The morning light came soft and pale, filtering through the sheer curtains of my chamber and painting silver threads across the floorboards. It should have been peaceful—serene, even—but peace was something that rarely found its way into the Everthorn estate. The quiet here always felt watchful, as though the very walls had learned to hold their breath.
I woke with that same heaviness still clinging to my chest. The remnants of the night before—the ache beneath my collarbone, the whisper of warmth that had pulsed through my veins—lingered like a half-remembered dream. I ran my fingers over the spot, half expecting it to glow again, but the mark was silent now, no more than cool skin under my touch.
The fire in the hearth had long since gone out. I rose slowly, pulling my robe around my shoulders as the chill of the morning crept in. Outside, a thin mist drifted over the gardens, softening the edges of the hedges and fountains. I could hear faint birdsong somewhere beyond the frost-tipped glass, fragile and fleeting against the vast quiet of the manor.
A knock startled me from my thoughts. The door creaked open before I could answer, and one of the younger maids, Elise, stepped inside. Her cheeks were flushed, her breath uneven—as though she had run all the way from the lower hall.
“My lady,” she panted, dipping into a quick curtsy. “Forgive me for disturbing you, but your mother requests your presence in the solar immediately. The Queen of Solvayne has arrived. She—she came without notice.”
I blinked. “The Queen?”
Elise nodded, eyes wide. “Her Majesty herself. With her son, the prince. They were received less than an hour ago.”
A dozen thoughts collided in my mind at once. The Queen of Solvayne—one of the most elusive monarchs in the realm—had come here, to Everthorn? Without warning? My father loathed unexpected visits, and the fact that Elise looked ready to faint meant the household was already in chaos.
“Go on,” I said quietly, moving to the small vanity near the window. “Tell them I’ll be down shortly.”
Elise hesitated, as if she wanted to say more, then curtsied again and slipped out the door.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror. The pale girl who looked back at me didn’t seem ready to greet royalty. Shadows pooled beneath my eyes from the sleepless night, and my hair, though still pinned, had half fallen loose. I set about fixing what I could—brushing my hair smooth, arranging the silken robe more neatly, and pulling on a soft dove-gray gown from the chair nearby.
By the time I stepped into the corridor, the manor was alive. Servants darted through the halls like startled birds, carrying silver trays, folded linens, and tea sets. The scent of polish and blooming hyacinth filled the air—someone had hurriedly ordered the guest rooms to be scented.
I could hear voices rising faintly from below—the sharp, controlled tone of my father and the smoother, measured voice that could only belong to my mother. The Duke hated being caught unprepared, and the Duchess, ever the peacemaker, would already be trying to mend what dignity the surprise visit had fractured.
As I descended the staircase, I caught fragments of whispering between two older maids lingering near the landing.
“They say the Queen was born in Theros,” one murmured. “Before she wed into Solvayne’s court.”
“Aye,” the other replied. “She and our Duchess were close once. Before—”
The first woman shushed her quickly as I passed.
I pretended not to notice, but my pulse quickened. If what they said was true, then this wasn’t a diplomatic visit. It was personal.
The hall leading to the solar gleamed with morning light. I paused just outside the open doors, the sound of conversation spilling through. My mother’s voice carried warmth and grace. “It has been far too long, Elenor. I feared your duties would never allow such a visit again.”
Then came another voice—soft, melodic, with an accent that curled faintly around each word. “I could not remain away forever. Old friendships deserve to be honored.”
When I stepped inside, both women looked up. My mother, dressed in a gown of pale blue silk, smiled in that tight, brittle way she did when guests were present. Across from her sat the Queen of Solvayne—tall, regal, but with a gentleness that softened the steel in her posture. Her hair, the color of night’s edge, was bound in intricate braids adorned with tiny silver pins that glinted like starlight. Her eyes—clear and pale as glass—regarded me with an almost startling kindness.
At her side stood a young man.
He was slender, his posture composed but relaxed. A soft lilac hue brushed through his pale hair, which caught the light like mist, and his eyes were a muted opal—striking, ethereal. When our gazes met, I froze.
