The night was heavy, thick with silence and shadows. When Nerine closed her eyes, she thought sleep would not come. But it did—swiftly, like a storm—and took her into the place where time bent and the dead whispered.
She stood outside her old house road.
It was the same house where she'd once clung to her mother's warmth, the place where innocence had died quietly in the dark. Yet now, it seemed stretched, wrong—like a painting warped by moisture. The sky above her was a sheet of black velvet, no stars, just the moon, and the pulse of something ancient, watching.
Her bare feet touched the cold, wet ground. Fog curled around her ankles like a curious pet. The air smelt of iron and lilac.
She stepped forward.
The wooden door of the cottage was ajar, creaking as it swayed slightly. Inside, it was dim. The hearth flickered like a dying breath. Shadows moved—not lazily, not with the kind of peace one would find in memory. These shadows were restless, writhing, huddled in a circle.
They were people, she realized—but their faces were veiled, draped in black, each one standing still and silent. In the center of them knelt a woman.
Her mother.
Blood stained her gown and pooled beneath her knees. Her hair, though matted, still shimmered silver in the firelight. Even covered in blood, even broken, her mother lifted her head and smiled—right at Nerine, through the crowd of the faceless.
That smile was not soft. It wasn't warm. It was knowing. It burned with something Nerine couldn't name.
"Mama?" she whispered, stepping toward the door.
But the world answered with silence.
Her mother's mouth moved, trying to say something. Nerine leaned closer, but before the words could reach her—
Darkness.
And then breath.
She gasped and jolted upright in bed, her hands clenching the sheets, damp with sweat. The room around her—the candlelight, the stillness of Blackthorn House—returned like a wave. Her heart thudded violently in her chest.
She could still see her mother's smile behind her eyes.
Nerine slid from the bed. She didn't call for anyone. The silence felt safer than a voice. She walked to the washbasin, poured water into the bowl, and dipped her hands in the icy liquid. It shocked her system, anchoring her to the present.
She splashed the water over her face, letting the cold cling to her cheeks, her neck, her arms. She breathed in slowly, hoping to freeze the image away.
But the dream lingered.
After dressing in a modest deep blue gown and brushing her hair back into a low braid, she stepped into the hallway. The mansion groaned softly in the early hour, as if waking with her. It was still dusky outside, not yet fully light.
Compelled by something she couldn't name, she climbed the narrow steps that led to the rooftop. The breeze was sharper here, brushing her skin with the gentleness of ghost fingers. The sky had softened into shades of gray-blue, tinged with the promise of dawn.
She stood near the edge, her arms folded loosely in front of her.
Below, the estate stretched quiet and timeless. The forest yawned in the distance, and dew clung to the ivy-strangled walls. She didn't move. She didn't think. She simply breathed, letting the stillness work its way inside her.
Kael saw her first.
From the tower behind the mansion, he had stepped out for air, his own thoughts restless. The last few nights had been a chain of tensions and unspoken things. He hadn't expected to see her—not at this hour, not like this.
She stood there—still, like a statue carved from grief and courage. The breeze moved her gown and braid gently behind her, and her eyes were closed.
She looked... distant.
Not just physically. Spiritually.
He narrowed his eyes, leaning slightly over the stone rail. She had dressed already. Was she always awake so early?
Or had she not slept at all?
His gaze followed the curve of her face as the first light of dawn kissed her cheekbones. Then, just as suddenly, she opened her eyes. A flicker of awareness passed through her, and she turned to leave.
Kael remained quiet. He didn't call her name. But something about her silence lingered in him.
By the time Nerine stepped back into the mansion, it was morning proper. A soft chime echoed through the halls—breakfast time.
She descended the stairs and made her way to the dining room. As always, it was grand. The long table stretched across the room like a piece of fate, cold and elegant. She sat at her usual place, far from Kael, near the window.
Clara followed her and saw that she had prepared herself for the day.
Knowing she was in a bad mood she didn't talk to her and just trailed behind her.
Kael entered a moment later, dressed in his usual dark layers. He said nothing as he took his seat at the opposite end of the table.
Silverware glinted. Platters of fruit, bread, and eggs were brought in. A servant placed a glass of orange juice before her. Her gaze flicked toward Kael's cup.....its contents dark red and thick.
Blood.
She didn't flinch. She didn't ask.
But she shook her head slightly and looked away. No words passed between them during the meal. The tension between them was like a third presence in the room...not hostile, but sharp, formal.
He didn't comment on her early rooftop stroll. And she didn't ask where he'd been last night.
When breakfast was over, Kael excused himself first, nodding curtly.
She remained seated for a while longer, pushing bits of bread around her plate.
Later that morning, Kael stood in one of the shaded rooms off the main hallway.....his study, waiting. The door opened.
Kostas entered.
The man was sharp-eyed, his coat damp with travel. He bowed slightly.
"You summoned me, my lord."
Kael nodded. "I need you to look into Lord Evander."
Kostas tilted his head, intrigued. "The same Evander who sits on the northern council?"
Kael's expression didn't change. "Yes. I believe he may be connected to the recent escape from the black market raid. The prisoner— they were too prepared. Evander might have had a hand in it."
"You think the council is compromised?"
"I think power makes fools of men," Kael replied coldly. "And Evander was always fond of collecting strange favors."
Kostas nodded slowly. "I'll begin at once."
Kael's gaze darkened a shade. "Be careful. This may involve witches."
Kostas didn't flinch, but a tension coiled in his shoulders. "Understood."
Kael dismissed him with a wave, turning back to the window. His reflection in the glass met his eyes with that same distant expression.
Something had shifted in the past week.
Sofia, the engagement, Penelope's sudden bursts of light... and now whispers of witchcraft again.
He didn't like chaos that wasn't caused by him.
He liked Control.
But the air itself felt like it was humming with something he couldn't see yet.
He turned away from the glass and walked out, the echo of his boots trailing behind him like a warning.