Seraphine followed the maid in silence, her steps echoing across the polished stone floors. The manor was a strange blend of beauty and foreboding—crystal chandeliers above paintings that stared back at her, velvet curtains drawn tight over windows that faced the cliffs.
"You mustn't be frightened, my lady," the maid said softly. "The Duke… he is not unkind. Just rarely understood."
Seraphine gave a faint smile. "He isn't what I expected."
The maid's eyes twinkled. "No one ever expects him to choose anyone. Least of all someone like… well…"
Seraphine's smile faded slightly. "Someone like me."
The maid looked apologetic but didn't argue.
At last, they reached a tall set of doors carved with the symbol of the moon and flame. The maid opened them to reveal a spacious chamber bathed in soft blue and silver light. A four-poster bed draped in pale silk, a fireplace already lit, and a wardrobe carved with forest creatures awaited her. A balcony overlooked the mist-draped cliffs and the silver sea beyond.
"Everything here is yours," the maid said gently. "A seamstress will come tomorrow to take your measurements for proper attire. If you need anything, just ring the bell by the hearth."
Seraphine stepped inside, overwhelmed.
"Thank you…" she paused. "What's your name?"
"Elda, my lady," the maid replied with a warm curtsy. "Welcome home."
With that, she departed, closing the doors behind her with a soft thud.
---
Alone, Seraphine walked to the balcony, her hands resting on the cool stone railing. The wind kissed her skin as the waves below crashed against the cliffs.
She was no longer in the Delacroix estate.
No longer a servant.
The wind swept through the balcony, lifting the sheer curtains like ghostly arms as Seraphine stepped forward, drawn by an unexplainable pull. Her eyes drifted downward toward the grand entrance of the estate, where the dark silhouette of Duke Alaric Vaelthorne emerged from the arched doorway below.
He was already dressed in his travel attire—black leather gloves, high-collared cloak clasped at his throat with a silver insignia, and boots that struck the stone with a commander's finality. The servants stood at attention as he passed, heads bowed respectfully, not a word dared spoken.
Seraphine leaned slightly over the balcony rail, her hand unconsciously gripping the cool stone as she watched him approach the waiting car at the foot of the estate stairs.
Then—suddenly—he stopped.
As if sensing her gaze, Alaric turned halfway… then all the way. His head tilted slightly upward.
Seraphine's breath caught.
Their eyes met.
The distance between them vanished in an instant.
His silver eyes locked onto hers with unsettling precision, as if he had known she would be there… watching. As if he had waited for this very moment. The world quieted—the sea's roar faded, the wind stilled, and even the fluttering curtains behind her seemed to hold their breath.
Her heart pounded against her ribs, not from fear, but from something far stranger. Deeper. A warmth swelled in her chest, rising up her throat, curling in her stomach. It wasn't affection… not yet. It was recognition. A pull. A tether forming between two people fated to collide.
She couldn't move. Couldn't look away.
And then, just as quickly, Alaric blinked, his expression unreadable as ever. He turned without a word and stepped into the car.
The door shut with a thud.
Seraphine exhaled only when he was gone, her fingers trembling against the stone rail.
"What… was that?" she whispered, pressing her hand to her chest.
She could still feel the ghost of his gaze—sharp as a blade, but not meant to wound. For the first time, the stories of the cold, heartless Duke faltered in her mind.
There was something more to Alaric Vaelthorne.
And for reasons she could not name, that frightened her more than anything else.
After the carriage disappeared into the horizon and her heartbeat settled, Seraphine retreated from the balcony, the strange warmth of Alaric's gaze still lingering in her chest. The room he had given her was too grand, too quiet, too filled with things she didn't know how to touch. The fire crackled in the hearth, the gowns prepared in her wardrobe remained untouched, and her thoughts refused to settle.
So she did what she always did when reality became too much to hold—she wandered.
The manor stretched far and deep, hallways that curved and staircases that turned like they had minds of their own. Tapestries lined the corridors—depictions of battles, ancient creatures, celestial beings, and symbols she did not recognize. Servants passed her quietly with respectful nods, never asking questions, never speaking unless spoken to. It was like walking through a living dream.
Drawn by instinct more than direction, Seraphine turned down a dim corridor, where a towering set of double doors stood shut. Unlike the others, these bore no carvings or insignias, only a faint trace of dust along the handles.
Curious, she pulled them open.
Beyond was a room that stole her breath.
A vast, domed chamber lined with shelves that reached to the ceiling. Books of every color, size, and age filled the space, many bound in thick leather, others in strange metals and embroidered fabrics. The scent of old parchment and ink filled the air, layered with the faint sweetness of aged wood and dried herbs.
A library.
And not just any library—a hidden trove of ancient knowledge.
Seraphine stepped inside slowly, reverently, as though she might wake something just by breathing too loud. The ceiling above shimmered with faint enchantments—twinkling stars embedded in glass and crystal that pulsed like a living night sky.
She trailed her fingers along the spines, marveling at the titles: The Lost Histories of Astira, The Blood of Forgotten Queens, Mystic Bonds and Magical Lineage, The Vaelthorne Chronicles…
That last one gave her pause.
She pulled it free and settled into the nearest high-backed chair, curling into its velvet seat like she belonged there.
For hours, Seraphine read. Some books were stories, others records of laws, others theories of old magic—names and places she had only heard whispered by old women in markets. And others still… felt oddly familiar, like pieces of herself hidden between the pages.
She lost track of time.
Only when the great library door creaked open did she stir, a flicker of embarrassment tightening her limbs.
"My lady?" came the voice of the butler—the one who had first greeted them. He stepped into view with a lantern in hand, bowing slightly. "Forgive the interruption, but the dinner bell has long passed. The household was concerned."
Seraphine blinked, rubbing her eyes. "Is it that late already?"
"Indeed," he said gently. "The sun has long set."
She stood quickly, smoothing the creases in her skirt. "I must have fallen asleep reading. I didn't mean to—" Her voice faltered. "Is… has the Duke returned?"
The butler's expression did not change. "No, my lady. His Grace will return after three days. He is attending to urgent matters in the capital."
"Oh." She tried to mask the disappointment in her voice, but her own surprise at the feeling made it hard to hide. "I see."
"But he gave strict instructions before departing," the butler added, folding his hands respectfully. "You are to be cared for and treated with the full honor befitting the soon-to-be mistress of this manor."
Seraphine's breath caught slightly. "He said that?"
"Yes, my lady. His words were not to be misunderstood."
The warmth returned to her cheeks, but this time, she said nothing. Merely nodded.
"Dinner has been prepared in the east dining hall. Will you allow me to escort you?"
She hesitated only a moment before setting the book down carefully and stepping away from the chair. "Yes. Thank you."
As she followed the butler through the winding corridors, Seraphine glanced once over her shoulder, back at the glowing library now left behind. There was something in that room—something old, and waiting.
And it whispered to her.