The sun had barely crept over the eastern hills when the bells of Valemont Hall tolled for morning. Their echo threaded softly through the corridors, brushing away the remnants of a sleepless night.
In the east wing, Seraphina stirred beneath the pale light. For a moment, she couldn't tell if she was still dreaming — the image of the cold stone room lingered behind her eyelids, so vivid she could almost feel the chill of it. She sat up slowly, rubbing her temples, and glanced toward her sister's door across the corridor.
It opened at the same time as hers.
Selene stood there, fully dressed but pale, eyes rimmed with fatigue.
Neither spoke. They didn't have to. The same question shimmered unspoken between them: Was it truly just a dream?
Down the marble stairs came the murmur of male voices — deep, familiar. Their father's, and another.
The twins exchanged a look, and without a word, descended together.
At the foot of the staircase, in the sunlight-dappled hall, Lord Devan stood beside Lord Valemont, both men deep in discussion. Devan looked composed yet alert, dressed in riding attire, his gloved hands clasped behind his back. Their father's expression was grave, his voice low enough that the words didn't quite reach the girls.
When he noticed them, he straightened. "Ah, my daughters," he greeted, gesturing toward Devan. "His Lordship called early — he wished to bid us good morning before his departure to the capital."
Selene managed a polite smile. "So soon, my lord?"
Devan inclined his head courteously. "Affairs of the court, I'm afraid. The King has called for counsel on certain… matters of succession."
Seraphina felt his eyes flick toward her — a brief glance, almost unreadable — before returning to her father.
Lord Valemont motioned for them all to sit in the breakfast room, where the table gleamed beneath the morning sun. Silver trays steamed with tea and buttered rolls, but the air carried a stiffness that no warmth could soften.
As they ate, their father seemed distant, his mind elsewhere. Devan spoke easily of travel and politics, but his words were cautious, measured.
Seraphina barely touched her tea. The night's dream kept creeping back — the sound of the man's voice, the twitch of the dead woman's hand, and that single word echoing in her mind: Soon.
At the head of the table, her father's ring caught the light. For an instant, the reflection flashed across his face — and Seraphina shivered, remembering the same glint of gold in the dreamer's hand.
When the meal ended, Devan rose, bowed to the family, and took his leave.
As soon as the doors closed behind him, Selene exhaled shakily, her fingers tightening around her cup.
Seraphina leaned closer, whispering, "What were they speaking of before we came down?"
Selene shook her head. "I couldn't tell. But Father looked… troubled."
Her voice trailed off as she noticed the faint smudge of ash on their father's sleeve — black dust, like candle soot.
Seraphina followed her gaze. Her pulse quickened.
He caught them both watching and forced a smile. "You girls should rest today. You look pale."
Then he turned and left the room.
The twins sat in silence for a long time, the ticking clock filling the space between them.
Finally, Seraphina whispered, "Selene… do you think Father was in that dream too?"
Selene didn't answer. But the tremor in her hand spoke for her.
After their father left the breakfast room, silence pressed against the walls like a second skin. Selene excused herself, muttering something about headaches, and disappeared down the corridor.
Seraphina lingered a while longer, tracing the rim of her untouched teacup. The morning light pouring through the high windows was golden and calm, but it didn't reach the chill that had settled beneath her skin.
Needing air, she rose and stepped into the garden.
The autumn roses were in bloom, their scent faint but sharp. The hedges glistened with dew, and beyond the marble archway, the fountain murmured softly. For a moment, she let herself breathe. The night's dream, the strange breakfast, her father's distant look — she wanted to believe it was all exhaustion, nothing more.
She turned toward the corridor that connected the east garden to the inner hall — and froze.
Through the tall glass panes of the gallery, she saw a woman walking slowly down the hall. Her gown was pale, flowing, almost translucent in the morning light. By her side, a small child walked hand in hand with her, head bowed.
Seraphina's breath caught.
The figures moved without sound, their steps gliding, almost floating. The woman's hair shimmered faintly — silver-blonde, like her own.
"Selene?" she whispered instinctively. But something in her heart already knew it wasn't.
Without thinking, she hurried through the side door into the hall. Her shoes clicked sharply against the tiles, echoing in the vast emptiness.
The corridor stretched long and still, sunlight cutting clean bars across the floor. But the woman and child were gone.
"Hello?" Seraphina called softly, her voice trembling. "Is someone there?"
No reply. Only the faint hum of wind against the old glass.
She stepped farther in, her pulse quickening. Where they had walked, the air felt colder — unnaturally so.
Her eyes caught on a smudge on the floor near the far end of the hall: a faint, wet handprint. Small. A child's.
She knelt slowly, her fingers hovering just above it. The print was fresh, damp as if left moments ago.
Then—
A low sound, like a sigh, drifted from behind her.
Seraphina spun around. The hall was empty.
The air thickened, her breath visible in the light. And for a heartbeat — just one — she thought she saw a reflection flicker in the glass of a framed portrait: a woman's face behind her shoulder, eyes hollow, mouth slightly open as if whispering something she could not hear.
Then it was gone.
Seraphina stumbled backward, her chest tight. She turned and fled into the open garden, the sunlight striking her face like a jolt back to reality.
But as she looked back toward the manor's tall windows, she saw Selene standing there, at her chamber window — watching her.