Chapter fourteen:The arrival
The sun rose like a secret, shy and golden behind the frost-streaked windows of Elira's chamber. It filtered through the heavy velvet curtains, turning their dark crimson into something warm and soft — a rare kindness from a manor that seemed built from shadows.
For the first time since her arrival at the Thorne estate, she woke not to a summons, nor the collar's cold whisper coiling around her mind. The silence was not heavy or expectant; it was… still. Peaceful. Like the manor itself had exhaled.
She sat up slowly, pressing her palm to the faint warmth on the windowpane. The chill didn't bite as deeply today. Outside, the pale garden stirred under the light, dew glistening on curling leaves and thorns. The world had not changed — but something in it had softened, just for a moment.
Elira stood by the tall window in her chamber, sunlight pooling like gold on the wooden floors. Beyond the glass, the grounds unfurled in a mist-laced calm—dew clung to ivy, and the wind played softly through the old trees, ruffling their branches like a sigh too tired to whisper secrets. The silence wasn't suffocating. It was gentle.
She closed her eyes, taking in the rare sensation of peace. No footsteps lurking outside her door. No cold summons. No venomous stares from nobles or shadowy laughter carried through haunted halls.
Just light. And stillness.
A gentle knock tapped against her door before Mirelle stepped in, carrying a folded shawl and a small silver tray of candied citrus. "You said you liked the lemon pieces, my lady. I had them brought up from the kitchens," she said with a soft smile.
"You didn't have to," Elira murmured, a little startled—but warmed by the gesture.
Mirelle shrugged. "You looked pale this morning. And it's rare to see you smiling." She looked around the chamber, eyes lingering on the stream of sunlight bathing the room. "It's quiet, isn't it?"
Elira nodded, savoring a sugared peel on her tongue. "It's... peaceful today. Strangely so."
"That would be because Lord Vaelric left during the night," Mirelle said as she adjusted the curtains, almost too casually. "Urgent matters, I was told. He left Master Alaric in charge of the household."
The peace wavered slightly, like sunlight dimmed behind a passing cloud.
Elira blinked. "He didn't say anything before leaving?"
Mirelle shook her head. "He rarely does when he leaves like that. But he left instructions to keep your chambers well-tended. And... he made it very clear no one was to disturb you."
Of course he did.
The soft warmth in her chest warred with an unease she couldn't name. It was only when he was gone that she realized how keenly she had become aware of his presence—and the hollow it left in her when it vanished.
But there was no time to sink into that absence.
The sharp clatter of hooves and the groan of iron carriage wheels echoed from the cobbled path below.
Elira moved instinctively to the edge of the window, just as two elegantly dressed figures stepped out of a black-lacquered carriage drawn by coal-colored horses. The manor's front doors were already open, and Alaric, ever the sentinel, awaited them on the steps with a bow and expression as polished as the silver at dinner.
The first to emerge was a woman no older than Elira—slender, long dark auburn curls pinned with obsidian combs, her deep plum gown trailing like smoke behind her. Her chin tilted upward in a manner that carried both pride and calculation.
The second woman descended with a measured grace that screamed of power honed through age. She wore ash-grey velvet trimmed in crimson, her hair an immaculate platinum coil beneath a wide hat shaded by black lace. Though older, she radiated a sharp elegance—one of those women who did not simply walk into a place, but entered like she owned its walls and stories.
"Elira?" Mirelle's voice was low. "You should step back from the window. That's Lady Ravienne. Lucien's stepmother. And... the other must be his sister."
Elira did not move.
Down below, the young woman flicked her gloved fingers, brushing off the road dust with fastidious disdain. "Is he inside?"
Alaric gave a courtly bow. "Lord Vaelric is not presently at the manor, my lady."
The girl—Lucien's sister—narrowed her eyes. "Convenient."
The older woman's voice was silk wrapped around steel. "Then you will prepare our rooms. And fetch me a tray of nightbloom tea. I do not drink the common blends."
"Of course," Alaric said smoothly.
The pair turned to follow him inside—until the elder woman's gaze paused. Her head tilted ever so slightly, eyes catching on the movement above.
Elira froze.
"She's looking this way," she whispered.
"She can't possibly—" Mirelle started.
The stepmother's eyes, sharp and cold as old garnet, drifted toward them in that uncanny way only those who ruled with silence could. But she did not beckon. Instead, she turned to Alaric and said in a tone dipped in sugar and steel:
"And the little shadow he recently collected—Elira, was it? Elira... something?" Her lips curled faintly. "Is she still playing pet in his halls?"
Mirelle gasped softly, but Alaric did not flinch.
He bowed, gaze fixed ahead. "The lady is resting, madam."
"A pity," she said, and walked away.
Elira stepped back, heart hammering far louder than it should.
Mirelle hurried to shut the drapes. "Don't take it to heart, my lady. That woman—she has a tongue soaked in poison and a mind twice as cruel. She's only cordial when it profits her."
"I'm not afraid of her," Elira whispered.
But that was not entirely true.
It wasn't fear of what Ravienne might do that shook her—it was what Ravienne might know. What she might see.
And worse—what Lucien had never told her.