The Alderidge mansion was built to impress and intimidate.
Tall marble pillars rose like sentinels over the guests who glittered beneath chandeliers, their laughter polished and hollow. Elara stood at the top of the staircase, wrapped in a pale blue gown borrowed from her mother's friend. It didn't fit right.. too tight around the ribs, too grand for a girl who'd grown up scrubbing floors instead of dancing on them.
Her father's hand rested gently on her back as they descended.
"Smile," he whispered. "You're about to meet your future."
Her future was waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
Adrian Alderidge, every inch the gentleman his reputation promised. Golden hair perfectly in place, cufflinks gleaming, posture unbent by humility. He bowed slightly when she reached him, his smile sharp enough to cut.
"Elara," he said smoothly. "You look lovely tonight."
She curtsied, the way her mother had drilled her. "Thank you, Mr. Alderidge."
"Adrian," he corrected. "We should be familiar with one another now."
The word familiar made her stomach twist. Still, she nodded and allowed him to take her hand. His grip was cool, firm, rehearsed. The crowd watched them with approving smiles as if she were a prize horse finally bought.
Dinner was a blur of crystal and conversation. Adrian's parents sat at the head of the table, discussing business and politics while servants poured wine that shimmered like rubies.
Mrs. Alderidge's gaze slid to Elara between sentences, always assessing. "You'll do well in our family," she said at last. "A quiet girl. Modesty can be a virtue when one marries into influence."
Elara forced a polite smile, though her pulse raced in her throat. A quiet girl. The phrase stuck like a thorn. She wondered if silence was all they wanted from her.
Halfway through the meal, her eyes caught on a painting across the dining hall a massive, shadowed piece depicting a burning estate. Smoke and fire coiled around dark towers while a lone figure stood amid the flames, his face pale and expression unreadable.
Elara felt her chest tighten. "That painting," she murmured. "Where is that place?"
Adrian glanced at it, then back to her with mild amusement. "A ruin, somewhere north of here. The Vale Estate. My ancestors bought the land long ago. There's nothing left but stone and ghost stories now."
Her heart stuttered at the name. She remembered the journal her grandmother used to write in, the whispers of The Crimson One. For a moment, she could almost hear her grandmother's voice again: Never wander there. The fire didn't kill everything.
The rest of the night passed in a haze. After the toast, after the polite applause, after Adrian kissed her gloved hand, Elara found herself standing alone on the mansion balcony. The moon was low and red, its reflection rippling in the dark garden pond below.
From somewhere deep in the woods beyond the estate, she thought she heard a sound soft, distant, like a heartbeat muffled by earth.
She shook her head, breath unsteady. Maybe it was the music, or the wind, or the weight of the ring now encircling her finger.
Still, when Adrian came to stand beside her, she couldn't stop herself from whispering, "Do you ever feel like the night is… listening?"
He gave her a strange look, the kind that said she'd spoken out of turn. "You'll learn to ignore such thoughts," he said gently. "They don't suit a woman of your station."
Elara nodded, but her gaze stayed fixed on the forest, where the darkness seemed to shift like something waking from a long sleep.