A week had passed since the news had rippled through the Velhart estate, and the mansion's rhythm had shifted in subtle, unrelenting ways. Dawn filtered through the tall windows, catching grains of dust that danced like tiny constellations in the air. The scent of fresh linen, herbs, and something faintly metallic—the ever-present shimmer of polished silver—permeated the halls.
The chaos, however, had not abated. If anything, it had multiplied.
"Milady! Milady, you shouldn't stand on that rug—it's slippery!" "Please, sit! At least five cushions beneath you!" "Your tea—it must be precisely seventy-four degrees!"
Elara, perched gracefully on the edge of the morning settee, allowed a small sigh to escape, part amusement, part exasperation. She lifted a hand, her long fingers brushing a stray golden curl from her face, and the flurry of caretakers froze for a fraction of a heartbeat, eyes wide as if she were about to perform magic.
It was only the usual: a week of rumors and precaution had transformed the Velhart staff into a single-minded army of anxiety. Every gesture Elara made was cataloged, measured, and discussed. .
And Elara's personal maid—her confidante in all things mundane and magnificent—moved among them with the fluidity of someone used to both shielding her mistress and keeping a semblance of order in this ever-rising storm. Luella Houstons, just a few months younger than Elara, with hair the color of dusk and eyes like rain clouds ready to spill, adjusted a cushion behind Elara's back, "Honestly, if they fawned any harder, I'd swear the ceiling would collapse." She said, her voice low.
Elara's laugh was soft but genuine. "You exaggerate, Luella."
"Am I?" Luella murmured, hands deftly arranging the array of herbal teas on a silver tray. Her voice carried a faint amusement that only grew in contrast to the panic surrounding them. Where the other young maids flitted nervously, Luella moved with calm, deliberate grace. She was Elara's Lady's maid, chosen carefully by Alric's housekeeper to serve her .
The kitchen staff had gone into overdrive after the pregnancy news, experimenting with everything from fortified broths to steaming herbal infusions, whispering feverishly about protein content, vitamin ratios, and the best ways to ensure a "healthy little Velhart heir." The cook, an woman in her thirties named Mariette, waved a wooden spoon like a wand, muttering to herself as she balanced multiple pots over the flames.
Elara, reclining back against the cushions, allowed her hands to rest lightly over her stomach—though not in the way she expected anyone to notice. She caught Luella's eye, and they shared a quick, silent laugh. Somehow, amid the gentle chaos, that minor exchange tethered her to normalcy.
"The others are panicking again," Luella said, her voice just low enough for only Elara to hear." I wonder what got to them."
"You mean to say I'm causing it all?" Elara replied with a smirk. She flexed her fingers lightly. "I suppose it's my duty. The household must remain alert all the time. Especially now."
Luella rolled her eyes, the faintest smile tugging at her lips. "Duty, yes. Or sheer entertainment, milady."
Outside, a kettle whistled in alarm, a tray of pastries teetered precariously on the edge of a side table, and a young maid tripped over a rug; she pitched forward with a squeak, the sugar jar slipping from her grasp. It burst across the polished floor in a glittering scatter, her face landing squarely in the mess. Gasps erupted, a flurry of skirts and aprons as the others rushed to her side.
The household was young—too young, some whispered. Apart from the old butler Harrick and the steel-spined housekeeper Madame Rowenna, nearly every servant here was close in age to Elara and Dorian. It had been Lord Alric's decision, deliberate:
"Let them grow bonds together," he had said when selecting staff. "Friendship roots loyalty. And should treachery ever tempt them, hesitation may yet outweigh ambition."
Just as the jar struck the floor, sugar burst out in a white spray as the maid toppled with it. Gasps rippled through the room.
Elara's breath caught—before thought could settle, she was already shifting forward, her dress drawn back as though to rise.
But a hand, steady, touched her arm.
"Don't, milady," Luella murmured, quiet but sure. She had stepped forward without even glancing, as though she had anticipated it before Elara herself had moved. Her grey eyes flicked to her mistress. "They can handle this," Luella said.
For a heartbeat, Elara froze, lips parted in protest—but she read the certainty in Luella's gaze, and slowly relented, sinking back against the cushions. The young maid was already being lifted by her fellows, faces flustered but determined.
Elara exhaled, a smile tugging faintly at the corners of her mouth. "One day you'll be too clever for me, Luella."
"Someone has to be," the maid replied softly, adjusting another cushion behind her back as though nothing at all had happened.
It was in this precise moment of chaos, sugar glinting like pearls under the morning light, that the tall doors opened.
Dorian stepped inside.
The maids froze, half-bent over their fallen comrade, the silence so sharp it might have been sliced with a knife.
His gaze swept once across the room: the spilled sugar, the toppled jar, the mortified faces. He said nothing at first. Then, quietly—
"Perhaps the floor has eaten enough sweets for today," he said evenly. "No one's hurt, I hope?"
The trapped breath of the servants escaped in nervous laughter. The maid on the ground flushed crimson as she scrambled upright, brushing crystals from her apron. "N-No, my lord."
"Good," he replied. "If you are unwell, take the day."