Something flickered there. Not recognition, exactly, but the faintest echo of it—like hearing a melody you’d only ever dreamed.
“My son,” the Queen said, following my gaze. “Prince Lucien. He insisted on accompanying me. He has always been curious about Theros, though I suspect he was more interested in seeing the famed Everthorn gardens.”
Lucien inclined his head politely. “Your estate is as beautiful as they say, Duchess Everthorn. I thank you for receiving us.” His voice was low, carrying a rhythm that reminded me of the sea—soft and steady, with something wistful beneath it.
My mother smiled, gesturing toward me. “And this is my daughter, Lady Alora.”
I curtsied, lowering my gaze. “Your Majesty. Your Highness.”
When I rose, the Queen’s eyes were still on me. She reached out, taking my hand lightly in hers, her touch cool and measured. “You favor your mother,” she said softly. “But there is something else in you… something that doesn’t belong to this place.”
My heart stuttered. My father’s disapproving cough broke the moment.
The Queen released my hand gracefully. “It’s a rare gift, my lady. Don’t be ashamed of it.”
My father said nothing, but I felt his gaze like a blade against the back of my neck.
The Queen smiled as if she hadn’t noticed his tension. “We should not keep you standing. I would so love to see your gardens again. Perhaps your daughter might accompany my son while we speak of old times?”
The Duchess hesitated, but the Queen’s tone left little room for refusal.
“Of course,” my mother said at last. “Alora, show the prince the south gardens. The roses are still in bloom.”
Lucien smiled faintly, offering his arm. “If you would, my lady.”
I hesitated only a moment before taking it, the warmth of his sleeve brushing my hand. As we stepped into the hall, I felt my father’s eyes follow us like a shadow—his silence louder than any words.
The corridor ahead glowed with pale sunlight, and somewhere in the distance, a clock chimed the late hour of morning. The world felt fragile, suspended between stillness and change.
The air outside felt different—lighter, alive. The stone walls of the manor gave way to green stretches of hedges and marble paths glinting in the sun. A faint wind brushed my cheek, carrying with it the scent of roses and the crisp chill of early spring. It had been weeks since I’d last stepped past the terrace, and now every sound—the rustle of leaves, the murmur of fountains—felt like something sacred.
Lucien walked beside me in unhurried silence. His stride was smooth, measured, his expression unreadable yet calm. The light seemed to cling to him, caught in the pale strands of his hair and the soft fabric of his dove-colored cloak. He didn’t look at me often, but when he did, his gaze was gentle—thoughtful in a way that made it hard to breathe.
For a while, we simply walked, the gravel crunching beneath our shoes, the silence between us stretching comfortably thin. A butterfly drifted past, white as frost, circling the ivy before disappearing toward the orchard.
“You have a beautiful home,” Lucien said at last. His voice was quiet, almost hesitant. “It feels untouched by time.”
I smiled faintly. “Sometimes I think it is. Nothing here seems to change.”
He glanced at me sidelong. “That sounds… lonely.”
“It is.”
I hadn’t meant to say it aloud. The word slipped out before I could shape it into something polite. My hands twisted in my skirt as heat crept up my neck, but when I dared to look at him again, he wasn’t smiling at my awkwardness. He was watching me as though the word itself had struck a chord somewhere deep within him.
“I understand that,” he murmured.
The way he said it—soft, certain—made me wonder what kind of loneliness he carried. I tried to imagine Solvayne, the twilight kingdom known for its poets and philosophers, a land of forests that never lost their leaves. But when I looked at him, I saw shadows under his eyes, like someone who lived too close to the edge of forgetting.
He turned toward a marble bench nestled beneath a rose trellis and gestured for me to sit. When I did, he remained standing for a moment, his gaze traveling over the blooms. The sunlight dappled across his hands, catching faint gold ink along his wrist—lines of poetry, I realized, tattooed in fading script.
“Do you write?” I asked.
He looked at his hand as though surprised I’d noticed. “I used to. Lately, I only copy things down.”
“Copy?”
He smiled a little, the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s easier to remember the words that way. When you start to lose them, I mean.”
I frowned. “Lose them?”
