The halls of the Velhart estate didn't just echo—they performed. Every step Elara took was followed by a flutter of her long silk dress.
Behind her, two maids trailed in her wake—one carrying a silver tray stacked with clean linens, the other balancing a precarious tower of dried herbs and spices. Neither spoke a word. Elara was humming again.
It was a dangerous hum. Everyone knew what it meant; it was the kind that meant a new recipe was being born. Or worse, that she was about to rearrange the entire spice cabinet; Once again.
She turned around a corner and was met with the familiar scent of sun-warmed stone, citrus, and an overly expensive cologne that clung to Dorian like mud to a boot.
The nascent sunlight caught her at just the right angle—gold on gold, the sun haloing her as if a goddess's crown.
But it was only his scent lingering. His teacup sat abandoned on the bench. Still warm. Still smug. Still full to the brim with his favourite Kalkotarian black tea.
One of the younger maids who stood beside the table cleared her throat. "Milady, Lord Velhart is... in the garden. Again."
Elara raised a brow. "Let me guess. The mangoes?"
The maid gave a sheepish nod. "He said it was time to assert dominance over nature. "
Elara snorted. "He can't even assert dominance over his hat. It still falls off every time. "
Another maid tried to stifle a laugh. But Failed Miserably. "He said this time... he's using gloves."
"Progress," Elara said, already turning. "Tell the cook I'll be late. My husband is out there declaring war on fruit trees again."
Dorian was, at that precise moment, losing a battle with a bag of compost.
"Why—won't—you—OPEN?!"
The bag ripped dramatically, spilling the brown, nutritious chaos all over his boots. The gardener didn't even flinch; he was used to it.
"Congratulations," the old man muttered.
"I know what you will say next," Dorian said, panting. "'You planted disappointment', right? "
"I'm concerned about your patients, Lord Velhart," the old man said. " You can read what I want to say next, yet you don't understand how I feel about your current nuisance."
Elara leaned against the garden arch, biting her lip to keep from laughing. She'd arrived just in time to witness him attempting to coax a mango sapling upright, only for him to step over another sapling the gardener had planted.
"Oh no," she said, loud enough for him to hear. "You stepped onto a poor little plant-wait. Is that a handkerchief? "
Dorian froze mid-knot. "I can explain."
Elara stepped forward, smirking. "Is this the same one I gave you at the Winter Gala?"
"It had sentimental value. I'm giving it a second life."
"It was Zizu silk."
"Now it's supporting my mango saplings." Dorian said as he pointed at the little plant tied crookedly to a stick which was planted upright in the soil.
She stared at him. "You are unbelievable."
"You married me."
"And I continue to question my decisions every day," she said sweetly. "Even now, as you disgrace that poor tree."
Dorian straightened, brushing soil from his chest like a knight returning from battle. "For your information, this little tree is now legally part of the Velhart family. Since I planted it, I've bonded with it spiritually."
The gardener grumbled something under his breath involving idiocy and noble bloodlines.
Elara gently picked a mint leaf with her gloved hands from a nearby patch and held it beneath her nose. "If this is your idea of seduction, I'm not impressed."
Dorian grinned. "Give it five years. That mango tree's gonna sing songs in my honor."
"Now, now. Let's go; it's time for breakfast. "Elara said as she grabbed onto his sleeve and pulled him along with her.
After breakfast, deciding to have a walk through the estate, they walked side-by-side through the eastern hall, their footsteps echoing softly in the vast space. Elara let the silence linger, her fingers brushing against the carved stone wall.
"Do you ever think about it?" she asked quietly.
Dorian glanced over. "You're going to say something ominous, aren't you?" He said, fully expecting the words to follow.
"Maybe," she said with an amused expression on her face, "it feels like the world is... hiding something. One must always remain on the edge to not get devoured by the unstoppable march of time."
Dorian slowed his pace. "Elara….. does something worry you?"
"No," she said. "Not while you're here. But I wonder what comes after this peace."
He smiled, soft and knowing. "You don't trust peace, do you?"
"I trust it about as much as I trust your sense of direction."
"That was one wrong turn on our honeymoon—"
"You took us to the wrong city."
"They both started with 'G'. It wasn't completely my fault."
She laughed, the sound echoing like birdsong through the hall. Then she stopped and turned toward him.
"I'm glad we're here, Dorian. In this quiet. Even if it doesn't last."
He stepped closer, brushed a stray strand of hair from her cheek. "Then let's make the most of the quiet. And you are not telling me the complete truth, isn't it? Is it related to what Doctor Viktor said?"
