The corridors were quieter here.
The further Lenore moved from the music and laughter, the heavier the silence grew. Moonlight filtered through tall stained glass windows in amber, amethyst, and crimson, throwing kaleidoscopic patterns across the velvet carpets and carved pillars. Her pulse thrummed in her ears as she passed the portraits of grim-faced Ebonmere ancestors who watched her, like they knew something she did not.
'Aunt Viranna should've returned by now,' the thought gnawed at her.
A flicker of unease tugged at her steps. House Ebonmere was old—built with more secrets than staircases—and yet tonight, it felt…watching.
She reached the darkened threshold of the study, as she had already checked the gardens and her aunt's room. The study was another place in the vast manor where her aunt spent her time.
The door was ajar. No candles lit. That alone struck her wrong.
"Aunt Viranna?" she called gently, pushing the door open.
It creaked.
The scent hit her first—blood. Rich, coppery, unmistakable.
Her stomach dropped.
"Aunt—?" she stepped forward, and the word stuck in her throat.
Slumped over the desk, her aunt's lifeless form lay still in a pool of black-red blood, face pressed against parchment, silks darkened and heavy. A ceremonial dagger—intricate and ancient, with the Ebonmere crest carved into the hilt—jutted cruelly from her back.
The one Viranna had planned to give her tonight, the day she came of age. A family heirloom passed through generations.
Lenore staggered back a step before rushing forward. "No—no, no, no…"
She came around the desk and reached for her aunt with a trembling hand, blood smearing her gloves as she shook her gently, naive hope that maybe she would respond. Tears welled up in her eyes. "Please, gods, no…"
Her breath caught on a sob. "Help—someone help!"
Lenore attempted to take the blade out from her aunt's back. The dagger was lodged deeply, and she struggled to pull it out as tears flowed freely, clouding her vision, weakening her grip. Her resolve.
Footsteps.
She turned as Rowan stepped into the open doorway.
He stood still—too still. Mask pushed back atop his head, his reddish-brown hair tousled, his face unreadable in the shadow casted over it in the dark room. He took in the scene.
"Lenore…what—?" He began, voice tight with disbelief. He took a step forward, eyes widening as if trying to piece it together. "Is she—? No, this can't be…"
Lenore lifted her tear-streaked face from her aunt's body, her arms now wrapped around her lifeless form, giving up on the dagger. "I—I found her like this," she whispered, voice shaking. "Rowan, she was already—someone—"
Rowan hesitated just a beat too long before he stepped forward slowly, eyes sliding to the blood on her hands, the dagger in her aunt's back. He then crouched beside her, careful not to touch the blood pooling beneath the desk. "Your hands…" he said softly. "You're covered in it."
"Lenore, what have you done?"
Lenore's stomach turned, staring at him in shock.
"I didn't do this," Lenore said sharply, her voice cracking and tight. "Why would I hurt her? Who would even—why would anyone…?"
Rowan's voice carried a tremble of concern as he exhaled. "You should leave," he murmured. "This…doesn't look good."
Lenore flinched as if struck. "You think I did this?"
Her voice trembled—barely more than a whisper, raw and aching. She stood slowly, trembling, her eyes flickering to the dagger still jutting from her aunt's back and her desperate attempt to free it from her cold flesh. "You don't believe that."
But Rowan didn't move.
The stillness between them thickened. His expression unreadable, his presence suddenly too composed. Something about it pulled unease through her chest like a jagged wire. But she couldn't name it—not then, at least.
Rowan reached for her tentatively, "Lenore—"
"No."
The word came firmer this time as she pulled away from him and straightened fully, blood smearing the front of her gown from the action. "I'm not running Rowan."
Back then, she wished she had. Far away. Where no one could seek her out.
Her gaze darted to the open doorway behind him. "Someone needs to help. You—you go. Bring someone. The guards, the court, anyone."
Her voice shook, not from guilt—but from the weight of everything unraveling too fast.
She couldn't leave her aunt's side.
"Rowan—please," she asked, when he hadn't moved. Her voice breaking at the edges.
Rowan blinked, as if shaken from a daze. A flicker of something passed across his face—concern, maybe. "I'll go," he said finally, voice quiet. "Stay here. Don't…don't move."
She nodded mutely, too stunned to do anything else.
He turned and walked away, footsteps echoing in the corridor as he disappeared toward the heart of the celebration.
~
The ballroom shimmered with candlelight and silk, full of the laughter of lycans alike and the music that now grated on Corvin's ears. He stood near one of the towering windows, flanked by his brothers, boredom gnawing at his patience.
Then the music faltered. Not stopped—but trembled.
Rowan had burst into the room, mask askew, chest heaving as though he'd sprinted the length of the manor. His voice rang out across the ballroom like a blade drawn from its sheath.
"She's dead—Lady Viranna—murdered!"
Gasps rippled through the gathered nobles like wind through dry grass.
Rowan staggered forward, eyes wild with grief, with horror.
"It was Lenore," he said, louder, for everyone to hear. "I—I found her. The dagger was still in Lady Viranna's back—gods, the blood—she was standing over her!"
Corvin froze.
All around them, guests turned, stunned into stillness. He felt Severin stiffen beside him, and Darius paused mid-wine-sip.
Corvin's jaw tightened as Rowan's words echoed across the ballroom. Lenore?
Something about it didn't sit right. Rowan's panic—it seemed strange—felt just a beat too sharp, like a note struck too hard on a violin string. But Lenore…Lenore had been gone for some time.
And she had always been close to Lady Viranna. Always beside her when she was around. Close enough to know how to get near her without raising alarm.
It could be true. And yet…
He exchanged a glance with Severin, but neither spoke.
The room had already begun to stir with tension and whispers. And the doubt, once cast, had already begun to take root.