He sat beside me then, his shoulders brushing mine lightly. “Memories. Names. Faces. Solvayne has a long tradition of preserving what we can before time takes it. I suppose I’ve taken that habit to heart.”
I didn’t know how to answer that. His tone was light, almost playful, but there was a sadness there that I recognized too easily. We sat in silence again, the air thick with unsaid things.
A petal drifted down from the rosebush above, landing in his lap. He picked it up, turning it carefully between his fingers.
“Your mother said you’ve never left Theros,” he said after a moment.
I nodded. “I’m… not permitted far from the estate.”
He looked at me, brow furrowing slightly. “You sound as though you’re describing a gilded cage.”
“Perhaps I am.”
The words came quieter than a whisper, almost swallowed by the garden’s hum.
Lucien’s gaze lingered on me a long time before he said, “Cages are built for safety. But safety and freedom rarely share the same walls.”
The wind stirred then, carrying the faint toll of the manor’s distant clock. As it brushed past, a strange warmth bloomed beneath my collarbone, right where my mark lay hidden. I pressed my hand there instinctively. It pulsed faintly—one heartbeat, then another—like a secret waking beneath my skin.
Lucien tilted his head slightly. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” I said too quickly. “It’s nothing.”
He didn’t press. Instead, he rose and offered me his hand once more. “Then come. I’d like to see your roses before they fade.”
I let him lead me down the winding path toward the lower gardens. The world shimmered in that moment—the air brighter, the light softer, the scent of flowers almost too sweet. When our hands brushed, something electric passed through me: a tremor, faint but certain, that left my heart stumbling.
He noticed, I think. For a second, his breath caught, and his eyes flickered to mine—opalescent and strange, like moonlight refracted through water.
I looked away first.
We paused at the edge of the fountain, where the water caught the reflection of the sky. I could see our silhouettes mirrored there—two figures side by side, the faintest glimmer of light pulsing over my heart.
Lucien’s voice broke the quiet. “You know,” he said softly, “in Solvayne, we believe memories are borrowed light. They fade, but they never truly disappear. They just… find new places to live.”
I turned toward him, caught between awe and ache. “And where do you think they go?”
He smiled, wistful and faraway. “Into people like you.”
Before I could speak, footsteps echoed from the terrace—sharp, clipped, unmistakably my father’s. The moment shattered.
Lucien stepped back, the warmth between us replaced by the careful composure of royalty. “Thank you for your company, my lady,” he said, bowing slightly. “It has been an honor.”
I mirrored the gesture, my throat tight. “And for me, Your Highness.”
He smiled again, softer this time, and turned toward the path where his mother waited. I watched him go until he disappeared behind the marble columns. Only then did I breathe again.
The mark beneath my gown pulsed once more, faint and steady—like a heartbeat not entirely my own.
—-
The solar of Everthorn was a place built for composure — polished, sun-warmed, with walls painted in the delicate hues of restraint. Yet beneath its quiet grandeur, Queen Elenor could feel the tension humming like a plucked string. The Duke and Duchess sat opposite her, their posture too straight, their smiles too precise, as if both were holding their breath.
Elenor had not expected warmth when she came to Theros, but she had hoped for familiarity. Decades ago, she and Elira Everthorn had been as close as sisters, two young women dreaming of futures that had felt far simpler than they truly were. Now, looking at her old friend across the sunlit room, Elenor saw what time and fear had carved away — the softness replaced by a practiced grace, the laughter hidden behind duty.
Through the open glass doors, she could see their children walking in the gardens below. The Duchess’s daughter moved like moonlight through shadow — cautious, elegant, contained — while her son trailed at her side with the patience of someone who feared his own silence might startle her. The image was strangely haunting.
“She has grown beautifully,” Elenor said at last, breaking the heavy quiet. Her voice was calm, each word shaped with care. “There is something luminous about her. The way she looks at the world.”
The Duchess’s smile faltered just enough for the truth to show through. “Alora has always been… different.”
The Duke shifted beside her. “She is obedient,” he said curtly. “That is what matters.”
Elenor turned her gaze to him, studying the hard line of his jaw, the faint twitch of his gloved fingers. He had the look of a man haunted — not by guilt, but by anticipation of it.
