The soft chime of silver cutlery echoed faintly through the dining hall as Amara finished her breakfast. Sunlight streamed through tall glass windows, casting warm streaks upon the long table adorned with half-wilted roses and polished dishes. Her father had already departed early that morning for his duties as the city's governor, leaving her once again in the stillness of their vast home.
After a moment of silence, Amara rose gracefully from her chair, her gown swaying like liquid silk as she turned to the familiar presence beside her. "Elyss," she said softly, "I think I'll spend the morning in the library."
"As you wish, my lady," replied Elyss, bowing slightly. The old maid's tone was calm, but her eyes seemed distant, as though her thoughts were wandering elsewhere.
The grand library stood at the heart of the mansion a chamber of towering shelves carved from ancient oak, filled with the scent of aged parchment and candle wax. Chandeliers of gold and crystal hung from the ceiling, their glass prisms scattering the faint light of the morning into fractured rainbows. Dust particles floated lazily through the beams, like memories refusing to settle.
Amara ran her fingers along the spines of the books, their titles gilded in fading letters. "It's strange," she murmured, half to herself. "Even surrounded by all this knowledge… I still feel like there are things I'm not meant to understand."
Elyss turned to her with that same gentle smile, though her eyes remained oddly blank. "My lady, perhaps you think too much of things that do not matter," she said softly, her tone almost rehearsed.
Amara tilted her head, her brow furrowing slightly. "Elyss… are you well? You've been acting rather strange lately. Your voice it sounds like you're forcing yourself to sound calm."
The old maid blinked, her face momentarily unreadable. "Forgive me, my lady, but I do not understand what you mean," she replied, bowing slightly. "I am as I always have been."
For a moment, silence hung in the air like a held breath. Amara wanted to ask more to press for answers but she stopped herself. "Perhaps I'm just imagining things," she whispered.
She opened a random book, but her eyes didn't move across the words. Her mind was far from the ink and parchment before her. It wandered back to that art hall, to the sunlight streaming through the windows, and the man with bronze skin and solemn brown eyes.
That gaze empty yet knowing haunted her.
Who was he?
Why did his face seem so familiar, as though she had seen him not in life, but in dreams long forgotten?
Her fingers trembled slightly as she turned a page she hadn't even read. "This is foolish," she muttered. "But… I have to see him again."
Without a moment's hesitation, Amara stood from her chair, her heart beating faster than it should. "Elyss," she said suddenly, her tone firm. "Prepare the carriage. I'll be going out."
The maid blinked in surprise. "Now, my lady? But your father"
"is not home," Amara interrupted gently but decisively. "I'll return before sunset. I wish to visit the Hall of Arts and Painting again."
For the first time that morning, Elyss's composure faltered. Her expression flickered something between shock and dread. Her wrinkled hands tightened around the book she had been holding. "The… Hall of Arts, my lady?"
"Yes," Amara said, noticing the maid's hesitation. "Is there something wrong?"
Elyss lowered her gaze, her voice trembling faintly. "No, my lady. Nothing at all. I shall prepare your carriage immediately."
She curtsied and turned swiftly, her footsteps echoing down the marble corridor. Yet even as she disappeared around the corner, Amara could see how stiffly the old maid moved as though she were hiding fear behind each careful step.
Amara sighed softly, looking out the tall window. The city below shimmered in the light of morning. The cobblestone streets glistened faintly from last night's rain, and in the distance, the bell tower stood like a silent watcher above the city walls.
But even the beauty of the view couldn't still her restless heart. Something was drawing her back to that place to that man. Whether it was curiosity, fear, or something deeper, she could no longer tell.
By the time Elyss returned to say that the carriage awaited, Amara had already gathered her cloak. Her reflection in the window looked uncertain, but her eyes carried a quiet resolve.
"I'll find out who you are," she whispered, thinking of the bronze-skinned man. "And why it feels like I've known you before."
As she descended the grand staircase and stepped into the carriage, the wind carried through the courtyard, rustling the petals of white lilies growing by the gate. And though she could not see it, Elyss stood at the doorway, her frail hands trembling, her eyes following the carriage until it vanished from sight her lips whispering something too faint for anyone to hear.
