"A maid?" Duke repeated, his tone clipped.
"You come to me about servants at this hour?"
Baron Griffith leaned closer, voice lowering though it carried easily.
"Not just any servant your grace. A girl I encountered near the Pavilion's outer court tonight. She bore a striking resemblance to one I lost long ago. My daughter."
Duke Hysenberg's eyes sharpened, while Serina's lips parted in a soft gasp. Even Thorne's stern composure shifted—his frown deepening with distrust.
Elira's fingers curled tight against her gown, her pulse thundering beneath her calm mask.
'They met, he saw her just like in last timeline !' The thought itself scared her inward.
'But actually it wasn't by accident it was deliberate. Time earlier I was too busy Acompaning Empress and all these I lighten me too late.'
Duke Rothermere's voice cut in like steel. "You dare imply the blood of Griffith runs in my household staff?"
Baron Griffith did not flinch beneath the weight of the duke's ire. Instead, he smiled—a smile that reeked of certainty.
"I do not imply, your grace. I state what I saw. The girl is no common servant. She carries the resemblance of my late wife, her very features, Pale complexion. Fate itself would not allow me to mistake her."
His cane struck the floor again, echoing finality.
"I wish to see her. To confirm what my heart already knows."
All eyes turned—first to Duke Rothermere, whose silence was more dangerous than words. Gave a grave pause.
Baron Griffith, though a quiet presence in court, stood closer to the King's friend list in first than any noble head. To defy his words was, in truth, to oppose the King himself—albeit in subtle form.
Elira lowered her lashes, concealing the gleam of dread beneath them.
' If he is speaking of Lira… then the first thread of her mask is already unraveling.'
The air bristled, fragile, waiting for the next word.
At last, Elira's voice rang clear—measured, deliberate, almost daring.
"Bring the maids out,who looks as Baron described." she ordered, turning her gaze toward Wystan, who stood sentinel by the door.
The command cracked through the air like a whip.
Duke Rothermere's eyes snapped to her, weight heavy as an executioner's blade. His silence was thunderous—his glance a question as sharp as a sword unsheathed: Am I the head of this house, or are you?
Elira did not flinch. She met his gaze, calm yet unyielding, the faintest shadow of a smile curving her lips. A dangerous smile.
"Father," she said softly, though her words sliced with quiet defiance, "better that the truth be revealed in the open than whispered in corners. If this accusation festers unseen, it will stain household worse than any servant could."
A tense pause gripped the chamber. Wystan hesitated, torn between his duke's silence and Elira's command.
At last, Duke Rothermere exhaled, low and heavy, a sound that seemed to grind against the air itself. His jaw flexed, then stilled, his gaze sliding from Elira to the Baron with a chill that could freeze blood.
"...So be it," he said, voice dark as the storm clouds gathering beyond the glass.
The words fell with reluctant finality, yet they carried the same precision as a blade choosing its mark.
He turned to Wystan, his tone iron.
"Bring them. Discribed maid in this household, before us at once."
Wystan bowed, relief flickering across his features before he moved swiftly to obey.
'This is where fun lies... ' The thought swelled warm to her cheeks.
Minutes trickled by, the chamber silent save for the low crackle of the fire. The hush felt stretched taut, each heartbeat a drum against Elira's ribs.
At last, the door creaked open. Wystan returned, his normally impassive face carved with unease. At his side walked the head maid, her crisp apron immaculate, yet her steps faltered as she felt the weight of so many eyes.
Duke Rothermere's gaze was a blade. "Well?"
The head maid bowed low, her voice trembling though she fought to steady it.
"Your grace… the maid Baron Griffith describes—I believe it must be Lira. Pale, quiet, keeps most to herself. Many have remarked on her uncommon features. But…"
Her throat bobbed, words catching like thorns.
"She is… not in the servants' wing. She was sent back with Rothermere estate."
A ripple of tension swept the room.
Elira lowered her lashes to mask the satisfaction flickering in her eyes.
'Of course she isn't here'
Baron Griffith's cane rapped sharply against the marble once more.
"Sent back?"
The head maid didn't flinched but kept her composure, hands proper at her apron. "My lord. She was… deemed unnecessary for the household's current needs and reassigned to Rothermere estate. We expected her to return soon after the banquet season."
Elira's lashes swept low, hiding the faint curve of her lips.
'Not at the estate… not anymore. I know where you are, little serpent. Out beyond these walls, out beyond duchy. But not for long. At midnight you'll crawl back, just as you always do.'
The memory burned in her mind—another life, another night when Lira had vanished, only to reappear hours past midnight, face as serene as porcelain, eyes holding calm that gnawed like worms through the dark.
'She slips away as if into air itself… but she always returns before dawn, as though chained to this place by something unseen. Midnight is her hour of crossing.'
'Even after ratification she asked Baron to let her stay here as hand maid of mine as it would be honor for her to serve Empress to be'
Serina's soft voice broke the stillness. "If… if she is gone, then should we not send riders to fetch her back?" Her naiveté hung trembling in the chamber, a voice of reason too fragile for such a storm.
Thorne shook his head grimly.
"No. If she is as the Baron says, best we confirm with our own eyes. To act in haste would be reckless."
Baron Griffith's smile widened, unbothered, as though every twist of resistance only confirmed his certainty.
"Then I shall wait. A man who has searched for his blood these many years can suffer a few more hours."
Elira's heart thrummed beneath her bodice, but her face was carved from calm stone.
'Wait, then. You'll see her—yes. But not as the daughter you dream her to be. You'll see what I saw, what killed me once before.'
"Baron Griffith," Duke Rothermere said at last, his voice cool yet edged with command. "Until morning, let the hospitality of House Rothermere be yours. At first light, a carriage shall be prepared to see you safely to your estate."
His gaze shifted to Wystan, sharp as a drawn blade.
"See that suitable quarters are made ready for our guest. Attend to his needs with care, and assign a maid to his service for the night."
Wystan bowed low, the quiet rustle of his coat a small sound in the charged stillness.
"As you command, my lord."
Baron Griffith inclined his head, though the faint curve of his lips suggested satisfaction rather than gratitude. His cane tapped once against the floor, a final punctuation to the evening's storm.
"Your courtesy honors me, Duke Rothermere. I shall await the truth with patience."
As Wystan stepped forward to escort him from the chamber, Serina exhaled softly, as if the air itself had grown too heavy to breathe. Thorne's watchful gaze lingered on the Baron until the door shut behind him.