The manor felt quieter than usual that evening.
Even with the distant clatter of the kitchen staff preparing the next day's meals and the soft rustle of wind against the tall windows, a strange stillness hung in the air. Seraphine stood by the long corridor on the third floor, a single candle flickering in her hand.
She hadn't meant to wander—her intention was only to find one of the storybooks she'd left near the sitting room. But something inside her pulled her elsewhere. A quiet hum, almost like a whisper in her chest, guiding her deeper into the older, unused wing of the manor.
As she stepped into the dust-laced hallway, her candle cast long shadows across the wood-paneled walls. Her fingers trailed over a faded tapestry depicting mythical beasts—wolves, ravens, and antlered stags locked in battle.
Then she saw it.
A door slightly ajar at the end of the corridor.
It hadn't been open before.
She approached carefully, every step louder in the silence. As she nudged the door open with her fingertips, a gust of musty air greeted her.
It was an old study. Perhaps once used by a lord long before Alaric. Books lined the walls, but many were covered in sheets or left haphazardly on the long desk at the center of the room.
Seraphine stepped inside, drawn immediately to the ancient desk. Dust puffed into the air as she pulled out the old drawers. She found scrolls, faded parchments, and then… a thin leather roll, sealed with a broken ribbon.
Carefully, she unfurled it.
A map.
The ink had faded with age, but the names were still legible. Regions sprawled across vast lands—some familiar, others lost to time. Her eyes drifted across the labeled cities and kingdoms… until one name snatched her breath.
Santossa.
Her fingers froze over the worn parchment.
She didn't recognize the name from books or geography lessons. But still… something about it struck her deeply. It felt like a memory just beyond reach—a soft lullaby, a scent of burning wood, the echo of wolves howling under a full moon.
A sudden ache bloomed in her chest, deep and longing.
She stared longer, tracing the curved letters of Santossa over and over, until something else caught her eye. Just below the region's name, scribbled in a different ink:
"Land of the Moonborne. Blood and shadow. Watcher of the West."
She whispered the words aloud without thinking, and a faint pulse shivered through her fingertips.
Suddenly, she heard a sound—soft and swift—the familiar creak of the main doors downstairs.
Startled, she quickly rolled up the map and tucked it into the drawer where she found it. She gathered her candle and rushed down the corridor, trying to calm the pounding of her heart.
As she descended the grand staircase, she saw Alaric, just stepping into the entrance hall. His black coat fluttered behind him, moonlight from the tall windows catching the silvery strands of his hair.
He hadn't noticed her yet.
Seraphine paused on the last step, brushing dust from her hands. She was about to call out when his head turned, and their eyes locked.
His gaze, calm yet unreadable, held hers for a long second before he spoke.
"You're awake," he said simply.
"I… couldn't sleep," she replied, a little breathless.
Alaric tilted his head slightly. "Did something trouble you?"
Seraphine hesitated. She opened her mouth to mention the map—to ask about Santossa—but something inside her held her back. Maybe it was fear. Or maybe… instinct.
"No. Just restless," she murmured.
Alaric studied her a second longer, then nodded. "Get some rest, Seraphine. Tomorrow will be full. Preparations for the next ball must begin."
She dipped her head slightly. "Goodnight, Duke Vaelthorne."
He watched her ascend the stairs once more, but said nothing.
Only when she disappeared from sight did he finally remove his gloves, and murmur under his breath—
"Santossa…"
The Gathering.
The grand ballroom of House Remoria gleamed like a dream. Gilded chandeliers hung from vaulted ceilings, casting golden light upon polished marble floors. Musicians played a refined waltz, their notes floating gently across the velvet-draped hall.
Seraphine stood at the top of the staircase beside Alaric, her hand trembling slightly on his arm. Dressed in a deep sapphire gown with silver embroidery along the hem, she looked every inch a noble lady—though in her heart, she still felt like an imposter. Her hair was adorned with moonstone pins, soft curls falling over her shoulders like silk.
"You're shaking," Alaric murmured, his breath brushing her ear.
"I'm not used to this," she confessed softly, eyes sweeping the crowd.
"You'll learn," he said, then added after a pause, "You already look the part."
