Chapter thirty one: The quiet before the storm
The morning broke grey and cold, casting the manor in a muted hush, as if the walls themselves held their breath.
Elira sat curled at the foot of the velvet chaise, untouched breakfast cooling on the tray beside her. Her fingers hovered near the collar at her throat—not tugging, not testing, merely feeling. A moment ago, it had nearly strangled her. Yet now, it lay dormant, its strange pulse echoing hers in subtle rhythm. She could sense it: a tether, alive and evolving.
Since she left Lucien's study the night before, there had been only silence. No knock. No summons. No whispered order delivered through the ever-watching staff. Just absence.
And that, more than anger or cruelty, unsettled her.
He was pulling away.
Elira stood near the tall windows of the upstairs corridor, her hands wrapped around a cup of lukewarm tea, when she heard the sound—wheels crunching gravel, horses snorting against the bridle.
A carriage.
She leaned closer, curiosity stirring. It wasn't one of the staff wagons or the delivery carts that sometimes brought supplies. No, this one gleamed beneath the washed-grey sky, drawn by two obsidian horses with silver-tipped harnesses. The carriage bore no crest, but its polished black panels and embroidered curtains spoke of wealth that didn't need to announce itself.
The door opened with a soft clack, and out stepped a woman dressed in an elegantly severe coat, deep plum velvet trimmed with fur so pale it was nearly silver. Her heels clicked softly as she descended, the very image of grace shaped by winter steel.
Lady Seraphine Duskmoor.
Even from above, Elira could see the glint of her rings, the careful perfection of her posture, the faintest curl of disdain on her lips as she surveyed the estate.
Alaric was already at the base of the steps when she approached, his white gloves clasped neatly behind his back.
"My lady," he greeted, voice dry as ever, with a touch of wariness hidden beneath the formal tone.
"Is Lord Vaelric in residence?" Seraphine asked, not bothering with pleasantries.
Alaric dipped his head in acknowledgment. "He is. Though I cannot say if he's receiving visitors."
"You may inform him that I've come on the Choir's request," she said smoothly. "I'll wait in the solar."
"As you wish."
Elira's brow furrowed. The Choir?
The name rang like distant thunder in her ears—half-remembered from Court whispers and Lucien's evasions.
She set the teacup down and moved quietly down the hall, shadows cushioning her steps. She followed the curve of the grand stairwell and slipped into the corridor that flanked the solar—a room where guests were usually received when formality required delicacy. She stayed close to the wall, hidden just out of sight.
But the silence didn't last long.
"You can stop hiding, darling," Seraphine's voice called out suddenly, languid and amused. "I can hear your heartbeat from here."
Elira froze, then slowly stepped into the archway.
Lady Seraphine sat on the chaise near the fire, legs crossed elegantly, gloves removed and laid precisely on the armrest. Her gaze found Elira with unerring accuracy.
"You're very curious. That's not always a good thing."
Elira said nothing. The older woman studied her with a mixture of fascination and mild pity.
"You look pale," she said. "Even paler than usual. Though I suppose it's to be expected."
Elira arched a brow. "Expected?"
A small smile played on Seraphine's lips. "The manor has a reputation for... consuming its inhabitants. And I heard about your run-in with Lucien's extended family. Tragic, truly."
She waved one hand, as though brushing off the incident but not the consequences.
"Families are such treacherous things. Especially those born of obligation, not blood."
"You speak as if you know them," Elira said carefully.
"I know him," Seraphine replied. "Better than most. Which is why I worry."
She leaned back, arms draping along the chaise like a cat basking in firelight. "You must be quite the distraction for him. Enough that he ignored the last summons."
That caught Elira off guard. She tried not to show it.
Before she could respond, the door creaked open behind her.
Lucien entered with the air of someone who had long since lost interest in civility.
"Seraphine."
She rose and turned to him with the perfect bow, her voice cooling by degrees. "Lucien."
They stood opposite each other for a long moment—him tall and sharp-edged in black, her all controlled poise wrapped in lilac-grey tones.
"I trust you received the Choir's last letter," she said softly.
"I did."
"You did not reply."
"I rarely do."
Seraphine's eyes flitted briefly to Elira, then back to Lucien. Her next words carried a practiced gentleness.
"I'd like to speak with you. Alone."
Lucien's gaze flicked to Elira.
"You may go," he said, his voice unreadable.
Elira stiffened. Seraphine offered her an apologetic smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"I'm sure we'll speak again," she said sweetly.
Elira turned and left, though her steps were slow. She didn't close the door entirely, leaving just the faintest gap behind her.
Within the solar, Seraphine waited until Elira was gone before speaking.
"You've drawn attention, Lucien. More than I can shield you from."
Lucien leaned against the mantel, arms crossed. "You came to lecture me."
"I came to warn you."
He said nothing.
Seraphine exhaled. "The Choir is uneasy. You refused their last request to appear. Now they've extended a formal summons—one you cannot ignore."
"I've no patience for political theater."
"This is not theater, Lucien. This is a test. And they are watching you."
She moved closer, her voice softening, like velvet lined with blades.
"They're asking about her."
Lucien's jaw clenched.
"I don't need to remind you what the Court does when it smells uncertainty," she added. "You of all people know."
Lucien turned away from the fire, his face unreadable. "And what would they have me do?"
Seraphine stepped past him and placed a folded card on the side table. Its edges shimmered faintly with sigil-wax.
"The gathering is in two nights. You will attend—with your pet. Play nice. Show them you're in control of yourself—and of her."
Lucien said nothing, but the collar around Elira's neck pulsed faintly upstairs, sensing the shift in fate.
Seraphine straightened her coat. "This is me doing you a kindness, Lucien. They won't offer it again."
And with that, she turned and left, the air seeming colder in her wake.