The morning sun filtered softly through the tall arched windows of the manor's grand library. Dust motes danced lazily in the golden light as Seraphine stepped cautiously between towering shelves of ancient tomes and scrolls. The scent of old parchment and polished wood clung to the air, heavy with history.
She ran her fingers across a row of leather-bound books, some etched with gold leaf, others wrapped in velvet and sealed with unfamiliar symbols. Most were written in the common tongue, but occasionally her eyes landed on texts inscribed in strange, flowing script—elegant and curved, almost like vines twining across the surface of the page.
She paused, recognizing it.
"Elven," she whispered aloud. The word felt foreign yet natural on her tongue, as though a memory long buried stirred faintly within her.
One particular book drew her in. Unlike the others, it bore no title on the spine—just a silver crest that shimmered subtly when the light hit it. She pulled it carefully from the shelf. The cover was deep emerald green, bound in old leather that felt cool to the touch. In the bottom right corner, carved faintly but precisely, was a name:
Antoine Vellaria
She blinked.
Vellaria.
That was Alaric's middle name. He had introduced himself once—Alaric Vellaria Vaelthorne. Could this Antoine be a relative?
Curiosity won over caution. She opened the book.
The first page revealed a painted portrait—an oil rendering of a regal man in his early forties. His expression was calm, but his presence exuded immense power. His black hair was streaked with silver, and his jaw was sharp as if carved from stone. Most striking were his eyes—bluish-green, luminous, unnatural.
The rumored eyes of a vampire, she thought, breath catching in her throat.
She turned the next page carefully.
There, facing him on the opposite side, was another portrait—this one of a woman with golden hair coiled in elegant waves, adorned in an ivory gown crowned with sapphires. Her beauty was delicate, timeless. Beneath the painting, in careful script, was written:
Princess Anastasia of the British Monarch
Seraphine froze.
A thousand thoughts collided in her mind.
Vampire… royalty… Vellaria… British princess? Her eyes darted back and forth between the pages, her thoughts spinning. Is this Antoine Alaric's father? Could Alaric be descended from a vampire lord and a human princess?
The pieces began to click into place—his unnaturally perfect features, his icy demeanor, his strength, the way people feared him without understanding why.
He wasn't just a powerful nobleman.
He wasn't entirely human.
Her hand trembled as she turned another page, but before she could make sense of the script, the sound of heavy doors creaking open echoed down the hall.
She froze.
Alaric.
In a flurry of panic, Seraphine closed the book, carefully but swiftly returning it to the drawer beneath the reading table. She straightened her dress and smoothed her hair, then rushed out of the library, heart pounding.
---
Scene: Return of the Duke
The grand foyer was lit with early afternoon sunlight as Seraphine descended the staircase.
The front door had been pushed open by the butler, and in stepped Alaric—his presence as commanding as ever, his long black coat catching the wind behind him.
His eyes met hers immediately.
Seraphine's breath hitched. For a second, she feared he could read the turmoil in her gaze.
But Alaric only raised an eyebrow slightly. "You're awake early."
"I… couldn't sleep again," she lied, offering a polite smile as she approached. "Welcome home, Your Grace."
He tilted his head. "I told you not to call me that."
She looked away, flustered. "Alaric."
"That's better."
Their eyes lingered a second longer than usual.
Seraphine opened her mouth, ready to ask him about the name Vellaria, about Antoine, about Princess Anastasia—but she hesitated. Something inside told her the time wasn't right.
Not yet.
Instead, she stepped back and offered, "Shall I have tea brought to your study?"
He studied her, almost too closely, as if searching her for something unsaid.
Then, after a pause, he nodded. "Yes. That would be appreciated."
---
Scene: Brewing Storms
That night, as the candles flickered in her chamber and the manor once again fell silent, Seraphine stared at the ceiling, the name Antoine Vellaria echoing in her thoughts like a haunting tune.
The pieces were beginning to align. The unnatural energy she felt around Alaric. The elven script. The noble yet mythical legacy buried within this ancient estate.
She knew, now more than ever, that there was more to Alaric—and to her own past—than she had ever been told.
And somewhere deep in her heart, a new fear bloomed.
If Alaric was not entirely human…
…what was she?