Chapter eleven: The Burning Room
The morning after the Crimson Feast came with no sun.
A pall of mist hung outside the frost-laced windows, filtering the light into a dull gray smear that crept across the stone floors. Elira stirred in bed, the silence too still—too unnatural. Her body ached, not from dancing, but from the tension wound tight beneath her skin.
The events of the ball clung to her skin like perfume that wouldn't wash off. The music. The eyes. The way Lucien had touched her waist during the dance—as if he were performing a role, and yet... not entirely.
The collar at her throat pulsed faintly, as if it too remembered the night before.
She pushed back the velvet covers and rose slowly, her bare feet brushing the cold floor. Someone had changed her the night before, or perhaps she'd done it in a daze. She remembered little after that face in the crowd—the one that looked like Calen.
A ghost in a hall of the undead.
Was it him?
Or was it another trick of this house?
The manor had a way of distorting truth, shaping shadows into familiar ghosts.
She reached for the locket hidden beneath her nightgown. Still there.
Still closed.
She moved toward the window and looked out onto the courtyard. No one. Not a soul stirred in the gardens. Not even the birds sang.
A faint knock interrupted her thoughts.
"Come in," she said, her voice rough with sleep.
Mirelle entered—her eyes flicking over Elira's face, then quickly down. She curtsied. "Your bath is ready, milady."
"Has Lord Vaelric said anything?" she asked.
Mirelle hesitated. "He left before dawn."
"Why?"
"I... don't know. He left orders that you were to be left undisturbed unless necessary."
Of course he did.
Elira nodded and let Mirelle help her into the washroom. She bathed in silence, steam curling around her like fog, but the weight in her chest didn't ease. That face wouldn't leave her mind. The nobles watching her. The way Lucien's grip had tightened around her hand when they danced, the way his gaze sliced through the room like he owned it.
And yet, for one fleeting moment, he'd looked at her like she was more than just leverage.
More than just a pawn.
She pushed the thought away.
Did she hate Lucien Vaelric for turning her into this thing the Court whispered about? Or did she hate that part of her hadn't flinched when his hand touched her waist?
That same part now burned for answers.
Her gaze drifted to the windows, then the door. For a moment, she considered leaving the room—testing the manor's edges again. Would the collar allow it? Would he?
She stepped into the corridor, the cold flagstones pressing up through her slippers. The manor felt different. The air held a metallic tang—faint, but sharp. Not the scent of decay, nor blood. Something older. Smoke?
A flicker of movement ahead startled her.
"Miss Elira!" A voice called from the end of the hallway—Marian, the younger maid with nervous hands and a pinched brow. She was flushed, breathless. "You shouldn't—please, you should come downstairs."
Elira frowned. "Why? What's happened?"
The girl hesitated, biting her lip. "It's the east wing. One of the older rooms... it—it's burning."
Elira's stomach dropped.
"Burning?"
Marian only nodded before turning to lead her. Elira followed swiftly, her bare feet nearly stumbling on the steps as they descended.
The corridor near the east wing was lined with thick stone arches and age-darkened tapestries, most too faded to reveal their original scenes. It had always felt colder here, more forgotten than the rest of the manor.
And now—
A crackling hiss greeted them as they turned the final corner.
Several servants were already there, buckets in hand, shouting, trying to beat back the flames licking up from under an ancient wooden door. Smoke curled in tendrils along the ceiling, but it didn't spread far—it almost seemed… contained.
Not by stone. Not by water.
By something else.
Elira moved closer, squinting through the haze. The fire wasn't natural. Its flame was pale, almost white, and it didn't consume the door so much as shimmer across its surface like a veil of heat over a mirage. The servants hesitated to go near.
"What room is this?" she asked Marian.
Marian's voice was barely above a whisper. "It used to belong to one of the Vaelric wives. Lady Lysanthe. She died over a hundred years ago."
Elira stepped closer.
"Why is it even still here?"
"It's never been used. Locked. No one ever goes near it."
Then why—?
A sudden gust of warmth burst from the door. The veil of fire flared, just once, like it recognized her. The smoke curled toward her, seeking.
"Elira!" a sharp voice barked.
She didn't listen. Her feet carried her forward until the heat hit her like a slap.
She turned to find Lucien striding down the hallway, his cloak flaring behind him like a black tide. His eyes immediately narrowed on the flame.
"Get back."
"I—" Her voice caught. "It's not... it doesn't look like real fire."
"It isn't," he said coldly, already lifting one gloved hand.
She stepped back as a wave of pressure filled the corridor—something ancient and unseen, pressing against her chest. Lucien's eyes glowed faintly silver, his fingers splayed in command. A sudden pulse of energy burst from him, and the flames disappeared with a shriek of air, sucked into the threshold like breath through clenched teeth.
Silence returned.
Only the scorched edge of the door remained—untouched by any real burn. But it felt wrong. Warped.
Lucien's expression was grim.
"Seal the wing," he ordered to the servants. "No one enters this hall without my leave."
The staff scattered, dragging barrels and cloths behind them. Marian bowed deeply and fled.
Lucien turned to Elira.
"You shouldn't have come down here."
"I wasn't trying to. I smelled the smoke—"
"And you followed it."
"Would you have preferred I sat and ignored it while your home burned?" she snapped.
His eyes narrowed. "My home is older than your understanding of danger."
"So it's not fire?"
"No."
"Then what is it?"
Lucien was silent.
She stepped closer, searching his face. "What was in that room?"
He met her eyes. "Nothing that concerns you."
Her pulse quickened, a frustration rising to her lips. "You keep saying that."
"Because it's true."
"But I'm here. I'm part of this whether you like it or not. You collared me, paraded me before nobles like a pet—"
He cut her off, voice low and dangerous. "You would do well not to confuse privilege with understanding, Elira."
The use of her name—sharp, deliberate—broke through her anger. She exhaled, shaking.
There was something in his eyes. Not just fury.
Fear.
Real, cold fear.
She looked again at the scorched door, and her voice came softer.
"Did it wake because of me?"
Lucien didn't answer.
But his silence said enough.