Elira stood mesmerized by the grandeur of the staircase before her.
The sweeping structure curved elegantly upward, a rare architectural flourish in a house built for power and prestige. Its deep blue motif—woven into the stone with masterful mosaic work—spoke of wealth and taste. Along the banister, delicate carvings traced the edges, inlaid with real gold that shimmered beneath the afternoon light like captured fire.
It wasn't the flamboyance of a royal palace, but the quiet, deliberate richness of a duke's estate—where every detail whispered status without shouting.
The stone beneath her feet was polished but worn, bearing the weight of generations. Iron sconces lined the walls, their torches flickering against tapestries embroidered with the crest of House Sebastian: a silver hawk soaring over storm-tossed waves.
This was no fortress.
It was a seat of influence.
And Elira, still a prisoner, had just stepped into its heart.
"You're truly a rich man, Your Excellency the Duke," she murmured, her eyes tracing every intricate detail with awe.
The soft rustle of skirts drew her attention as the maid bowed respectfully to Duke Rensic, who had just entered the hall.
"Take her to her chamber," he instructed, his voice calm and clipped.
Without sparing Elira a glance, he walked past her and ascended the extravagant staircase, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow.
Elira's gaze followed him, her expression unreadable. He hadn't looked at her. Hadn't spoken to her. Just vanished into the golden silence.
"My lady, come this way," said the servant who had been tending to her since her arrival, gently urging her forward.
Elira nodded, but her steps were slow, her thoughts lingering on the Duke's retreating figure.
He's distant, she thought. Like a painting—beautiful, but untouchable.
As they walked through the corridor, Elira glanced at the walls lined with portraits and tapestries. Each one told a story she didn't know yet. Each one whispered secrets she hadn't been invited to hear.
When they reached her chamber, the maid opened the door and bowed again. "If you need anything, my lady, simply ring the bell."
Elira stepped inside, the scent of lavender and parchment greeting her. The room was warm, elegant, and quiet.
Too quiet.
She walked to the window and gazed out at the garden below, where just hours ago she had skipped and laughed like a child set free.
"Ah!" she exclaimed, a sudden thought striking her. "I forgot to mention Lucan… oh well, I'll save that drama for next time."
She paused, her mind drifting.
She remembered how beautiful the duke was.
His face was sculpted with sharp, masculine lines—high cheekbones, a defined jaw, and a straight nose that lent him an air of quiet authority. His skin held a warm undertone, gently illuminated by the morning sun as it filtered through the shifting leaves of the maze garden. Dappled light played across his features, casting soft golden patterns that flickered with every breeze. His eyes, deep blue and piercing, seemed to hold secrets behind their steady gaze—like the ocean before a storm. Tousled blonde hair framed his face in soft waves, slightly unruly yet deliberate, falling just above his brows and brushing the nape of his neck.
There was something in his presence—calm, grounded, yet distant. He carried an atmosphere of safety.
Unlike Lucan.
*****
Duke Rensic sat in his study, the weight of unfinished duties pressing against his shoulders, yet his mind drifted far from the ink and parchment before him.
The thought of the Saintess—and that woman—clouded everything.
His Majesty believed she might be the one foretold in prophecy, the Saintess seen in the silver lake. But Rensic couldn't reconcile the image of a divine savior with the girl who bit his hallway to test if the gold was real.
She was chaos wrapped in silk.
She spoke with the ease of someone who didn't fear consequence, laughed in places where silence was expected, and skipped through his garden like it belonged to her.
She reminded him of someone.
Too much.
The child from his youth. The one who clung to his hand with trust. The one whose memory he had buried beneath duty and silence.
Her hair was the same—golden, flaxen, catching the light like fire. Her eyes, deep green and unguarded, held questions she hadn't asked yet. And her voice, though playful, carried a weight he couldn't name.
She was reckless. Curious. Unfiltered.
She called King Lucan by name without flinching. Curtsied with the grace of a noble and the posture of a squirrel. And yet, beneath all that mischief, there was something else.
Resilience.
She had survived something. He saw it in the way she scanned rooms, the way she hesitated before trusting, the way she clung to joy like it was armor.
She was not the Saintess described in prophecy—solemn, divine, untouchable.
She was real.
And she had the same eyes.
That was the first thing Rensic noticed.
Deep green, wide with wonder, always searching—for answers, for stars, for secrets tucked between the folds of the world.
He hadn't thought of her in years.
The child from his youth. The girl who used to sneak into the west garden and steal the last bloom of spring. Who laughed too loudly in the halls and curtsied with her feet pointing in opposite directions. Who called him "Ren" when no one else dared.
She was a whirlwind of light in a house built on silence.
Golden flaxen hair that tangled in the wind. Porcelain skin that flushed when she was caught climbing the library shelves. A voice that asked too many questions and never waited for permission. She was never like other children—her mind crafted with wonder, her spirit untouched by rules or rank.
She had been a guest.
No—more than that.
A presence. A spark.
And then, one day, everything changed.
He remembered the blood.
"Y-Young lord… please… save my daughter… save her from His Highness… the young prince…"
Her voice trembled, her body broken. Blood spilled from her lips as she clutched his sleeve, her final breath carrying the weight of desperation.
She was his nanny. Loyal. Fierce. And the child she spoke of—her only daughter—was born to Marquis Baldock.
Rensic had acted without hesitation.
He hid the child.
Sent her to Monroe Orphanage under a false name, far from the palace, far from danger. Far from the king—his friend, his liege, and the man responsible for the fear in her dying eyes.
He buried the truth.
Buried the memory.
Until now.
Until Elira.
She had the same eyes.
And if she truly was that child… then everything he had done to protect her was unraveling.
A soft knock interrupted his thoughts.
"Your Excellency," came the voice of his steward through the door, "a message has arrived from Monroe Orphanage."
Rensic's breath caught.
He stood slowly, the chair creaking beneath him as he pushed it back. "Bring it in," he said, his voice low.
The steward entered, carrying a sealed envelope with the orphanage's crest pressed into the wax.
Rensic took it with steady hands, but his heart beat like a war drum.
He broke the seal.
Unfolded the parchment.
And read.
To His Grace, Duke Rensic Albrecht,
We are honored to respond to your inquiry regarding the child placed under our care many years ago. She has grown into a fine young lady, with a beauty and grace that could easily be mistaken for noble birth. Her presence has always been gentle, her spirit bright, and her laughter a comfort to those around her.
She remains safe and sound within our care, and has never once caused trouble. Though she retains a childlike mind and sees the world through a lens of wonder, we believe this is part of what makes her special. She is loved dearly by the staff and children alike, and continues to thrive in her own way.
We thank you for entrusting her to us. Should you wish to visit or inquire further, our doors remain open to Your Grace.
With respect and gratitude,
Matron Elowen, Monroe Orphanage
Rensic lowered the letter, his fingers loosening around the edges as he exhaled a long, quiet breath.
She had grown.
She had survived.
She was still in their care.
And she had remained untouched by the cruelty of the world—just as he had hoped.
A flicker of relief passed through him. The woman in his manor, with her wild spirit and reckless charm, must simply be a lookalike. A coincidence. Nothing more.
He leaned back in his chair, letting the letter rest on the desk beside him.
It's not her, he told himself.
Rensic stood abruptly, crossing the room to pour himself a glass of wine. The liquid swirled in the cup, dark and rich, but his mind is now at ease.
That woman must be the Saintess—and he cannot afford to lower his guard.