Lillian moved closer to the wall, drawn by a sudden, sharp recognition. "It was her... it's her," she whispered. The woman in the portrait was draped in fine silks, looking exactly as Lillian remembered, though the artist had captured a youthfulness that had since faded. The sight of those familiar features caused a lump to form in her throat.
"That is the sister of the former King. She fled many years ago with a lover."
The voice was like a sudden draft of cold air. Lillian recoiled, her hand snapping back from the wall. Rory stepped out from the shadows of the corner; he had been watching her for some time, curious about the young witch's aimless wandering through the restricted wing. He studied her face, noting the way her composure had fractured.
"Found something that caught your eye, Miss?" he asked, his tone laced with a quiet, predatory interest.
Lillian regained her footing and dropped into a low, formal bow. "Lillian Cameal. My greetings to the Prince."
"Ah, Lillian. We have crossed paths once or twice, I believe. The fiancé of young Saipon, if memory serves." Rory's gaze was unsettlingly steady. He noticed the slight tremor in her hands, though he had to admire the way she fought to keep her voice level. "What brings you to this forgotten corner of the world, Miss Cameal?"
"The castle is magnificent, Your Majesty," she replied, choosing her words with practiced care. "I only wondered why such a beautiful gallery had been left to the dust."
"This wing has remained untouched since the Princess's departure," Rory said, turning to look at the surrounding decay. He trailed a finger over the dark wood of a nearby table, leaving a thin line in the grime. "It was the former King's command. He wanted everything left exactly as she had abandoned it."
"She is beautiful," Lillian murmured, the words feeling heavy in her mouth.
"She was," he replied, his voice barely more than a breath.
The atmosphere in the room grew stifling, the weight of the past pressing in on Lillian from all sides. She knew she had to leave before her mask slipped further. "I must take my leave, Your Majesty," she said, offering a hasty but polite exit.
Rory did not press her. Instead, he offered a silent, chillingly polite escort back toward the main hall. In the crowded ballroom, Jace was nearing the point of panic. His breath was ragged and his pulse hammered against his ribs; the moment he had lost sight of Lillian, the world had seemed to tilt on its axis. Where are you, Lillian? "Jace..."
He spun around to find her standing there, breathless and pale. Beyond her, he saw the Prince leaning casually against a stone pillar, watching them with an unreadable expression.
"I lost my way," Lillian said quickly, her voice small. "The Prince was kind enough to guide me back."
Jace looked at her, seeing the lingering shadow in her eyes. He didn't believe the simple explanation, but he pulled her into a protective embrace nonetheless. "I lost my breath for a moment," he admitted, his hand tightening on hers. "I think we've had enough of the festivities. Let's find the others."
They navigated the thinning crowd, Jace refusing to let go of her hand. They eventually found Ivan, whose shock of silver hair acted as a beacon. Ivan's brow arched as he took in their disheveled appearance and Floria's distant, vacant expression.
"Is all well?" Ivan asked.
"Quite," Jace replied shortly. "Lillian is exhausted. I think it's time we departed."
Ivan placed a grounding hand on his sister's arm. "Back to the world, little bird," he said softly. Floria blinked, the fog of her own thoughts clearing just enough to reveal a look of deep confusion. "Yes... I think I should like to go home now."
The group moved toward the carriage in a heavy silence. As they settled into the velvet seats, the quiet between them felt thick with things unsaid.
The days that followed were a blur of restless thoughts. Floria was haunted by the King's words, while Lillian could see nothing but the face in the painting. By Saturday, the quiet of the week was shattered by the bustle of the library. It was a frantic afternoon; students from the institute were crammed between the shelves, buried in books as they prepared for the council exams.
"Finley, take these to the second floor, fifth block," Marianne commanded, handing over a heavy stack of volumes.
Floria was assisting the pure-blood students on the second floor when a sharp scream cut through the air, drawing the attention of everyone in the surrounding blocks.
The sound had erupted near the sixth block, only a short distance from where Floria stood. When she reached the source, she found a young vampire gripping a maid's arm with bruising force. The woman's face was a mask of terror and pain, tear streaks dampening her cheeks.
"I-I'm sorry," the maid stammered, her voice breaking. "I didn't mean it. We... we don't provide blood services here, Sir."
"How dare you?" the vampire hissed. "Do you even have any idea who I am?"
