The garden behind the east wing stretched endlessly, framed by trimmed hedges and marble statues gone moss-green with age. It was quieter here—too quiet, perhaps. A breeze stirred the vines. A crow, not the raven from earlier, fluttered once from the sundial and vanished into the branches above.
Elira walked slowly along the stone path, Serina beside her, arms still linked.
They hadn't spoken since leaving the front courtyard. Not out of distance—but something else. As if some wordless understanding had passed between them, and now both were listening. Watching. Letting the silence settle like dew on their shoulders.
"You've changed," Serina finally said, her voice low but not accusing.
Elira stopped. Her hand grazed the petals of a dark red camellia.
"So have you," she murmured.
Serina tilted her head, studying her friend. "I thought I dreamed you, once," she said suddenly. "Years ago. You were standing in the fire, but you weren't afraid. You just looked… sad."
Elira's breath caught.
Serina laughed nervously. "Sorry. That's a strange thing to say, isn't it?"
Elira forced a smile, but her fingers curled slightly over the camellia's stem. "No. Not strange. Just… familiar."
They moved again.
The path twisted deeper into the garden maze. Statues loomed from the fog—angels with blank eyes, crumbling saints with hands missing. Timeworn beauty, just like the estate.
"So," Serina said, lightly now, "what scandal are we planning for our debut?"
Elira raised an eyebrow.
"You know we must," Serina grinned. "We were born under the Holy Eclipse. If we walk in politely and curtsy like the rest, I'm fairly certain the heavens will strike us both down for being dull."
Elira laughed quietly. "You haven't changed."
"Wouldn't dream of it." Her voice turned soft. "Not when I finally found you again."
Elira's expression faltered, just for a moment.
They reached the center of the garden: the old pavilion. Wrought iron twisted like spiderwebs, half-devoured by ivy. The table within still held the etching they'd carved as children—two initials, a star between.
E★S
Elira touched the weathered surface.
"It's still here," Serina whispered.
"So are we."
A sound broke the stillness.
A crackle—then a flutter.
Elira turned sharply. Behind the hedges, a shape moved. A figure. Gone in a blink. She stared. Nothing.
'She's keeping eyes.'
Serina didn't seem to notice. She was staring up through the vines above.
"Elira… do you believe in omens?"
Elira's voice was careful.
"I believe in patterns."
"I dreamed of the eclipse again last week. The same dream I had the night before we were separated."
"What did you see?"
"A mirror," Serina whispered. "Cracked. Bleeding light. And someone standing behind me with no face."
'Is this the effect of time return? But it was different when we were younger. '
Elira said nothing.
Just before they turned back toward the manor, Elira looked once more over her shoulder—toward the hedges, the space between statues.
Nothing moved.
'Gone already.'
The Rothermere estate, for all its spires and shadows, never lacked for drama.
Late afternoon, Elira and Serina found themselves summoned to the Duke's study.
The message had been simple: The Duke wishes to speak with you regarding the banquet partner escort arrangements.
No signature. Just the weight of formality pressed into every curve of the handwriting.
Serina walked beside Elira with an exaggerated sigh. "Do you think he's going to make me dance with someone dreadful?" she whispered. "Like that Orban cousin who smells like ink and ego?"
It was the discription she heard from her handmaid's on way here.
Elira gave her a sidelong glance. "You're not supposed to say that out loud."
"Oh, I have worse names for them. Want to hear my list?"
"No."
"Yes, you do."
Elira didn't answer. She only pushed open the heavy double doors of her father's study with one gloved hand, revealing a room cloaked in carved bookshelves, old sunlight, and the scent of ink, firewood, and quiet judgment.
The Duke of Rothermere stood behind his desk. Golden blonde hair, sharp blue eyes despite his age. His presence alone commanded silence, but it was the second figure in the room that made Serina stiffen in mock alarm.
Thorne Rothermere.
Elira's eldest brother.
Future Duke.
War-born, Wolf-tempered, and currently seated with arms crossed and one brow cocked in open challenge.
"Father," Elira greeted coolly, offering the barest curtsy.
"Duke."
Serina gave an awkward bow greeting, trying to look composed and only halfway hiding behind Elira's shoulder.
The Duke wasted no time.
"The imperial banquet is merged with your debuts. As such, partner selection must be… done."
"Of course," Elira said, tone smooth as polished glass. "Shall we begin?"
Thorne gave her a long look. "I've already made my recommendation."
Elira arched a brow. "Have you?, and what is it?"
"Yes," Thorne said, voice calm but firm. "I'll be your escort."
Silence.
