The carriage wheels rattled over the cobblestones, a steady rhythm that matched the pounding behind my temples. I hadn’t spoken a word since leaving the square, and Dorian seemed content to let silence stretch between us. His face was turned toward the window, expression calm and unreadable, though I could still feel the faint press of his earlier anger coiled beneath his charm.
The city outside blurred past in streaks of color—the gold of late afternoon light, the deep greens of banners, the gray of smoke rising from chimneys. I kept my eyes on the passing world, unwilling to meet his gaze. The scent of lilac from the gardens clung to my gloves, mingling unpleasantly with the carriage’s leather and polish.
When we reached the gates of Everthorn Manor, the guards bowed low, swinging the iron open. The courtyard was as pristine as ever, every stone swept clean, every vine trimmed to obedience. I had never noticed before how lifeless it all seemed—how even the flowers were arranged by order rather than by nature.
Dorian was the first to step down, his boots clicking sharply against the stones. He turned, offering me his hand as though nothing had happened. The courtly gesture was perfect, practiced, but his grip when I took it was a shade too firm.
Inside, the entrance hall yawned open before us—high ceilings, pale marble, and tapestries that depicted battles and triumphs that had nothing to do with me. The servants waited in silence, their gazes lowered.
“Thank you for accompanying me,” I said quietly, not out of gratitude, but because the etiquette drilled into me demanded it.
He smiled, the same careful expression he had worn at the ball, though the warmth behind it was gone. “It was my pleasure, Lady Alora.”
For a heartbeat, I thought he might let it end there. But then his voice dropped, smooth and soft as silk drawn over steel.
“You embarrassed me today.”
The words cut through the stillness like a blade.
I turned to him, pulse jumping. “I don’t understand—”
He took a single step closer, his shadow falling across me. “Speaking to strangers,” he said. “Letting him look at you like that. You were seen, Alora. Every pair of eyes in that market saw you.”
The formality in his tone made it worse. He wasn’t angry in the way that people shouted; he was angry in the way storms gather—quietly, inevitably.
“I didn’t know him,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “He only spoke to me about a book.”
“Do you think it matters what he spoke of?” His eyes flicked over my face, searching for something. “Appearances are everything. And today, you made us both look like fools.”
My breath hitched. “Us?”
He smiled again, that hollow, perfect smile. “You carry your family’s name, do you not? You represent them, and you represented me.”
Something inside me went still. “I am not yours to represent.”
The smile vanished. For a moment, the air seemed to hold its breath. His jaw tightened, and I saw the cold, hard edge that he usually kept hidden behind charm.
“No,” he said finally. “But your father seems to think otherwise.”
He straightened his cuffs, as if brushing away the argument like dust. Then he inclined his head toward the staircase. “I will, of course, speak with him about today’s... events. He’ll want to know how well his daughter handled herself in public.”
There was an unspoken threat in that sentence.
I said nothing.
He lingered a moment longer, studying me—something calculating in his gaze, as though he were memorizing my reaction. Then he bowed with perfect grace, the motion so practiced it almost mocked sincerity. “Until next time, my lady.”
He turned on his heel and strode down the corridor, his footsteps echoing until the doors closed behind him.
Only when he was gone did I realize how tightly I was clutching my gloves. The stitching along one seam had split beneath my grip, leaving a thin tear. I let them fall to the floor, the sound almost inaudible against the marble.
For a long while, I stood there in the stillness, watching the fading light through the high windows. I should have gone straight to my room, but my feet didn’t move. The words—I’ll speak with him about today’s events—hung in the air like a weight pressing against my chest.
He would tell my father. And my father would listen.
Somewhere deeper in the manor, a clock chimed the hour. The sound was steady, merciless.
—————————————
I gathered my skirt and forced myself to move, each step echoing softly down the corridor that led toward the study—the place where every decision about my life seemed to be made without me.
The house felt colder with every stride.
The corridors of Everthorn Manor were long and narrow, filled with too many portraits of ancestors who all looked the same—cold, proud, painted with the same imperious tilt of the chin. Their gazes followed me as I passed, eyes gleaming faintly in the candlelight, as if they too disapproved of whatever rumors Dorian would soon carry to my father’s ears.
