Rain had fallen all morning, turning the Alderidge gardens into a mirror of silver puddles and trembling roses. By evening, the skies cleared just enough for lanterns to glow like small suns across the lawn. The town's elite arrived in carriages, dressed in silk and expectation, whispering that tonight the debt between the Venns and the Alderidges would finally be sealed.
Elara stood in her room at the mansion, staring at her reflection. The gown chosen for her shimmered like water too fine for her trembling hands. Her maid, a timid girl named Rose, fastened the last pearl at her neck.
"You look beautiful, miss," Rose said softly.
Elara managed a smile. "That's what everyone wants to see."
Downstairs, music drifted from the ballroom violins playing a song that didn't sound like celebration, but farewell.
Adrian met her at the top of the stairs. "Everyone's waiting," he said, offering his arm. His politeness never faltered; it was carved into him like stone. When she took his arm, she felt the weight of a promise she didn't want to make.
The guests clapped politely as they entered the ballroom. Chandeliers reflected in the marble floor, and servers glided like ghosts between the tables. Adrian's father gave a short speech about loyalty and legacy.
"This union," he announced, "binds two families, their debts, their futures, their names forever."
Applause rose, but Elara barely heard it. Her gaze had caught on something across the room: a painting again. Not the burning one she'd seen before.. but another, newly hung. It showed the Vale Estate before the fire grand, untouched, with ivy curling around white stone towers. In one of the windows, almost hidden by shadow, a figure stood.
She stepped closer. The man in the window had dark hair, pale skin, and eyes so vividly painted they seemed to glow red under the candlelight. A chill spread down her spine. The plaque below read:
Lucien Vale, Lord of the Vale Estate, 1687.
"Elara?" Adrian's voice cut through her trance. She turned to him, forcing a smile.
"Who was he?" she asked quietly.
"A relic of foolishness," Adrian said. "A noble who believed himself cursed. His name's been romanticized by local superstition." His tone sharpened. "You'd do well not to dwell on the dead."
He led her back to the crowd. The music swelled. Someone placed a bouquet in her hands, and the ring on her finger caught the light like a shackle. When Adrian kissed her hand for the guests, she felt nothing but the urge to run.
Later, after the speeches and the toasts, Elara slipped away to the corridor where the painting hung. The hallway was silent except for the soft hum of rain against the windows. She touched the frame, tracing Lucien Vale's face with her fingertip.
"I wish I could see the world you came from," she whispered.
A gust of cold air swept through the hall, extinguishing the nearest candle. For an instant, she thought she heard a heartbeat not her own but deep, resonant, echoing from far away.
When the light returned, the man's painted eyes seemed to be looking directly at her.
Elara stepped back, heart pounding. Somewhere beyond the walls of the mansion, thunder rolled across the valley. The sound didn't feel like weather. It felt like something answering her wish.