The days passed slowly, each one blending into the next as the Duke's absence stretched on. Anastasia had begun to notice a hollow feeling creeping into her routine. It wasn't as though she missed him, not in the way one might miss a friend or a loved one, but rather, his absence left a strange gap in the estate. His presence had always been powerful, commanding, and without him, the estate felt strangely incomplete.
She had taken to spending more time in the library, finding solace in the old, musty books that filled the shelves. But even as she read, her mind wandered back to the map she had seen in the Duke's study—the one with the strange sigil she couldn't quite place. She had been noticing that same emblem more often now, woven into the corners of documents, carved subtly into the frame of a portrait. What did it mean? Why did it stir something in her, something deep and old, like a memory she couldn't grasp?
One morning, after days of not seeing the Duke, Anastasia found herself staring out of a window, watching the gray clouds swirl above the estate's gardens. The sky threatened rain, casting a cold, somber mood over the grounds. She couldn't shake the unease that had settled in her chest. It wasn't just his absence that bothered her—something else was gnawing at her. The fragmented memories of her past, the strange conversations she overheard among the guards, the tension that seemed to hang in the air whenever the Duke's name was mentioned.
"Where is the Duke?" she finally asked Dana, one of the maids, who was sweeping the floor nearby. Dana paused, looking up from her task with a raised brow.
"Gone on business," Dana replied curtly, resuming her work. There was no warmth in her tone, just a perfunctory response, as if that should have been enough to satisfy Anastasia's curiosity.
"For so long?" Anastasia pressed. It wasn't like him to be gone for days on end, not without some explanation to the household, at least.
Dana straightened, leaning on her broom, her expression hardening. "The Duke comes and goes as he pleases. It's not for us to question his business."
Anastasia could feel the edge in Dana's words, though she didn't understand it. She nodded and fell silent, watching the rain begin to fall outside, small droplets tapping against the window. Dana's dismissiveness didn't surprise her—ever since Anastasia had arrived, Dana had been curt, often impatient, as if her very presence was a nuisance.
Anastasia turned away from the window and back to her work, but her thoughts remained tangled in the Duke's absences. It wasn't her place to ask questions about his comings and goings, but the longer he stayed away, the more her mind wandered. There was something unsettling about how everything had shifted in the house since he'd left. It was as though the estate itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.
A few days later, Anastasia was gathering linens when she heard the unmistakable sound of the Duke's voice echoing through the halls. Her heart gave an involuntary jolt. He was back.
She hadn't realized just how much his absence had affected her until that moment. A part of her had grown accustomed to his quiet, watchful presence, to the way he seemed to notice everything without saying much at all. But now, as his deep voice resonated down the hall, she felt an odd flutter of something she couldn't name. She wasn't sure if it was relief or anticipation.
Anastasia hurried through the corridor, carrying her load of linens, when she rounded the corner and nearly collided with him. She stopped abruptly, her breath catching in her throat.
"Your Grace," she said quickly, bowing her head.
The Duke barely glanced at her. His face was stern, his expression cold, as though she were nothing more than a shadow in the hallway. "Anastasia," he acknowledged curtly, his tone distant.
It was the first time he had spoken to her since his return, and the stark coldness in his voice caught her off guard. There was none of the careful intrigue she had sensed in him before, none of the curiosity or the subtle tension that always seemed to linger between them. Instead, he was utterly dismissive, as though she were an inconvenience, something to be ignored.
She opened her mouth to say something, but the words failed her. What would she even say? That she had noticed his absence, that she had questions she wasn't supposed to ask?
Before she could muster the courage to speak, the Duke had already moved past her, his long stride taking him swiftly down the hall. The coldness of his indifference left her standing there, feeling strangely hollow.
Anastasia turned, watching him go, the knot in her chest tightening. It shouldn't have bothered her. His mood, his aloofness—none of it should have mattered. And yet, the more he distanced himself from her, the more she felt the weight of his absence, even when he was standing just feet away.
As the days passed, Anastasia found herself dwelling on the Duke more often than she liked. She tried to focus on her work, to bury herself in the tasks assigned to her by Clara, but her thoughts always drifted back to him. Why had he changed so suddenly? Why was he so cold now, when before, there had been something else—something she couldn't quite name—between them?
One afternoon, after finishing her chores, Anastasia found herself wandering outside the estate, walking the paths near the edge of the forest. The air was crisp, the scent of damp earth and pine filling her lungs. She often came here to clear her mind, to escape the suffocating tension inside the estate.
