The soft clinking of cutlery faded as Amara finished her supper. The old maid, Elys, stood beside her with a gentle smile, holding a brass candlestick that flickered with golden light. Together, they walked down the long marble hallway of the Aurelia mansion a place so vast it could easily be mistaken for a castle. Paintings of past governors lined the walls, their faces watching with silent pride. The scent of lavender oil mixed with the faint aroma of old wood and wax candles, wrapping the corridor in a warm yet nostalgic calm.
Elys led the way with careful steps. "My lady, it's best to rest early," she said softly, her voice warm but firm. "Your father's rules are not without reason. He believes beauty blooms from rest."
Amara smiled faintly. "I suppose he just doesn't want me to lose it," she replied, a touch of teasing in her tone.
Elys chuckled. "Perhaps he fears the young men of the court would protest if you ever appeared tired, my lady."
They entered Amara's chamber, where tall windows let in the silver glow of the moon. Velvet drapes swayed gently with the night breeze. The faint sound of the distant river echoed beyond the mansion's walls. As Elys helped her change into her nightgown a delicate white silk trimmed with lace Amara gazed toward the window. The moonlight made her skin glimmer like porcelain, her black curls falling gracefully against her shoulders.
She sighed. "Do I really have to sleep this early, Elys?"
"Yes, my lady," Elys answered, brushing Amara's hair gently. "Rest well, and your dreams shall be kind. The governor's orders, after all."
But inside, Amara felt uneasy. She feared the same dream would return the one that always began beautifully, yet turned strange once the clock struck twelve. She didn't understand why it haunted her, nor why it felt so real.
Elys noticed the quiet worry in her eyes. As she often did since Amara was a child, she handed her a small book bound in red leather. "A few pages will calm your mind, my lady. You used to fall asleep after just one story."
Amara smiled softly. "Yes… it feels not too long ago you'd read them to me."
Elys bowed lightly. "Then goodnight, my lady. May your dreams be gentle."
The old maid closed the door, leaving Amara in the hush of moonlight. The room was still except for the whisper of wind against the glass. She sat by her bedside, turning the pages of her book, but her thoughts wandered elsewhere to the man she had seen earlier that day. That strange bronze-skinned artist, his hair tousled, his gaze distant and empty, yet somehow… gentle.
Amara shut her book and whispered to herself, "Who was he?" Her voice barely rose above a breath. "It feels as though I've known him for so long."
She stared at the moonlight pooling over her floor, soft and pale as snow. Slowly, her eyes grew heavy, and the warmth of the candle faded from her sight.
Then—DONG.
Her eyes snapped open.
The deep, metallic toll echoed through her chest like thunder.
Amara blinked. The room was no longer bathed in sunlight it was once again the moonlit chamber from her dream. Her gown had changed; she now wore a red elegant dress that shimmered faintly like silk under the moon's glow. The air was colder, the silence thicker. The scent of lavender was gone replaced by the faint smell of dust and iron.
Her eyes wandered, drawn to the far end of the room. There, hanging upon the wall, was a massive painting.
A woman in a long, thin gown sat gracefully in the artwork. The brushstrokes shimmered faintly, almost alive. Shadows veiled her face completely, yet every other detail was striking the delicate hands folded in her lap, the intricate lace of her dress, the faint reflection of moonlight caught in the paint. It was beautiful… but unsettling.
Amara stepped closer, feeling the wooden floor creak beneath her bare feet. Despite the darkness covering the woman's face, she could sense something in the painting staring back at her an invisible gaze.
Then—BANG.
The sound of the great clock struck again, this time so loud it rattled the air.
Amara gasped, clutching her head. A sharp pain pierced through her skull.
BANG.
Another strike stronger, deeper.
Her knees buckled as she fell onto the floor. The pain was unbearable; it was as though the chime of the clock echoed inside her head. Her breathing quickened, sweat beading down her neck.
BANG.
Her vision blurred. The painting seemed to move, the woman's shadowed face tilting slightly toward her.
Amara screamed. The sound of the clock merged with the pounding of her heart, until it became one endless noise.
And then silence.
She jolted awake, gasping for breath.
Sunlight poured through the window. The red dress was gone; she was once again in her white nightgown, her sheets tangled around her legs. Her forehead was damp with sweat, and her body trembled.