The rhythmic sound of hooves against cobblestone echoed softly through the streets as Amara's carriage rolled toward the Hall of Arts and Painting. Morning mist still clung to the city, weaving between narrow alleys and stone arches, while sunlight glimmered faintly through it like scattered gold dust.
When the carriage halted before the great hall, Amara stepped out, her dress flowing like pale silk over her boots. Before her stood a grand building of marble and ivy. The entrance was crowned with carved angels and intricate symbols of quills and brushes. The air smelled faintly of paint, wood polish, and morning dew a blend that stirred something oddly nostalgic within her.
She took a breath and stepped inside.
The vast chamber greeted her with silence and beauty. Paintings of every kind filled the walls portraits of kings, celestial landscapes, and scenes of long-forgotten myths. The polished floors reflected the colors above, making the whole place shimmer like a dream suspended between time and memory.
As Amara slowly walked past each artwork, her fingers grazed the air just inches from the canvases. The strokes were alive, each painting whispering the story of its maker. Yet, even surrounded by beauty, she could not silence the pull that led her here the image of the man with bronze skin, his gaze still haunting her thoughts.
"My lady," a voice interrupted softly.
She turned and saw a man approaching from the other side of the hall. He was perhaps in his late forties, dressed in a long dark robe lightly dusted with color stains a painter's mark. His features were kind, and there was wisdom in his eyes. He bowed politely before speaking.
"I am Professor Aldric Faenor," he said warmly. "It is an honor to welcome the daughter of Governor Aurelius. Forgive my forwardness, but it is not often that nobility graces our humble hall. What brings you here, my lady?"
Amara smiled faintly, lowering her gaze. "I only wished to see the paintings again. There's something about this place it feels alive."
"Ah," he chuckled softly. "Then you are in the right place indeed. This hall has seen the birth of countless artists, some of whom have painted their souls upon these very walls. The students here are not merely nobles seeking pastime they are visionaries in their own right."
His tone carried pride, and his words filled the hall like a gentle melody. Amara listened quietly, but her curiosity pressed on.
"Professor Aldric," she said carefully, "I wonder if you happen to know of a certain artist here. A man, perhaps a student… with bronze-colored skin?"
The professor's expression faltered. His brow furrowed slightly, as if the question itself stirred unease. "Bronze, you say? That is… quite unusual for this region, my lady. Are you certain he was one of our artists?"
"Yes," Amara said firmly. "I saw him here not long ago inside one of the rooms near the courtyard, by the great tree. He was painting when I saw him."
The professor's eyes darkened slightly. "Near the courtyard?" he repeated slowly. "That wing has been empty for some time. No students have used it since the restoration work began. And as for your description… no, my lady, I cannot recall anyone in this hall with such skin. Nor among the teachers, nor even the servants."
Amara's heart skipped. "But I saw him," she whispered, her voice soft but certain. "He was real. He looked as though he had been here for years his brush, the way he held it it wasn't the first time he painted in that room."
Professor Aldric paused, studying her face with gentle concern. "Sometimes, my lady," he said slowly, "our eyes are deceived by longing or light. Art has a strange way of playing tricks on the mind."
Amara forced a small smile, though unease crept beneath her skin. "Perhaps," she said. "But still… I wish to visit that room again."
"The east wing?" the professor asked. "It is… not in the best condition. Dusty, and a bit cold this time of year. Would you not prefer to stay here, where it is more pleasant?"
"I must see it," Amara insisted. "Alone."
Aldric hesitated. For a long moment, he said nothing only looked at her as though weighing whether to disobey her request. Finally, he bowed slightly. "As you wish, my lady. But if I may advise… do not linger too long. The old rooms have a strange atmosphere to them. Some say the echoes of the past remain trapped within the walls."
Amara smiled faintly, though her heartbeat quickened. "Thank you, Professor. I will not stay long."
The man stepped back and left her, his footsteps fading down the corridor. Amara was alone again.
Silence filled the grand hall once more, broken only by the distant toll of a church bell outside. The air grew colder as she turned toward the courtyard, where the sunlight filtered through the stained glass. The scent of oil paint mixed faintly with something older something metallic, almost like rusted bronze.
Her fingers brushed against the marble railing as she whispered to herself, "That tree… that room… it's waiting."
And with a deep breath, Amara stepped forward, her footsteps echoing softly as she made her way toward the place where reality and dream had once intertwined.