonchalant sound before moving towards the seating arrangement.
Just then, Stellia beckoned her personal maid with the head. The hesitant maid reluctantly approached Ionia and handed her a bag filled with cookies, emanating a sweet scent.
Ionia furrowed her brow, glancing at the bag, then turning to her sister with a puzzled expression. Stellia hastened to explain, "Oh, these are cookies. I remembered you liked them, sister."
"When did I—" Ionia began but stopped herself midway, a sudden realization dawning on her as she recognized the cookies.
"Really? I distinctly recall Draven mentioning how much you loved them whenever I sent them your way," Stellia responded, her tone laced with surprise.
A sudden throat clearing caught their attention—it was Draven. Hearing Stellia's explanation, Ionia felt a puzzle piece click into place.
She sighed to herself, rubbing the bridge of her nose, feeling foolish.
In her previous life, she'd held affection for Draven, who occasionally showed her kindness by gifting her treats. Meanwhile, she'd harbored resentment towards Stellia for the attention she received from their father and cousins.
Now, she understood. It wasn't Draven who had shown her kindness; it was Stellia herself. And as Stellia was physically impaired, Draven had been delivering the treats on her behalf, manipulating Ionia's reliance on him.
Ionia directed a dark glare at Draven, questioning his lack of shame.
"Really?" Ionia sneered bitterly. "Voidbringer conveniently omitted that you were the one sending those cookies."
"I thought you'd reject them if you knew they were from Stellia," Draven defended himself.
"Voidbringer," Ionia spat his name with venom. "I'm barely surviving on scraps. What made you assume I'd refuse decent treats just because of some supposed grudge against my sister? When have I ever harbored hatred toward Stellia?"
Draven momentarily stumbled for words, attempting to divert attention from the initial issue. "I assumed so, given you often got scolded for coveting Stellia's things. And why do you insist on calling me Voidbringer?"
"What else should I call you, if not by your name?" She asked with a hint of provocation.
"I recall you used to call me Draven."
"And I recall you asking me not to…" Ionia's words trailed off, tension hanging heavily in the air.
"What do you mean you wouldn't have refused the cookies because of the bad food?" Lionel interjected, his eyes reflecting a glint of anger amid the growing tension.
Both Ionia and Draven momentarily shifted their stares towards Lionel.
"Yes," Ionia admitted icily.
"What's the head maid or Gerald been doing—"
"It's none of your concern," Ionia cut in sharply. "Lionel Calista, I thought I made it clear I don't need your false concern."
"Sister, I think Lionel is—" Stellia tried to intervene.
But a deep voice interrupted, the Marquis arriving at the scene. "What's happening here?"
He glanced briefly at Ionia before questioning her presence. "And why is she here?"
"Uncle, I invited her—"
"Fine. If my presence is such a bother, I'll leave. I should've known better than to accept your invitation, Lionel Calista. What else could I expect from you?" Ionia rose from her seat, grabbing the bag of cookies.
"Sister, are you leaving?" Stellia tried to stop her.
Before Ionia could respond, the Marquis's voice intervened, sounding more like an order than an invitation. "Ionia Lysander, I asked why you're here, not to leave. Sit and have lunch before departing."
Ionia planned to retort about how his protégé had soured her mood and seeing her father's face would only cause indigestion. But the Marquis intercepted her thoughts firmly, "No one will disturb or upset you. I give you my word. Please, sit down and join us for the meal."
Had someone predicted that her father would one day invite her to dinner, she might have felt elated. But today was not that day. With a weary sigh, Ionia relented, sinking back into her seat.
Continuing the arguments seemed futile, and she felt drained from the escalating confrontation. This wasn't a day for reconciliation or celebration; it was yet another exhausting encounter with those she had grown to despise.