Ophelia Ashvale's POV
The hidden passage felt less terrifying the second time.
The stone moved smoothly under her fingers, worn from thirteen years of someone using it. She slipped through the opening and into the darkness, her hands trailing along walls she was beginning to memorize.
When she emerged into the library, her breath caught the same way it had the first time.
But this time, she wasn't alone.
He was already there—the Duke, or Vanus, or whoever he really was beneath the mask. He stood before the fireplace, one hand resting on the mantelpiece, his entire body rigid with tension. The library fire was low, casting his silhouette in sharp relief.
He was looking at the portrait.
"You came back," he said without turning.
"You told me I could."
"People rarely do what they're told. They claim they will, then they don't. You keep surprising me." He finally turned, and she saw that he'd removed the cloth that covered the scarred side of his face. The burn marks were visible in the firelight—brutal, twisted, the kind of scars that never fully healed. His left eye was slightly different, slightly smaller, pulled tight by scar tissue. But his right eye—the unburned one—watched her with an intensity that made her feel seen.
Truly seen, for the first time since she'd left Marta's shop.
Ophelia moved closer to the portrait. This time, she studied it more carefully. The boy was maybe sixteen, seventeen—close to her age, or at least he had been once. He wore fine clothes and held a sword, but his expression was soft, almost gentle. His eyes—those same ice-blue eyes she'd seen through the mask—held warmth.
"Tell me about them," she said softly. "Your family."
He was silent so long she thought he wouldn't answer. Then:
"My father was the Duke before me. Honorable. Strict, but fair. He taught me everything about leadership—how to manage estates, how to command soldiers, how to understand politics." His voice was measured, controlled, but she heard the effort behind it. "My mother was kind. She raised gardens on the fortress grounds, spent her days making the place less like a prison and more like a home."
He gestured to the young girl in the portrait. "That's Celestia. She was only twelve when..." He couldn't finish.
"When what?" Ophelia whispered.
"When the Emperor's soldiers came."
His entire body went very still.
"We were a powerful house," he continued, and his voice sounded hollow now, like it was coming from very far away. "One of the most powerful in the empire. For centuries, the Nocturnes stood beside the throne. But when the new Emperor seized power—when he murdered the Lysander dynasty..." He paused, and Ophelia's breath caught at hearing her own family name from his lips. "The Nocturnes hesitated. We had been friends with the Lysanders. Allies. The Emperor noticed our hesitation."
"What did he do?"
"He decided to make an example of us." His hand rose to his scarred face, tracing the twisted marks with his fingertips like he was relearning them. "Imperial soldiers came in the night. They set the manor on fire. Trapped my parents inside. They dragged my sister—screaming, fighting, trying to reach me—and they..." His voice broke. Just barely. Just enough that she heard the fracture. "I tried to save her. I fought them. I ran through burning halls, and the fire took me, and—"
He stopped. Took a breath. Continued.
"I failed."
Ophelia felt tears sliding down her cheeks before she realized she was crying. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"Don't be." He looked at her with those damaged, damaged eyes. "Sympathy is wasted on monsters."
"You're not a monster."
The words came out stronger than she'd intended. His entire body went rigid.
"You don't know me," he said, dangerous and quiet.
"I know you didn't hurt me when you had the chance. I know you gave me warnings instead of executing me. I know..." She gestured around the library. "I know you keep this place. A place full of books and memories and—and life. Monsters don't do that."
For a long moment, he didn't move. Didn't breathe. Didn't acknowledge her words.
Then something shifted in his expression.
"You can read?" he asked suddenly, like the previous conversation hadn't happened.
"I taught myself. Newspapers, discarded pages, anything I could find in the slums."
Something that might have been respect flickered across his face. "This library was my sister's favorite place. She spent hours here, reading poetry, sketching flowers, planning the life she wanted to live." His hand swept across the shelves. "After she died, I couldn't bear to let it stay empty. Couldn't bear to let her be completely forgotten."
He turned to face Ophelia fully, and she realized she was seeing him—the real him—for the first time. Not the Duke. Not the monster. Just a man who'd survived tragedy and carried it like a stone in his chest.
"You can come here," he said quietly. "At night, when the tower is quiet. When no one will see you. You can read all the books you want. You can—" He paused, seeming to struggle with the words. "You don't have to be alone."
Ophelia looked at the portrait of the girl who'd loved this library, who'd dreamed of a life beyond the fortress, who'd never gotten the chance to live it.
And she understood that Vanus—the boy in the portrait, the man before her—was as much a prisoner as she was.
Just a different kind of cage.
"Thank you," she whispered.
He nodded, and for the first time since she'd arrived at the fortress, she saw something that looked almost like peace cross his scarred face.