"My Lady,"
The maid from the dessert café approached with a polite bow, "someone came looking for you. They said the fabric you requested is ready, and asked for you visit the store to see it yourself."
The message hung delicately in the air like a thread of silk.
Across the marble table, Elira lifted her gaze from the glass of chilled dessert, a faint smile curving her lips.
Maren, ever perceptive, caught the glint in her lady's eyes and murmured,
"Just as you expected, my lady."
The sun was already lowering beyond the city's rooftops, painting the windows in gold and crimson. Its dying light shimmered across Elira's pale features—too serene, too composed.
Her spoon touched the edge of the glass one final time before she rose. "Let's go, Maren," she said, her voice soft but laced with quiet intent.
•—.—>>>>●●●<<<<—.—•
The carriage wheels stilled before the arched storefront—a place of silks, secrets, and whispers. The sign above the door gleamed faintly under the last light of dusk.
Inside, the air was cool and fragrant with pressed linen and lavender oil. The same attendant who had served Elira on her last visit appeared almost immediately, her smile practiced yet a shade too knowing.
"Welcome back, Lady Rothermere,"
He said, bowing slightly.
"Your order has been prepared. If you would, please follow me—this way, my lady."
Elira's eyes flicked toward Maren, who was already glancing curiously at a display of embroidered silk fabric.
Elira's gloved fingers brushed against the edge of her skirt as she gave a measured nod. "Very well," she said.
Maren hesitated, clearly uneasy, but Elira's faint smile silenced her worry.
The attendant guided Elira not toward the front gallery, where bolts of silk and lace shimmered in glass cases, but down a narrower hallway leading out to a garden.
Such peculiar architecture for an information house disguised as a fabric merchant, Elira thought, her gaze sweeping over the hidden arches and curtained alcoves.
Just as Maren took a cautious step to follow, the attendant—Lan, if she recalled correctly—paused and turned, his tone dipped in courtesy but firm beneath its surface.
"My lady,"
He said softly,
"it would be better if you accompanied me alone. Your lady-in-waiting may remain here… perhaps she'd enjoy perusing the new silks while we attend to your matter."
Maren's face tightened, unease plain in her eyes. But Elira only inclined her head, the faintest curve at the corner of her lips betraying neither agreement nor refusal—only calculation.
Elira gave Maren a final, measured look before stepping forward. Her heels clicked softly against the marble floor as she followed Lan deeper into the passageway.
The corridor narrowed, its ceiling arching low, the walls faintly curved as though shaped by older architecture hidden beneath the building's modern façade.
The air shifted—cooler now, carrying the faint scent of wet stone and lavender oil that had seeped into the very mortar. Small lanterns glowed along the corridor, their light refracted through cut glass, painting fractured gold across Elira's pale gloves.
Lan moved ahead with quiet precision, his steps almost soundless. "This way, my lady," he murmured, opening a slender iron gate at the end of the hall.
Elira stepped through— and the world seemed to change.
Beyond the passage stretched a garden unlike any she had seen. Evening light spilled over the high walls, gilding the lavender that rolled across the courtyard in gentle waves of violet and silver. The scent was intoxicating—sweet and dusky, heavy with the calm of hidden hours.
At the center stood a structure that seemed to drink in the fading light. It was built entirely of glass, yet not transparent—its panels shimmered with a deep amethyst hue, opaque and reflective like still water under a stormy sky. The glass wasn't merely tinted; it shifted, the color darkening when one moved, as though aware of being watched.
The structure rose with clean, elegant symmetry—part conservatory, part sanctum. Curved lines framed its surface, their metallic trims glinting like strokes of a painter's brush. At a glance, it looked less like a room and more like a living painting—an illusion crafted from light, reflection, and silence.
Around it, the lavender garden was meticulously arranged—spirals of blooms tracing invisible pathways that converged toward the glass chamber. Between the flowerbeds, silver fountains murmured softly, the water catching what little light remained.
Elira paused, her gloved hand brushing the air, almost expecting it to resist her touch. The world here felt contained—suspended between beauty and secrecy.
Lan turned slightly, his voice low.
"It's a new addition," he said, almost reverently.
"The patrons call it The Veil Room. Built to preserve privacy… and reflection."
Elira's gaze lingered on the mirrored panels.
"Privacy,"
she echoed softly, though her tone suggested she heard more in that word than he had said.
Lan inclined his head and moved toward the dark glass doors at the front of the chamber.
As they opened, a faint hum spilled into the air—a vibration low and steady, like a whisper beneath the earth.
