The corridors of Castle Virel were quieter than Lora
Remembered—if she had ever truly remembered them at all.
Morning sunlight didn't exist here. Instead, golden candlelight flickered from mounted sconces, casting long shadows across the marbled floors. She wandered alone, wrapped in a wool cloak someone had left at the foot of her bed. It smelled faintly of ash and roses.
"Why does it seem as if I know this place"
Doors lined both sides of the hallway. She tried several—locked.
But one gave way without resistance.
It was a circular chamber lit entirely by an arched glass dome above, stained red and gold like blood turned to fire. Dozens of paintings covered the high walls, all ornate, all impossibly lifelike.
The Portrait Room.
She stepped inside and immediately felt it—the tension in her spine, the hairs rising along her arms. Something here was… wrong.
Her eyes moved from canvas to canvas.
Noblemen. Women. Children. Some wore crowns, others held swords, books, or goblets. All were pale. All elegant. And all watched her with painted, unblinking eyes.
She recognized no one.
Until she did.
It was near the back wall, nearly hidden behind a velvet curtain partially drawn.
A portrait of a woman in black.
She wore a gown stitched with silver thread and dark roses. Her hair was braided in a high, regal coil, and around her throat shimmered a necklace of rubies. Her hands rested on the hilt of a ceremonial dagger.
Her face was Lora's.
Not similar—identical.
Same lips. Same sharp chin. Same storm-gray eyes.
She reached up and touched her weak, then the canvas, afraid to breathe.
There was no plaque. No name.
But at the very bottom, barely visible in the corner, was a date: 1740.
"That's impossible." she stepped a little backward"
Lora stumbled back again, heart racing. She turned and nearly collided with the old servant from before.
"Careful, my lady," the woman whispered.
"You—you didn't say there was a portrait of me."
"I didn't say there wasn't."
Lora grabbed her arm. "That's me. That's me—from over a century ago."
The servant's face softened with something like pity.
"Because you are her," she said.
"I'm not."
"You were."
Lora let go. "Why is no one telling me the truth?"
"The truth is hard," the woman said. "Sometimes, it cuts deeper than lies. Especially for someone like you."
"Someone like me?"
"Someone who's come back from the dead more than once."
---
Later that night, Lora returned to the portrait room alone.
This time, she brought a lantern and a small knife stolen from the breakfast table.
She cut open the back of the portrait's frame. Hidden between the canvas and the wood was a folded page—aged, cracked, and smelling faintly of blood.
It was a letter.
Written in her writing.
"If you are reading this, it means you've forgotten again. Or chosen to forget. Either way, let me remind you of the truth:
Dorian Virel is not your captor. He is your husband. The father of your child. The one you betrayed to save her.
But there are things he doesn't know. Secrets I buried for both our sakes. If you want to know the rest—go to the Moon Garden. Under the black rose bush. Before the new moon.
Before they find you again."
It was signed simply:
_E
Lora stared at the letter until the lantern flickered and died.
---
Later that night Lora waited until the castle fell into its false night—when the halls emptied, when the crows stopped singing, and when even the candles seemed to hold their breath.
She followed the directions from the letter, wrapping herself in a black cloak and moving silently past the east wing until she reached a narrow, ivy-covered door. A rusted iron arch above it bore one word: "Lunaria."
The Moon Garden.
She pushed the door open and stepped into another world.
Beneath a crescent moon, Silverlight glistened on hundreds of black roses, their petals open wide, drinking in the dark. Faint mist floated over the garden floor. Marble statues, eroded by time, peeked between the hedges—some winged, others weeping.
It was beautiful. And haunted.
She found the rose bush mentioned in the letter—its roots twisted around a cracked stone urn. Kneeling, she pushed aside the soil, ignoring the way her hands trembled.
Her fingers hit something hard.
A box.
She pulled it free—wooden, carved with a familiar symbol: a crescent moon within a circle. Her mark.
Before she could open it—
"You always did love this place."
Lora froze.
Lord Dorian stood in the archway, half-shadowed by the moonlight. No cloak. No armor. Just his voice, quiet and unreadable.
"I thought I was alone," she said, straightening slowly.
"You've never been alone here." He stepped closer. "Even when you wanted to be."
Lora held the box behind her. "I didn't want to be followed."
"I wasn't following. I was remembering." He looked around. "You planted these roses yourself. Said they only bloomed when the moon grieved."
She tried to steel herself. "Why are you really here?"
He stepped closer again—too close—and reached out, brushing her wind-tossed hair behind her ear. His touch was feather-light. Cold. Familiar.
"I wanted to see you," he said simply.
"Why?" she whispered.
"Because the woman I loved… she's still inside you. I see her in your eyes. In the way you walk through shadows like you belong to them. In the way you touch that box, like it holds pieces of your soul."
She didn't pull away.
"I don't know who I am," she admitted.
"Then let me remind you," he said, his voice dropping to something softer—something dangerous.
He leaned down and kissed her.
It wasn't demanding. It wasn't even confident. It was tentative—like a man kissing a memory, praying it would kiss back.
And she did.
For a single, suspended second, the world stopped.
His lips were cold. Hers burned. His hand cupped her jaw like she was fragile, but his other arm wrapped around her waist with an old, desperate hunger that made her knees weaken.
Then it ended.
Too soon.
She stepped back, breathless. Confused. Wanting.
Dorian said nothing at first. Just looked at her, like she was something precious lost and found.
"I buried that box," she said, trying to steady herself.
"I know."
"You didn't stop me?"
"I would have stopped the world to keep you," he said. "But I never wanted to stop you."
Her heart skipped. She hated that it did.
"I have to know the truth," she said.
Dorian nodded once. "Then open it."
She did.
Inside was a small crystal vial, a ring of obsidian and silver, and a bloodstained letter. On the letter was a single name written in looping script:
Seraphine
Lora looked up, eyes wide.
Dorian's face had gone still, emotion flickering just beneath the surface.
"Your memory didn't fade by accident," he said. "You made me help you forget. You thought it was the only way to keep her safe."
"Her?" voice was a breath.
"Our daughter."
The night trembled around them. The roses shivered.
swayed. Dorian caught her.
And this time, she didn't pull away.
......