Elara hesitantly nodded. Dorian's gaze grew soft; she acted strong in front of him, but in the end she was the one most affected. Dorian's fingers gently brushed against her cheek. "We will surely find a solution to this problem; just give me some time. I just came to know about a prominent doctor in Cindaria who specializes in such complications. We, along with Doctor Viktor, will soon pay him a visit."
Dorian's hand slid down from face and grabbed her waist, embracing her. "You'll be an exceptional mother to our child. Isn't it?"
"If I ever become one."
"You will, let's trust the doctors."
Later that afternoon, in Dorian's office, he sat along with Elara, writing replies to the letters he had received in the last few days.
Dorian tilted the envelope between his fingers, his eyes narrowing slightly as he recognized the wax seal—silver crest, a pair of bull horns with a serpent wrapped around each one of them. He let out a small laugh, carrying equal parts of amusement and disbelief.
"Well, well... House Renfray dares to invite us again," he mused aloud, voice laced with dry sarcasm. "I'm honestly surprised they even dare recall our names after what happened last time."
Elara, lounging nearby with a book on her lap, glanced over from her book. "You mean after I baptized Lord Renfray in his own aged wine?"
"More like drowned him," Dorian replied, carefully breaking the seal. "He looked like a potato dipped in red paint. I swear, even the statues laughed."
"I only did what you taught me," she said with a smug shrug. "He kept looking at me as if I were some expensive artifact. Creepy old man."
Dorian waved the letter dramatically. "And yet, here it is. Another invitation. Maybe he's into public humiliation. Or he just thinks we, along with everyone else, forgot."
"Or," she said sweetly, "he thinks you'll bring me again."
Dorian paused. "So that you could baptize him again?...Now that's a power move."
He tucked the letter into his coat pocket, letting his professional instincts kick in for a moment. "Honestly, I should write a paper on that man's need for social validation. Deep insecurity masked by faux charm, punctuated by an overuse of expensive makeup. Classic case."
"You're at it again, aren't you?" she said, grinning. "You are not at work."
"Always," he replied, then leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. "It's what I do best—next to choosing the best mangoes in the garden, of course."
Elara just shook her head in amusement.
The sun was about to set, the warm orange light casting long shadows along their feet; the pair strolled hand in hand through the heart of Norin.
Dorian waved at the baker's son, who was struggling to carry a stack of empty trays nearly twice his size. Elara leaned in and whispered, "Bet you five coppers he drops them."
"I'm not betting on a child's downfall."
"Oh my, is this the same person who just wished that the child before, carrying that basket, trip?"
"Oh! That little jerk tripped me once, didn't even apologize."
"That's petty."
They crossed the cobbled square, passing stalls and stands where familiar faces greeted them with nods, warm smiles, and the occasional unsolicited story about someone's cousin's goat.
"Ah! Mr. Velhart," called out Mrs. Tennes from her flower cart. "Tell your wife she owes me an explanation. These daisies refused to bloom after she touched them last week."
Elara gasped. "I told you I have cursed fingers!"
Mrs. Tennes cackled. "Well, curse the roses next time. My roses are getting cocky."
They shared a round of laughter before moving on, still hand in hand, still quietly entwined in their own little world. The kind where small talk with strangers meant something and everything felt like part of a rhythm they both knew by heart.
Eventually, they reached the steps of Norin's little cafe on the corner—their usual evening stop.
"Outside or inside?" Dorian asked.
"Inside. I want to sit by the window and judge the ladies's choices of clothes."
"Professional work."
"I take it seriously."
They sat at their favorite spot near the window, the sun's last rays spilling over the table like honey. The cafe smelled of cinnamon. The waitress, a young girl who'd known Elara since school days, brought over their regulars without asking—hazelnut coffee for Elara, Kalkotarian tea for Dorian, and a shared plate of warm pastries.
"This is the part of the day," Elara said, sipping her coffee, "where I pretend we're just kids without responsibilities."
Dorian leaned back with a smirk. "Pretending? I am a child with very questionable handwriting and an obsession with chair ergonomics."
"God, I spent my nights with a child?"
He almost choked on his tea. "Don't do that; it's weird."
"It was supposed to be."
They sat like that, two weirdos in love, watching Norin's life shuffle by in its usual slow-paced charm. Dorian glanced sideways at her—bright emerald eyes, golden hair pulled back with the little silver pin he'd given her two years ago. A subtle ache of warmth spread in his chest.
This was it. No grand drama. No fireworks. Just her. Just this. And if time wanted to freeze at this moment, Dorian would not complain.