As she walked deeper into the woods, lost in thought, she heard a rustling in the underbrush behind her. She froze, her heart pounding in her chest.
Turning slowly, she saw a figure emerging from the shadows—cloaked in darkness, his hood pulled low over his face. The hooded man.
Her breath hitched, her pulse quickening. It was him, the same man she had seen before, the one who seemed to know more about her than she knew herself.she wondered how he had escaped from the dungeons of the palace.
"You," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly. "What do you want?"
The hooded man stepped closer, his movements slow, deliberate. "I've told you before, Anastasia," he said, his voice low and calm. "You're asking the wrong questions."
She narrowed her eyes, taking a step back. "I don't understand. What do you mean?"
"You will," he replied, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Your past is more important than you realize. Your lineage… it's not what you think."
Her blood ran cold at his words. Lineage. The word struck her like a bolt of lightning. She had spent her whole life not knowing where she came from, not knowing who she really was. Could he be telling the truth? Could there really be something more to her past than she had ever imagined?
"What do you know?" she demanded, her voice stronger now, though her heart pounded in her chest. "Tell me."
As she proceeded to ask more questions , the hooded man took a step back, disappearing into the shadows once again.
"Wait!" she called after him, but he was already gone, swallowed by the darkness of the forest.
Shaken, Anastasia stood there for a long moment, her mind racing with questions. Who was he, really? And how much did he know about her past?
After what felt like an eternity, she turned and hurried back toward the estate. Her thoughts were a tangled mess as she walked, her mind reeling from the hooded man's cryptic words. What was it about her lineage? And if so, why had she never known? Why had she been left in the dark?
By the time she reached the estate, it was nearly dusk, the sky tinged with shades of orange and pink. As she entered the house, she found the Head Maid, Clara waiting for her, arms crossed and a stern look on her face.
"Where have you been?" Clara snapped, her tone sharp. "I sent you to fetch herbs from the garden over an hour ago."
"I… I got delayed," Anastasia stammered, trying to compose herself.
Clara narrowed her eyes, her lips curling into a sneer. "You think you're special, don't you? Just because you've been on one outing with the Duke? Just because he shows you favor?"
Anastasia stiffened at Clara's words, her cheeks flushing. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Clara scoffed, turning away with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Don't think for a second that you're above the rest of us," she muttered. "You're not."
Anastasia watched as Clara disappeared down the hall, her heart heavy. She didn't care about the other maids' opinions, but the weight of the hooded man's words still clung to her, making it impossible to shake the feeling that something deeper was at play—something far beyond her understanding.
As Anastasia lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, her mind wouldn't stop replaying the hooded man's words. What exactly was all this ruckus about her lineage?
Anastasia had never truly thought much about her family—how could she, when she didn't even know who they were? She had grown up believing she was an orphan, raised in quiet obscurity. The idea that her bloodline carried some great secret seemed too outlandish to be real. But the way the hooded man had spoken, so assured and so calm, unnerved her.
What if it was true?
She turned over in her bed, curling her knees to her chest as her mind raced. If what the man had said was accurate, then the king himself feared her—feared what she represented. But why? And more importantly, how could she not have known?
Anastasia tried to think back to her childhood, but her memories were fragmented. She had always been alone, except for the kindly nuns who had taken her in at the orphanage. There had been no stories of a real past, no hints that she was anything more than a common girl.
But perhaps someone had known—someone who had kept the truth from her for her own safety.
The thought made her head spin. Was that why the Duke had brought her to his estate? Did he know more about her than he let on? Had she been some kind of pawn in a larger game all along?
She shifted uncomfortably in her bed. The Duke had always been a mystery, but since his return, he had been cold and distant. It was as though the walls between them had grown even thicker. She could hardly ask him if he knew the truth about her lineage, could she? Not when he barely acknowledged her presence now.
The storm of thoughts swirled in her mind, keeping her awake until the early hours of the morning when exhaustion finally claimed her.
Days passed, and the Duke remained as distant as ever. Anastasia went about her duties, keeping her head down and trying to avoid the scrutiny of the other maids. Clara, especially, seemed to watch her with a hawk-like gaze, as though waiting for her to make a misstep.