“Obedience,” she murmured, “is a fragile virtue, Duke Everthorn. It tends to break beneath its own weight.”
His expression cooled. “I am not here to debate philosophy, Your Majesty. My daughter’s conduct is not in question.”
“Of course not,” Elenor said softly. “Though I wonder if her heart agrees.”
The Duchess flinched, her hands tightening around her teacup. The Queen pretended not to notice. Instead, she rose and crossed to the window, where the sunlight spilled across the marble floor like molten glass. She peered through the glass at the garden below.
Lucien had stopped to examine a rosebush, one pale bloom cupped delicately in his hand. Alora stood beside him, her face turned toward the sun, her hair glinting silver where it caught the light. Something about her stillness unsettled Elenor — a quiet resonance, faint but unmistakable, that stirred in the air between them.
Elenor had felt it only once before.
A long time ago.
The Duchess came to stand beside her, careful to keep a polite distance. “She has not had many visitors,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “Her health has always been delicate. The physicians said it was safer to keep her apart.”
“Ah,” Elenor murmured, still watching the girl. “Delicate. That’s the word you’ve chosen.”
The Duke rose from his chair then, the sound of his boots sharp against the floor. “You speak as though there’s something to be cured, Your Majesty. I assure you, my daughter’s condition is quite manageable.”
Elenor turned toward him, eyes calm and unreadable. “Manageable,” she echoed, as if testing the taste of the word. “And yet she glows, even from here.”
The Duke’s jaw tightened. “You speak in riddles, Your Majesty.”
She smiled faintly. “Do I? Perhaps I’ve simply lived long enough to see what others try so hard not to.”
Her gaze drifted once more to the garden. She could see it clearly now—the faint shimmer of air around the girl, a subtle distortion like heat rising from stone. Lucien seemed to sense it too; he looked momentarily dazed, as though the air itself had whispered his name.
Elenor exhaled slowly. “Tell me, Duke, has your daughter ever spoken of dreams?”
He froze. “Dreams?”
“Yes.” Her voice softened, almost kind. “Visions, perhaps. Or memories that do not belong to her.”
“She is a child,” he snapped. “Not some mystic.”
“Children remember what we forget,” Elenor said, turning back toward him. “It’s the world that teaches them not to.”
The Duchess flinched again, but said nothing. Elenor let the silence linger, heavy and expectant.
At last, she sighed, the moment softening like melting frost. “Forgive me, old friend,” she said gently to Elira. “I’ve spoken out of turn. It is only… your daughter reminds me of someone I once knew. Someone I lost.”
The Duchess lowered her gaze, her voice barely above a whisper. “We all lose people we wish we could keep.”
Elenor’s expression was unreadable. “Indeed,” she said.
Outside, Lucien and Alora were making their way back toward the manor. As they passed beneath the arch of the trellis, the wind stirred, scattering rose petals through the air. For the briefest moment, they looked like two figures caught in a falling storm of light — fleeting, beautiful, and unbearably fragile.
The Duke moved to pour himself another cup of tea, but his hand trembled slightly. “Your Majesty,” he said stiffly, “if your visit was meant for nostalgia, then I suggest we conclude it soon. The day grows long.”
Elenor smiled again, a faint curve of lips that revealed nothing and promised everything. “Of course, Duke Everthorn. But tell me—when was the last time your household was blessed by a royal visit? Or by a prince who remembers a face he should not know?”
The Duke froze, his eyes flickering toward the window.
Elenor set her teacup down and straightened. Her gown whispered against the marble as she turned toward the door. “You’ve hidden her well,” she said softly. “But divinity does not fade simply because you fear it.”
The Duchess’s hand flew to her mouth. “Elenor—”
But the Queen was already moving toward the hall, her steps silent and deliberate.
As she passed through the sunlight pooling near the door, her shadow stretched long and thin behind her, crossing over the Duke’s and the Duchess’s — three lines that would soon intersect again in ways none of them could yet imagine.
Outside, the laughter of the two young nobles echoed faintly through the gardens, bright and unaware.