He raised his hand high, the intent to strike clear, but the blow never landed. He stared at his wrist for a fleeting second, his movement halted by a firm grasp. He sneered at the woman who had dared to intervene. "What do you think you're doing?"
"Doing what I'm supposed to, Sir," Floria replied, loosening her grip slightly but not releasing him. "May I ask what prompted you to raise your hand against the staff?"
The vampire was fuming, his eyes boring into hers with predatory heat.
"The lowly human refuses to serve the young master," another vampire interjected from across the table. He was lean, almost skeletal, and watched the scene with a cold smirk. "Surely, she deserves it."
Before the tension could snap, Ivan arrived to manage the ruckus. "Our apologies, Mr. Miller, but we do not serve vampires in that capacity here," he said, his voice a calm anchor.
Despite Ivan's intervention, Miller's gaze remained fixed on Floria. He seemed mesmerized and insulted all at once; no one had ever dared to physically restrain him.
"If you require blood, I can send a staff member to fetch a supply," Ivan offered, trying to redirect the vampire's fury.
"The young master never drinks cold blood," the skeletal vampire snapped as Miller finally turned and stormed toward the exit.
The woman who had been with them lingered for a second, leaning toward Floria. "You'll pay for your insolence," she whispered venomously before turning to follow the group out.
"Did she really offend a Miller? It's going to be hard for her now," a student murmured, clicking his tongue in disapproval.
"Hmm," another added, leaning back against the mahogany shelves. "It's no secret that the Millers are close to the Duke. She's in for it."
As the library filled with the soft, uneasy chatter of the onlookers, Floria turned her attention to the woman who had been at the center of the storm.
"Finley, are you alright?" she asked. Her voice was laced with genuine concern for the elf, who looked shaken after nearly being drained by the vampire's thirst.
"Yes, Milady," the woman replied, her voice still trembling. She bowed low, a gesture born of long-standing habit or perhaps a sudden, overwhelming sense of gratitude. "My apologies for the trouble I have caused you."
Jace and Lillian had arrived at the library with a basket of food and the simple intention of finding Floria, but they were met instead with the tail end of a scene. From the edge of the second block, they watched in silence as the vampire, Miller, stormed out, his entourage trailing behind him like a dark cloud after Floria had intercepted his strike against the elven maid.
The air was still thick with the lingering tension and whispers of the students. someone muttered nearby. "She's in for it now."
They headed downstairs to their usual table, a quiet corner tucked away from the prying eyes . Jace set the basket down with a rhythmic thud, his movements fluid, unbothered despite the chaos they had just witnessed.
"Honestly, Floria," Jace said, leaning back as he began unpacking the containers. "I bring Lillian here for a peaceful stroll and some fresh air, and I find you trying to wrestle the vampire. Weren'twe supposed to keep our hand clean of those things, aren't we?"
Floria sat down, exhaling a long breath as the adrenaline finally began to ebb. "He was hurting her, Jace. My soul doesn't granted me the patience to watch that in silence."
"Clearly," Jace retorted with a sharp, playful grin. He pushed a plate of sandwiches toward her. "Eat. You're much less likely to start an international incident on a full stomach. If you keep this up, I'm going to have to start charging the institute for my services as your personal bodyguard."
Ivan pulled up a chair, looking between his sister and Jace with a faint, weary smile. "He's right, Floria. Though I suspect he just wants an excuse to start a fight of his own."
"I have no idea what you're implying," Jace said, his eyes glinting with mischief as he handed a small pastry to Lillian. He turned back to Floria, his voice dropping into a light but firm warning. "But truly, be careful. The Millers are as petty as they are wealthy." Adding "if I were here , perhaps I wouldn't be as 'diplomatic' as Ivan was." His hand reached to his right passing piece of apple to Lillian.
Lillian took a small bite of her food, her eyes flitting between them. "Will they really cause trouble?" She looked at others while her own thoughts wandering within.
Jace reached over, his fingers briefly squeezing her hand under the table—a private, grounding gesture. "Only if they're tired of living. For now, let's just enjoy the fact that Floria managed to save the day without staining her dress."
Floria shook her head, a small laugh finally breaking through her tension. "Your concern is touching, Jace. Truly."
"I try," Jace said, winking. "Now, stop brooding and eat. I didn't walk all the way here for the food to go cold while you contemplate the social matters."