The news of the dead body found within the art hall spread quickly through the kingdom, carried by whispers and uneasy glances. Some wondered how a peasant one without title, name, or permission could ever step inside such sacred halls. Others barely cared. A peasant's death is of no consequence, they said. Such things are beneath noble concern.
But to Amara, it was far from meaningless.
Morning light fell gently upon her chamber, painting it in gold and melancholy. The air smelled faintly of lilac and dust, and the quiet song of birds echoed faintly through the open window. Amara sat still before her mirror, eyes distant, mind replaying the scene of that night the rain, the thunder, the art hall's dark corners… and that tall, faceless figure that seemed more like a curse than a dream.
Elyss, ever strict and attentive, moved behind her, adjusting Amara's hair with practiced precision. "My lady, you must not let your thoughts wander today," she said softly but firmly. "This ball will be grander than any in years. The princess's birthday every noble house shall attend."
Beside her, the young stylist flipped through gowns laid upon the bed, fabrics of deep red, cream, and muted violet. "The theme, my lady, follows the tone of dusk and elegance. Perhaps something softer? Gold threads would compliment your hair beautifully."
Amara blinked, realizing she hadn't heard a word until now. "Ah, yes," she murmured, her tone distant. "Gold… perhaps."
Elyss frowned slightly. "You are distracted again. Is it because of the art hall?"
The question hit too close. Amara turned her eyes away from the mirror, feigning calm. "It's nothing. Just a strange thought that lingers. Nothing worth speaking of."
Elyss sighed and exchanged a glance with the stylist, who seemed eager to change the subject. "Then, my lady, perhaps the blue one with silver lace? It matches your eyes cold yet soft. A color of nobility and quiet charm."
Amara gave a faint smile. "You sound like you're dressing me for war, not a celebration."
The stylist giggled nervously. "Sometimes they are one and the same, my lady."
Her words echoed strangely. Amara's gaze drifted again toward the window, to the sunlight that spilled across her floorboards. The ball… She knew this was more than just a celebration it was a gathering of power, a place where alliances were made and names were whispered. The princess's birthday was not simply for dancing and laughter; it was for politics, wealth, and marriages sealed behind silk and wine.
"Many nobles will attend," Elyss continued while fixing the folds of the dress. "You will need to stand out this time. There are rumors young heirs seeking brides. Even the House of Harvellene is said to be attending. They have been silent for decades, and now, suddenly, they rise again."
At that, Amara froze. Her reflection blinked back at her in the mirror composed but shaken.
"The Harvellene…" she repeated softly, her mind racing back to that night the man with red eyes, his calm voice, his presence like a shadow wrapped in silk.
Elyss nodded, unaware of her thoughts. "Yes, my lady. You've heard of them, surely? The family of old blood. It is said they still keep traditions from the ancient times, from when magic and monsters walked this land."
Amara's lips curved faintly. "Monsters, you say?"
The stylist laughed lightly. "Oh, not in that sense, my lady. Only that they are rare beautiful, yet distant. The kind that no one dares to touch."
Amara lowered her gaze. Beautiful, yet distant, she thought. And frightening.
The morning breeze moved her curtains, bringing with it the sound of bells from the far city. The day was bright, but her heart felt heavy. The scene of that faceless man would not leave her nor would the sight of the mysterious red-eyed noble. And now… both were somehow woven into her days again.
Elyss fastened the final ribbon on her sleeve and stepped back. "There," she said proudly. "You look radiant, my lady."
Amara stood and faced the mirror. The gown of pale gold shimmered faintly under the sun, but her eyes told a different story restless, haunted, unsure.
She sighed softly. "I suppose it will do."
"Of course, my lady," Elyss replied, bowing her head. Remember, tonight you are not only Amara, daughter of a governor you are a lady of grace. Many will seek your hand. You must look as though you belong to their world."
Amara gave a small, tired smile. "Belong… yes. What a troublesome word."
As Elyss and the stylist curtsied and left the room, Amara turned back toward the window. Outside, the sun was fading behind clouds, and the golden light began to shift into dusk.
"Another day of masks and smiles," she whispered to herself, her tone soft and bitter. "And yet, I can't help but feel… something dark is waiting there."
