The figure pulled back the curtain.
And then—darkness.
The next thing Elvira knew, she was lying on the cold floor. Her ears rang. Her vision blurred.
Shards of glass sparkled around her like tiny stars—fragments of the broken balcony window. The shattered remains of the vase were scattered near her, the water mixing with the blood.
Blood. Her blood.
It trickled from a cut along her arm. Her collarbone throbbed, split open. A sharp sting ran down her leg, and her lips tasted of iron. Her cheek was warm and wet—another wound.
Voices echoed around her like muffled bells.
"Elvira—Elvira!"It was her father. Kneeling beside her. Panicked. Hands shaking as he pressed fabric against her bleeding shoulder.
She couldn't form words. Only sounds. Guttural, choked sounds.
Then—blackness again.
When she opened her eyes, everything was quiet.
She was in her bedroom, sunlight streaming through the unbroken window. The curtains swayed gently, as if mocking her.
She was wrapped in bandages. Her shoulder, her thigh, her lip—all tended to, neatly, carefully. The ache was everywhere. But the worst part was the haze in her head.
She sat up slowly, wincing. It took her a moment to gather her thoughts, to separate dream from reality.
Then—clarity hit.
"Father," she croaked, her throat dry. "What… what happened?"
Her father was sitting beside her, his face pale, eyes rimmed with worry. He took her hand gently.
"I… I don't know," he said. "I was in my study when I heard you scream. I came running. You were unconscious—bleeding. There was broken glass everywhere. My darling daughter…"
He paused. His voice cracked.
"If this is about your engagement—"
But Elvira's eyes sharpened. Her voice cut through his concern.
"No," she said firmly. "This wasn't about the engagement."
She looked down at her bandaged hands. Her pulse was rising again. The chill in her spine returned.
"Someone was on the balcony. Someone was there."
Her father's expression darkened. "What?"
"I saw a figure… just before everything went black. Someone was in my room."
He stood slowly, suddenly alert.
"Elvira," he said carefully, "are you sure?"
She nodded. "I didn't imagine it."
The warmth in the room vanished, replaced with silence and suspicion.
Her father's brow furrowed, but his expression softened. He tried to force a small smile and brushed her hair away from her face.
"I think it's been a long day. You need rest."He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. "Sleep, my little dove. We'll talk more when you're feeling better."
Elvira didn't argue.
But she couldn't sleep.
As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, her eyes snapped open. Her mind spun like a wheel on fire, recalling every guest's face from the party. Every glance. Every smirk. Every cold stare from people who smiled too easily.
Someone had been in her room. Someone wanted her gone.
She lay there for hours, mind racing in endless loops until her body finally surrendered to exhaustion.
Morning came gently.Golden sunlight spilled across her face through the ivory curtains. Her body still ached, but she sat up slowly, determined.
She glanced around the room—everything looked normal again. Too normal.
She found her soft cream-colored robe hanging neatly near the wardrobe. With effort, she changed, wincing as the fabric brushed against the bandages.
Then, barefoot, she slipped out of her room. Her steps echoed softly against the cold marble tiles. The palace was always too big, too silent in the mornings. The stillness made her feel like prey in a maze.
As she passed a wide corridor lined with arched windows, she paused—her heart catching in her throat.
Ronin.
He stood just outside the window, in the palace garden, facing away from her. The early sunlight caught the deep red in his black curls. He wore a fitted black coat, the same shade as his eyes, which glinted like wine in firelight.
He turned. Their eyes met through the glass.
For a moment, they both just stared.
And Elvira felt it again—that unsettling feeling. That knowing that something was wrong. Ronin's face was calm. Too calm.
Was he worried? Curious? Guilty?
She couldn't tell.
But her feet began to move toward the door that led to the garden.
Elvira hurried through the grand hallway, her silk robe flowing behind her like a whisper of smoke. She caught a glimpse of Ronin's figure disappearing past the marble columns of the front garden and sped up, her bare feet padding against the cold tile.
"Miss! Your tea!" called her personal maid from behind, rushing up with a silver tray.
Elvira stopped mid-step, glancing back in frustration.
"Not now," she said quickly, brushing the cup aside. The maid nearly tripped trying to catch the sloshing porcelain.
Elvira pushed open the palace doors and stepped into the morning light. The air was fresh and cool, tinged with the scent of roses and dew. She spotted Ronin walking between the rose bushes, his hands clasped behind his back in a slow, thoughtful pace.
She picked up her speed, heart pounding—not from excitement, but from the deep pull of need to know.
But then—sharp pain. Like a blade slicing across her sole.
She cried out and crumpled to the ground, clutching her foot.
"Ah—!"The gasp tore from her throat as she landed awkwardly, her hands scraping against the gravel.
Ronin turned sharply at the sound, his eyes wide with alarm. He rushed toward her in long, swift strides.
"Oh Lords—are you all right?" he asked, dropping beside her.
Elvira clenched her jaw. "No. It hurts."
Ronin didn't hesitate. In one smooth motion, he scooped her into his arms and carried her toward a stone bench beneath a flowering tree. His touch was careful but firm, and Elvira's breath hitched—not just from the pain.
He lowered her gently, kneeling to inspect her foot. Blood trickled from a cut along her arch, where a sharp piece of glass had embedded itself. A leftover shard from last night's shattered window, perhaps?
His brow furrowed.
"Why do you keep hurting yourself?" he asked, voice soft but sharp with concern.
Elvira narrowed her eyes. "I didn't do this on purpose."
Their eyes locked—hers burning with frustration, his unreadable, but something in them flickered. Something almost… sad.
She glanced down at the wound, avoiding his gaze.