Chapter 8: The Sapphire Family
"If you’re reading this, that means that I’m dead. The Sapphire family... They aren’t who they say they are.."
Okay, I won’t lie — that line felt like it came straight out of a horror scene. It sent eerie chills down my spine. My fingers trembled slightly as I held the journal.
I quickly turned the page, my eyes scanning the neat handwriting, desperate for more answers, for any clue as to what ’Olberic’ – the original adopted son, had discovered.
In the next paragraph he wrote: "I’m not their biological son, but as of writing, for most of the time I’m treated as such," the diary continued. "They treat me as one, especially Evelina. She was truly lovely, some may say even too nice. Luminous, he was always cheerful, he loved munching on nuts, those seemed to be his favourite. Lady Sapphire, she tries her best to shower me with the same affection she shows her true children. I’m forever grateful for the Sapphire family, for taking me in."
I paused, absorbing the details. Evelina. So that was the eldest daughter’s name. And Luminous for the younger child, the nut-munching one. It was a small, almost mundane detail, but it grounded the narrative, making these fictional characters feel more real, more human. Olberic’s gratitude was clear, his affection for the family, especially Evelina, evident in his words. It painted a picture of a seemingly loving, benevolent noble house.
But then, the tone shifted. The handwriting seemed to press harder on the page.
"But, Lord Sapphire, I always had my suspicions about him. It grew with every passing second. He for once never talked with me, for a scholar, he has an overwhelmingly large amount of Armory at his disposal, his room is always lit at night, I saw it through the window, and that’s when I figured it out, that he is—"
The words cut off abruptly.
My eyes darted to the bottom of the page, then to the next. My breath hitched. The rest of the pages were gone. Torn out. Not carefully removed, but violently ripped out it, now had jagged edges, leaving only stubs of paper clinging to the bind. The diary, which felt substantial moments ago, was now thin, almost empty.