The Blackwood estate was vast, but silence filled it like a fog. Not peaceful silence—Meilin could handle peace. This was another kind of quiet. The kind that watched you from behind tapestries. That whispered behind doors. That grew teeth in its stillness.
Every day was the same.
Meilin woke early, not because she was expected to—but because the dreams were worse when she slept too long. She'd bathe in silence, her robes already laid out—not gowns, but her preferred hanfu, modest and flowing, silk embroidery hugging her wrists. The servants didn't speak to her unless absolutely necessary, and even then, with short, clipped tones.
Today, like most, breakfast was served in her room.
Cold toast. Slightly burnt tea.
No one looked her in the eye.
No one ever had.
By mid-morning, she walked the gardens, trailing her fingers along the hedges, sometimes whispering to the blue-streaked stones that bordered the pathways—though never when anyone was nearby. They weren't just decorations. Not to her. Not when they pulsed softly beneath her fingers, as if they heard her, understood her loneliness.
They never responded in words. But they... resonated.
It was comfort enough.
"Don't let them see," she murmured once to a smooth, moss-kissed stone hidden behind a rosebush. "If they knew, they'd try to take you. Or take me."
The stone pulsed once beneath her hand. A quiet beat, like a heartbeat.
No one knew. No one could know.
Not about this.
She returned to the manor just before lunch. She was almost to her room when she heard voices echoing from the upper landing.
"Is this her? She's the girl?"
Meilin froze.
Two maids had come to a sharp halt mid-curtsy, their eyes wide and stiff with tension.
The figure at the top of the stairs moved like a shadow. She was beautiful—tall and lean, dark blonde curls pinned tightly, a fitted wine-red riding dress hugging her form. Her eyes were piercing silver, colder than winter glass. A perfect Blackwood.
Elias's sister.
Lady Vivienne von Blackwood.
Her reputation preceded her: poised, brilliant, cruel.
And she was staring directly at Meilin.
"You're the one he married?" Vivienne said, her voice smooth but biting, like silk stretched over a blade.
Meilin lowered her gaze, pressing her palms together politely. "Yes, my lady."
Vivienne's heels echoed as she descended the staircase, each step deliberate.
"No crown. No ring. Not even a proper dress. And they wonder why I thought it was a joke." She circled Meilin like one might inspect an abandoned statue. "How odd. I imagined someone… taller."
Meilin's knuckles tightened slightly.
The servants stood frozen behind her, unsure whether to speak or disappear into the walls.
"I hope you're enjoying your stay," Vivienne continued with a thin smile, "in this cursed, crumbling place we call home."
Meilin offered a small nod. "It's…quiet here."
Vivienne tilted her head. "Is that your way of saying you're lonely?"
"I'm used to it."
That earned the faintest twitch of Vivienne's brow.
"Well," the lady said, turning to leave, "I do hope you're not planning to stir anything. The last woman who tried to fix the Blackwoods was buried with us instead."
And with that, she vanished into the corridor, cloak fluttering behind her.
When Meilin returned to her room, her hands were shaking.
She didn't cry.
Not anymore.
She sat on the floor, skirts fanned around her, and reached beneath her bed. From the wooden box tucked beneath her mattress, she pulled out a handful of pebbles—each smooth, polished, different in shade and weight. Some were from the garden. Others from the estate gates. One from the very first day she'd arrived.
She laid them out in a circle.
"I don't think she likes me," Meilin said softly.
The stones were still.
Then one near her fingers pulsed faintly, like it disagreed.
"...That's kind of you," she murmured, smiling just a little.
She placed her hand over the center of the circle, her fingers splayed, and closed her eyes.
They didn't speak.
But she felt them. Warmth. Pressure. Not voices—but intention. Sympathy.
And she shared back: the ache in her chest, the sharp words from Vivienne, the way even Elias didn't bother to look her in the eye anymore. She poured it into them—not as a burden, but as truth.
The stones hummed.
A gentle breeze passed through the open window, ruffling the corner of her sleeve.
"I won't break," she whispered.
The stones pulsed once.
She smiled.
Even if no one else saw her—they did.
......
The night moonlight poured into the room like melted silver, warming the floor beneath Meilin's knees. Her soft pink hanfu trailed along the polished wood, embroidered cranes glinting under the light as she moved.
She hadn't left her room all day.
Instead, she worked quietly, carefully, arranging her small collection of stones in a larger, more deliberate circle. Some were smooth river rocks. Others were rugged chunks of garden stone she'd gathered in secret. Each one chosen. Each one was familiar. She kept her companions in silence.
She murmured to them as she worked, her voice barely louder than a breath.
"You remember the red one, don't you?" she whispered, placing it gently in the north quadrant. "You came from the edge of the orchard. It rained that day."
She placed another. Then another.
There were over twenty now, gathered in a circle that pulsed faintly with the warmth of her touch. As always, they responded—not in words, but in feeling. Like memory. Like distant echoes.
But today felt different.
There was something in the air.
A pressure. A hum.
She knelt in the center of the circle, tucking her legs beneath her, and placed both palms flat on the floor, fingers grazing the nearest stones. Her long black hair slipped over her shoulder like ink over paper.
"I know you want to speak," she whispered. "I can feel it. I've always felt it."
Her breath slowed. She closed her eyes.
And waited.
At first, only silence.
Then—a pulse.
Not just warmth. Not just recognition.
Sound.
Soft. Rough. Distant as wind through leaves.
"...You are not like the others..."
Meilin's eyes flew open. Her breath caught.
She hadn't imagined it. A voice—faint and deep, layered like the grinding of earth.
Then another, softer and clearer: "The quiet flame... She hears..."
Tears stung her eyes before she could stop them.
"I hear you," she said, voice trembling. "I hear you..."
The stones shimmered faintly. No light, but something unseen stirred in the still air of the room—like breath held between worlds.
"You are of earth...yet not."
"Chosen. Not bred."
"You belong."
Meilin laughed softly, covering her mouth with both hands, joy breaking through her like sunrise after months of winter. For the first time, she wasn't just feeling. They were speaking. Words. Meanings. Names.
"Tell me more," she whispered, leaning in. "What am I? What do you know—"
Click.
The door behind her opened.
Her blood ran cold.
She spun around so fast her stones scattered slightly. Her sleeves fluttered like startled wings.
And there he stood.
Tall. Dressed in obsidian black and dark silver. Sky-colored eyes piercing from beneath a fall of wavy hair parted to the side. Elias von Blackwood.
He was holding a leather-bound book and looked frozen in the doorway, his gaze sweeping the stone circle, then landing on her flushed face and wide eyes.
His voice was sharp, confused. "Who were you speaking to?"
Meilin's breath caught in her throat.
He took a step forward, frowning. "You were speaking to someone, weren't you?"
"I—I didn't hear you come in..." she stammered, rising to her feet and brushing her skirt down hastily. Her heart thundered in her chest. "Why are you here?"
"I came to check the repairs in the west wing," he said slowly, still watching her. "The corridor connects to this hall. I didn't expect—this."
He gestured slightly at the circle of scattered stones.
Meilin swallowed. "You weren't supposed to be here today."
"That's clear."
He stepped closer now, pausing just short of the circle. "So, again. Who were you speaking to?"