Three days had passed since the assassination attempt.
The manor had returned to its usual rhythm — or at least, pretended to. The halls buzzed softly with routine: servants sweeping marble floors, maids whispering in corners, the faint clink of teacups echoing through the corridors. Yet beneath it all, an invisible tension hummed like a taut string.
And Kael Dravenhart was nowhere to be found.
Not truly. Not where she could reach him.
Zelene noticed it the morning after the attack — how he'd left early "for estate matters." The next day, "urgent correspondence." Then the third, a quiet dinner where his seat was already empty, the food untouched but the candle still burning.
He was avoiding her. Purposefully. Skillfully. Like a man well-versed in disappearing without leaving a trace.
Every time she tried to speak to him, he was already gone.
Once, she had cornered Darius in the east corridor, arms crossed.
"Where is your master hiding?"
Darius, the poor man, blinked rapidly, caught between loyalty and survival. "My lady, His Grace has been occupied—"
"With what? Counting the number of ways he can walk past me without looking?"
"…Estate affairs," Darius mumbled weakly, his gaze darting anywhere but her eyes.
Zelene had sighed dramatically. "Unbelievable. The man faces down entire armies but can't handle a conversation with a woman."
The guard stationed nearby had coughed — either in sympathy or fear. Possibly both.
By the third evening, even the staff had started whispering.
She caught fragments as she passed the hallways — murmured words quickly swallowed by silence.
"—avoiding her, surely—"
"—since the garden incident—"
"—perhaps he's angry—"
"—or perhaps… worried?"
The idea that Kael might be worried should have pleased her. It didn't. It only made her chest ache in a way she didn't want to name.
So, instead of sulking, she decided to investigate.
If Kael wouldn't talk to her, someone else would.
The Dravenhart servants had a way of shrinking when she walked past — polite bows, averted eyes, murmured greetings that ended as soon as she was out of earshot. It wasn't hostility. It was fear disguised as respect.
Except for one woman.
"Good morning, Lady Evandelle," came a voice smooth as silk and twice as sharp.
Zelene turned.
The head maid stood there, immaculate in her crisp uniform, dark hair pinned with surgical precision, not a strand out of place. Her poise carried the weight of someone who knew she was untouchable within these walls.
"Mistress Miren," Zelene greeted, recalling the name Darius had once muttered with a grimace. "You're quite the elusive one yourself."
Miren smiled — perfectly polite, perfectly false. "I'm afraid I keep busy, my lady. The household does not run on charm alone."
Zelene returned the smile, hers softer, but with teeth. "Ah, but charm does make it easier to control people."
Miren tilted her head slightly, as though studying a curious insect. "I suppose it does, if one prefers control over respect."
The other maids nearby froze mid-task, the air thickening like a storm cloud. Zelene almost laughed. It had been days since someone dared talk back to her.
"Then you must have plenty of both," Zelene said sweetly.
Miren bowed, gracefully shallow. "You flatter me, my lady."
Over the next few days, Zelene began to notice Miren's presence everywhere.
Always near Kael — at the study door, at the end of the corridor, hovering by the table during breakfast. Her deference to him was absolute. She anticipated his needs before he spoke, fetched his letters before he asked.
But when Zelene entered the room, Miren's posture changed. Just slightly.
A stiffening of shoulders. A pause that lingered a heartbeat too long. A fleeting glance that said: you don't belong here.
Once, Zelene caught her giving orders to a young maid in the west wing — her voice low, cold.
"If I catch you gossiping about the Lady again, you'll be scrubbing the stables by morning."
The girl had paled and fled.
And when Miren turned, spotting Zelene watching from the archway, her face melted back into professional serenity.
"Ah, my lady," she said, tone honey-sweet. "I was merely reminding the staff to behave with respect."
Zelene smiled. "Respect," she echoed, "or silence?"
Miren's lashes fluttered. "They're the same thing, sometimes."
By the end of the week, Zelene's patience had begun to crack.
She finally caught Kael in the library — or, rather, cornered him there. He stood by the window, sunlight cutting across his face, turning his eyes into molten silver.
"You've been avoiding me," she said flatly.
He didn't even turn. "I've been busy."
"With what? Brooding? You've done that your whole life, I imagine."
That earned her a faint exhale — not quite a laugh. More like a sigh fighting not to exist.
"Zelene—"
"No," she cut him off, stepping closer. "You don't get to vanish after something like that. Someone tried to kill me. I deserve to know what's going on."
His jaw tightened. "It was handled."
"Was it?" she pressed. "Because you've been acting like I'm the one who drew the knife."
That made him turn at last. His gaze locked on hers, cool and unreadable. "Because you're the one who stood in its path."
The words hit harder than she expected. For a moment, silence stretched — taut and fragile.
Then Kael turned away again. "You should be more careful."
"I was alone for five minutes—"
"And that was enough," he said quietly. "Enough for someone to try to kill you."
Zelene froze. The calm in his voice wasn't indifference. It was restraint — like something heavier lurked underneath.
She didn't know what to say after that.
And Kael, true to form, used her silence as his escape. "I have work to attend to."
He left without another word, the faint scent of parchment and steel trailing behind him.
Zelene sank into one of the chairs, exhaling a long, tired breath.
Three days since the attack. Three days of avoidance. Three days of pretending she wasn't rattled by any of it.
And now, she had a head maid with daggers in her smile and a duke who couldn't look her in the eyes.
She stared out the same window Kael had just stood by. The afternoon sun poured over the gardens, golden and cruelly calm — as if mocking the chaos brewing beneath Dravenhart's polished surface.
She whispered to herself, half a sigh, half a vow:
"Fine. If he wants distance, I'll just have to cross it myself."