Veni Vincere

Ch. 2

It wasn't until Daniel returned to the carriage that the young man considered what the encounter with Lyra meant. What he concluded, however, left little to help his tangled state of mind.

His cousin's offer promoted one striking feeling— suspicion.

Logically, an individual such as Lyra would've accepted his apology curtly, and ignore him afterwards. Most other aristocrats did, so it was peculiar she had not followed that same pattern, regardless of familial relations. Was it politeness that drove her to extend an invitation? Perhaps pity? Considering how the offer occurred directly after the competition commenced only heightened the level of skepticism already established.

Behind that petite frame, her steely amber eyes contained a calculating gleam stained with vigor. It was an emotion reflected in his father, and his grandmother. It was ambition. With such a delicate trait, one could build empires or destroy them— actions Father had no difficulty executing. Lyra, he hoped, comprised of none of that ruthlessness.

Still, while he'd like to think of the best, he struggled accepting that her words were spoken with the intent of friendship. That's not how a life of a monarch worked, not for him.

Daniel lived in footsteps the instant he could walk. He inhabited the pathways of maids, butlers, clergymen, medics, and, of course, his famiglia. Despite protests from government officials and his teachers, he'd dress in Mamma's old flowing dresses, waddling after her, copying how she picked flowers. Sometimes, he cosplayed as Theodore, donning his fratello's battered leather boots, using sticks and leaves in an effort to emulate his brother's quills and parchment. Basking under their shade like a lost puppy, it was almost natural to be overlooked in favor of the Sun he admired that day. Noble children hung off Theodore's shoulders, and ambassadors greeted him last, or not at all.

Since the tender age of seven, he had internalized one notion— within the eyes of others, he would unfailingly be considered a leftover, and it was a rational thought, not a product of low self- esteem.

Self- esteem was— in the words of Stanley Coopersmith— the personal judgment of worthiness that is expressed in the attitudes the individual holds toward themself. Therefore, it wasn't a lack of confidence that coerced this belief, it was simple, plain common sense. He was the second son, the second best, the no-eye. Why would Lyra want to talk to him instead of a superior option?

Endless whispers escaped his lips as the possibilities danced in his mind. Daniel gnawed on his thumb, close to breaking skin if not for the continual chain of mutters that spilled into the air before him.

"Is something the matter?" Theodore questioned, eyebrows drawn together with concern, if a bit of amusement. "You're breaking down again."

Being confined in the castle for so long, eccentricities were bound to form. Daniel's habit of getting absorbed in his thoughts caused great concern to those close to him, namely due to his tendency to wander during such sessions. The frequency of this mannerism was few, but the range of peril that could set him off was wide— from spiders to government conspiracies to a bad book ending. Although it wasn't often that the young man's murmurs provided tangible evidence of a threat, it never hurt to ask.

Daniel, tense as a brick, jumped at his brother's inquiry. "What? No, I'm not."

"You are," the older pointed out, matter-of-factly. "I asked what the delay was about and you ignored me. Unless I forgot— which I never do— I haven't done something to make you mad, so what or who did?"

"It's nothing." He looked away despite knowing that lying was useless against a De Luca.

Theodore stared, then sighed. "Your body language screams that you're hiding the truth. I may be extremely observant, but I can't read minds. What's wrong?"