As they moved through the market, Acacia's eyes were drawn to a secluded stall draped in deep indigo fabric, half-concealed between two larger booths. Above it, tiny orbs floated in the air, shifting in color with each breath of wind, soft lilacs, dusky blues, faint golds.
"What's that?" she murmured, more to herself than to anyone else.
Astor followed her gaze. "Ah, the Dream-Thread Weaver," he said, tone airy but curious. "They say if you press your hand to the glass and think of something you've lost, it'll show you something you need."
Dominic huffed lightly. "Which usually means losing your coin to some fog and glitter."
But Acacia was already drifting toward it.
"Wait, Acacia," Astor called after her, though he didn't move to stop her. Dominic exchanged a look with him before trailing behind.
The noise of the market seemed to quiet as she approached. Snowflakes floated more slowly here, suspended mid-fall. The air was stiller. The world, for a moment, softer.
At the center of the stall sat a glass dome, no larger than a basin, filled with silver threads that shimmered and swirled like constellations caught in a current. Acacia hesitated, then reached out and pressed her palm against the cool glass.
Her breath caught.
The swirling threads stilled. One, glowing faintly gold, floated forward, curling like a ribbon just beneath the glass. It shaped itself into something familiar, a flower at first. Then thorns. Wings. Roots twisted like veins. A symbol. One she knew.
Acacia stepped back, a chill crawling up her spine. That shape. She'd seen it before. But where?
She blinked.
The shape vanished, the thread dissolving back into the silver tangle.
"Did you see that?" she whispered. "It looked like..."
Her voice faded, uncertainty catching in her throat. When she turned, neither Astor nor Dominic had stepped close enough to witness what she had seen. They stood just a few paces behind, watching her carefully.
Astor tilted his head, his usual grin softened into something more cautious. "You look like you've seen a ghost," he said gently.
Dominic's eyes narrowed, more perceptive than mocking this time. "What was it?"
Acacia hesitated. The image was already slipping from her mind like sand through her fingers, blurred at the edges, impossible to hold. She shook her head. "Nothing. Just... a shape. It felt familiar."
Astor stepped beside her, peering into the glass dome. "All I see are shiny threads and a whole lot of mystery."
"That's the point," Dominic muttered, crossing his arms. "You think you've seen something important. It gets under your skin."
But Acacia wasn't listening anymore. Her gaze lingered on the fading shimmer inside the dome. That symbol, thorned roots, wings, something ancient. It hadn't just been a shape. It had felt like a memory. Or a warning.
She rubbed her palm against her cloak absently, as if trying to erase the cold impression the glass had left.
Astor nudged her shoulder lightly. "Come on. Before Dominic starts lecturing us on marketplace scams."
She nodded slowly and turned away, but something inside her stayed tethered to that moment. As if a thread had hooked itself into her and refused to let go.
Later that night, outside the quiet manor the snow taps gently at the windowspane, and a low fire crackles in the hearth of Acacia's room. She sits curled near it, blanket draped over her legs, fingers absently touching the pendant at her neck. She looks down.
The glass glows faintly, not bright, but enough to catch her reflection warped in its curved surface. Then softly, like a breeze slipping beneath the door:
"Chrysa…"
A whisper, frayed like an old memory.
She straightens up, heart thudding. But when she listens again… there's only the fire. The wind. Silence.
She presses the hourglass against her palm.
"What are you trying to tell me…" she murmurs.
The flame flickers higher for a heartbeat, then stills.
Next morning light crept pale and thin across Acacia's windowpanes, the world outside was still. Blanketed in soft white silence. Not the joyous kind, but the heavy hush that comes after celebration when everything slows just enough for thoughts to catch up.
Acacia stirred beneath her quilt. The hourglass still lay against her chest, no longer glowing, but warm like it had absorbed something while she slept.
She sat up slowly, brushing stray strands of hair from her face.
That whisper… it hadn't been a dream.
Chry…sa…
The sound of it had curled in the back of her mind like breath caught in winter glass. The syllables were broken, scattered, like pieces of something once whole.
She rose and padded to the window, pulling the curtain aside. Below, the manor grounds stretched quiet and dusted in white. The market tents were gone now. The square empty.
It felt like waking from something, but she didn't remember falling asleep.
The scent of cinnamon and hearth fire greeted her before she even reached the dining hall.