Despite the cold treatment from the Duke and the suspicion from the maids, Anastasia couldn't stop thinking about the hooded man's cryptic warning. The subtle clues she had been piecing together in the house—the sigils, the strange documents—began to feel more significant in light of what she had learned. She found herself watching the Duke more closely, searching for any sign that he might know more than he was letting on.
One evening, just as the household was settling into its nightly routine, Anastasia spotted a flicker of movement in the hallway. It was the Duke, slipping out of his office and moving swiftly toward the front entrance of the estate.
Curious, Anastasia followed him at a distance, keeping to the shadows. She watched as he disappeared into a waiting carriage without a word to anyone. The guards exchanged nervous glances as they mounted their horses and followed the Duke, leaving the estate in near silence.
Anastasia's heart raced as she stood in the darkened hallway, watching the carriage disappear into the night. He was leaving again—without warning, without explanation. She wondered if this trip had something to do with her, or if it was simply another one of his mysterious ventures.
The next few days were a blur of anxious waiting. Anastasia tried to keep herself busy, but her thoughts kept returning to the Duke's abrupt departure. She couldn't help but feel a growing sense of unease. Something was happening—something beyond her understanding—and it seemed to revolve around her.
On the third day after the Duke's departure, a heavy rain began to fall, casting a gloomy pall over the estate. The downpour mirrored Anastasia's mood, as if the storm outside was a reflection of the turmoil inside her. She was pacing in the small kitchen when Dana approached, frowning at her.
"Still restless, are you?" Dana asked, folding her arms across her chest.
Anastasia stopped pacing, turning to face her. "I've just been thinking," she said quietly. "About the Duke."
Dana's brow furrowed, and her expression hardened. "Best not to think too much about him, Anastasia. His business is not ours to question."
Anastasia sighed, knowing that Dana, like the other maids, would offer no comfort or insight. They were all too wary of the Duke, too accustomed to the strict rules of the household to wonder about his absences.
Before Anastasia could respond, a loud knock echoed through the hall. Both women turned toward the door, surprised by the sudden intrusion. A guard entered, his cloak dripping with rain.
"The Duke has returned," the guard announced, his voice gruff.
Anastasia's heart leaped in her chest, but she forced herself to remain calm. Dana muttered something under her breath and hurried toward the front entrance. Anastasia followed at a slower pace, her mind racing.
The Duke strode into the estate, his presence commanding even through the sheets of rain clinging to his cloak. He gave a terse nod to the servants before disappearing up the stairs without a word. His coldness was even more pronounced this time—an impenetrable wall she couldn't break through.
Anastasia stood frozen in the hall, her chest tight with a mixture of emotions she couldn't name. She hadn't expected warmth or kindness from him, but his continued distance left her feeling more isolated than ever. He hadn't even looked at her as he passed.
Days blurred into nights, and though the Duke had returned, he was as much a ghost in the estate as he had been during his absence. He avoided her, barely acknowledging her presence when their paths crossed.
Anastasia tried to shake off the strange ache that his coldness left behind, focusing instead on the questions that had been haunting her. The hooded man's warning, the fragments of her past—everything felt like a puzzle she couldn't quite piece together. And now, with the Duke behaving so strangely, she couldn't help but wonder if he held the missing pieces.
One night, as the rain pattered against the windows of the estate, Anastasia wandered the empty halls, unable to sleep. She had taken to walking late at night, finding solace in the quiet when the rest of the household was asleep.
As she rounded the corner near the Duke's study, she heard muffled voices coming from inside. She paused, curiosity getting the better of her. Pressing her ear to the door, she strained to hear the conversation.
"…mustn't let her find out," one voice said, low and tense.
Anastasia's heart skipped a beat. Were they talking about her?
"The king will know soon enough," the second voice responded. "We can't keep this hidden forever."
Anastasia's blood ran cold. What were they hiding? What did the king know?
Before she could listen further, the door creaked open. Anastasia hurried away, slipping into the shadows just as the Duke stepped out of the study, his expression grim. He walked past without noticing her, and she held her breath until he was gone.
Her mind raced with questions. What were they hiding from her? What was the king's involvement in all of this?
Anastasia knew that whatever the Duke and his allies were planning, it was tied to her past—her lineage. And the more she uncovered, the more dangerous it seemed to become.
As she crept back to her room that night, her resolve hardened. She needed answers, and she was willing to do whatever it took to uncover the truth—even if it meant confronting the Duke directly.