Inside Ashcroft Manor, behind heavy oak doors, the Duke's office was a space of quiet purpose and worn familiarity. Heavy books lined the walls, histories, treaties, and faded military maps, while a low fire crackled in the hearth behind the desk. The scent of old parchment and pine smoke lingered like an old habit.
Duke Nathaniel Ashcroft stood near the tall window, its glass fogged from the morning chill. His gaze drifted over the snow-laced inner courtyard, but his mind was elsewhere.
Behind him, Head Butler Emrick cleared his throat softly and stepped forward, a sealed parchment in hand.
"No reports from the northern towns," Emrick said, his voice low, clipped. "Nor from the border villages. We inquired, as you instructed. No one recalls a girl of her likeness. It's as if she simply... arrived."
"She didn't," Nathaniel replied, not turning. "No child appears from nowhere. Someone remembers her. Someone is missing her."
Emrick hesitated before continuing. "We've considered reaching out to House Veltorin. Their information web reaches corners we cannot. And…" He lowered his voice, "There are signs, my lord. Other missing persons. Children. Vanished across regions. Quiet disappearances, too frequent to ignore."
Nathaniel finally turned from the window, his expression tightening. "How many?"
"Enough," Emrick said simply. "Enough to suggest a pattern."
He laid the parchment on the polished desk and unsealed it. "But this stood out, rumors say the royal family of Valeriath lost a daughter. A few months ago. Some claim she died. Others…" He trailed off, unsure how much to lend to gossip.
Nathaniel moved to the desk, fingers brushing the edge of the parchment but not picking it up. "If there's even a grain of truth, I want answers. Reach out to Veltorin. I want facts, not court whispers."
"Yes, Your Grace."
A pause lingered, then Emrick asked gently, " the girl?"
The duke's brow furrowed, and his voice softened. "She's still recovering." He stepped back, folding his arms. "She does not belong here. Not because she is lesser, but because fate dropped her in our forest as an afterthought. And that, Emrick, makes her dangerous… or important."
Emrick nodded, silent understanding in his eyes.
At Veltorin's Estate, Seren Veltorin sat at the edge of his chamber window, sleeves rolled, forearms resting on the marble sill. Below, the gardens stretched in tidy order, dew clinging to every leaf like a secret.
He hadn't slept well.
Not that he ever did but last night had been different. Not haunted. Not violent. Just... tangled.
The music still echoed in his head, and with it, her.
Acacia.
The way she had moved, hesitant at first, then trusting. The quiet flicker in her gaze when it met his, brief, yes, but it had landed like a stone in still water.
And then she'd looked away. Back to Seymour.
Seren didn't know what to call the thing twisting in his chest.
Not jealousy. That was petty.
Not want. He had no right to want anything.
But something had changed.
And he hated that he noticed.
But something in him had shifted, whether he liked it or not.
He leaned back from the window, scrubbing a hand through his hair with a soundless sigh.
He was a Veltorin.
She was an Ashcroft.
This was nothing.
And besides, she didn't deserve a man like him.
Not someone who wore calm like a mask.
Not someone who'd been taught to calculate before he cared.
Not someone whose past had thorns that still drew blood.
She deserved softness.
She deserved a future.
Not a man who couldn't even imagine one for himself.
Just a dance.
Just a glance.
Just... a lie he was telling himself.
...
In a sunlit room across the estate, Argan Seymour stood barefoot, half-buttoned shirt forgotten as he stared at his reflection in the standing mirror. Not because of vanity but because of the strange expression in his own eyes.
He looked like a man trying to name something.
Acacia.
She had followed his lead, trusted his steps.
But it was more than that, wasn't it?
The way she'd replied to his teasing, not coldly, not defensively but with spirit.
And her eyes, those deep, searching eyes, had flicked away, just once. Toward someone else. Toward Seren, he realized with a stab of clarity.
Argan's fingers paused mid-button.
Was he imagining things? Or had something passed between the two, silent, fleeting, but real?
He exhaled slowly, closing his eyes.
He wasn't in love.
Not yet.
But the problem with feelings was that they rarely waited for permission.
And Acacia Ashcroft… she wasn't easy to forget.
...
The morning light filtered through gauzy curtains, soft and golden, like a hush before the day truly began.
Acacia lay still in bed, eyes open, tracing the ceiling's carved edges with absent thought.
She hadn't moved for a while.
Not because she was tired, though she was. But because something inside her felt... suspended. Like she hadn't quite returned from the night before.
The music still hummed in her memory, not just in sound but in sensation. The flick of her dress, the weight of Argan's hand at her waist, the steady rhythm of their steps.
It hadn't been perfect. She had faltered, maybe stumbled once, unsure of herself.
But he hadn't let go.
She smiled faintly, then frowned just as quickly.
Because even now, in the quiet, her thoughts, they kept flickering, to a pair of other eyes.
Seren's.
