Ophelia finally drifted into a shallow, restless sleep,but it was short-lived as She woke to the sound of boots crossing the floor, sharp and deliberate.
The morning came wrapped in mist and cold silence.
Blinking against the pale dawn due to the light
filtering through the narrow window, she sat up, the rough blanket slipping from her shoulders.
Her eyes locked onto the dark figure standing near the doorway.
Lysander was dressed in dark clothes, a cloak draped over one arm. His expression was unreadable, as if last night's strange, fleeting moment of softness had never happened.
"Get dressed," he said briskly, his voice clipped and cool. "We leave in fifty minutes."
Ophelia swallowed hard and gave a small nod. There were no explanations, no reasons, just orders. And yet, something about the way he stood there watching her lingered—like a predator waiting to pounce or a guardian unsure of his charge.
He added, almost as an afterthought, "Wear the dress from the market."
Then he turned and walked out, leaving her alone in the stillness.
Ophelia's heart fluttered as she stared at the silken dress, now hanging where she'd carefully placed it the night before. Pale blue and embroidered with golden thread, the gown was unlike anything she'd ever worn. Fit for a noblewoman. Fit for royalty.
She bathed quickly in the adjoining room, the cold water biting at her skin but helping her stay grounded. When she returned, she slipped into the dress with trembling hands, the fabric whispering against her skin like moonlight. She pulled her hair back, letting some strands fall around her face. The jewelry he'd bought sparkled in her palm—delicate earrings, a thin silver bracelet, and a necklace adorned with a sapphire the color of deep ocean.
She barely had time to put on the shoes before the door creaked open again.
Lysander stepped in—and stopped cold.
His eyes swept over her slowly, and for a moment—just a flicker—his breath caught.
The woman before him wasn't the frightened girl he'd purchased. She looked like a noble's daughter, radiant and ethereal. The dress hugged her form, accentuating her slender waist and graceful neckline. Her eyes, framed by lashes still damp from her bath, glimmered like stars against the soft blue fabric.
He murmured, almost to himself, "The dress suits you."
A blush crept up her neck at the compliment.
But just as her heart began to flutter with something fragile and hopeful, his eyes darkened and his voice turned cold. "Take it off."
She froze.
"What?" she whispered.
"It will suit her perfectly, you seem to have same body shape" he said.
The shoe slipped from her hands and hit the floor with a dull thud.
The sting was immediate and sharp. Of course. Of course she had been foolish to hope. She was nothing to him but a pawn. A dressed-up slave.
Lysander, seeing her unmoving, raised an eyebrow. "Hurry up. Include the shoes and jewelry. Meet me at the carriage when you're done."
She stripped off the gown in silence, replacing it with the sturdy brown tunic and trousers that marked her station. She slipped on the boots and pulled on the heavy wool cloak.
Outside, the slaves and servants were gathered. The female servants whispered behind their hands, casting sideways glances at her. Some looked curious. Others jealous. But none kind.
If only they knew, Ophelia thought bitterly. If only they knew what she'd endured.
They didn't know that she wouldn't hesitate to switch position with them if given a chance.
The carriage outside was lavishly built—polished wood, velvet cushions. A coachman helped her in, and she offered a quick nod in thanks.
Inside, Lysander sat calmly, his face turned to the window, eyes distant. Even in silence, he was commanding—his face a sculpture of sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, and lips that always seemed on the edge of a secret. His beard was neatly trimmed, his hair swept back, revealing the curve of his ear and a scar that ran just beneath it.
Ophelia forced her eyes away.
They rode in silence for what felt like hours until the cart finally rolled to a stop.
The mansion before them was a palace of marble and light. Its archways gleamed with enchanted runes, its windows glittering with stained glass depictions of magical beasts and heroes. Lanterns hovered midair, casting warm glows over carefully manicured gardens.
Music floated through the air—harps and violins in elegant harmony.
Servants in black-and-gold uniforms moved with perfect precision. Guests—nobles in gowns spun with magic and coats trimmed with phoenix feathers—laughed and gossiped in clusters under enchanted canopies of swirling stars.
As Lysander stepped down from the cart, the crowd turned as if drawn by invisible strings.
Whispers filled the air.
"Lord Lysander of Blackwood…"
"…he's even more handsome in person…"
"…I heard he tamed a werebeast with his bare hands…"
Ophelia climbed down carefully, carrying the parcel with the dress and jewelry, trying to ignore the stares. She felt like an intruder in a world not meant for her.
