Chapter fifteen:Thorn in silks
The manor had not known such silence since the Crimson Feast. But the hush that settled over the hallways was not one of peace. It was taut, coiled like a blade hidden beneath a velvet napkin — waiting to be drawn.
Elira sensed it the moment the gates opened to welcome them.
They arrived with silken gowns and heavy perfumes, with smirks too refined to be sincere. Lady Ravienne Vaelric, the stepmother, moved with chilling elegance, each step leaving a trail of frost across the hearts of the staff. Beside her walked Seliora — not merely a sister by title, but a phantom wrapped in lilac silk, her eyes sharp and searching.
The air in the manor changed, like the garden before a storm.
The storm that arrived with Ravienne Vaelric and her daughter did not come with rain, but with silk gloves and sharpened smiles.
Elira remained in her chambers for days, tucked away in the quieter wing of the manor. The collar at her throat hummed faintly—a low warning, a command. Lucien had not returned yet. His absence stretched like a held breath.
She wandered into the garden just after midday, escaping the stuffy tension that had begun to creep through the manor like ivy. The lavender beds had begun to bloom again, and the scent was soft and oddly soothing. For a while, Elira felt untethered from the weight of her confinement.
Lucien was away. His absence had stretched into days now, and Elira, bound to the manor by collar and oath, moved through the halls like a ghost. She had begun to feel a strange sort of uneasy calm in his absence, as though the eye of a storm had passed over her.
Then voices drifted from the conservatory.
—She's not just any girl," a voice floated through the hedgerow, cutting into her moment like a blade of frost. "There's a reason my brother keeps her caged."
"His pet?" another voice chuckled darkly.
The voice slithered forward. "Oh, no. A pet can be replaced. She's a symbol. A secret. And I mean to find out which."
"I merely meant," the voice continued, it's tone sweet, "Lucien has changed. Even Ravienne notices it. His tastes have shifted." A pause. "Some creatures, when caged, begin to imagine they are cherished."
The woman with her chuckled. "And you intend to remind her otherwise?"
The voice reply came with a soft rustle of skirts. "Of course. The Court will not tolerate weakness.
The speaker's voice held lilting curiosity, sweetened with venom. Another voice—male—murmured in response, too low for Elira to catch the words. But she didn't need to.
Her heart plummeted.
Carefully, silently, she stepped back from the hedge, barely breathing. The voices continued—muffled now—as footsteps drifted deeper into the inner garden. Elira didn't wait to hear more. She turned, skirts brushing against damp leaves, and slipped away down the path toward the east wing.
By the time she reached the corridor, her pulse had steadied—but her thoughts had not. Her mind clung to the voice, to the way it had twisted around the words like a cat curling around prey.
"She's not just any girl…"
Who was that? Seliora?
The name had echoed through whispers since their arrival—Lucien's younger sister, absent from court for months, rumored to be as radiant as she was merciless. And if the stepmother—Lady Ravienne—was frost and elegance, Seliora was sunlight with thorns.
As Elira approached her room, she paused. The hallway was quiet. Too quiet.
A figure stood outside her door: Mirelle, her hands folded over a slip of pale parchment. Her eyes flicked up at Elira, solemn but not alarmed.
"You were gone longer than expected," Mirelle murmured.
"I took a walk," Elira said, brushing past her own unease.
Mirelle glanced down at the folded note. "You've been summoned."
Elira blinked. "By Lord Vaelric?"
Mirelle hesitated. "No. Lady Ravienne. And Lady Seliora is present."
There was no tone of warning in her voice—no overt fear—but something about her stillness, the way her fingers pressed the parchment tightly, told Elira this wasn't merely a polite invitation.
She took the paper, barely glancing at the neat, flowing handwriting. She didn't need to. Summons in this house never meant choice.
Mirelle added softly, "Alaric will escort you."
Of course he would.
The drawing room on the west side of the manor had been transformed. The heavy velvet drapes had been drawn back to let in the pale morning light, dust dancing in golden shafts across polished wood. Crystal decanters gleamed on a silver tray. Tea steamed in bone-white cups. The scent of rosewater hung faintly in the air—cloying and precise.
Lady Ravienne sat beneath the great oil portrait of the late Lord Vaelric, her posture perfect, expression unreadable.
Beside her lounged a younger woman, draped in silk the color of pomegranate seeds. Seliora Vaelric, eyes bright as wine and twice as intoxicating, tilted her head as Elira entered.
"Elira," Ravienne said, voice smooth as aged parchment. "How… quaint to finally meet you."
Elira bowed her head, neither low nor long. "My lady."
"You may sit."
Alaric, silent at her side, gave a brief incline of his head before stepping back to the door. His presence was like stone—firm, unmoving, giving nothing.
Elira sat on the edge of a narrow settee, spine straight, hands in her lap.
Seliora's gaze lingered on her like sunlight through glass—warm, but too sharp. "You're not what I expected."
Elira met her gaze carefully. "I often hear that."
Seliora laughed, short and amused. "They said you were meek. Quiet. A poor girl rescued from some rural backwater."
"Seliora," Ravienne chided gently, though her tone lacked rebuke. "We are guests, not interrogators."
"Are we?" Seliora leaned back, fingers tapping against her cup. "Forgive me. I simply find it fascinating that Lucien has taken such interest in someone who hides away like a ghost."
A pause settled between them like silk laid too flat.
Ravienne set her cup down with delicate grace. "We requested to meet the household. A simple courtesy, as you understand. Lucien's absence leaves certain... responsibilities unfulfilled."
Elira's throat tightened, but she said nothing.
"And yet," Seliora went on, her voice light, "none of the staff seemed particularly eager to explain who exactly was living in the east wing."
Elira's eyes flicked briefly to Alaric, still posted near the door. He said nothing. Gave nothing. But his presence remained—a quiet, unmoving anchor.
Ravienne rose. "We simply wish to become acquainted with all under this roof. It would be... unbecoming to leave anyone feeling unwelcome."
Her eyes met Elira's—cool, appraising, indifferent.
"Of course, should you find the company overwhelming, you may retire."
Seliora smiled as if they'd just shared a secret.
Elira stood slowly. "I appreciate the consideration."
Ravienne inclined her head the barest fraction. "You may go."
As Elira turned to leave, Seliora's voice followed her like perfume.
"Oh—and Elira? Do be careful with whom you trust in this house. It tends to shift its loyalties like the wind."
Elira didn't look back.
By the time she reached her room, the air had cooled. The windows had been opened. Distant thunder rumbled along the horizon.
She closed the door behind her quietly and pressed her fingers to her collar.
It had remained still. No pull. No pain.
But something was changing.
She could feel it.
And she wasn't the only one watching anymore.