This pain wasn't just memory. It was older. Ancient.
Then his gaze shifted—upward, to the lyre.
Carved with devotion. Suspended like an offering. Its strings gleamed like veins of light, untouched yet aching to be heard. Among all the trophies and relics, it alone seemed alive—hung not with reverence, but worship.
"I still have you," he whispered. "My one and only love... alive in these strings."
The tension in his shoulders loosened. He stepped forward, hand rising to touch the lyre.
His fingers danced across the strings.
The first sound broke not just the air—but the room. The curtains lifted, not by wind but by resonance. The melody bled into the walls, into the women, into his own breath. It wasn't a tune. It was a release.
A memory reawakened.
He closed his eyes. Felt it. Her warmth. The tenderness that once lived in touch, now reborn in sound.
But then, something changed.
Behind him, the maidens stiffened. Their bodies recoiled, though no one moved. As if something... shifted.
A cold breath stirred the room.
His hand hovered above the lyre's frame. The wall behind it seemed to sigh—then sag. The rod trembled violently.
He paused.
And returned the lyre.
Carefully. Swiftly. Like sealing a secret.
The moment he let go, the lyre snapped into place with unnatural precision. The rod above it stilled, but the tension remained—like a storm waiting to resume.
And then… it did.
Something erupted from inside him. It wasn't just emotion—it was a force. A tempest. His right hand shot to the side of his head, gripping tightly. His breath caught, a hiss of pain escaping his teeth.
The sound came next—a trickling, uneven vibration, like water echoing down a broken pipe inside his skull. Wind clashed somewhere unseen. The room darkened—not in light, but in weight.
Something had returned. Not a memory. A presence.
His body stiffened. His vision narrowed.
The frames began to twitch. The ones covered in black ribbon. They rattled—mild at first, then violently. Each moved not with wind, but will.
'Why...? I did everything I was supposed to.'
The words fell from his lips like a cracked prayer. He gritted his teeth, shook his head, tried to banish the flood of images forcing their way into his thoughts.
But they surged.
Haunted faces. Twisted smiles. Memories turned rotten. Some images hovered midair, wrong and warped. Frozen in laughter that never sounded joyful.
His jaw locked.
And then—
"Don't be afraid. I'm with you."
The voice. Gentle. Familiar. A thread through chaos.
Like balm to burning skin, her voice soothed him. The storm stilled. The air softened.
The grotesque faces dissolved.
His pain lifted.
He clenched his jaw, eyes shut tight. Then, like a man clutching to the last thread of his sanity, he whispered the name that held him together.
Then came a second voice.
"Sir, would you be going to the gardens today? If you will go, I would like to accompany you…"
The maiden. Eva.
The question wasn't a mere request—it was an offering. Her voice held devotion, trembling beneath longing. She moved closer. Soft steps. Measured. Weighted with quiet courage.
"Eva," he breathed. Then more fully: "Yes. I will go to the gardens. Honor me—accompany me. Since none seem more willing to devote themselves to me as you do."
He extended a hand. An elegant gesture. Kind, but firm.
Behind her, envy thickened the air.
The other maidens watched—stoic, silent, but burning. They warred inwardly, their composure a brittle mask against the rising tide of jealousy.
Eva's figure stepped into the light—a vision sculpted in contradiction. Petite, yet undeniably shaped by grace and strength. The kind of beauty the world tried to shrink, but could not.
She was born into rejection.
The only daughter. The eldest among five sons. Her smile blamed for misfortunes. Her existence deemed a curse by parents shackled to ancient traditions.
But here she stood—defying every one of them.
Ridiculed by her brothers and treated like a shadow in her own home, Eva had learned to bury her pain in silence. But her strength—rooted not in hardness, but in resilience—never disappeared. She endured. Not because she was weak, but because she refused to let the cruelty around her consume what little of herself she still owned.
As a child, survival was her only companion. The streets became her crucible. Sometimes, just to eat or clothe herself, she had to trade more than she dared admit. Her childhood was not lived—it was negotiated. Scarred by necessity, shaped by a world that never offered mercy.
Then everything changed.
In a shadowed alleyway, surrounded by leering men, she had resigned herself to another violation. But just as despair crested, a figure stepped into view. Tall. Imposing. Silent. At first, he passed by like everyone else. But something in her hoarse, broken cry caught him.
The gang scattered at the mere sight of him. And she, too, almost ran—his name was already legend in those parts, whispered like a curse in the mouths of the fearful. But then he spoke. Just a few calm words. Enough to shatter the fear gripping her bones.
From that moment, her loyalty was born. Not from obligation, but from revelation. If he ever needed her—for anything, in any way—she would answer. Even if it meant surrendering her body. Even if it meant giving her soul.
In his world, she found sanctuary. A space of silence, safety, and dignity. Meals no longer came from begging hands. The nightmares no longer came with footsteps.
But her devotion went deeper than comfort.
On the days when his gaze turned dark, when his silences stretched too long, she gave herself—not as a servant, but as someone who understood the weight of inner war. She became the warmth beside him, the calm after his internal storms.
Among the thirteen maidens under his care, she was one of the five most revered—not just for her beauty, but for her quiet poise, her empathy, and the grace that seemed to cling to her skin. Still, pride never took root in her heart. Even when she lay beside him at night, not just in shared space but in sacred stillness, she remained humble. Grateful.
The door creaked open, letting in a triangle of light that slowly expanded into a golden square across the diamond-patterned floor. The glow moved like anointing oil, touching each maiden with reverence, revealing hues of bronze, honey, and sun-warmed ivory across their skin.
They stepped into it as though through a veil. The air thickened—not heavy, but holy, as though divinity itself drifted between their movements. Trees released their leaves gently, each one floating downward with silent ceremony, carpeting the path ahead.
The garden unfolded like a spell. Each tree bore its own fruit, arranged not by season or type, but by mystery. Some hung full and ripe, others lay withered at the roots, forming a paradoxical harmony—life and death resting side by side.
Their fragrance hung in the air—sweet, primal, heady. It wasn't merely scent. It was elixir.
Birdsong swirled overhead. Some birds feasted, others danced mid-air, fluttering in a frenzied courtship. And yet, despite the garden's majesty, Eva's voice broke the moment:
"Sir, please… I saw a lady dash out of your room early this morning…"