The low murmur of conversation drifted through the greenhouse like a lazy breeze.
"…and I heard Lady Tharienne practically forced her way into the bridal procession — as if a second wife could ever hold the same status," the Baroness scoffed, stirring her tea with unnecessary force.
The Viscountess hummed, her eyes half-lidded with amusement. "Well, desperation has a scent, my dear. And some women wear it like perfume. It's not her fault her daughter is nearing twenty and still unwed. No dowry large enough to cover up that jawline."
They both tittered behind their teacups, their smiles wicked and weightless — the kind that only the idle rich could afford.
Veralyn tuned it out.
Taking Kirien gently by the hand, she led him toward the far end of the greenhouse, where glass-paneled walls gave way to rows of carefully cultivated flowers — wisteria, orchids, lilies so white they seemed to glow in the sunlight.
Alena followed a step behind, her hands folded neatly, maintaining the quiet dignity expected of a lady-in-waiting.
"This one bloomed just yesterday," Veralyn whispered to Kirien, pointing to a delicate blue blossom with curled petals. "It only opens in sunlight and closes at dusk. Like it's shy."
Kirien bent slightly, eyes wide, breathing in its subtle scent. "It smells sweet," he murmured.
"I named it 'Daydream.' Doesn't it feel like one?"
He smiled — a rare, soft one that tugged at something in Veralyn's chest.
Alena leaned in slightly. "It's lovely. I don't know how you remember the names of them all."
Veralyn shrugged, her voice light. "Maybe because I made most of them up."
A soft giggle passed between the three — a fragile peace away from the stifling game of titles and insults behind them.
But even here, among the petals and soft soil, Veralyn couldn't quite shake the earlier moment — her grandmother's calculating stare, her aunt's quiet fury masked as sweetness, and the sting of what she had been forced to say.
The bloom before her blurred slightly.
Kirien lingered by the cluster of blue blossoms, but his attention wasn't on the petals.
He reached out with a small hand, gently tugging the edge of Veralyn's gown. When she turned, he was already looking up at her — his eyes wide, searching, afraid.
His voice was barely above a whisper, but it held all the weight of his little heart.
"Sister Veralyn… will Ma'am send me to the Noble's Academy?"
His lips trembled.
"I don't want to go. I don't want to leave you and Sister Alena."
The words struck like a soft blow — quiet, but aching.
Veralyn froze for a heartbeat, then slowly knelt down so they were eye to eye. The sunlight caught in Kirien's lashes, making the tears swimming in his gaze glisten like dew.
She reached out, brushing his cheek with the back of her fingers. "Oh, Kirien…"
Before she could say more, Alena stepped closer and placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, her face unusually serious.
"You don't have to go anywhere you don't want to. Not as long as we're with you."
Veralyn gave a small nod, steadying her voice. "She may try, Kirien. But I won't let her. I'll protect you."
Kirien's lower lip wobbled. "Even if I get sick again?"
Veralyn's chest tightened. She smiled — not the kind people wore at court, but one that was real. Raw.
"Even then. Especially then."
Alena's voice softened. "You're not a burden, Kirien. You're our family."
The boy let out a shaky breath and leaned forward, resting his forehead lightly against Veralyn's shoulder. She held him there, wrapping her arms around his small frame.
Outside, the wind picked up again — brushing past the glass as if to promise it heard them.
The afternoon passed in a strange, suspended quiet.
The Viscountess had sent her personal butler to fetch Veralyn's "birthday gift" in advance — whatever that meant — while Viscount accompanying the Baroness to the nearby church for reasons left vague and ceremonial.
Kirien had been tucked back into his room, instructed to rest, though the worry in his eyes lingered even as he was led away.
Alena was just about to head to the kitchen to help with chores when Veralyn reached out and tugged her gently by the arm.
Alena turned, blinking. "What is it? Do you need something, my lady?"
Veralyn hesitated. Her fingers tightened slightly on Alena's sleeve.
"I… I need something from the basement," she said at last, her voice quieter than usual.
The word seemed to strike like lightning.
Alena's face drained of color.
She stood frozen, eyes wide — as though Veralyn had just whispered something forbidden. Her lips parted, but no sound came at first.
"M-My Lady…" she managed finally, her voice trembling. She reached out, hand softly rubbing Veralyn's arm — not as a gesture of comfort, but as if trying to soothe herself, too.
"W-What is it? Why would you need… something from there?"
Veralyn didn't answer right away. She was watching Alena closely now — watching the fear that flinched across her face like a shadow with a memory.
The silence hung sharp between them.
"I need pottery clay," Veralyn said quietly. "I told the Baroness I had made a more beautiful vase for her than the one I broke…"
Alena let out a tired sigh.
The basement — of all places.
It was the one place Veralyn feared the most.
Ever since she was a little girl, the basement had been her prison. A dark, cold chamber where she was hidden away, out of sight — out of shame. The Baroness had deemed her a curse. Something to be concealed at all costs.
Whenever noble guests arrived — for dinners, parties, or meaningless shows — Veralyn was locked away beneath the house. Alone. In the damp dark, with the stench of mold, the twitch of unseen insects, and the rotting corpses of dead mice keeping her company.
And through those long hours of silence, while laughter echoed above her, she had learned what it meant to be erased.
Alena remembered.
She remembered too well.
Alena was the only one who truly knew how deeply the dark and confined spaces haunted Veralyn. Even now, Veralyn couldn't sleep without a lamp glowing softly beside her bed — a small, flickering shield against old memories.
Back then, no one else remembered her.
But Alena did.
She was the only one who ever came back for Veralyn — slipping away from the glittering halls to descend into the basement, to unlock that heavy door and lead the frightened child back into the light once the guests were gone.
"Okay… but will you come with me?" Alena asked gently, her voice laced with concern and a protective warmth.
"I… I won't go inside," Veralyn murmured, her eyes fixed on the floor. "I'll stay far from the gate… But I'll still tag along."
Her voice trembled, fragile like a child trying hard to be brave — trying to deny just how terrified she really was.
Together, they began the descent.
From the second floor to the ground didn't seem far at all, but for Veralyn, every step felt heavier than the last. Her palms grew clammy. Her throat tightened. The familiar dread crept in like fog through the cracks of her mind.
Then the basement came into view.
That door.
That cursed old iron door, looming at the end of the hallway, rusted and cold like the memory it held.
The moment her eyes landed on it, Veralyn froze. Her breath caught in her throat, her knees nearly buckled, and her face went pale — as if the color had been drained out of her completely. Her ears rang, not with sound, but with voices — voices from a time she wished she could forget.
The past began to replay itself without permission.
> "Please! Please! PLEASE, MA'AM! I don't want to go in there! Let me stay anywhere else — please!"
> "I'll be good! I'll do everything you say. I'll never speak out of turn, I'll never make a sound. Please — just not there. There are dead mice… THERE ARE MONSTERS…"
She had been just four years old.
Small. Fragile. Desperate.
But the Baroness hadn't flinched.
Dressed in a lavish gown, her hair pinned high, laughter echoing from the grand ballroom behind her — she had grabbed Veralyn's tiny arm without a flicker of pity. She dragged her down the hall, ignoring the girl's wails, her legs stumbling to keep up.
And then — without a word — she had shoved the child into the darkness. The iron door slammed shut. The lock clicked.
And just like that… silence.
Veralyn had screamed and cried, her little fists pounding on the door, her sobs turning hoarse. But no one came.
Not that night. Not ever.