The weight of bloodlines

She hadn't meant to overhear it .

At that time, Mireyna was just a little girl—barely tall enough to peek past the staircase railing of the grand Lyssander estate. The floor beneath her bare feet was cold marble, polished so clean it reflected chandeliers like glass on water. She had been looking for her mother, Anne, when voices echoed from the drawing room downstairs.

A man's voice—firm, cultured, but laced with scorn.

"Anne… why did you marry that Japanese man?"

Mireyna's breath hitched. She crouched down quietly, just out of sight. She recognized that voice. Her mother's older brother—Marco Valerio Lyssander, the eldest son of the Lyssander bloodline. Her Zio Marco.

"I mean, yes he's hardworking. A businessman, right? That's fine. Maybe that's what attracted you." A pause. "But honestly… don't you think it's beneath us?"

He gave a soft, mirthless laugh.

"We're descended from the Dukes of Italy, Anne. Bloodlines that date back to the 17th century. We've lived in cities for generations Florence, Milan, Venice. How did you end up falling for a man from some remote village in Japan?"

Mireyna saw, through the crack between the railings, the way her mother lowered her head. Her voice came out faint, in tired Italian.

"Amore è cieco, fratello… Love is blind." She forced a smile. "I knew what I was doing. Or… I thought I did. I just didn't expect his family to be so deeply, painfully traditional."

Marco let out a loud scoff.

"Traditional? Please. The Japanese are famous for their ridiculous rituals, their outdated customs, their obsession with ancestors and spirits and all that primitive nonsense."

Mireyna's heart tightened.

Then—her name.

"Your daughter… she's beautiful, I'll admit. Mireyna has your poise. But it's such a waste, Anne." He gestured dismissively. "She doesn't even carry the Lyssander name with pride. Mireyna Tokushiro? That's a farmer's name. An outsider's name."

Her mother said nothing.

But Marco wasn't done.

"If you had married a proper Westerner, at least the child would've had our features—our legacy. Blonde hair. Sharp bone structure. Eyes like ours. But look at her."

There was venom in his voice now.

"That's not a Lyssander. That's her father's child. That black hair, that soft, plain face. She inherited nothing from us. You wasted your genes on mountain blood."

Mireyna bit her lip. She remembered how it stung—how the words echoed through her chest and stayed there, like a weight pressed just behind her ribs. She hadn't understood everything that day, but she understood enough.

She had never been wanted. Not truly.

And worst of all, it wasn't because of who she was.

It was because of where she came from.

Anne finally spoke again—her voice slightly raised this time, defensive, proud.

"What do you mean her hair is black?" she snapped in Italian. "Fratello… can't you see it? Her hair is blonde."

There was a brief silence—then Marco burst into laughter.

"Hah! That?" he chuckled mockingly. "That's not blonde. That's a passing shade. A soft, diluted color that won't last. Look at my daughter, Isabella—her hair has been golden since the day she was born, and it only gets brighter. That's true Lyssander blonde."

His voice dripped with superiority.

"If Mireyna's hair was truly blonde, it wouldn't be that ashy tone. It would shine, like Isabella's. Like Alessandro's. No, Anne—her hair will darken as she ages. You'll see. Maybe it'll become a soft brunette… like Rochelle or Ferdinand. But it'll never shine like ours. Never carry our blood the way it should."

Anne remained silent, lips pressed together, trembling slightly.

Marco continued, calmer now—but just as cruel.

"Mixed children," he said, voice low and cold, "always follow their Asian side. It's nature. Look at her skin—soft, pale, but not like ours. That's the tone of her father's lineage."

Then, a pause—followed by something unexpected.

"But I'll admit… the Japanese, they do have their merits. Their people are polite, respectful, disciplined. Not like the arrogant Westerners we often meet. Perhaps that's what drew you to your husband."

He looked away, just for a moment.

"And Mireyna… she is a good girl. I've seen how she speaks to elders. She carries herself well, with grace. There is kindness in her heart."

Then the edge returned to his voice.

"But even so—no matter how kind she is, no matter how good her manners—lineage is lineage, Anne. And the Lyssanders, we are still of higher blood. Higher standing than the Tokushiros. So you tell me…" he leaned in slightly.

"What's more important? Good manners… or noble blood?"

A quiet stillness fell over the room.

Anne had nothing to say.

She lowered her head, defeated, her heart heavy with words she could not defend—and wounds she could not protect her daughter from.

Marco sat with one leg crossed over the other, his posture regal—stern and commanding, like a monarch reprimanding a careless subject. He leaned back into the velvet-lined chair, golden rings glinting on his fingers, his gaze cold and heavy. Across from him, Anne sat smaller, as if the air itself pushed her down. Her shoulders slumped, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

She had said nothing for a long time—but finally, she lifted her head.

Her voice trembled, but there was steel behind it.

"You're right." Her words dropped quietly into the space between them. "Everything you've said—it's true. Royal blood does matter. Heritage matters. But what could I have done, fratello? What do you want me to do now?"

Her hands clenched tighter.

"The past is the past. What's done is done. The rice has already become porridge, hasn't it?"

Marco's brows twitched—he didn't understand the idiom. But Anne didn't slow down.

"Yes. He's from a humble background. Yes, he's not from the city, not from a noble house. But he's hardworking. Gentle. Good-hearted. And when I met him, I wasn't looking for a crown. I was looking for kindness. For peace."

Her voice cracked slightly.

"He treated me like I mattered—not because of my bloodline, but because of who I am. And that… that's why I fell for him."

Marco didn't blink. He simply stared at her with cool disbelief, turning slightly to give her a side-glance as if he could barely recognize the woman in front of him.

Anne swallowed hard.

"But what do you want me to do now, Marco?" Her voice was smaller now, but raw. "Divorce him? Break apart the family I've built? Mireyna needs her father. She deserves his love."

Marco tilted his head, lips pressed in a thin line, expression unreadable—but judgmental all the same. He said nothing.

Anne looked away, unable to meet his gaze any longer. Her voice dropped to barely a whisper.

"I know… I've disappointed you."

Silence filled the room again, heavy and suffocating. And at the top of the stairs, Mireyna—still a child—stood frozen in place, her young heart trembling beneath the weight of words she wasn't meant to hear… yet would never forget.