The girl's eyes widened—surprise flickering before she dipped into a hurried curtsey. "I… thank you, my lord. I'll manage, truly."
Behind him, Edwin Hale entered, his steps calm, ledger tucked to his side. He didn't even glance at the sugar; he merely adjusted his spectacles and murmured, "I'll make a note that we are well-stocked, my lord."
Elara, half-buried behind her cushions, pressed her hand to her lips to stifle a laugh.
"You arrive," she said softly, emerald eyes bright, "at the perfect moment."
Dorian's mouth curved faintly as he crossed to her side. "So it seems."
The commotion had barely settled when a resounding knock echoed through the hall.
The doorman, a boy barely older than Dorian, straightened, masking his surprise at the sugar crystals scattered on the polished floor. With a brisk bow, he swung the doors open.
"Baron Matthias of Glenmar and Lady Selene Arkwright," he announced, voice carrying with the weight of propriety.
Elara glanced at Luella, who gave a subtle nod—predictable, calm, always precise. The junior staff scrambled to compose themselves, brushing off aprons and smoothing skirts as the noble visitors entered.
Matthias strode in first, tall and confident, his presence commanding without arrogance. His gaze swept the sugar-strewn floor, then landed on Dorian, and a grin spread across his face. "Ah, chaos as usual. I see nothing has changed."
Dorian's lips twitched. "Merely a minor rebellion by sugar. The household remains pleasant."
Behind him walked Selene, poised and elegant, his soon-to-be baroness. Her eyes, pale and discerning, softened as they settled on Elara. "I wanted to come to congratulate you personally," she said, her voice smooth and warm. "Glenmar celebrates, of course—but it seemed right to witness the joy firsthand."
Elara inclined her head, a soft smile tugging at her lips. "Your kindness honors us, Lady Selene."
Matthias's grin widened as he clapped Dorian on the shoulder. "And I see your household thrives with spirit," he said, glancing around at the flustered staff. "I'm not surprised the master of the house keeps it lively."
Dorian allowed a small smirk. "Unlike your place, people are free to talk here."
Selene's soft laughter filled the space.
The friends—one Baron, one soon-to-be baroness, and the Velharts—moved into a parlour, laughter and greetings weaving through the morning light. Behind the scenes, the staff straightened, adjusted, and, with Luella's quiet guidance, attempted to recover their composure, all while the sparkle of sugar on the floor gleamed like tiny stars laid atop the polished ground.
The parlour was awash with warm light, the tall windows thrown open to let in the drifting scent of jasmine from the gardens. Cicadas droned lazily in the distance, their rhythm at odds with the tension that lingered between the two men.
Matthias sat forward, elbows on his knees, his untouched cup of wine sweating on the low table beside him.
"Glenmar is slipping through my fingers, Dorian," he said at last, his voice tight. "The caravans pass us by. Merchants claim the forest road costs them too much time, yet I've ridden it myself—it's no worse than the past. The markets grow emptier each week. The Hunters return with nothing. Even travelers… even pilgrims, choose other towns." He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. "It's as if Glenmar is being left behind."
Dorian leaned back against the chair, the sunlight striking sharp angles across his face. His eyes, bright and unreadable, lingered on Matthias a moment before flicking to the half-empty street visible through the windows.
"You speak of trade," Dorian said evenly, "but what you describe sounds less like failing routes, and more like failing perception."
"Perception?" Matthias frowned.
"Merchants sell more than goods," Dorian replied, his voice calm, deliberate. "They sell the idea of safety, of opportunity. If Glenmar feels… unworthy of attention, trade falters. Hunters, too—they rely on instinct. And when even instinct avoids Glenmar's hills, perhaps the town carries a reputation it did not before."
Matthias's jaw tightened. "A reputation of what?"
"That is the question," Dorian said softly. "Something has reshaped Glenmar's image. Outsiders sense it. Animals, too. Fear, unease, or mere indifference—whatever it is, it spreads faster than truth. And once it takes hold, coin follows it."
Matthias remained silence. He stared at the light pooling across the floorboards, then muttered, almost bitterly, "My father would have known how to stop this."
Dorian's gaze softened. "Your father bore Glenmar's weight for decades. You've carried it for months. Do not mistake inexperience for failure."
Matthias looked up sharply, but Dorian's expression was calm, unwavering.
"You need not be your father," Dorian continued. "You need only be sharper than the stories strangling Glenmar. Find their root. Cut it clean."
Matthias exhaled; "And if I cannot?" he asked, his voice heavy.
Dorian's lips curved faintly, though no humor touched them. "Then Glenmar withers. But I doubt you'll allow that."
At the far end of the parlour, Elara and Selene sat near the open windows, their voices hushed but laced with warmth. Selene admired the embroidery on a cushion, tracing its pattern with slender fingers before laughing softly at one of Elara's remarks about the staff's antics earlier that morning. Their talk lingered on gowns, summer blooms, and the gentle inconveniences of expectant days—simple, human threads of conversation that filled the room with lightness. Neither seemed aware that across the chamber, the men's words were weaving an entirely different tapestry: one of trade, silence, and the shadow creeping over Glenmar.