Dinner was served in the west dining hall—the small one, decorated personally by Elara for quiet nights. Chandeliers shimmered overhead as the last of the silver moonlight spilled through towering windows, bathing the table in gold. Silver clinked against porcelain as the house staff moved in rhythmic fashion.
Dorian didn't even look at the menu; he trusted Elara's choices. She had a talent for pairing courses with moods, and tonight, she'd chosen soft comfort over formality—cream-roasted wild vegetables, truffle bread, and warm saffron soup, paired with a bunch of desserts, all of them being Dorian's favourites.
"A little indulgent for a Wednesday," he teased, sipping the soup.
She smirked. "What else is the point of being absurdly wealthy if not to make everyday feel like a festival?"
He chuckled, reaching across the table for her hand. "So... tomorrow, shall we celebrate Thursday like it's a coronation?"
"Elaborate crowns at breakfast," she said, deadpan. "Gold eggs, diamonds in the jam."
A servant politely cleared his throat behind them, silently removing the finished plates. Dorian gave him a nod of thanks.
Later, they strolled through the manor's southern veranda, the one overlooking the moonlit gardens and glassy lake. Garden lamps flickering. The sound of running water from the courtyard's fountain played in the distance.
Elara leaned into him, her fingers interlaced with his.
"Do you ever feel like we're... floating?" she asked quietly.
He looked down at her, not quite understanding.
"Like... all of this is too beautiful," she continued. "Like it's balanced on something too fragile."
He smiled softly, his fingers lacing into her own; "That's why I married you. To keep me grounded."
She smirked. "That, and the part where I'm devastatingly attractive."
"Ah yes," he said, with a serious tone in his voice, "mostly that, of course."
They stopped beneath the old ash tree—the one Dorian's mother had planted when this mansion was made. Its branches stretched wide, silver leaves fluttering.
They said nothing for a while. Just the wind, the soft footfalls of distant staff, and the gentle warmth of being held by someone you trust with your forever.
The night had cooled, but the master suite was wrapped in quiet warmth. Velvet drapes were drawn, a fire flickered gently behind glass, and somewhere in the distance, a clock ticked without urgency.
Elara sat before the mirror, undoing her earrings with the lazy grace of someone who's had just enough wine. Her golden hair cascaded down her back, freed from the pins that had held it in elegant shape all day.
"You stared at me the whole dinner," she said, catching Dorian's reflection in the mirror with a smirk.
He didn't deny it. "Guilty. I'm allowed to admire art in my house, aren't I?"
She rolled her eyes, standing up and crossing the room in bare feet, her long satin robe swishing behind her like a whisper. "You have a whole gallery downstairs. I paint beautiful artworks for you," she said, crawling into bed beside him. "And still you fixate on me."
Dorian turned toward her, the dim light catching the edge of his smile. "Your paintings move me," he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. "But they don't breathe. They don't argue. They don't smirk at me in mirrors and steal my focus like you do."
"You sure know how to spin words."
She tried to look annoyed. Failed miserably. Her grin gave her away.
The room dimmed further as the fire settled into embers. Dorian lay on his side, watching her. "You ever think we did something right in another life to deserve this?"
She traced lazy circles on his chest. "No. I think we did something wrong. And this is the universe tempting us before it's taken all away."
His brow furrowed. "That's dark."
"Truth is always hiding somewhere in the dark," she said, voice quieter now.
He kissed her forehead, pulling her close until their legs tangled beneath the heavy blankets. "Well, if it does... I'll punch the universe in the throat."
She laughed—really laughed—and it was the best sound in the world.
Then she whispered, "You always say the dumbest things when I'm scared."
He smiled into her hair. "It's a talent."
She tilted her head up, eyes glinting with something between mischief and vulnerability. "Then show me what else you're talented at," she murmured, her breath brushing his jaw.
Dorian's smile was slow, wicked, and tender all at once. His fingers slid beneath the folds of her robe, tracing the curve of her waist; "I'm versatile," he said, voice low, lips grazing her collarbone. "I can comfort, distract… ruin."
Elara's breath hitched; her robe slid down from one shoulder like a sigh. "Ruin me, then," she whispered, pulling him closer, her voice trembling with want and trust.
Later, wrapped in tangled sheets and the soft glow of lamplight, Elara lay curled against him, her fingers tracing idle constellations on his chest. "Universe sure knows how to tempt us," she said, voice drowsy but content.
Dorian chuckled, his brown eyes grew softer, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I'm more tempted by you."
She smiled, eyes fluttering shut. "Good night, dear."