Amara pressed a hand to her chest, whispering through shaky breaths, "That… that was the worst pain yet."
The echo of the clock still rang faintly in her mind cold and heavy as iron.
The soft creak of the door broke the silence. Elys entered quietly, her arms full of linens and a small silver tray. The morning light glimmered faintly through the tall arched windows, brushing against the curtains like a whisper. When the old maid saw Amara—her hair disheveled, skin pale, and dress clinging to her from the sweat—her eyes widened in alarm.
"My lady! What happened?" she gasped, setting the tray down and rushing to her side. Her wrinkled hands trembled as she pressed a cloth to Amara's forehead. "You look as though you've seen a ghost."
Amara shook her head weakly. "Just… a bad dream," she murmured, voice hoarse. "It felt so real, Elys. I've never had one like it before." She hesitated, looking down at her trembling hands. "Do you have something—perhaps a tea or medicine—to help me sleep without such dreams?"
Elys blinked, puzzled yet concerned. "A nightmare, my lady? What kind of dream could trouble you so deeply?"
Amara exhaled slowly, recalling the haunting memory. "I woke up in another room. It was night—the air felt heavy yet… beautiful. There was a great clock, and every time it rang, my head began to ache. It rang again and again, until—"
"At twelve," Elys interrupted softly.
Amara froze. The faint tremor in Elys's tone sent a chill through her chest. "Elys," she said carefully, "how… how did you know?"
The maid's face stiffened, her expression faltering for a heartbeat. Her eyes—usually gentle and kind—seemed distant, haunted by something unsaid. For a moment, it looked as though she might speak, but then, as quickly as the shadow appeared, it vanished. She forced a smile, one too delicate to be real.
"My lady," she said lightly, "you should take your bath now. The governor awaits you for breakfast. You mustn't keep him waiting."
"Elys… are you all right?" Amara asked softly, her voice trembling with both worry and suspicion.
But the old maid had already turned away, carrying the basin of warm water toward the adjoining bath. The soft sound of water pouring echoed through the chamber, but Elys did not hum as she usually did—her silence pressed against the room like a veil.
Amara sat for a long moment, staring at the doorway where her maid had disappeared. At twelve… how could she have known? The thought lingered in her mind, quiet yet sharp. When Elys returned, her composure was immaculate again.
"Come, my lady," she said, voice gentle, almost too gentle. "Let's prepare you for the day."
Steam rose from the bath as Amara stepped in, the scent of lavender and herbs calming her senses. The mansion around them stirred faintly—the distant clatter of servants in the kitchen, the distant bell from the nearby chapel, and the morning doves perched outside her window. Yet even in this peace, Amara could not shake the feeling that something about Elys's demeanor had changed.
When she was finished, Elys helped her dress. The gown was simpler than her usual attire, yet it carried a quiet grace a soft ivory fabric trimmed with golden embroidery, its sleeves flowing like ribbons. Her dark curls were brushed gently, tied loosely with a ribbon of pale blue.
"You look lovely, my lady," Elys said with a faint smile.
Amara met her eyes in the mirror, searching for the warmth she always found there. But Elys's reflection seemed almost hollow, her gaze slipping away as though afraid to meet Amara's.
"Thank you," Amara said softly.
Moments later, she walked through the long marble hallway of their mansion, her footsteps echoing faintly. The portraits of her ancestors lined the walls, their painted eyes seeming to follow her as she passed. The scent of old books and polished wood filled the air. At the end of the hall stood the grand dining chamber, bathed in the morning sun.
Her father sat at the long oak table, reading a folded newspaper. His silver hair gleamed in the light, his posture sharp yet gentle. As soon as he saw her, he stood, setting the paper aside.
"Amara," he said warmly, a soft smile breaking across his face. "My dear, good morning."
She returned his smile, though faintly. "Good morning, Father."
He reached out and hugged her, the familiar scent of his coat ink, parchment, and faint traces of cedar wrapping around her like safety. For a moment, she felt grounded again, far from the dream, far from the strange chill that clung to Elys's words.
Yet even as she sat down at the table, she couldn't shake the memory of the maid's trembling hands… and that single word she had whispered before the mask returned
"At twelve."