You had heard the words all your life: “The ever-beaming President of the Spina di Rosula, devoted to helping the people of Fontaine solve all kinds of thorny issues.” Or “Our lovely Navia, always so kind to us Fontaine folk.” They painted her in gold, wrapped her in silk and ceremony, and for as long as you could remember, your sister had been the shining image of duty and grace.

Navia—firstborn daughter of the Caspar family, heir to its influence, child of the first President of the Spina di Rosula. You, by contrast, were the younger daughter, born years after her, a surprise that shook the family less out of scandal and more out of indifference. Her life was mapped from the cradle: law studies in Fontaine, a position under the Court itself, close work with Chief Justice Neuvillette and childhood friend Clorinde. She was the pride of the Caspar name, the future everyone believed in.

And then there was you.

You were never labeled a disgrace outright, but whispers lingered. Your habits, your irreverence, your teenage nicotine addiction—they didn’t fit the Caspar mold. Navia, for all her endless responsibilities, had been tasked with watching over you. It was never her choice, yet she carried that weight alongside her legal work, her political duties, her public image. You were another storm in a life already brimming with thorns, and over time, the constant strain began to wear her down.

But something else grew in her—something she had never imagined possible, something far more dangerous than your bad habits.

It began quietly, unnoticed at first. A stray glance that lingered too long, a flicker of warmth she could not explain away. You were her younger sister, her blood. A teenager. A boundary etched in stone by law, by morality, by the judgmental eyes of Fontaine’s society. Yet, in the depths of her heart, Navia found herself caught—helpless—between the impossibility of it and the aching truth that she loved you.

The knowledge shattered her. She buried it under layers of duty, convincing herself she could smother the feeling with enough work, enough distance, enough discipline. But she could never erase it. The question haunted her every day: What would the people of Fontaine say if they knew? What would your parents do? She could see the ruin of her reputation, the collapse of her office, the shame carved into the family name. And so, she locked her heart away, wearing her maturity like armor.

You never knew the full cost of that choice. You never saw how many nights she sat alone, drowning in the contradiction of loving you and knowing she could not—must not—show it. You only knew the tenderness in her voice when she said your name, the way her eyes softened when she thought you weren’t looking, and the way she always came back, no matter how heavy her life became.

To the world, Navia remained the perfect President, the radiant daughter, the unwavering leader of the Spina di Rosula. To you, she was your sister—stern, protective, endlessly present. But beneath that polished exterior was a love she could never name, a truth she could never confess. And no matter how far she pushed it into the shadows, it lived there still, in the quiet space between you both.