By the time I reached the east wing, the air had cooled. The smell of paper and old smoke drifted faintly from the crack beneath the study door. My hand hesitated on the brass handle. For a heartbeat, I considered turning back.
But the Duke of Everthorn was not a man who tolerated hesitation.
I pushed the door open.
The study was half lit, the glow from the hearth too dim to soften the hard lines of the room. Bookshelves lined the walls—tomes of law, politics, and lineage, their spines untouched by dust. A massive desk dominated the center, its surface carved with meticulous precision. Behind it sat my father, bent over a letter sealed in crimson wax. He did not look up when I entered.
“Close the door.”
His voice was low and steady, but it carried the weight of habit—an expectation that would not be questioned.
I obeyed, the soft click of the latch sounding louder than it should have. The moment stretched thin. I waited for him to speak, to acknowledge me, but his quill continued its careful motion across the page.
When he finally looked up, it was not with warmth. His gaze was a sharp, assessing cut. “Do you know why I sent for you?”
I folded my hands before me, the silk of my skirt whispering as I shifted my weight. “Because of Lord Dorian,” I said softly.
A muscle twitched in his jaw. “You spoke to a man today. A stranger. In public.”
“It was not—”
“Do not interrupt me.”
The words struck like a slap, quiet but absolute.
He rose from his chair with deliberate grace, the movement measured and precise. In his youth, my father had been a soldier—his body still carried that stillness, that restrained violence that needed no threat to make itself known.
“The Halewyne heir,” he continued, “was kind enough to inform me that you engaged in a private exchange with a man of unknown station, while representing this house. Do you understand what that means?”
The answer trembled in my throat. “It was a brief conversation. He spoke of a book.”
“A book.” His tone was flat, disbelieving. “You expect me to believe that?”
“It’s the truth.”
“Truth,” he repeated, as though testing the word and finding it meaningless. “Your truth means nothing against what the court believes. You forget your position, Alora. You forget who you are.”
Something in me faltered. “And who is that, Father?”
His eyes darkened—not with anger, but with the kind of dread that looked too practiced. “You are my daughter,” he said, the words deliberate, “and that is burden enough.”
The air left my lungs. I wanted to look away, but his gaze held me, sharp and unwavering.
“You have lived under this roof because I allowed it,” he went on, pacing slowly around the desk. “Because your mother believes pity will save you. But you are not a child anymore, and I will not have this family’s name tarnished by carelessness. You are to conduct yourself as a lady of Everthorn—seen rarely, spoken of never.”
My hands trembled, though I tried to hide it. “You think my existence is shameful?”
His expression didn’t change. “I think it is dangerous.”
He stopped before the fire, the light throwing his shadow tall across the floor. “Do you have any idea what happens to those who draw attention to themselves in this court? What happens to families who forget their place?”
“I spoke to a stranger,” I whispered. “That’s all.”
He turned back to me. “You forget that whispers are louder than truth.”
For a long moment, the only sound was the fire’s low hiss. Then, as though to punctuate the moment, he reached for the folded letter on his desk. “You will not leave this manor without permission,” he said. “If you are to be seen, it will be under my terms. Or your mother’s. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Father.”
He studied me for another long, silent beat. For a fleeting instant, I thought I saw something flicker behind his gaze—pain, maybe, or regret—but it was gone before I could name it.
“Go,” he said quietly. “Before I reconsider allowing this conversation to end.”
I turned toward the door. My hand had just brushed the handle when his voice stopped me.
“Alora.”
I froze.
His next words were quieter, almost weary. “Do not mistake your mother’s kindness for approval. You know what happened to Seraphine.”
The sound of her name hit like cold water. I turned, but he had already looked away, his attention back on the desk, his quill moving once more.
I left the study on shaking legs.
The corridor beyond felt colder than before. The flickering light from the wall sconces cast long shadows, bending across the floor in fractured lines. Somewhere behind one of the doors, I could hear faint music—my mother’s harpsichord, delicate and restrained, the same melody she played when she was anxious.
At the end of the hall, I passed Emerson’s room. The door was cracked open just enough for me to glimpse a flash of chestnut hair and lamplight, the sound of quiet breathing within. He was writing again—his quill moving furiously over a page, the way he always did when something troubled him.
I almost knocked. Almost told him everything. But Father’s words echoed too loudly: You forget your position.
So I walked on.
