The mansion was too quiet that night.
Elira noticed it immediately.
No footsteps in the hallway. No distant kitchen sounds. No servants whispering behind doors.
Silence like held breath.
The kind of silence that came before something happened.
She sat at her desk, pretending to read while the candle burned low beside her.
Tomorrow night, he had said.
But Elira didn't trust the timing.
Only the warning.
The black feather lay on the desk in front of her.
She still didn't understand why it felt important.
Or why it was warm when she first picked it up.
Or why the silver-haired boy always appeared when the story shifted.
She didn't know his name yet.
Only his presence.
Only the feeling that he knew more than he should.
And never explained anything.
A knock came.
Elira didn't move.
"Lady Elira," a servant's voice called. "Warm milk for the evening."
Elira spoke calmly.
"Leave it."
Footsteps retreated.
She waited One minute.
Then she opened the door.
A tray sat on the floor. The milk smelled normal. Looked normal.
Which meant nothing.
Elira didn't touch it.
Instead, she carried the tray down the corridor.
The mansion remained silent.
Too silent.
She reached the servant staircase.
And placed the tray on the bottom step.
If it disappeared by morning…
She would have confirmation.
If not…
Then she was imagining things.
Either way, she wouldn't drink it.
As she turned back toward her room, a voice spoke from the darkness.
"You're improving."
Elira stopped.
The hallway window was open.
Curtains moving in the night air. He stood on the outside ledge again. As if balance meant nothing.
As if falling meant nothing.
The silver-haired boy watched her calmly.
Elira didn't ask how he got there.
That question never had an answer.
Instead, she asked:
"Is this the second attempt?"
He didn't respond immediately.
Just looked at the tray she had left behind.
Then back at her.
"The story doesn't like delays," he said.
His voice was quiet.
Almost thoughtful.
Not warning. Not helping.
Just observing.
"Who is trying to kill me?" Elira asked.
He smiled slightly.
"You're asking the wrong question."
A pause.
"The better question is why the story needs you dead."
Elira's fingers tightened.
"Then tell me."
"No."
Simple.
Immediate.
Final.
Wind moved through the hallway.
When Elira blinked—
He was closer.
Standing inside now.
Silent.
Impossible.
"You survived the first correction," he said.
"Correction?" she repeated.
"The story fixing itself."
His eyes moved toward the study wing of the mansion.
"People don't like broken narratives."
Elira followed his gaze.
"You mean my family."
He didn't confirm.
Didn't deny.
He stepped back toward the window again.
Always leaving first.
Always ending the conversation.
"Don't sleep deeply tonight," he said.
Then he was gone.
Again.
No footsteps.
No sound.
No explanation.
________________________________________
Elira returned to her room and locked the door.
The candle flame flickered violently once.
Then steadied.
She sat on the edge of the bed.
Listening.
Minutes passed.
Nothing happened.
Then—
A soft click.
From inside the room.
Elira's eyes slowly moved toward the wardrobe.
The door was open.
Just slightly.
Darkness inside.
She didn't remember leaving it open.
The candle flickered again.
And the silence returned.
[End of the chapter 5]