The death of her family was never something Florence had wished for, yet when the news reached her, she didn't shed a single tear.
When the chaos settled, she returned quietly to the household, slipping through the empty halls to retrieve the hidden grimoire.
It should have been there, buried deep where only blood could find it.
But it was gone.
They had taken it.
Without the grimoire, her powers would spiral, overwhelming not just those around her, but herself too.
She slipped out of her room, her feet brushing over warped wooden floorboards that creaked under her weight.
Her old leather Eliza shoes, worn and silent, made a little sound against the stone. Not that it mattered, no servant in the castle dared investigate sounds in the dead of night.
Florence hated the smell of sweat and the staleness of enclosed spaces. She adored the night: the way it cloaked everything, the way she could see yet remain unseen.
She loved the forests most of all, the ones where the fog clung to every branch like a living thing, and the moonlight bathed the world in silver.
And tonight, under the heavy, glowing gaze of a full moon, she found herself drawn once again into the woods.
The owls were ruling the night while some hassles could be heard from the bushes, she paid them no mind. Crunching the leaves, she kept walking deeper and deeper into the woods where her body would quickly hide in the thick fog.
She wandered until she reached a clearing where a beautiful lake sat, forgotten by time.
She last discovered this well while hunting for the grimoire in an abandoned temple just behind this forest.
With a soft breath, Florence slipped off her cloak and pulled the hem of her plain maxi dress higher, stepping carefully into the water.
The coldness wrapped around her ankles, her calves, her waist, until even her shoulders were submerged.
Her red hair floated behind her in lazy tendrils, the surface rippling gently under the pull of the night breeze.
She closed her eyes, enjoying the dim light and cool breeze.
"What a sight," Edric murmured, voice low enough to be swallowed by the rustling leaves.
Perched casually on a thick branch, he leaned back against the trunk, one knee bent, perfectly at ease in the shadows.
A black handkerchief hung from his fingers, lazily wiping away the last traces of blood, as if he had all the time in the world. His eyes, sharp and gleaming, never strayed from the figure slipping into the lake. He wore a black cloak similar to Florence's, embracing the night, completely hiding in the dark.
His amber eyes, glowing faintly in the dark, watched her with a gaze that neither softened nor strayed. She looked like something not quite human, otherworldly in her grace, her skin lit by the moon, her form moving like silk beneath the surface.
Was she mad, he wondered, or simply too powerful to fear the things that crept through darkness?
His breath caught as she drifted through the water, as if the lake itself had been waiting for her return.
He shouldn't have been there. Shouldn't have watched. But he did.
His gaze dragged over her slowly, hungrily. The curve of her waist, the soft swell of her breasts, the way her nipples stiffened against the cold. Her skin was pale and dappled with moles and freckles, each one like a secret begging to be tasted. Her thighs parted slightly as she glided through the water, smooth and confident, the ripples hiding nothing.
His cock throbbed against the tightness of his pants.
Her hair floated on the surface of the water with fallen leaves that resembled her hair colour. Florence smiled lightly as she submerged herself inside the lake, swimming around, her hands and legs moving swiftly and gracefully, as if she always belonged there. Clueless about the prey that's ready to jump in.
A quiet groan slipped from between his lips.
He imagined it. Her body wrapped around him, wet skin against skin, her legs hooked around his waist, her fingers tangled in his hair as she gasped into his mouth. Her scent in his lungs. Her blood on his tongue.
His jaw clenched.
She was a peasant. A stranger. And yet, every inch of her called to him.
His eyes darkened before he soon disappeared, as if he had never been there. But he had left her a gift, a shadow that would follow her wherever she went.
The gentle shrugging of the leaves hid his presence of leaving.
Edric floated down to his balcony, the tall windows parting for him without a sound. With a flick of his wrist, his cloak billowed open, revealing a crisp white shirt, a loosely tied cravat, and a fitted black coat that tapered into straight trousers. He shrugged off the outer layers, tossing them onto a nearby chair with a sigh that carried the weight of a battlefield.
He ran a hand through his midnight-black hair, sighing low as though he'd returned from the battlefield itself.