Inside, shadows and colors folded together, bending light in ways that made the space seem larger than it should have been. There was no scent of dust or age—only the crisp aroma of glass, lavender, and something faintly metallic.
Elira's reflection followed her in fractured shards across every surface. For an instant, she could not tell which image was hers—and which was watching her back.
The faint hum beneath the glass deepened as Elira stepped farther inside. The Veil Room seemed to breathe around her—light sliding over every surface like liquid silk, pooling against the walls and rippling with her every movement.
At first, she thought the chamber empty.
Then, from behind a column of curved glass, a figure emerged.
He was dressed in the understated luxury of old nobility—black tailcoat lined with charcoal silk, silver embroidery tracing the cuffs like frost. His cravat was pinned with a dark gem, the color of polished hematite, and his gloves were immaculate. Yet, despite the refinement, there was something uncanny about his stillness, the precise control of his every gesture—as though the elegance had been practiced rather than lived.
"Lady Rothermere," he greeted smoothly, his tone measured and warm.
"It is an honor. I trust the attendant has treated you well?"
The words hung in the air, gentle and formal. But the voice—that voice—
Elira's breath caught before she could school her expression.
That cadence. That rhythm of syllables.
It struck a place in her memory that should have been sealed by death.
For a moment, the garden outside blurred through the glass walls. Her fingers curled slightly at her side, the glove creasing against her palm.
"Your… voice,'' she said, her tone quiet but cutting through the chamber like the edge of frost.
"It's—" she stopped, searching his face,
"—it's almost the same."
The man inclined his head, a smile faint but polite.
"Almost?"
Elira's eyes narrowed. Beneath the surface calm, her heartbeat grew heavy, echoing in her ribs.
"Who are you?" she demanded softly, her voice barely a whisper, yet it carried with an authority that made even the lavender beyond the glass seem to still.
"You're not Lord Stag."
The name left her lips before she could stop it—an echo from her previous life, a name that should never have been spoken aloud again.
The man didn't flinch. But something—something minute—shifted behind his calm eyes.
He was handsome, in a way that defied time. His hair was a deep sable, combed neatly but with a faint curl at the ends that caught the violet light. His skin was pale but not sickly—refined, with the faint sheen of one accustomed to perfume and candlelight. But his eyes—those were wrong.
They were the color of molten silver. Not the deep, unreadable brown of Lord Stag. These eyes reflected too much light, like glass that had learned to mimic life.
He regarded her for a moment, then spoke again, his smile steady.
"I assure you, my lady, you are mistaken. I have always been the one who manages this establishment."
Elira took a step closer, her reflection folding and unfolding across the walls around them—dozens of Eliras, all watching the exchange.
"No," she whispered, shaking her head slightly.
"No. I know that voice. I heard it long before, somewhere old."
The man tilted his head, the faintest shadow of amusement—or perhaps curiosity—crossing his face.
"In that case," he said softly, "you must have wandered through many echoes to find it again."
'Trying to test me, Lord Stag?'
The thought slipped through Elira's mind like silk through a blade's edge. A faint, mischievous smile ghosted over her lips—sharp, deliberate, and dangerous in its calm.
"Mr. Ren," she said.
Her voice cracked through the chamber like a stroke of lightning—clean and merciless.
The hum of The Veil Room seemed to falter, the air itself pausing in the echo of her words.
Ren's eyes widened. For the briefest heartbeat, the mask slipped—shock flickering across his perfectly composed features. It vanished as quickly as it came, but the damage was done.
Even Lan, standing just behind Elira's shoulder, went pale. His jaw fell slightly open before he caught himself, straightening immediately as though the very walls had eyes. The lavender light rippled faintly across the mirrored glass, casting fractured reflections of their surprise.
Ren recovered first. He exhaled softly, smoothing an invisible crease from his sleeve.
"It seems," he said with forced poise, "that introductions are unnecessary."
But the faint tremor in his tone betrayed him.
Elira's eyes glimmered beneath the violet glow, her expression unreadable but amused. She had spoken the name he had never given—one he had guarded carefully, even from those who served beneath him.
He had not introduced himself since she'd entered the room. He hadn't needed to. Yet she had known.
And that, more than her words, unsettled him.
Lan's gaze darted between them, uncertain whether to speak or remain silent. But Elira didn't glance back—her attention was fixed on Ren, studying him as if unravelling a pattern only she could see.
"Surprised?" she asked softly, her tone almost teasing.
Ren's lips curved into a slow, deliberate smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Only… intrigued, my lady," he murmured.
But she could tell. Beneath that polished exterior, he was unnerved.