Elara sat hunched on the velvet couch, her knees drawn close, surrounded by the remains of her restless indulgence. Books were scattered everywhere—a crooked pile on the table, open pages across the carpet, others tossed carelessly upon the bed, as if she had devoured them with a frantic hunger. The room itself, with its high gothic windows and heavy curtains, felt more like a mausoleum than a refuge.
Her fingers brushed the edge of a faded page, but her eyes no longer followed the words. Silence pressed against her ribs. Even the flicker of candlelight seemed suffocating, casting elongated shadows on the stone walls like mute witnesses.
Political treatises, histories, sciences, even volumes on sorcery, legends, and wars… sometimes a manual on martial arts. Romantic tales and true stories, her favorites. Reading had always been her joy, especially when she stumbled upon a book she loved. Yet she had never imagined consuming so many—and still she longed for more. Where had this hunger come from?
So… this is my life now? she thought, her chest tightening. A cage draped in velvet. A gilded coffin in which she still breathed, though nothing truly lived.
The door eased open, and the maid entered. She paused, her gaze moving over the disorder before settling on Elara. She was unaccustomed to such chaos—Elara was always tidy, no matter how turbulent her thoughts.
"My lady…" the maid said softly, "are you searching for something… or shall I help you?"
Elara turned her head toward her, a lock of hair falling across her cheek. A faint, lifeless smile touched her lips.
"No need. I was only searching for a book I haven't read yet, that's all."
The maid, trying gently to lighten her mood, asked with curiosity:
"But… isn't there a library in this grand castle? Surely you needn't settle for so few books."
Elara's smile lingered, calm yet cold.
"A library, yes. But what use is it… when even stories fail to carry me away? Today… I cannot even bring myself to leave this room."
Her voice sank to a whisper:
"Even freedom feels like chains."
The maid hesitated, then bowed her head and withdrew with quiet steps down the long corridor, leaving the weight of silence to settle once more upon the room.
---
In the dim corridor, a soft knock echoed at the door of Alaric's study.
The Duke lifted his head slowly from his papers, his features weary. The door opened, and the maid entered with measured poise.
She stopped, hands clasped.
"Your Grace… Lady Elara has finished all the books she had. She seems… restless."
His gaze sharpened.
"Restless?"
The maid lowered her eyes.
"She tries to eat, to appear strong… but she drifts away often. More than before. I fear she is… slipping."
Alaric tapped his fingers against the desk in a slow rhythm, steady as a heartbeat in the silence of the room. His jaw tightened, though his voice remained controlled:
"She must not slip further. Keep her occupied."
Then he paused, a fleeting hesitation.
"And… does she eat well?"
A trace of relief softened the maid's expression.
"Yes, Your Grace. She tries. She wants to be strong. And… she has finished every book she owned."
Alaric leaned back into his chair. For a moment, the hardness in his eyes fractured, revealing something fragile beneath. He exhaled slowly, the sound more confession than relief. He had not wished to ask, yet he needed to. He needed to know she would not fade as others had.
"Good…" he murmured at last. Then he turned to Olerian, who stood beside the desk.
"Bring her more books. Ones that comfort her… but do not blind her."
Olerian inclined his head, set aside what he held, and immediately moved toward the library. The Blackthorn estate housed a vast collection of every kind of book, yet entry was forbidden to all save the head of the family and those he permitted. Olerian was among the chosen few.
The maid also bowed and withdrew, leaving the Duke alone in silence.
Alaric remained still, staring out the darkened window where the evening had devoured the last of the light. His reflection stared back at him, pale and distant.
You are not a ghost yet, he thought, though the words sounded more like a plea than a truth. A shadow of regret crossed his face.
Do not become one.
---