The Varezzi estate did not sleep.
Even in the still hours after midnight, when the servants' footsteps faded and the chandeliers burned low, the mansion seemed alive—breathing, listening, watching. The marble floors held echoes like whispers. The walls drank secrets like wine. And the air was so heavy with history that Elara often felt she was walking through the lungs of some great, slumbering beast.
But that night, she could not rest.
The corridors called to her. The reception, the vows, the silent war in the carriage—every moment of the day replayed in her mind with a dagger's edge. Damien's words lingered: Names are chains. Blood is the lock. He had said it almost carelessly, yet with the certainty of a man who knew exactly how little freedom a Varezzi possessed.
And so she rose, candle in hand, and let her bare feet trace the corridors like a thief in her own prison.
She was not searching for anything in particular—only to breathe, only to see. But as she wandered past the endless doors and staircases, her candlelight trembled against a hallway she had not noticed before. It stretched longer than the others, darker too, and the air within it was colder, as though sealed off from the rest of the house.
At its end stood a set of double doors. Oak, heavy, carved with filigree so intricate it seemed to writhe in the shadows.
She pushed them open.
And the gallery revealed itself.
Rows of portraits loomed against the walls, some so vast they nearly spanned from floor to ceiling, others small, crowded, and intimate. The faces looked down at her—generations of Varezzis, oil-painted eyes alive with disdain, pride, cruelty. Men in black coats, women in jewels and veils, children frozen in poses too stiff to be tender.
It was less a family gallery than a mausoleum of ghosts.
Elara's breath caught. She stepped inside, the doors shutting behind her with a sigh.
The candle flickered. In its weak glow, the painted faces seemed to move, expressions shifting subtly as though reacting to her intrusion. She paused before one—a woman in crimson velvet with sharp cheekbones and a gaze so steady it pinned Elara where she stood. The resemblance was uncanny. Not identical, but… close enough to unsettle her.
She touched the gilded frame.
"Don't linger on her," came a voice from the shadows.
Elara spun, her candle trembling.
Damien stood at the far end of the gallery, half-hidden by the darkness, his face unreadable. He wasn't dressed for bed, though the hour demanded it; instead, he wore his usual black suit, the tie loosened, the jacket undone, like a man who never allowed himself the comfort of disarray.
"How long have you been there?" she asked, forcing her voice to remain calm.
"Long enough," he replied, stepping forward. His footsteps echoed against the marble, slow, deliberate. "You have a talent for finding rooms you shouldn't."
"Or perhaps," she said evenly, "this house wants to be found out."
He chuckled, low and mirthless. "This house wants nothing. It takes. It binds. It remembers."
His eyes swept the gallery, and something colder than candlelight flickered there. He gestured toward the portraits. "These are not ancestors. They are debts. Every one of them bartered something they couldn't afford to lose. Power. Blood. Innocence. Look close enough, and you'll see the price written into their eyes."
Elara's grip on the candlestick tightened. "And what about you, Damien? What was your price?"
He stopped walking. The shadows clung to him like a second skin, but his jaw flexed, his lips curving into something between a smile and a warning.
"Me?" His voice softened, more dangerous for it. "I was born paid in full."
Silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.
Elara turned her gaze back to the portraits, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of her fear. She forced herself to examine them one by one—faces etched with arrogance, cold triumph, despair hidden beneath varnish. And then, halfway down the hall, she froze.
Another woman. Another set of eyes.
This one wore no jewels, no finery. She was painted simply, in a modest gown of pale fabric. But her expression—stern, watchful, weary—was haunting. And her features…
Elara's throat went dry. The curve of the jaw, the shape of the eyes, the tilt of the mouth—it was like looking into a distorted mirror.
Damien must have seen her falter, because his voice came sharp, cutting the air.
"Do you see yourself, wife?"
She turned, too quickly. "She looks like me. Why?"
He only smirked. "Blood leaves echoes. Sometimes it's coincidence. Sometimes it's curse."
Her pulse quickened. "And which is this?"
"That," he said, stepping closer until the candlelight caught the sharp line of his cheekbone, "is a question better left unanswered."
She met his stare, refusing to look away. "You think you frighten me. But all I see is a man afraid of his own walls."
For the first time, something flickered across his expression—surprise, then amusement, dark and fleeting. He tilted his head as though studying her like another portrait on the wall.
"Careful, Elara," he murmured. "This house is not a friend to the curious. And neither am I."
He moved past her, his shoulder brushing hers deliberately, an electric contact that left her skin prickling. He stopped at the doors, hand resting on the handle.
Over his shoulder, his voice came quiet, almost intimate:
"The gallery doesn't sleep. When you look long enough, it looks back. Remember that before you go digging into what this estate hides."
And then he was gone, the doors whispering shut behind him.
Elara stood frozen in the silence he left behind.
Her candle sputtered. Her reflection shimmered faintly in the glass protecting the portrait—the same lips, the same eyes, painted in another century. The resemblance gnawed at her, made her bones feel too thin, her skin too tight.
This house was more than a prison. It was a riddle. And if Damien thought veiled threats could keep her from unraveling it, he had underestimated just how dangerous silence could make her.
She turned back toward the gallery. The portraits seemed to lean closer, their painted eyes gleaming with secrets. Somewhere within these walls, hidden behind gilded frames and locked doors, lay the truth.
And she would find it.
Even if it meant burning every ghost in this house to ash.