The manor slept beneath a velvet sky, cloaked in shadows and silence. Midnight had long struck, and most of the staff had retired. Only the soft tap of Seraphine's slippers echoed faintly as she glided across the marble floor of the east wing, her silk robe whispering with every step.
She paused before the portrait room, its twin oak doors slightly ajar. A breath of cold air stirred her loose curls, but she didn't flinch. The room always felt colder than the rest of the manor—perhaps because ghosts lingered more heavily here.
But tonight, there weren't just ghosts, there was something...or perhaps someone...
Stepping inside, she saw her.
Lady Morganna Ravenshade, proud and poised, stood alone before the grandest of portraits. She wore a robe of deep burgundy, her hands clasped loosely at her waist. Her gaze—sharp, unreadable—was fixed on one face.
Lord Roman Ravenshade. Her father.
The deceased patriarch's painted eyes stared back with eternal intensity, captured forever in the moment of power. A war hero, a noble, a ruler who ruled with cunning and charm. Her mother, Lady Morganna had loved him once—perhaps more than she ever admitted.
Seraphine hesitated in the archway, watching the shadows curl around her mother's figure like old loyalties.
"Mother," she called gently.
Lady Morganna didn't flinch. "Hey, sweetest."
Seraphine tilted her head slightly as if asking "I'm more than three centuries old and you still call me that whenever you're emotional."
Seraphine smiled faintly and stepped into the room, arms folded.
"A Ravenshade is never emotional, Sera," Morganna added, her voice soft but cold.
"Well, if you say so." Seraphine's eyes flicked to the portrait, then back to her mother's face.
"But they do get tired and thirsty. I'll be on my way to get a blood meal, Mama, would you want one?"
Lady Morganna simply shook her head.
Without waiting for dismissal, she turned and exited the room, the silence behind her thick as fog.
Lady Morganna remained still.
She studied her husband's painted face, her posture untouched by time, but her thoughts loud and restless.
"Was I wrong, Roman?" she whispered, eyes narrowing. "Am I still wrong, dear?"
Her voice dropped lower, nearly lost to the still air.
"What do I do about Ian?" she smiled as if remembering a memory. "He grows colder by the times."
But Roman's portrait, like the man himself, offered no answers. And unfortunately, neither did the silence.
Julian wasn't the type to roam late into the night unless duty required it. Yet lately… something had shifted. A pattern unspoken. A curiosity that no longer belonged to logic.
She turned from the portrait and disappeared down the hall, leaving the past where it belonged—framed and unanswered.
Lady Morganna's gown swept through the wing, "Tomas?"
"Yes, my Lady."
"Where's the Lord?"
"He stepped out, my Lady." Tomas answered and bowed slightly.
Far from the manor's velvet quiet, the outskirts of Eldhollow stretched in misty stillness. Julian Ravenshade's black cloak fluttered behind him like smoke as he crossed the old cobbled bridge leading to Rosebury's ancient core.
The three moons were waning above the rooftops, their glow fractured across the rooftops and church spires. The devil walked alone tonight—but not aimless.
He turned at the corner of Silverbend Street, past the apothecary and blind minstrel's tavern, and entered the crumbling gothic structure at the heart of town: The Rosebury Archive.
Inside, it smelled of ink and parchment, memory and decay. Lanterns flickered dimly, casting golden halos against books that had not moved in centuries.
Behind the main desk sat a white-haired man with thick brows, broad shoulders, and a permanent scowl etched into the lines of his face. His aura... simple but craft laid behind those eyes.
Atlas. The Centurion Librarian. Keeper of forgotten truths.
"My Lord," Atlas greeted, not rising. "You walk like trouble."
Julian raised a brow. "And you speak like boredom incarnate. How are the days?"
"I'm sure Lord Ravenshade knows my days are fine," Atlas replied, dry as ever. "What brings you to the dust tonight?"
Julian stepped closer, gloved fingers resting on the wood. "I need the old history volumes. The ones on sea creatures. Specifically… those with song."
Atlas squinted, then nodded. "Left wing. Second alcove. Third row. Locked."
He rose and shuffled with practiced strength to a dusty section, unlocking a panel to reveal a thick, dark-bound tome with silver embossing. The cover read:
'Tales Beneath Tides: A Scholar's Account of Sea Kindred and Song.'
The edges were worn. Seaweed ink curled in faded etchings. Its scent was briny, magical, ancient.
"Would you need a copy, My Lord?" Atlas asked, voice lowered now.
Julian's gaze didn't leave the book. "No. I need your help keeping a counterfeit copy visible on that shelf."
Atlas smirked. "Setting traps, I see."
Julian said nothing—but the air answered for him.
The old man chuckled softly and closed the panel again, the real tome slipping beneath his robe.
As they walked, Atlas took a turn—not toward the front, but a side corridor rarely used. Here, no eyes lingered. No whispers followed.
At the final door, Atlas paused. "They're interesting creatures… the sea kindred."
Julian remained still, listening.
"A siren cannot disguise," Atlas murmured. "But the merfolk? Oh, they can vanish in plain sight. On a full moon, a royal mermaid's voice can heal a wounded vampire. But if it's a siren's tune instead…" he trailed off.
Julian's eyes narrowed. "It kills."
Atlas nodded once. "Attend the opera this week, my Lord. You might find something worth keeping… or losing."
He turned without waiting for response, vanishing into the corridor like dust in wind.
Julian remained in the doorway, the moonlight casting sharp shadows across his cheekbones.
He would investigate to the end. She—his wildflower—was no longer just amusement.
She was the storm he hadn't seen coming.
And he would ensure nothing—not Blackstone, not Rhys Glenshade, not the past—touched her.
They would all be attending the Opera.
And the true performance was only just beginning.