In the distance, lightning flashed once behind the clouds. It illuminated the horizon just long enough for me to imagine the glint of water there—the silver sheen of the lake, the pulse of something vast and ancient beneath it.
My chest burned faintly where the Moonbrand lay hidden beneath my gown. Not pain, exactly. Just heat. As if it knew what my father had said.
As if it disagreed.
The halls of Everthorn were quiet when night fell—too quiet. The kind of silence that didn’t bring peace but pressed against the ribs like a held breath. I moved through it slowly, my hand brushing the cold stone wall for balance, the echo of my father’s voice still lodged somewhere deep inside my chest.
When I reached my chamber, I shut the door behind me and leaned against it, waiting for the world to still. The faint light from the hearth flickered across the walls, throwing long, crooked shadows that danced like ghosts across the tapestries. Everything here felt heavy—my dress, my hair, even the air itself.
I unlaced my gown by touch, fingers trembling as I pulled the silk from my shoulders. The fabric pooled at my feet with a whisper, leaving me in only my shift. My reflection in the mirror across the room looked like that of a stranger—a pale girl with wide eyes, hair slipping loose from its pins. I didn’t look like a threat to anyone. I looked small.
My father’s words replayed: You are my daughter, and that is burden enough.
The sound of it hollowed something inside me.
I crossed the room, to the window that overlooked the courtyard. The glass was cold against my palm. Outside, the night stretched vast and endless, the stars reflected faintly in the polished stones below. I could still see the faint glow of the city lights far beyond the hills—Theros, alive and sprawling and so much bigger than the narrow world I was allowed to inhabit.
Somewhere in that maze of streets was the little bookshop, its windows warm with lamplight. The thought of it—the scent of parchment and ink, the dust motes dancing in sunlight—felt almost like a dream now. But it wasn’t the place I couldn’t stop thinking about. It was him.
The stranger. The quiet man with violet eyes that seemed to hold the entire weight of silence within them.
There had been something about the way he looked at me—not hunger, not curiosity, but recognition. As though he’d seen me before. As though, for a heartbeat, he understood me.
A soft ache spread through my chest, and I lifted a hand to it—right where the Moonbrand lay hidden beneath my shift. The skin there pulsed faintly with heat, gentle but steady, as though something beneath it was waking.
I moved to the mirror again, tugging the neckline aside just enough to see. The silver crescent shimmered against my skin, faintly luminous in the firelight. I’d seen it glow before in small flickers—after dreams I couldn’t remember, during fevers that left me shaking—but never like this. It wasn’t bright enough to burn, only enough to illuminate the outline of my collarbone, catching light like liquid moonfire.
It should have frightened me.
But it didn’t.
Instead, I felt… calm. The warmth spread outward, wrapping through my ribs, into my throat. It wasn’t human warmth; it was something ancient, patient, familiar. For a moment, the walls of Everthorn didn’t exist. The study, the accusations, the endless confinement—all of it fell away until there was only the thrum of that light against my heartbeat.
I closed my eyes, breathing in the glow.
And in the quiet, I could almost hear something—like a voice at the edge of memory. Not in words, not fully, but a feeling that carried its meaning all the same: Remember.
When I opened my eyes again, the mark’s glow had dimmed, leaving only the faint outline of silver against pale skin. The room seemed darker now, emptier. I drew my shift back into place and sank onto the edge of my bed, pressing both hands over my heart as though to keep the warmth from slipping away.
Outside, thunder murmured in the distance. A storm was gathering somewhere over the hills, rolling toward the sea. The wind rattled the shutters, and the candles by the hearth flickered uncertainly.
I lay back slowly, watching the light sway across the ceiling. The ache in my chest had dulled, but it hadn’t vanished. It pulsed softly, steady as a heartbeat that didn’t belong entirely to me.
I thought again of the man in the bookshop—the stillness in his eyes, the way he’d said perhaps you have the better faith.
I didn’t know why that mattered so much. Why he lingered in my thoughts when I barely knew his name, when I shouldn’t have cared. But something deep inside me—the part that had always felt restless and searching—answered in silence: Because he saw you.
The Moonbrand pulsed once more, faint and sure, as if agreeing.
And when sleep finally claimed me, it carried me somewhere else—somewhere silver and vast, where light flowed like water and voices whispered in languages I half remembered.