Acacia descended the staircase, her fingers brushing the polished railing, the manor was unusually quiet, no servants bustling, no Astor crashing into chairs. Only the soft clink of cutlery and the murmur of voices spilling faintly from the breakfast room.
She stepped through the arched doorway to find Dominic already seated, hair still tousled from sleep. He raised a brow looking up from his plate.
"You nearly poured tea into the sugar bowl."
"An honest mistake," Astor said solemnly, eyes twinkling.
Acacia gave a half-laugh as she took her seat. The long table was dressed in deep greens and golds, winter holly tucked into the centerpiece. A pitcher of warm apple cider steamed beside a dish of eggs, roasted root vegetables, and baked pears with honey glaze.
"You missed the best part," Dominic said as he set a plate before her. "Astor tried to butter his toast with a dessert knife."
"I was distracted," Astor muttered, reaching for the actual butter this time.
"By the fruit bowl," Dominic continued. "He claimed the apples were judging him."
Acacia blinked. "Judging… apples?"
"They were stacked too perfectly," Astor defended. "It felt like a trap."
She smiled faintly. "A fruit ambush at breakfast. How tragic."
Dominic leaned back, clearly enjoying himself. "You should've seen him inspecting each one like it held state secrets."
"There was a suspicious bruise!" Astor insisted.
Acacia picked up her teacup, hiding a quiet laugh behind the rim.
"And then," Dominic added smoothly, "he attempted to bribe the kitchen staff for fresh strawberries. Promised them two tickets to the Spring Gala."
Astor sighed dramatically. "They refused. Apparently strawberries don't sway loyalty anymore."
Acacia glanced between the two of them, her smile lingering.
After the meal, a maid approached Acacia and whispered, "The Duke has asked to see you in his study, milady."
Acacia nodded.
The Duke's study was warm, the late morning sun spilling through heavy drapes and casting soft golden patterns across the polished wood of his desk. Nathaniel Ashcroft stood with his back to her, gazing out at the snow-laced garden beyond the window.
"You wished to see me, Duke?" she asked gently, pausing at the threshold.
He turned at the sound of her voice. His face, at first composed and unreadable, softened the moment his eyes met hers. He motioned toward the chair opposite his own.
"Come in, Acacia."
She stepped forward and sat, her hands folding neatly in her lap, her posture proper but guarded.
There was a quiet moment before he spoke, his voice low, thoughtful. "I saw you wandering yesterday. "His tone held no scolding, only observation. A father noticing.
Acacia blinked. "I wasn't trying to be difficult," she said, quickly. "Something caught my eye, that's all. I didn't mean to trouble anyone."
Nathaniel nodded slowly. "It's been some time since you came to us," he began, voice steady but warm. "When we found you that day, there was no name, no past, only a girl with a will to live despite everything."
He paused, choosing his next words with care.
"We don't know who you were before, Acacia. But in these months… you've shown who you are now. Thoughtful. Resilient. With a spark I can't quite name but refuse to ignore."
He met her eyes.
"This family has long stood for protecting the borders of this empire. But not everything worth protecting wears armor. Sometimes, it's the ones trying quietly to rebuild themselves. I don't know what brought you to that forest, but I know this, you were meant to cross our path."
She looked down, her fingers unconsciously brushing the silver chain beneath her collar, where the hourglass pendant rested against her skin. It hadn't glowed that morning. But something about his words stirred a soft ache in her chest, like a melody she almost remembered.
He continued, "I spoke with Mirena last night. We both agree, it's time we make it clear."
Acacia's brows lifted slightly.
"You belong here, Acacia. Not as a guest or ward. But as our daughter."
She stared at him.
"As Acacia Ashcroft," he said, firmly but gently. "It's a name that belongs to you now, if you'll have it. Mirena believes it too, she already speaks of you as one of her own. Even the boys care for you and the staff ask after you when you're not around.""
"I... I don't know how to be that," she whispered. "A daughter. Yours."
Nathaniel leaned forward, resting one hand over hers on the desk, warm, steady, grounding. "You don't need to know yet. All you need is to stay. And let us show you what it means."
She didn't speak, but her eyes welled up, just slightly.
"And yes, there are memories you've lost, parts of yourself you're still searching for," he added, voice quieter now, "that's all right. You are not less for it. Whatever your past was, your future can begin here."
She nodded slowly. For the first time in weeks, her fingers loosened their hold around the hourglass pendant.