Then—
"No," Serina blurted, stepping forward with hands blocking Elira as if protecting. And eyes held determined gaze.
"Absolutely not." She said firmly.
Thorne blinked once. "Pardon?"
"You're not escorting her. I am."
The Duke coughed. Like almost choked his own breath.
Elira's lips twitched.
'Wait—what?'
Elira's expressions wavered a little.
"You're not even on the list," Thorne said slowly, as if explaining things to a very dense woodland creature.
"I am now. This debut is symbolic—then I'm the only proper choice. Besides," Serina added, flipping her hair, "we match."
Elira sighed inwardly.
'Just like before.'
She remembered it vividly—the imperial banquet when they were eleven. Serina had gotten into a heated argument with her second brother and the Marquess Bolt's young heir over who would sit next to Elira at the table. In the end, Serina had bribed a servant to rearrange the name cards, then feigned innocence with such wide-eyed grace the Empress herself had laughed.
And now, she stood once more between Elira and a scowling noble male—unchanged, stubborn, brilliant.
Thorne narrowed his eyes. "This isn't a garden stroll,Lady Serina. The banquet will be watched by half the nobles and the other half's spies. It's not about matching embroidery."
Serina crossed her arms. "Oh, I'm aware. I've memorized every family crest and scandal worth whispering. I can curtsy like a dove and bite like a viper, if required."
Thorne scoffed. "This isn't a play."
"And yet here you are," she said sweetly.
Elira pinched the bridge of her nose.
The Duke, silent all this while, finally sighed—a sound heavy with the weight of parenting two headstrong bloodlines. "This isn't a brawl. It's a political arrangement."
Serina curtsied just enough to stay barely within the realm of decorum. "Then permit me to make mine political, Your Grace. House Hysenberg has been a loyal ally to Rothermere for decades even without contacts. This is a symbolic debut for both daughters of eclipse—and I assure you, I will draw less dangerous attention than certain other candidates."
Her eyes flicked, deliberately, to Thorne.
'Say it'll more attract attention, serina'
Elira sighed inwardly.
Elira caught the flash of it—Serina knew. She might not remember, not like Elira did, but instinct was a powerful thing.
And Serina had always trusted her instincts more than anything.
Thorne straightened, unamused.
"You're playing games."
"No," Serina said, her voice soft but steel-edged. "I'm staying by her. In the only way I know how."
That, more than anything, made Elira's breath catch.
'You are good with words as you were Serina. '
The Duke's gaze slid toward his daughter now. "Elira. You've heard their arguments. Do you have a preference?"
Elira looked between them.
Serina's eyes burned with that same fire she remembered from childhood—when she'd declared war on her brothers for eating Elira's favorite pastries.
Thorne, in contrast, was unwavering. Steady. Calculating, but protective in his own way.
One flame. One shield.
And neither knew the battlefield she was truly preparing for.
Elira let the silence stretch a moment longer before speaking.
"I'll choose serina."
"It would be better for us debut girls to escort each other. "
She said sternly.
The words echoed in the stillness like the chime of a distant bell—quiet, final, and strangely inevitable.
She felt it the moment it left her lips.
A shift.
Like something ancient exhaled behind the velvet drapes of the world.
Neither Thorne nor the Duke spoke immediately. Serina, for once, did not grin. She only stared at Elira, eyes wide, lips parted slightly in something close to disbelief. Or perhaps understanding.
Because this choice—it wasn't only about the banquet.
It was a message.
A move.
A shield.
A memory, rewritten.
I had no one beside me last time.
No one I chose for myself.
Only to be by 2nd prince side later.
Which I hated more than my death.
Elira folded her hands before her gown as the Duke finally gave a silent nod—resigned, approving, or merely tired, she couldn't tell. Thorne, to his credit, didn't argue again. But there was something in the clench of his jaw, the way he didn't look at her when he turned away, that told her he understood.
Not the whole game, perhaps. But enough of it to be wary.
She didn't like hurting him.
Not really.
But Thorne would never fit at her side in the way she needed—not now. Not in this world of shadows and blood-tinted prophecy.
'This is a stage,' she reminded herself. 'And every gesture is a weapon if you hold it long enough.'
Serina stood tall beside her. Proud. Reckless. Loyal to a fault.
Elira knew her choice would spark whispers. Two debutante entering under the arm of one another? A noblewoman flanked not by a suitor, but by the daughter of a lesser house, born under the same eclipse? It was not custom.
It was not safe.
'Good, 'Elira thought. 'Let them talk.
She could already predict the hearing of rumors brewing: Is she hiding something? Is it rebellion? Romance? Madness?
Let them wonder.
Let them underestimate.
