Chapter Two: The Warning
Morning light slipped through the lace curtains, softening the chill that had lingered all night.
Elara sat at the edge of her bed, rubbing her arms. The whisper still echoed faintly in her mind.
Downstairs, the scent of old wood and roses mingled with something metallic — faint, but sharp enough to make her uneasy.
She found her mother already chatting with Darius Vale in the sunroom. He was charming, graceful, the kind of man whose smile hid more than it revealed.
"Sleep well?" he asked.
Elara nodded, though her eyes wandered to the corner of the room.
Lucien stood there, half in shadow, a book in hand. He wasn't reading.
He was watching her.
Their eyes met for the briefest heartbeat — and it felt like time thinned between them.
Then he looked away, snapping the book shut.
"You shouldn't wander the halls at night," he said quietly.
Her pulse skipped. "Excuse me?"
He turned fully now, the morning light catching the faint silver in his eyes.
"The house… has echoes. Some doors are better left closed."
It sounded like a warning, but also a promise.
Later, while exploring, Elara found an old music room on the west wing — untouched, draped in dust and velvet.
She pressed a few keys on the grand piano; the notes trembled through the silence.
"Beautiful," a voice murmured behind her.
Lucien. She hadn't heard him enter.
"Sorry," she said, standing quickly. "I didn't mean to intrude."
"You didn't." His gaze lingered on her hands. "You just woke something that prefers to sleep."
Before she could reply, he was beside her — impossibly fast — closing the piano lid with a soft click.
The nearness of him was dizzying. He smelled like rain and something older, darker.
"You shouldn't be alone here," he said.
"Are you always this mysterious," she asked, trying to sound brave, "or do you enjoy scaring people?"
A small smile curved his lips — not kind, but not cruel.
"Both."
Then he turned and left her standing in the dim light, heart racing.
That night, Elara dreamed again.
A crimson moon. Footsteps on marble.
A whisper — her name, carried like breath on cold air.
When she woke, the window was open.
On the sill lay a single black rose, petals edged in silver frost.
And beneath it, a note in elegant handwriting:
"Stay out of the cellar."