The Queen’s eyes softened as she whispered to herself, “Ah, little one… you have no idea who’s beginning to remember you.”
—
The sun had begun to sink by the time the Queen and her son prepared to leave. The corridors of Everthorn glowed with the last light of day, and the air carried that peculiar stillness that falls after guests have lingered too long.
I stood near the entry hall beside my mother, my hands clasped before me as the servants loaded the Solvayne carriage outside. My father was speaking with the Queen in low tones—stiff, formal words veiled by civility. Their shadows stretched long across the marble, two figures carved from opposing tempers.
The Queen, however, seemed unaffected by his austerity. She smiled as if the Duke’s clipped words amused her. Her silken gown shimmered like pale smoke as she turned to embrace my mother one last time. “Until we meet again,” she murmured. “I hope next time it will be under less guarded skies.”
My mother smiled faintly. “As do I.”
Then her gaze shifted toward me, and for a moment, something softened behind her queenly poise. She stepped forward, taking my hand in hers. Her fingers were cool, steady—those of someone who had learned to hold power with grace.
“You have your mother’s eyes,” she said quietly. “And her restraint. Be careful, child. Sometimes restraint is only fear in disguise.”
Before I could respond, she turned to her son. “Lucien.”
He stepped forward, his cloak brushing against the marble floor. The fading light caught the faint gold patterns sewn into his cuffs, starlike in the dim. When his gaze met mine, the noise of the hall—the servants, the guards, my father’s words—seemed to fall away.
“Lady Alora,” he said, bowing slightly. “Thank you for indulging my company today. I’ve enjoyed our walk more than I expected to.”
His words were light, polite, but his tone held something quieter beneath it—an echo of the garden’s softness, of the unspoken familiarity I still couldn’t explain.
“The pleasure was mine,” I replied, dipping my head. “It was… nice to have company.”
He hesitated then, as though debating whether to say more. Finally, he extended his hand. “May I?”
I placed mine in his, surprised by the warmth of his touch. He bent slightly, pressing a gentle kiss to my knuckles. His lips lingered a heartbeat too long, and when he straightened, there was a faint melancholy in his expression, as if he already feared forgetting this moment.
“I hope we meet again soon,” he said softly.
My father’s voice cut through the air like frost. “Your Highness, the road back to Solvayne is long. I’m sure you wish to depart before dark.”
Lucien’s gaze flicked toward him—brief, unreadable—then back to me. “Perhaps,” he said simply.
He released my hand, his fingers brushing my sleeve as he stepped back. A faint rustle followed, like parchment slipping against fabric, but I thought nothing of it at first.
The Queen and her son descended the steps to the waiting carriage. The Solvayne crest—an open book crowned by a crescent—caught the last light of the sun as the horses began to move. My father offered a final bow, my mother a half-hearted wave. I stood there until the carriage vanished down the road, a pale glimmer swallowed by the mist.
Only then did I notice the folded paper caught near my wrist, tucked delicately into the lace of my sleeve.
I glanced around; no one was watching. My father was already retreating toward his study, his mood soured and silent. My mother lingered with a forced smile until the doors closed, her hand still pressed absently against her throat.
When the hall emptied, I slipped the paper free.
It was a small page, torn unevenly from a book. The handwriting was elegant, looping and faintly smudged, as though written in haste.
If memory is a sea, then let me drown before I forget the light.
For I have seen it once—reflected in another’s eyes—
and even drowning, I would know it still.
The words blurred softly as I read them, my heart tightening. The ink smelled faintly of lavender and parchment. I traced the last line with my fingertip, half afraid the letters might fade if I blinked.
When I finally looked up, the light in the hall had dimmed to gold and gray. The great clock above the stairwell chimed once, the sound deep and resonant.
I folded the note carefully, slipping it beneath the ribbon around my wrist. The faintest shimmer of warmth pulsed beneath my skin in answer—my mark stirring again, just once, before quieting to sleep.
Perhaps it was foolish to think it meant anything. Perhaps he’d written those words for someone else long ago. And yet, as the first chill of evening crept into the air, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something unseen had shifted.
Not a beginning, not yet. But the first thread of something inevitable.