...
After a long hour of trying on gowns, Amara finally stepped out into the garden. The air outside felt like another world entirely quiet, fragrant, and alive. The mansion's walls behind her stood tall and pale, but here in the open, the orange hue of the late afternoon sky painted everything with warmth. The faint hum of cicadas filled the air, and the soft rustling of leaves moved like whispers through the hedges.
Amara walked slowly down the stone path, her golden gown brushing gently against the grass. The scent of lilies and peonies surrounded her, mixed with the sharp, clean smell of freshly cut stems. She sighed, feeling the gentle wind brush against her cheek, as though it were trying to comfort her restless mind.
The ball was only days away, yet her thoughts could not stay in one place. Her hands rested lightly on the handle of her teacup as she sat by the marble table in the garden's center. The silver tray beside her reflected the faint glow of the setting sun, and the tea dark, fragrant, with a hint of rose steamed softly in the cool air.
For a while, Amara said nothing. She only stared into the distant line of trees, watching the slow dance of orange leaves falling.
So peaceful… and yet, she thought, it feels too quiet.
She lifted the cup to her lips, savoring the warmth, when movement caught her eye.
There, beyond the patch of white roses, someone was bent low, tending to the flowers. The figure moved with ease, careful and practiced, his back to her as he cut away dry stems and adjusted the soil. Amara tilted her head, at first thinking he was just one of the new gardeners her father had hired for the week.
But when the man straightened up and turned slightly to the side, the light caught his skin bronze, faintly glimmering under the orange sky.
Amara's hand froze midair.
The teacup trembled against her lips. Bronze skin?
Her eyes widened. There was only one person she had seen with that kind of complexion one that seemed kissed by sunlight and yet oddly ethereal, as though belonging to no one from this place.
No. It couldn't be.
The man straightened fully now, standing tall. His brown hair was tousled by the wind, strands falling over his forehead. His face handsome, sharply defined was just as she remembered. His eyes, however, were different this time: deep brown, calm but heavy, as if carrying something unspoken.
Amara's breath hitched. "...Severin?" she whispered under her breath, unable to stop herself.
The wind picked up, brushing her hair across her face as if urging her to stay quiet, but her eyes stayed locked on him. The man, as though hearing her silent thought, lifted his head and looked directly toward her.
Their eyes met.
For a moment, everything around her the fragrance of flowers, the sound of wind, the distant chime of bells faded away. There was only that gaze.
Her heartbeat echoed in her ears, heavy and uncertain. It's him.
He didn't move at first. He simply stood there, one hand still holding a small gardening tool, his expression calm too calm. The kind of calm that hides too much. Then, after what felt like forever, he gave a faint smile. Not the usual polite smile of a servant… but the same half-smile he had worn the first time they met, as if he knew something she didn't.
Amara blinked, her mind racing. What in the world is he doing here?
She stood slowly from her chair, the fabric of her gown catching on the wind. "What…" her voice came out quietly, almost lost beneath the sound of the breeze, "what is he doing here?"
Her thoughts spiraled. Was he following her? How did he even end up at her home? She tried to find reason perhaps her father hired him by chance, perhaps he was simply another servant. But no, that couldn't be. There was something in the air something familiar and uneasy that made coincidence feel impossible.
The wind grew stronger, bending the petals of the flowers toward her as though the garden itself was holding its breath. The scent of roses thickened, sweet and dizzying. The sky deepened into a burning gold, the sun sinking lower behind the mansion's towers.
And still, Severin didn't move. He only watched her with those calm brown eyes that somehow felt older than they looked.
Amara clutched the edge of her gown, trying to steady her breathing. She wanted to call him again, to ask what he was doing there, but her voice refused to come. The air felt too heavy, her chest too tight.
Then, slowly almost as if in response to her silence Severin bent down once more, returning to his work among the flowers. The motion was deliberate, quiet, as though nothing unusual had happened.
Yet the corner of his lips curved again, a faint smirk that sent a cold shiver down Amara's spine.
Amara stepped back slightly, still staring, her mind racing faster than her heartbeat. "No… it can't be coincidence," she whispered.
The orange sky dimmed, the air turning cooler. The garden, once peaceful, now felt like it was watching her.