He hadn't danced with her. He hadn't said a word to her all evening after dance. But just once, when she had dared to look, he had looked back. And for that breathless second, it had felt like he saw through the waltz, the music, the pretense, right into her.
And then it passed.
Acacia pulled the covers higher, trying to shake the absurdity of it.
It had been one moment. A glance.
But somehow, it had tangled itself into her thoughts like thread caught on a thorn.
She closed her eyes.
It meant nothing.
But she couldn't quite make herself believe it.
Outside, the sky remained clear, the winter air still and breathless.
The Ashcroft House library was unusually quiet for the late afternoon, bathed in the golden hush of light that filtered through the tall, arched windows. Acacia sat cross-legged on one of the low cushioned benches, a thick, leather-bound book resting on her lap.
Dominic wandered in first, half-expecting her to be asleep among the stacks again. Instead, he found her deep in concentration, fingers tracing a symbol drawn on the aged page.
"What's caught your eye this time?" he asked, peering over her shoulder.
She tilted the book so he could see. "It's about the Five Pillar Houses… and the kinds of magic each one once specialized in. Some of this is probably just legend, but it's fascinating."
Astor joined them with a mug of tea in hand, raising an eyebrow. "You're reading about an old lore?"
"It seems interesting," Acacia replied, flipping to a page lined with faded crests and annotations. "It says that House Walter was once said to bind contracts with magic rather than ink and that the Woods family's healing arts used to work through spoken memory."
Dominic said "We're Ashcrofts, military minds, steel and strategy. We even had battle magic once."
She nodded. "It says your ancestors could sense shifts in battlefield energy. Some even used elemental spells to protect the northern borders."
Astor sat down beside her, setting his mug on the table with a quiet clink. He glanced at the open page and said, "The Veltorins were the empire's hidden blade. Espionage, illusion magic, memory weaving... they were the ones who saw everything, even when no one else did."
Acacia looked up at them both and asked "You both must've heard more, what else old lores say about the Five Houses?"
Astor leaned back against the library shelf, arms crossed, a faint smirk on his lips. "Plenty. Depends on who's telling the tale."
Dominic, seated beside Acacia, rested his chin in his hand. "You mean all the ghost stories?"
"Not just ghost stories," Astor replied. "Legends. Symbols. Each house wasn't just built on politics. They were… tied to something older. Older than the empire."
Acacia's eyes lit with curiosity. "Like what?"
Astor chuckled. "Alright. Let's see. Ashcrofts, our family, Stags of the North, you know that. But there's a tale that the first Duke was guided by an ancient creature through the snow when the rest of his army had abandoned hope. That's how we settled here, where no one else could."
Acacia listened intently, eyes never leaving his face.
"Seymours," Astor continued, "are known for diplomacy and trade. But the old tales say their founder made a pact with a tree only found under the river, offering silver to protect their fleet. That's why their ships never sank during storms."
Acacia glanced down at the crest on the page, veins curling like calligraphy.
"The Woods family," Astor said, gesturing to the next page, "they're the knowledge keepers. Their crest used to be an open book before the tree was added. Some say their libraries hold scrolls that date back before the empire even formed. They claim their founder spoke with stars, or heard them."
Acacia asked, "And the Walters? They are the spine of the law, right?"
"Yes," Dominic nodded. "But people say their bloodline comes from a judge who passed a sentence on a god, and lived. Their crest, a hooded owl holding a pair of the scales, is said to weigh more than gold when truth is involved."
"And the Veltorins?" Acacia asked quietly.
Astor's expression shifted, thoughtful. "That one's trickier. They don't talk much, and neither do the stories. Their crest was once a shrouded flame, no animals, no Latin. It's said their founder walked out of a cave no one else returned from. Some say they deal in prophecy, others in secrets. Later their crest was changed to a coiled serpent around a silver dagger."
Acacia traced the illustration with a gloved finger. "They sound… unsettling."
"They are unsettling, only if you're hiding something," Dominic muttered.
Astor added, "Or feel unsettling, if they're quiet around you."
She looked at the two brothers, one teasing, one composed, and found herself smiling. "Thank you. For sharing these interesting myths and not brushing it off"
Dominic waved it off. "You're like our sister. Not brushing you off is part of the job."
"And," Astor added, "you ask better questions than half the people we know."
Acacia laughed softly, the tension in her shoulders easing for the first time in days. "I'm just… trying to understand where I've ended up. And maybe where I came from."
Dominic tilted his head. "You're not just here, Acacia. You belong here. Whether or not the past returns."
Astor closed the book gently. "Besides, every house has its own mystery. You might be one of ours."
Acacia looked down at her hands. "Even if I don't remember anything… it feels like pieces are starting to come together."
Dominic nudged her with his elbow. "Then we'll help you collect the rest. Just don't go running off into ancient ruins without us."
She snorted. "No promises."
The three of them started laughing surrounded by shelves of ink and parchment, the quiet of the Ashcroft library wrapping around them like a gentle shield. For now, there was no pressure to remember, only the comfort of not having to do it alone.