The library was wrapped in a velvet hush, lit only by the amber glow of a few low-burning lamps. The scent of aged parchment and woodsmoke clung gently to the room, timeless and still. Alaric stood alone near the far wall, where the older records were kept—his usual sanctuary when the weight of politics or memory grew too heavy to bear.
He reached for a familiar tome, intending to skim through old estate ledgers, when he noticed it.
A book out of place.
Subtle, but unmistakable to someone like him, who had walked these halls for centuries.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
He stepped closer, fingers tracing the misaligned spine of a green leather-bound volume nestled awkwardly between two ledgers. He drew it from the shelf and turned it over in his hands.
The silver-etched name stared back at him like a whisper from a forgotten past:
Antoine Vellaria
A pause.
Slowly, he opened the cover.
The first page still bore the portrait of his grandfather: regal, enigmatic, eyes gleaming with the cold wisdom of a man who had outlived empires. Alaric stared at the painting. It had been decades—centuries—since he had last opened this book. The likeness was uncanny, and his memory stirred like a distant echo.
He turned the page.
There she was.
Princess Anastasia.
Golden-haired, graceful, her beauty soft yet commanding. Her portrait radiated both light and sorrow, like a woman caught between duty and desire. She had been his grandfather's heart, despite everything that had tried to keep them apart.
Alaric exhaled, the sound slow and unreadable.
The page edges were faintly worn… touched by recent fingers.
Seraphine.
She had found this book. She had read it.
He closed the volume, cradling it in his gloved hand, then turned toward the tall glass windows leading to the terrace. The velvet drapes were parted, and the moonlight spilled in like liquid silver.
Beyond the glass, his eyes searched until they found her.
Seraphine.
She sat alone in the garden pavilion, the wind gently pulling at her long hair as she gazed skyward. Her silhouette was ethereal beneath the moonlight, her posture pensive—shoulders soft, hands folded on her lap as if in silent prayer.
She looked fragile, not in weakness, but in the way someone looked when their soul stood at the edge of a question they were too afraid to ask aloud.
Alaric watched her quietly. There was something about her presence—an echo of someone, something ancient, like the pull of forgotten names and hidden bloodlines. She didn't know it yet, but the truth of her origin was tangled with his.
Perhaps… fated.
As if sensing his gaze, Seraphine slowly turned her head.
Their eyes met through the glass.
His icy blue stare locked with her wide, uncertain one. The silence between them stretched. Unspoken questions trembled on her lips, but she said nothing. Then, with a small inhale, she broke the gaze and looked away, her fingers tightening on the edge of the bench.
Alaric stood still for a moment longer before returning to the chair near the fire. He placed the book on the table beside him and sat, the firelight catching the sharp lines of his face, casting shadows beneath his eyes.
He stared at the flames for a long while.
Then, in a voice that never left his thoughts, he murmured:
"Sooner… I will need to tell her everything."
His gaze dropped to the book once more.
"…But not now."
The next evening brought a different kind of chill.
It wasn't the kind that crept from the marble floors or whispered through the drafty hallways of the Vaelthorne estate. No—this was the kind of chill that made even the candles flicker nervously, their flames bending as if bowing to something unseen.
Seraphine stood by the grand window in the music hall, a book still open in her hands but long forgotten. Something was wrong.
She felt it in her spine.
A sudden shift in the air—an unfamiliar pulse. Not threatening, but powerful. Something old. Something... ancient.
Just as she turned her head toward the entrance, the great doors of the manor opened with a deep echo.
A gust of wind followed the visitor inside, curling like smoke into the foyer, making the drapes billow as if whispering secrets to the room.
The butler's usually composed voice faltered slightly as he announced the arrival.
"Lord Aemric of House Nocturne… guest of the Duke."
Footsteps followed—slow, deliberate, sharp.
Seraphine peeked from the archway.
The man who entered was unlike anyone she had ever seen.
Tall, draped in a long crimson coat that shimmered faintly under the chandeliers, he moved with the stillness of a predator. His skin was pale, but not sickly—more like porcelain touched by moonlight. His eyes, a pale garnet hue, scanned the space before settling briefly on her hidden figure.
He smiled, not kindly, but curiously.
She froze.
Something about him sparked recognition in the same strange part of her soul that stirred when Alaric touched her hand or when she read those names in the library. A memory not her own. A language she had never learned but almost understood.
The air shifted again.
Then Alaric appeared, descending the grand staircase with a swiftness that revealed the urgency he felt.
"Lord Aemric," he said curtly, voice dipped in restrained steel. "You are early."
Aemric bowed with exaggerated grace, his eyes never leaving Seraphine's shadowed silhouette.
"Apologies, brother. I was… curious."
"She is not ready," Alaric said plainly.
Aemric raised a brow, his voice a velvet purr. "But she is here. Our parents will not be pleased if she remains in the dark much longer."
Seraphine's breath caught in her throat.
Alaric's voice was lower now, nearly inaudible to her.
"I said—not yet."
Aemric gave a small chuckle and finally turned to Alaric properly.
"Very well, Brother. But soon, you will have no choice."
He turned to leave, but before stepping out, he stopped just a few paces from where Seraphine stood hidden in the shadows. Without looking directly at her, he spoke:
"She may survive what's coming."
With a swish of his coat, he disappeared into the night.
The door closed behind him with a final, echoing thud.
Seraphine stood motionless. Her fingers had tightened so much on the edges of the book they turned white. Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat whispering questions she couldn't voice.
She didn't even realize Alaric had crossed the room until he stood before her.
His expression was unreadable, but his gaze was softer than usual.
"You heard," he said quietly.
She nodded, voice barely above a whisper. "Who was he?"
"My brother" he replied after a pause. "But… not one you need to trust."
"What did he mean about me surviving?" she asked, stepping closer.
Alaric looked at her for a long time, his hand twitching at his side as if unsure whether to reach for her or keep his distance.
"There are answers, Seraphine," he said, his voice low and calm. "But they will come in time. You must trust me."
"I do," she said after a heartbeat. "But I don't trust the silence."
Alaric's lips twitched faintly, as if her words both amused and pained him.
"Then stay close to me," he said finally. "And I will break that silence, piece by piece."
As he turned to leave, Seraphine stood still beneath the heavy air of the music hall.
Aemric's strange presence lingered like a shadow. And with it, a certainty began to bloom deep within her:
She need to be ready.
And her place at Alaric's side was not born of chance—but destiny.