His arousal hadn't dulled. If anything, the ache had worsened. The mere memory of her, those soft curves shimmering beneath moonlight, the gentle swell of her breasts, the wet strands of red hair clinging to bare skin—was enough to make him twitch again, painfully tight beneath his waistband.
"Pathetic," he muttered, yet still refused to touch himself. Not yet. Not when the real thing existed just a few steps away.
The lights in his chamber flickered softly, a dim golden glow that washed the stone walls in a hazy warmth, romantic and quiet. He lowered the needle on the phonograph. A melody began to play—piano and cello, slow and haunting, like a lullaby for the damned.
He turned toward the desk. Paperwork lay scattered, some of it urgent, none of it interesting.
"Another dispute in the north," he mumbled, skimming a report with tired eyes. "They never learn."
He shoved it aside.
Then, a tingle climbed the nape of his neck. His eyes fluttered shut.
He felt her.
The monster, the shadow-raven, was part of his magic, its senses borrowed, shared. It glided above the forest.
She was running, cloak flying, hair damp, back to her dormitory. A tiny curve formed in Edric's lips.
The raven perched on a high tree, watching. And a moment later, a candle flickered to life behind the window on the third floor.
No curtains.
Transparent glass.
And there she was.
She tossed the cloak onto the floor, hair still dripping down her neck, the black dress clinging to her like a second skin. The back of the cloak was soaked through, practically sheer, and underneath.....nothing.
She didn't even light another candle. She simply blew the flame out and dropped onto the bed.
"Someone like that… under my roof." The raven dissolved into shadow as he opened his eyes, pulse heavy with something darker than lust.
The balcony windows flung themselves open again as he stepped out into the wind, disappearing into the night.
Moments later, he hovered outside her tower window, just a few feet from her room
The window was locked from inside, it was dark, and he could see nothing.
He pressed his fingertips to the wall, amber eyes glowing faintly.
From his hand, a slender ribbon of light, golden, silky, drifted through the gap in the window, floating like a spirit. It twirled through the air, graceful as a ribbon dancer, until it reached her. It circled Florence's body once… twice… before slipping gently into her forehead, fusing with her mind.
Sleep magic.
She sighed, curling slightly under the influence, and drifted into deeper slumber.
The room was quiet.
Still.
His magic opened the window, which creaked softly as he opened it and stepped in. First, he noticed the glove lying on top of the desk right in front of him —a pink glove with a ribbon on its cuff.
He stepped over it and whispered another incantation, the same soft light spreading along the corners of the room like faint moonlight, just enough to see her clearly.
She lay on her back, one hand resting above her head, the other across her stomach. The thin blanket barely clung to her legs, the rest tangled and melting off the bed.
Her nightdress was thin—far too thin. Damp patches still clung to her breasts, and he could see the outline of her nipples, tight from the cool air. Her thighs were pressed together, but the way her dress bunched between them revealed just how little she wore beneath.
"Troublesome," he murmured.
He stepped closer, his hand brushing a few wet curls from her cheek. They were still warm. Still fresh from the lake. Her freckles dotted across her shoulders like constellations, and her lips, slightly parted, looked soft enough to tempt any man past redemption.
He traced a glowing fingertip down the side of her cheek.
"ƎꝚƧƧ."
Her hair dried instantly, curls blooming into full, soft volume, wild and untamed, just like her. He kept his fingers in her hair a moment longer, savouring the feel of it.
Then he tugged the blanket gently from beneath her, draping it over her chest and shoulders, hiding what he'd wanted to stare at longer.
"You should reward me for controlling myself," he said under his breath, a smirk in his voice.
He reached for the hand above her head and brought it to his lips, pressing a reverent kiss against her knuckles. Her skin was rougher than expected, her palms bearing the calluses of a life spent working, not pampered, not sheltered.
He tucked the hand under the blanket, stepping back.
And for just one second, his eyes lingered on her again, that dangerous heat returning to his gaze.
"Not yet," he whispered. "But soon," He took out a black rose and placed it alongside the glove.
Then, with a flick of shadow and light, he vanished from the room.