The Forgotten Daughter

From the moment she could walk, Daniella Seraphina Arison learned her place in the household was always two steps behind her sister.

Lila Rose Arison had been born beneath auspicious stars, or so the duchess often said. The family astrologer claimed she radiated brilliance even in the cradle, destined for greatness. Servants whispered that her smile could soothe even the coldest winter winds. Tutors marveled at her quick mind, declaring she would become the pride of House Arison.

And then there was Daniella.

When she was born two years later, there was no starlight proclamation, no whispered awe. She was healthy, quiet, and entirely unremarkable. “A second daughter,” the duchess had said with the faintest smile, as if the child were a spare trinket tucked into an overflowing chest.

Daniella’s earliest memories were of watching Lila shine. When guests visited, it was always Lila who was brought forward to curtsy and recite poetry, her golden hair catching the candlelight. Daniella lingered in the corner, clutching her skirts, waiting for someone to notice her.

They rarely did.

When she was six, Daniella presented her first spell to the family—an elementary conjuring flame she had practiced for weeks. She remembered the spark flaring in her tiny hand, her chest swelling with pride. But before her father could even react, Lila stepped forward, weaving the same spell effortlessly and adding a flourish of wind to make the fire dance. The duke clapped, the duchess praised, and the tutors applauded.

Daniella’s flame guttered, unseen.

At ten, she stumbled into the library for the first time, tears still drying on her cheeks after yet another lesson where Lila had answered every question before her. The towering shelves intimidated her at first, but soon they became her sanctuary. Books did not scold her for being slow. Tomes did not compare her worth to another’s. The pages whispered only of possibility.

So she read. And read. And read.

She buried herself in grimoires of magic theory, histories of the empire, journals of explorers long dead. Knowledge became her lifeline, her fragile proof that she, too, could become something more than “Lila’s sister.” She dreamed of someday unveiling a spell even her perfect sibling could not master.

But each year the gulf widened. Lila’s charm blossomed as Daniella’s awkwardness deepened. Her sister was paraded at banquets, praised in the academy’s preliminary examinations, admired by sons and daughters of noble houses. Daniella was tolerated. Forgotten.

Worse still, her own mother’s gaze carried the sharpness of disappointment. “Do try harder,” the duchess would say when Daniella faltered. “You must not embarrass your sister.” Those words carved themselves into Daniella’s bones until every effort felt meaningless.

By sixteen, Daniella no longer sought their approval. She told herself she didn’t need it. But still, some small, foolish part of her clung to the hope that if she worked hard enough, studied long enough, achieved something grand enough—her family might one day look at her and see her.

That hope died slowly, choked by years of favoritism.

It was the little things that gnawed at her: the way her accomplishments were met with silence, the way her father absentmindedly forgot her birthday, the way servants avoided speaking her name in front of guests. And always, always, Lila stood in the light, smiling sweetly, pretending to be a saint while quietly ensuring Daniella remained in her shadow.

She remembered once overhearing the servants whispering:

“Lady Lila is like the sun, and Lady Daniella… well, the world only needs one sun, doesn’t it?”

The words cut deeper than any blade.

By the time Daniella entered the Imperial Academy at eighteen, she had already grown skilled at fading into the background. She smiled when spoken to, bowed when required, and spent long nights hidden away in the library instead of reveling in the grand halls. She thought, perhaps, distance from her family would ease the sting.

It did not.

Even there, Lila’s shadow followed her. Letters from home always detailed her sister’s triumphs, never her own progress. Noble students, eager to curry favor with the favored daughter of Duke Arison, approached Daniella only to ask questions about Lila. Her roommate, Vivian, noticed the way Daniella stiffened each time, but Daniella laughed it off, burying the ache beneath layers of composure.

And then came the holiday break. The moment she stepped back into the Arison estate, the memories returned like chains. The same golden halls, the same laughter that wasn’t hers, the same constant reminders that she was an afterthought.

By now, Daniella had learned to endure. To swallow the neglect and pour her energy into the only comfort left to her: the endless, quiet embrace of the library. She thought she could survive another season in silence.

Until that night.

Until she overheard the voices—her mother’s, her sister’s—plotting to cast her aside entirely.

And in that moment, the last fragile thread of hope inside her snapped.

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