The sun filtered faintly through the heavy drapes of Amara's room, soft beams spilling across the marble floor. For the first time in days, her sleep had been quiet no strange whispers, no footsteps, no visions of the faceless man. Only silence. She opened her eyes slowly, greeted by the faint scent of rose and linen.
Elyss was already inside, moving gracefully as always. "Good morning, my lady," she said, setting down a silver tray beside the vanity. "Your breakfast is ready. And" she paused, arranging the folds of Amara's gown neatly"your friends are expected later this morning. The tea party you requested."
Amara rubbed her eyes gently, smiling faintly. "Ah, I nearly forgot… it's today."
Elyss nodded with a small smile that barely reached her stern face. "Miss Clara and Lady Elene have already sent word. They will arrive by noon. I have prepared your blue gown—the one with the lace from the capital. It suits a quiet gathering."
Amara rose from her bed, stretching slightly. For days she had been haunted by dreams that seemed to echo reality. The memory of the art hall, that cold night, the faceless man and him. That man with the red eyes. His voice, the way the air itself seemed to bow before himit replayed in her mind like a curse she couldn't erase.
But now, in the bright calm of morning, it almost felt unreal. Perhaps, she thought, it was all just exhaustion.
Hours later, the garden courtyard was arranged for the tea party. The marble table gleamed under the daylight, draped with embroidered cloth, silver teapots, and delicate pastries. The soft fragrance of white peonies filled the air.
Soon enough, Clara arrived first her golden hair tied neatly, her fan fluttering in excitement. "Amara! It feels like ages since you hosted one of these!"
Elene followed soon after, more reserved, though her soft smile showed genuine warmth. "Your garden is lovelier than ever, Amara. I heard you added new roses?"
They exchanged pleasantries, laughter echoing lightly as the maids poured tea into porcelain cups. For a moment, everything felt normal again like the world was gentle.
Their conversation began with small gossip, the latest from the capital new artists, dresses, and whispered scandals among nobles. Clara leaned in, lowering her voice dramatically. "Did you hear, Amara? The Crown Princess's birthday ball will be grander than ever this year. Even foreign envoys will attend!"
Elene nodded eagerly. "And I heard something even more thrilling House Harvellene will attend this time!"
The name froze in Amara's mind like a strike of thunder.
"Harvellene?" she repeated softly, her hand tightening slightly around her teacup.
"Yes!" Clara said, her eyes wide with excitement. "Can you believe it? That house hasn't appeared in public for years. People say their bloodline carries strange power. The red eyes, they call them the mark of the old heroes."
Elene giggled. "Oh, I heard their men are… breathtaking. Even the prince himself is said to have spoken highly of them once. Can you imagine meeting someone from that lineage?"
Clara sighed dreamily, "Especially if he's young and handsome. I wonder what they truly look like those red eyes. They say it feels like being seen through by fire itself."
Amara smiled faintly, trying to seem composed. But in her mind, she could still see him. That night in the dark hallway. The way the lightning had reflected in his crimson eyes. The sound of his low voice.
"Amara," Elene said suddenly, pulling her from thought, "you're awfully quiet. You seem lost. Don't tell me you're dreaming of a red-eyed noble too?"
Amara forced a small laugh. "Hardly. I was just… thinking that it's curious how quickly news spreads. The Harvellenes have been silent for so long. Why now?"
"Maybe they've been waiting for the right moment," Clara mused, stirring her tea. "The Crown Princess's birthday is the perfect place for nobles to return. Imagine the attention they'll get."
Elene leaned closer with a playful grin. "You should come, Amara. You will attend, won't you? It would be a crime to miss seeing such a family in person."
Amara hesitated, eyes drifting toward the distant clouds. "Perhaps," she said softly.
The tea party went on laughter, stories, and the warm scent of brewed leaves but part of her mind was far away, standing again in that dark corridor lit by thunder. She remembered his calm voice cutting through the storm.
As the afternoon light faded, her friends bid their goodbyes, leaving the courtyard quiet once more. Amara sat still for a long while, her eyes fixed on the horizon where the sun dipped into gold.
"The House of Harvellene…" she whispered under her breath.
And in her memory, the red eyes glimmered again in the dark.
Far from Amara's quiet estate, dark clouds gathered above a land of stone and shadow. The wind carried the scent of rain and earth, sweeping across a lonely hill where a great mansion stood tall, somber, and almost alive beneath the thunder's glow.
The carriages came one after another, wheels grinding against the cobblestone path slick with rain. Golden crests, silken banners, and noble seals from distant kingdoms gleamed faintly under the stormlight. One by one, the guests stepped out lords and ladies draped in their finest, each one wearing awe upon their faces as they gazed at the mansion before them.
The House of Harvellene.
Its vast iron gates opened slowly, groaning like something ancient awakening. Inside, the grand hall stretched endlessly, lit by chandeliers that glimmered like dying stars. The walls were adorned with portraits of red-eyed ancestors, each painted with such lifelike detail that their gazes seemed to follow every movement. Dark velvet curtains hung heavy from the tall arched windows, and the marble floor was black as ink, polished enough to reflect the nobles' faces as they walked.
Whispers filled the air like quiet thunder.
"So this is Harvellene's domain…" one murmured in awe.
"I've heard they've not hosted guests in decades."
"Such elegance... and yet, there's something cold about it. Look at those portraits those eyes"
A group of nobles paused before one painting a man with hair black as night, a faint, sharp smile, and crimson eyes that glowed eerily even through oil and canvas.
The music of strings began softly in the distance, slow and haunting. Servants dressed in dark uniforms glided through the hall, their steps silent, their eyes lowered. Every inch of the mansion radiated wealth yet beneath it all, something darker pulsed quietly.
"Even from afar," a lady whispered, clutching her fan nervously, "you can feel it… the power of that bloodline."
Another noble nodded gravely. "Beauty and red eyes. That is the Harvellene curse and their glory."
Then, as lightning flashed through the windows, a tall figure appeared at the top of the grand staircase. The nobles turned at once, breaths caught.
There he stood calm, regal, and terrifyingly composed. The red of his eyes gleamed faintly through the dim light as if reflecting the storm itself.
The murmurs died instantly. Only silence remained.
The heir of the House of Harvellene had finally appeared.