The Ravenshade Estate, seated on the misty cliffs of the southern coast, wore its early morning fog like a silken shawl. Sea air drifted in through the arched windows, carrying the scent of salt and wildflowers that clung to the stones like whispered blessings. It was quiet here, and in that stillness, Seraphine found something she had never truly possessed before.
Peace.
Wrapped in a linen robe, her hair loose down her back, Seraphine sat by the window in her chamber. The light spilled through the gauzy curtains, touching the marbled floor and reflecting off the carved glass perfume bottles on her vanity. A steaming cup of tea rested in her hands, untouched.
She stared out toward the ocean, but her mind had wandered far behind her.
Back to that other house.
Back to the cold halls of the Delacroix Estate, where her every breath had once been weighed and measured. Back to Lady Jane's harsh whispers, the constant reminders that she was merely a shadow of Celestine—the real daughter. Back to the bruised pride, the pinched skin under too-tight corsets, the sore hands from scrubbing floors that were never clean enough.
She remembered the way Carlos, her only friend, used to sneak her bread and smile at her like she mattered.
Her eyes stung suddenly, but no tears came.
"Why now?" she murmured to herself, clutching the teacup a little tighter. "Why does it hurt even after I've escaped?"
Her room here was spacious, almost absurdly so. The walls were painted in warm creams and pale golds. A fireplace crackled softly in the corner. There were fresh peonies on the nightstand. The dressmaker had already visited twice this week to prepare gowns for her upcoming engagement. And yet…
There was a space inside her that no silk or marble could fill.
When Alaric had chosen her—when he had looked her in the eyes at the banquet and declared her his bride-to-be—it had shocked the entire court. No one expected him to pick the quiet girl from a lesser noble house, one who barely spoke and wore borrowed pearls.
But he had. And he had meant it.
He hadn't touched her without permission. Hadn't demanded her affection. Instead, he offered something far more dangerous.
Trust. Kindness. Gentleness.
The type of things she had always believed were luxuries, not rights.
She reached to the side table where the silver comb he gave her rested, engraved with her initials. It was the first thing she'd ever owned that was just hers. No hand-me-down. No shared trinket. No symbol of borrowed status.
Just Seraphine.
"I'm safe now," she whispered aloud, needing to hear the words to believe them. "I'm safe…"
But as she set the teacup down and closed her eyes, a memory surfaced—one she didn't expect.
She was barely five, lying in a soft bed not in the Delacroix home. A woman with kind eyes hovered above her, singing in a language she didn't understand. A gold bracelet on the woman's wrist glinted in the firelight.
That woman… she wasn't Lady Jane. And that wasn't Celestine.
And she wasn't cold.
She was… warm.
There was the scent of sandalwood and lavender. A soft humming lullaby. Someone calling her something that wasn't Seraphine.
"Elira…"
Her eyes snapped open. The name hung in the air like smoke. For a moment, she thought someone had spoken it aloud.
"Elira…" she repeated, testing the name. Her voice trembled. "Why did I say that?"
The knock on her door startled her.
She blinked and stood, brushing off the heaviness in her chest.
It was Alaric.
He leaned against the doorframe, dressed casually for once—dark tunic, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his silver ring glinting faintly. There was warmth in his smile, the kind that could melt through the walls she still kept around her heart.
"I figured you'd be awake by now," he said, holding up a small basket. "Cook insisted you try her strawberry tarts before the other staff eat them all."
Seraphine laughed softly, the ghost of her past momentarily retreating.
"You're spoiling me."
"I'm making up for what they failed to give you," he said plainly.
The words froze her breath. He didn't know the details. She hadn't told him what it was really like. And yet, he saw her. Understood without demand.
He stepped in, placing the basket on the table. "You've been quieter today," he said, casually, but with a flicker of concern in his eyes.
"I… remembered something," she admitted, hesitating. "From when I was little."
He turned fully toward her. "What did you remember?"
She looked down at her hands. "A woman. A room with firelight. She sang to me in another language. And she called me something else. Not Seraphine."
His brows furrowed slightly. "What did she call you?"
"…Elira."
The room stilled.
Alaric didn't flinch, but something shifted behind his eyes. He stepped closer, slow and careful, as if approaching a frightened animal.
"Do you… know what that name means?" he asked gently.
Seraphine shook her head.
"No," she whispered. "But it felt like home."
He exhaled, long and low. "Then maybe it was."
She looked up sharply.
"Alaric?
"Whatever your name was then, or now—whatever past you came from—I don't care. All that matters is the woman standing here. And if you ever want to remember… I'll help you find the truth."
For the first time, she didn't look away.
"Even if it's ugly?"
"Especially if it's ugly." he calmly respond
But behind that peace, something ancient had stirred.
The name had unlocked something.
Elira.
The name carried weight—a call waiting to be answered. And now, it had begun to echo.