The heavy oak doors of the Governor's study closed with a dull echo. The servants bowed and left in silence, obeying Lord Varence Aurelia's command to leave them undisturbed. The room fell still, the faint crackle of the fireplace the only sound that dared to linger.
The Governor's office was a grand chamber walls lined with dark walnut shelves heavy with books, maps, and sealed documents. The air smelled faintly of old parchment and burning cedar. A single candle flickered atop the polished desk, its flame bending slightly with the cold draft that crept in through the windowpanes. Beyond the glass, the sky hung gray, swollen with the promise of rain.
Elyss stood by the door, her hands clasped tightly before her. She bowed her head once before speaking, her tone low and trembling with something unspoken.
"My Lord," she began, "the Lady… she is beginning to have that dream."
Lord Varence paused, his hand hovering above a paper he had been pretending to read. Slowly, he lifted his gaze, and in the dim light, the sharpness of his expression softened into quiet dread. His voice, when it came, was quiet nearly a whisper.
"It's too early," he said, almost to himself. "We are not yet prepared for this."
Elyss stepped closer, her usual calm faltering. "Whatever will happen, my Lord… we will do as we promised. We will protect her."
Her voice quivered, but her resolve did not.
For a moment, the Governor said nothing. He turned toward the window, watching as the first drops of rain began to tap against the glass. His reflection stared back at him tired eyes framed by years of weight and guilt.
"Yes," he said at last, his tone deep and steady. "We will. Whatever happens."
The room fell silent once more. Only the rain spoke now, pattering softly against the walls, growing heavier with every breath. The candlelight trembled as thunder murmured from afar, and the shadows across the Governor's face deepened, swallowing his expression whole.
Elyss bowed once again, but before she could speak, Lord Varence said quietly,
"Make sure she doesn't suspect anything."
Elyss's eyes lingered on him worried, conflicted but she nodded.
"As you command, my Lord."
Then she turned and left the room, her footsteps fading down the hall like a whisper. The Governor remained still, staring at the window as the rain finally began to pour, each drop sounding like a clock ticking toward something inevitable.
...
Amara's eyes fluttered open, breath caught halfway in her throat. Her golden curls sprawled across the velvet pillow, a contrast to the deep red gown she wore. For a moment, she lay still, unsure whether she was awake or trapped once again in that dream. The moonlight filtered through the silken curtains, pale and ghostly, washing the room in a quiet silver glow.
Slowly, she sat up. The air felt cold against her skin too cold, as if the night itself was holding its breath. Her gaze wandered across the familiar walls. It was her bedroom, yet not entirely. The air was heavier here, stiller, and each shadow seemed alive, waiting. The first thing that caught her eyes was the painting.
It hung just above her desk the same portrait she always saw in her dreams. A fine woman, dressed in regal white lace, sitting in a chair of gold and oak. But as Amara stared, she realized the face was not clear. A thin veil of shadow covered it. And the longer she looked, the deeper that shadow grew, swallowing the woman's features until there was nothing left but darkness.
Her heart pounded softly.
"No… not again," she whispered, her voice trembling through the still air.
She turned toward the window, hoping to see something anything real. The night outside was quiet, except for the soft hum of crickets and the faint whisper of the wind. And there it was again the tall clock that stood just beyond her window, gleaming faintly beneath the moonlight. Its great hand moved with slow, deliberate ticks. Amara's breath caught when she noticed where it was heading.
The clock's hand trembled, and then clang.
A single, echoing sound of metal striking metal. The clock had struck twelve.
Amara's eyes widened but before the sound could fully ring out, the world shifted.
Thunder roared.
Rain crashed against her windowpane.
She gasped, finding herself once more in her real bedroom the familiar scent of lavender and candle wax filling the air. The silver glow of the moon had faded beneath the storm clouds. Her body was trembling, sweat dampening the fabric of her nightgown. She pressed a hand against her forehead, her chest heaving as she tried to calm her breath.
Her head didn't ache this time. The ringing the sharp pain that usually followed the clock's chime was gone.
"Did I wake up before it happened?" she whispered to herself.
The storm outside rumbled again, shaking the window slightly. She drew her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. Her hair clung to her shoulders, her breaths small and uneven.
"That dream…" she murmured. "It's getting creepier every night."
The candle by her bedside flickered weakly, its flame struggling against the draft. She stared at it for a while, lost in thought, until her eyes drifted once again toward the window. Somewhere far beyond the rain, she thought she saw something a faint outline, a figure standing near the tree she loved so much. But the thunder growled again, and when she blinked, it was gone.
She stayed that way for a long time, hugging her legs tightly, listening to the rhythm of the rain. Her room felt different now almost alive as if the dream had followed her back into the waking world.
And for the first time, she feared falling asleep again.
Amara sat there for a while, listening to the storm's soft rage against her window. The air inside her room was suffocatingly still, and her thoughts refused to rest. The echo of the clock, the faceless woman in the painting it all clung to her mind like a fog she couldn't escape.
Her eyes drifted again to the window. The rain poured harder now, silver threads dancing in the darkness. It looked almost beautiful the kind of beauty that could swallow you whole.
A quiet smile curved on her lips.
"The rain," she whispered to herself, "it's perfect."
She rose slowly from her bed, her bare feet brushing against the cold marble floor. Each step felt heavy, yet guided by something beyond her. She reached for her cloak a dark blue one embroidered with soft golden vines and draped it around her shoulders. The moment she clasped it, a faint warmth ran through her fingers, as if the storm outside called her name.
Elyss would scold her if she knew.
Her father would be furious.
But at this hour, they would be asleep. And she she needed to breathe.
The mansion's corridors were silent as she walked. The chandeliers above swayed slightly with the wind outside, their crystals casting ghostlike reflections across the walls. The scent of rain seeped in through the cracks of the old wooden doors clean, earthy, nostalgic.
When she finally reached the main door, Amara hesitated only for a heartbeat. Then, she turned the brass handle.
The door creaked open.
A rush of cold air hit her face, sharp and fresh. The rain fell endlessly before her shimmering under the faint glow of lanterns. The world outside was dark, but alive.
She stepped out.
The first drop touched her cheek warm compared to the chill in the air. Then another, and another, until she was drenched, her cloak heavy with water. Yet she didn't mind. There was something freeing about it the sound, the smell, the way the storm embraced her completely.
"Just for a while," she murmured to herself, walking barefoot down the path that led to the garden. "I'll come back soon."
Her voice was lost beneath the thunder. But she smiled faintly, her heart steady for the first time that night.
And somewhere beyond the rain, past the whispering trees something watched.