Then, a voice like silk and bells called out—
"Lord Lysander!"
Lady Grace glided across the marble path like she was born to own it.
She was breathtaking.
Her dress was made of shimmering rose-gold fabric that caught the light with every movement. It hugged her curves elegantly, the bodice embroidered with fine lace and enchanted pearls that glowed faintly. Her hair, a cascade of golden curls, was adorned with tiny enchanted butterflies that shimmered with soft light. Her skin was flawless, her lips painted a perfect shade of rose.
Ophelia had never seen anyone so beautiful.
"Happy birthday, Lady Grace," Lysander said with a polite nod.
She giggled, covering her mouth. "Thank you. You came!"
"I promised I would."
Then, with barely a glance at Ophelia, he gestured to the parcel she held. "I brought this for you."
Lady Grace's eyes lit up. She reached for it—but Ophelia, still caught in the moment, hesitated and instinctively held on a second too long.
The parcel didn't budge.
Lysander's tone sharpened. "Ophelia. Behave."
She blinked, released the gift immediately, and bowed deeply. "Forgive me, my lady."
Lady Grace narrowed her eyes. "Who is she?"
"My slave," Lysander said simply.
Lady Grace's lips curled. "Then she must be taught better manners. She looks rather… stubborn. Would you like me to train her? I've broken worse."
Ophelia's stomach churned.
"No need," Lysander said coolly. "She's mine to handle."
Lady Grace smiled, but the edge in her gaze lingered. "As you wish."
She led them to a table draped in silver cloth, clearly prepared for Lysander alone, lined with delicacies and wine that shimmered faintly with enchantment.
As the party swelled, nobles flocked around, offering gifts, praise, and gossip. But one man in particular—a tall, lean noble with sharp green eyes—approached and bowed to Lysander.
"Lord Blackwood, an honor. I've heard much of your feats."
Then his gaze drifted to Ophelia.
"And who is this radiant creature?"
"She is—" Lysander began, but the man interrupted, stepping closer to Ophelia.
"A servant? Impossible. Those eyes, that bone structure… she must be a lost mermaid. Charming."
Ophelia shrank slightly.
Lysander's voice turned glacial. "She is not yours to admire."
The man laughed softly and stepped back. "No offense meant. Just… appreciation."
Further into the garden, Ophelia's attention was drawn to a sudden, sharp cry. A young slave girl had tripped while serving drinks and spilled a tray of goblets on a noble's shoes. The noble—a heavyset man in red velvet—struck her across the face with a jeweled hand.
"Stupid creature!" he roared. "You're lucky I don't have you whipped!"
Ophelia flinched at the scene.
Lysander's eyes flicked toward the commotion but remained silent.
Later, as the party wore on and the laughter grew stale, Lysander excused himself. He stepped outside into the twilight, where shadows danced on the edges of the garden.
Lady Grace found him moments later.
"You're leaving?" she asked, disappointment in her eyes. "So soon?"
"I have business to attend to."
"I was hoping… perhaps we could talk. You rarely come to events like this."
"I came because I said I would," he replied.
With that he simply turned, and walked towards the waiting cart, with Ophelia following.
The journey back was silent—but something tugged at Lysander's mind. A pull. A whisper from the past.
On impulse, he asked the coachman to ride toward the old, abandoned house. The place where he was supposed to meet Aria.
As he approached the broken fence, something caught his eye—half-buried in dirt. A trinket.
It was hers.
The one she wore the night they were attacked.
He picked it up—and the moment his fingers closed around it, something inside him shifted. The world blurred. His shape-shifting power surged.
A flash.
Aria. Chained. Struggling. Leaving the trinket behind as a sign.
She was trying to send him a message.
He turned to the coachman. "I'll will meet you at the mansion, leaving Ophelia' in the carriage."
And into the forest he vanished.
As Lysander stood over the half-buried relic, the stone cold in his palm, his gaze locked onto the fading magical imprint Aria left behind. His jaw clenched.
"She was here," he murmured to himself.
He knelt, eyes darkening as visions flickered before him—flashes of Aria's panicked face, blood on her hands.
"She was in danger... and she was trying tell him."
Lysander stood rigid. Then, slowly, ominously, he turned.
A distant howl echoed from deep within the forest.
And with it… the scent of blood.