Because behind Serina's playful defiance was a blade sharpened by absence, by grief, by faith that had never dimmed—even when the world tried to erase it.
Elira needed that.
Not a knight. Not a prince. Not even her brother.
She needed a match.
Back in the corridor, as the doors of the Duke's study shut quietly behind them, Serina didn't speak right away.
But Elira could feel her watching.
"…Did you mean it?" Serina finally asked, voice unusually careful.
Elira didn't look at her. "I don't say things I don't mean."
A pause.
Then Serina said, almost breathless, "Then I will make them all regret."
Elira's lips curved.
Not a smile.
Something deeper. Hungrier.
She reached for Serina's hand and squeezed it once.
"Let them forget," she whispered. "We'll remind soon enough."
And somewhere in the dark stretch of her thoughts, as the hallways shifted and the portraits watched with their painted eyes, Elira heard again the sound of fire cracking behind stone.
But this time, she didn't flinch.
This time, she was the one holding the match.
'Now I'll be bringing stir.'
—.—>>>>●●●●<<<<—.—
It was already night.
Dinner had concluded in the grand dining hall, beneath chandeliers that flickered like captured starlight. The long table had been almost full—all seated in stiff formality, yet humming with the underlying tension of what was to come.
Even the Duke of Hysenberg had arrived, his silver hair tied back, his presence unmistakable. Elira had seen the surprise flicker in Serina's eyes at the sight of her father, but the girl had only straightened her back and greeted him with composed grace.
The two Dukes—Rothermere and Hysenberg—had stayed behind after the plates were cleared, lingering over a bottle of aged Luinorian red that hadn't seen the light of day in over two decades.
Old friends, war-forged.
For a moment, Elira saw in her father's posture not just the stoic, commanding Duke, but the tired soldier beneath. His laugh came easier with Hysenberg beside him. Sharper, but less guarded.
A rare softness between blades.
But it wasn't hers to interrupt.
Serina on other hand had retired early, citing excitement—or perhaps nerves—for the day ahead. And left whispering, "for great night."
And then she vanished down the hallway like the sun slipping beneath the horizon.
Leaving Elira alone with her thoughts.
Certainly tomorrow morning, gotta wake up before dawn to prepare
She stood by her window now, robe trailing against the floor, the moon silvering the edges of her skin like paintbrush strokes across porcelain. The garden below was quiet. Even the crows that usually perched on the western gables had vanished into the deeper parts of the night.
So quiet…
Too quiet.
As if something was holding its breath.
The wind stirred the curtains gently, and Elira pressed a palm to the cold glass.
Tomorrow was the day.
Not just her debut. Not just the welcoming
But also the day when Lira sneeks out and accidentally get bumped up with Baron Griffith. When later just few days later he officially visit duchy and ask For her to return with him as he identified by her lookes that she looked like his wife so sure she might he his long lost kid.
Elira's breath fogged the glass, thin and fleeting, like a ghost pressing its lips to the windowpane.
She did not move.
Her thoughts refused to settle. They swirled like ash in water, memories and warnings bleeding together—visions of fire, of betrayal, of a girl who smiled too softly and stood too still.
Lira.
She remembered it well now. How in the previous timeline, the final spark that lit the slow-burning suspicion across the Empire had not been some grand scheme or dramatic revelation.
It had been chance.
It had been him.
Baron Griffith, the quiet widower from the western reaches—landed, ehough wealthy, and largely ignored. A man who rarely spoke unless pressed, and whose grief had been carved into his features for so long it seemed permanent.
No one had expected much from him. Not during the banquet. Not ever.
But then—
At the end of that very same night, in a hallway trailing with spilled candlelight, Baron Griffith had seen Lira. Or rather, stared at her as though he'd seen a ghost walk by.
"She has my wife's eyes," he'd murmured. "The same birthmark… the same soft jaw. Gods, she looks exactly like her."
They hadn't taken him seriously at first.
Until he sent a sealed letter to the Emperor's court just days later, claiming the maid wasn't Rothermere-choosen random.
But a missing child.
His missing child.
One he'd lost to fire years ago.
And thus, under the guise of paternal love, he'd come to collect her.
Elira didn't know then whether it had been coincidence—or if Lira had planned it, orchestrated it with the same elegant cruelty she used in every move she made.
But what followed was worse.
Because after that, Lira left.
She went with Baron Griffith to his estate, assumed her new name, her false heritage. And from there, she grew. Unwatched. Unchecked.
And by the time anyone noticed what was wrong, it was far too late.
And I was too nave to understand things back then.
Having her under my eyes would be better than to let her out and mess things to.