Isolde couldn't quite relate to what Elio was saying. His mother never treated her that way. She had never known that kind of constant pressure. For a moment, she paused, and a faint sadness crept into her expression.
"I wish… she showed me that kind of attention. Most of the time, she doesn't say anything. Sometimes I wonder if she even notices me at all."
But Elio wasn't in any condition to hear her words. It was as if his PTSD had been suddenly triggered—his eyes wide, his breathing rapid. He was squirming and whining to himself.
"HAA… HAA… It was terrible... my mother… commands everywhere... please, no more!"
Isolde watched his theatrical meltdown with a tired, mildly annoyed expression.
She waited patiently for Elio's little "PTSD performance" to end, then asked,
"So… she really pushes you that much? Why?"
Elio scratched the side of his head and let out a sigh.
"She probably thinks I'm going to be king or something. But that's complete nonsense. Lucien's the crown prince, isn't he? There's no path forward for me."
He paused, a shadow of thought crossing his face.
"Not that I'd want to be king anyway. I'd much rather wield a sword and stab some monsters in the gut."
His lips pulled into a carefree smile.
"For me to get the crown, Lucien would have to die or something anyway..."
He said it with casual indifference, then shrugged.
"She's really overdoing it. I wish she'd just back off. It's not like she's the one getting crowned."
Isolde didn't respond right away. She watched him in silence, a thoughtful expression settling over her face.
"I envy Lucien and Marceline sometimes… At least they don't have a mother constantly breathing down their necks."
The moment the words escaped her mouth, Elio stiffened. He turned sharply to face her.
Isolde's eyes were sharp as ice, her lips drawn in a firm line.
"Haha... It was a joke! Just a joke, Isolde," Elio stammered.
But her stare didn't soften. Suspicion lingered in her expression, cold and unmoving.
She had never shared a warm or affectionate bond with her mother. But that didn't mean there was no love. Deep down, she was deeply attached to her. And imagining a life without her—as Lucien and Marceline had lived—was terrifying. The idea of carrying such a loss was unbearable.
As the conversation lingered, the door creaked open and a sugar-sweet little girl stepped inside.
A tiny tiara rested on her head; dressed in a frilly pink gown and shiny shoes, she looked like a living porcelain doll. Her light brown hair cascaded to her shoulders, and her bright blue eyes sparkled as they scanned the room. Yet her smile, though cheerful, carried a hint of vacancy—like she was gazing at the world through a distant window.
"Isolde… you're still not done?" she asked in a cheerful but dreamy voice.