Night in the Valebridge manor carried a weight different from the chaos of Gravemont's streets.
By day, the estate pulsed with life—servants rushing to and fro with trays of food, gardeners trimming the hedges with meticulous care, horses stamping their hooves in the courtyard as grooms called out orders. The manor was a machine, every cog whirring with precision under the banner of a Duke's authority.
But at night, the machine stilled.
The pale stone walls turned silver beneath the moonlight, tall windows reflecting the glow like unblinking eyes. The carved spires, reaching skyward, seemed less like architecture and more like watchtowers keeping vigil over the slumbering world. Inside, firelight dimmed, corridors hushed, and shadows lengthened until it felt as though the house itself were holding its breath.
In one of the guest chambers, Lucien Graves sat motionless on the couch, as though carved into place.
The room was lavish—far too lavish for him. Thick carpets woven with intricate western motifs muffled every step. A great canopy bed draped in embroidered silk dominated the chamber, its posts carved into twisting vines. A gilded mirror leaned against one wall, reflecting the glow of a hearth whose fire had been stoked to a steady warmth. Portraits of long-dead Valebridges watched from their frames, eyes painted with a sharpness that gave the unsettling impression they followed movement.
Corin Aldewick lay sprawled across the bed, his chest rising and falling with the ease of someone untroubled by nightmares. Sleep softened his features, turning him almost boyish—too young, too naïve, too harmless.
Lucien's gaze lingered only a moment before drifting back to the flames. He had no interest in sleep. Sleep meant surrendering. It meant loosening his hold on the fragile walls that kept the whispers at bay. And when the walls cracked, when darkness surged in, he was dragged to the other world. Or worse, something from that world might bleed into this one.
Better to remain awake. Better to sit still and let silence surround him.
The hours passed, and with them, the fire dwindled. Shadows thickened across the floorboards, stretching into the corners until the room seemed to breathe with quiet unease.
Then—
A scream.
It ripped through the stillness, sharp and piercing, filled with a terror that clawed into the bones. A woman's scream—young, desperate, and near.
Lucien did not move at first. His body, trained by instinct, told him to stay put. Survival depended on knowing when to step away. This was not his affair. He owed Lady Elowen nothing. To interfere was to draw attention, to draw danger.
But his thoughts betrayed him. He recalled the bruise on her cheek when she had returned from her father's office earlier, faintly visible beneath strands of golden hair. The way she had carried herself with cold dignity despite the mark.
His body rose before his mind reached a decision.
Across the room, Corin stirred, mumbling incoherently, but did not wake.
Lucien slipped into the corridor. The lamps there cast narrow pools of golden light, leaving long veins of darkness between them. The scream had silenced, but its echo lingered in the air, clinging like smoke.
Two guards lay slumped outside Lady Elowen's chamber. One bled from a shallow gash at his temple, the other groaned faintly, stunned but alive. Their spears clattered uselessly on the ground.
Lucien's pulse did not quicken. He stepped over them and pushed the door open.
The chamber beyond was a study in contrast.
Lady Elowen's quarters reflected her station—rich velvet curtains draped the tall windows, their folds catching moonlight in silver patterns. The bed was carved mahogany, its posts wound with golden inlay. Shelves lined with books hinted at a mind hungry for knowledge. A polished harp stood neglected in the corner, and scattered across a writing desk were letters and sealed documents—duties of nobility pressed into wax and ink.
But now the room was chaos.
Elowen stood cornered, her nightgown torn at the shoulder, hair disheveled. Three masked intruders loomed around her, boots grinding against the silk rug. One clamped her wrist against the bedframe, another advanced with hungry malice, while the third turned sharply at Lucien's intrusion.
The man lunged. His movements were efficient, precise—trained. His hand darted for Lucien's throat, fingers curled to snap bone.
Lucien shifted aside in silence, the strike grazing air. He met the man's eyes with a flat, unblinking stare. He had seen enough death to know when it approached.
The attacker staggered. A blade jutted through his throat—appearing as though conjured by shadow itself.
Lucien turned.
Corin stood in the doorway.
But it was not the Corin he knew.
The nervous boy who laughed too easily and fumbled over words was gone. His posture was coiled, his breathing steady, his gaze chillingly clear. He moved with deliberate precision, not the wild panic of someone defending themselves, but the calculated rhythm of one who had killed before.
The remaining intruders faltered.
Corin blurred. One moment he was across the room, the next his hands were at an attacker's neck. A twist—too fast, too sharp—and the man collapsed. The other barely raised his blade before it was wrenched away and he too fell, body crumpling against the tapestries.
It was over in breaths.
Elowen gasped, clutching the bedpost. Her knuckles whitened, her shoulders trembled, but she did not scream again. Her noble blood demanded composure even in terror.
Corin's body swayed. The unnatural sharpness drained from his face, leaving only confusion. His eyes widened, hands trembling as if they no longer belonged to him. He collapsed, unconscious, onto the rug stained by shadows and silence.
Lucien did not move to catch him. He only observed, his deadened eyes narrowing slightly.
The door burst open. Maids shrieked, guards stormed in, and the chamber flooded with noise. Gasps rose at the sight of Lady Elowen, disheveled but unbroken, at the fallen intruders, and at the two boys standing amid it all.
Some guards' hands drifted to their weapons. Maids whispered behind trembling fingers. Scandal lurked in every glance—the Duke's daughter, endangered in her own chambers. If word spread, it would poison the Valebridge name.
Elowen straightened.
The faint bruise on her cheek was half-hidden by loose hair, but she ignored it. With practiced grace, she stepped forward. Her voice was steady, her authority unquestionable.
"These young men saved my life," she declared, sweeping her gaze over the room. "You will treat them with the utmost care and respect. See to it at once."
Her tone cut through the whispers, brooking no refusal. The guards bowed reluctantly, the maids curtsied, and the bodies were carried away.
Lucien's eyes lingered on her, faintly curious. She did not crumble, though fear lingered behind her eyes. She masked it beneath composure, wielding dignity like armor.
In that moment, he understood something of her.
Lady Elowen Valebridge was not merely a noble bound by luxury. She was a creature who understood masks, who knew how to endure bruises—physical and otherwise—without allowing them to shatter her façade.
Lucien said nothing.
He simply stood in silence, as the night thickened with secrets and Gravemont's quiet grandeur turned hostile within its very heart.