Velwynd Keep was nothing like she had imagined.
Ilya stepped through the grand hall alone, her fingers grazing the cool banister of the upper staircase. The air smelled of lavender and parchment, old stone kissed by sunshine. Below, the main floor buzzed softly with movement—staff tending to tapestries, a pair of musicians rehearsing something soft on lute and harp, a steward consulting a guestbook.
It was not a haunted fortress. It was alive.
And yet… every step she took felt like walking through a story she no longer believed.
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"They say no one leaves his lands once they enter," her cousin Melian had whispered. "Velwynd is cursed. There's a black mist that eats travelers who stray too far from the road."
"The Archduke drinks the blood of mountain wolves to stay alive."
"He made a pact with the Wyrm beneath the frost line."
"He built his palace on the bones of a fallen god."
Stories spun in smoke-filled kitchens, drunk at midnight around half-spilled wine.
Always whispers. Always warnings.
Even her mother—so gentle, so careful—had flinched when she heard the name.
"If he summons you, you must not look him in the eye."
"Never speak unless spoken to. He's not... like other men."
"You'll be safe if you stay quiet. If you stay useful."
Ilya hadn't known what useful meant until the papers were signed and the carriage arrived.
The west wing was cordoned off. As she passed it on her way to the library, she noticed scaffolding and quiet murmurs from artisans—nothing sinister, only the slow rhythm of restoration.
Even so, she paused.
Beyond the scaffolding stood a massive door bound in ironwood and etched with phoenix wings. A single black ribbon was tied to the handle. Nothing else.
She didn't touch it. Not yet.
Instead, she turned down a different hall and followed a sweeping archway to the third floor, where the scent of ink and dust grew stronger. The door to the library stood open.
And the moment she stepped inside, Ilya forgot every whisper she'd ever heard.
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Velwynd Keep's library was a cathedral of knowledge. Vaulted ceilings arched like wings overhead. Ladders rolled on silent rails beside shelves that rose two stories high. Light poured in from enchanted skylights, illuminating leather-bound tomes, alchemical diagrams, scrolls written in faded gold, and dozens—dozens—of languages she didn't even recognize.
A fire crackled softly near a sitting alcove lined with velvet cushions. On a side table, someone had left a silver plate of plums covered with a glass dome.
She smiled faintly.
A phoenix. She'd only ever read stories. They were very rare, so rare that for a long time she believed as others did—that they were nothing but a myth.
The hush in the room wasn't silence—it was reverence. Like the library itself was listening.
She wandered for a while, trailing her fingers across bindings until something caught her eye.
A thin red journal tucked between two volumes of wartime strategy.
It was plain, leather-bound, worn smooth at the edges. On the spine, only a faded word: Alura.
Ilya pulled it free and sat down near the hearth.
The first page was blank. The second held a name:Alura Wylt.
Wife of Archduke Elias Wylt.Keeper of Velwynd.Born of the Forest.
She blinked.
His last wife.
Nobody really knew what happened to Alura Wylt- but the official reason for her passing was due to illness. She wondered just how true that was. She cracked the journal open and began to read.
The wind is sharp today. Elias says the spirits in the mountain are restless, but I know the truth. The court stirs. He won't say it aloud, but the King fears him. Fears the love the people bear him. Fears the quiet strength that makes him unbending.
I cannot blame him. I, too, feared Elias at first. Then I learned his wounds ran deeper than flame. And deeper still was the fire he never let burn anyone but himself.
Ilya's eyes paused there.
Her fingers brushed the edge of the page, heartbeat slow and steady.
We are not just rebuilding stone here. We are rebuilding memory. Purpose. Elias does not rule with cruelty. He rules with guilt. And sometimes, love.
She closed the journal gently, holding it in her lap for a long time.
What kind of man is loved like this... and feared like that?
She wasn't sure yet.
But she was starting to understand why so many people wanted her to never find out.
If even his wife wrote of him this way...What exactly had he done to earn this reputation?