"My little pawn. We've a long road ahead before you learn who I am."
The hood over his face wavered by the silent breeze cleaning the toxic smoke.
The his hand brushed against her temple—steady, deliberate, almost… possessive.
"Sleep, Elira Rothermere. Your game has only begun."
he lifted her from the ground, carrying her bridal as though she weighed nothing.
—.—>>>>●●●<<<<—.—
At the Astal Pavillion.
Cool breeze slipped in through the half-open window, brushing across her skin like a phantom's hand.
"Where… am I?" Elira whispered, her voice cracked, faint.
Then realization struck her like a blow.
'Hell! It would be a great crisis if anyone discovered I wasn't in Astral!'
Her body jolted upright, eyes snapping open, chest rising with shallow breaths. For a moment, shadows seemed to twist at the edges of her vision. She scanned the chamber in frantic haste.
"…This—this is Astral Pavilion…?!" she murmured, disbelief curling in her tone. All she remembered was passing out in ally of toxic smoke.
Her gaze fell to her own hands, still in tremor.
'Did that unknown man… brought me back?'
Her pulse quickened. Another thought lashed her mind.
'Elira, not now! If someone knocks and sees you like this, you'll scare the ghosts out of them!'
She staggered to her feet, though her limbs felt weighed down with iron.
"I need to change."
The moment her bare feet touched the mat, a sharp spasm tore through her body, forcing a strangled gasp from her lips. She bit down on it, jaw locked tight.
'Just get up, Elira. You can't let anyone see you in this filthy, bloodstained dress.'
She dragged herself toward the closet, every step scraping against the pain, and wrenched it open with trembling fingers. Silk gowns rustled like whispers in the dark. With stubborn resolve, she stripped the ruined garment from her body and forced herself into a fresh one, tying the laces with clumsy urgency.
That was when the footsteps came. Slow, certain, drawing nearer. Then a knock rattled the door.
"Elira? Are you in there?" Thorne's voice carried from the hall, sharp and impatient. "The banquet is nearly over. The guests are preparing to leave."
Her heart dropped.
'Thorne. Gods, I need to finish before he sees me like this!'
"Yes, brother—just a moment!" she called back, pitching her tone to sound light, steady, anything but what she truly was.
Her hands fumbled with the final ribbon, her breath ragged as though she had run miles. She stole one last glance in the mirror—her reflection pale, beautiful with pink lips, eyes gleaming too sharp in the light. And perfect.
She opened the door, only to find her handsome brother standing there in his striking formal attire, just as before.
"You changed your dress…? This one suits you as well. The ribbons look almost like jewels."
'Of course, I had to hide the marks on my neck and wrists. If you noticed them, even by accident, I can't imagine what war you'd start to hunt down the culprit.'
With a faint exhale, she forced a smile.
"Yes, I look good… don't I, Brother?"
Thorne studied her for a moment before replying.
"Yes. But Serina mentioned you were unwell—and that she saw you heading into the garden. Yet, here you are in your room."
Elira's smile didn't falter, though her fingers twitched against the folds of her gown.
"Serina must have been mistaken," she replied softly, her words honeyed with practiced ease. "I straight went to my chambers as crowd suffocated me."
Thorne's gaze lingered on her longer than comfort allowed, sharp, doubtful as blade yet softened by concern. He stepped closer, the faint scent of wine and steel following him.
"Strange. Serina is not one to imagine things. She swore she saw you in the light, walking toward the gardens as though in a trance."
A chill trickled down Elira's spine.
She tilted her head, letting her laughter slip out—thin, airy, rehearsed.
"Then perhaps the garden itself birthed a ghost in my image. After all, the Pavilion has no shortage of restless shadows, does it?"
His brows knitted, irritation flickering in his eyes. "You jest at the wrong time, Elira."
For a heartbeat, silence pressed between them. She could feel his suspicion hanging heavy in the air, threatening to peel away her careful mask.
So she reached for him, brushing her hand along his sleeve as though to anchor his attention.
"Brother, you worry too much. Look at me—do I seem so fragile?"
But her grip trembled, betraying the truth.
Thorne's eyes narrowed, his voice lowering into a growl.
"You're hiding something. I can see it in your face. Tell me who—"
A sudden chime echoed through the Pavilion, cutting him off. The banquet bells—signaling the carriages had begun to depart.
Both turned their heads instinctively toward the sound. The interruption was enough for Elira to slip her hand away and straighten her posture, her mask sliding back into place.
"We mustn't keep the guests waiting," she whispered, already moving past him. Her steps wavered, but pride forced them steady.
Thorne followed, silent, his expression shadowed with unspoken questions.
And in the pit of her chest, Elira's heart throbbed with the certainty that this was only the beginning—her brother's eyes were too sharp, his loyalty too absolute. If he discovered the truth of her wounds, there would be blood spilled before dawn.
'Although I locked the room, I must dispose of that gown… and commission one identical to it.'
Elira's thoughts lingered in the dim corridor, heavy as the fabric of the black-diamond dress itself.
But before she could move further, a low voice cut through the silence—firm, paternal, and impossible to ignore.
"Elira."
Her father, Duke Rothermere, stood at the end of the hall, broad shoulders casting a long shadow beneath the sconces. His voice, calm yet edged with suspicion, pulled her attention like iron to a magnet.
"All the guests have departed. Where were you hiding?" His gaze lowered, sharp and deliberate. "And more importantly—where is your debut dress?"
The question struck her harder than expected. For a fleeting moment, her carefully laid excuses slipped from her grasp, leaving her exposed.
Before she could form an answer, the weight of another gaze pressed against her—her eldest brother, Thorne. His eyes, piercing and far too perceptive, narrowed with quiet reproach. The path of denial was already blocked by that single, wordless scrutiny.
And as if fate delighted in tightening the noose, Serina's curious eyes followed suit, wide with concern. Beside her, Duke Hysenberg—her father—lifted a brow in a manner far less innocent, studying Elira with the quiet calculation of a man who missed little.
Elira's breath hitched. What had been a private burden moments ago had become a spectacle of eyes and silent questions.
She smoothed her expression into composure, though her heart drummed an erratic rhythm.
"I… was unwell," she said softly, lowering her lashes, choosing her words with surgical care. "The dress—" she paused, deliberately letting uncertainty trail in her tone, "It felt a bit suffocating... so changed to this."
Elira's words dissolved into the hush of the corridor. The silence stretched taut, as if every pair of eyes measured the weight of her excuse, prying at its seams.
Her father's gaze lingered, unreadable yet heavy, before he inclined his head the slightest degree. It was neither acceptance nor dismissal, merely postponement. Thorne's expression, however, told her he was far from satisfied—his eyes cut through her veil of composure like a blade seeking its sheath.
But before the silence could harden into demand, another voice rose behind them.
"Duke Rothermere."
Baron Griffith, stout yet sharp-eyed, stepped from the shadows of the departing crowd, his cane striking the marble floor in slow, deliberate rhythm. His presence alone pulled the eyes of all gathered—Serina's startled gaze, Duke Hysenberg's cautious curiosity, even Thorne's reluctant attention.
The Baron inclined his head with a smile too thin to be called courteous.
"There is a matter I must press upon you before I take my leave. It concerns… a maid in your household."
The mention alone was enough to ripple unease through the air. Elira felt the blood drain from her face—her mind flashing instantly to her.
'So Baron met Lira!'
Her father's jaw tightened.
"A maid?"