Seraphine blinked, unsure how to respond. Compliments from Alaric were rare, even more so when said in that quiet, gentle tone.
As they descended into the sea of nobles, all eyes turned to them. Whispers erupted like wildfire.
"That's her?"
"Not Celestine Delacroix?"
"He brought the adopted one?"
"But she's beautiful…"
Alaric was oblivious to the rising stares, or perhaps he simply didn't care. His hand remained at the small of Seraphine's back, guiding her through the crowd with quiet dominance. Every noble who dared approach him offered only the shallowest pleasantries before retreating under his cool, unreadable gaze.
Still, the atmosphere grew colder as the night went on. Celestine had arrived late—intentionally—and stood flanked by two other noble daughters near the tall windowed arch. Her dress shimmered like gold and envy combined, her lips a shade darker than usual, curled in contempt.
Seraphine felt the tension rising with every step she took past them.
As the dance ended, she gently withdrew from the crowd, whispering to Alaric, "May I step out for a moment?"
He gave her a slow nod. "Not too far."
She curtsied and stepped toward the terrace, the cool night air welcoming her like an old friend. Moonlight lit the stone garden path, and her breaths finally came easier. But before she could relax, a familiar sneer cut the peace.
"Well, well… Isn't this cozy?" came Celestine's voice, echoing behind her.
Seraphine turned slowly.
Celestine stepped into view, followed by her two companions—daughters of Counts and Viscounts, equally sharp-tongued.
"I was wondering how long you'd hide behind his arm," Celestine said, folding her arms. "It suits you. Clinging to someone above your station."
"I only stepped out for some air," Seraphine replied quietly, trying to remain composed.
"But of course," Celestine said mockingly. "Trying not to faint from the pressure? Or maybe you're still pretending you belong here?"
The other girls chuckled behind her.
"Let's be honest," one of them added. "Everyone knows you're just a charity case—dressed up like a lady, but still just a shadow in someone else's house."
Seraphine felt her chest tighten. Old doubts crept in like vines around her throat. She tried to walk past them, but Celestine stepped into her path.
"What would your precious duke think if he knew the truth?" Celestine whispered cruelly. "That you were meant to marry Carlos, the butler's son? That my mother only kept you around to make me look better?"
"I didn't ask for any of this," Seraphine whispered.
"No, you didn't," Celestine said coldly. "And you certainly don't deserve it."
But before another insult could be thrown, a chilling silence fell.
All three girls stiffened.
A shadow loomed at the terrace's edge, and then Alaric Vaelthorne stepped into view. His icy blue eyes locked onto the scene with terrifying stillness.
"Is this how you speak to the future mistress of House Vaelthorne?" he asked, his voice calm, yet thunderous in its weight.
Celestine's breath caught in her throat. "Your Grace—"
"You forget yourselves," Alaric continued, stepping past Seraphine and standing protectively at her side. "And insult not just her, but me."
The girls went pale.
"I will not tolerate insolence," he said. "Leave. All three of you."
The nobles stammered, their titles forgotten in the weight of his gaze.
"Now," he added, with finality.
With trembling curtsies and murmured apologies, the girls fled back inside. Celestine cast one last look at Seraphine, her fury restrained only by fear, before disappearing through the ballroom doors.
Silence followed.
Seraphine stood frozen, staring at the stones beneath her feet.
She felt so small.
So utterly unworthy.
"Why…?" she began. "Why did you do that?"
Alaric turned to her slowly. "Because you are mine to protect."
Her breath hitched. "I didn't want to cause trouble."
"You didn't," he said firmly. "They did."
"But they—"
He stepped closer, cutting off her words with his quiet intensity. "Seraphine. Their opinion is irrelevant."
She swallowed thickly, emotions too tangled to speak.
After a moment, he offered her his arm.
"Come. We're leaving."
She blinked. "But the ball—"
"I've had enough," he said. "And so have you."
Without waiting for protest, he guided her back through the hall, past shocked nobles who parted like waves before them.
No one dared speak.
No one dared question.
And Seraphine, heart pounding, could only follow. Because for the first time, someone had stood up for her—not out of duty, but out of something else entirely.
Whatever it was, it was beginning to change everything.