The Emberthorn mansion rises out of the evening sun's last rays like something out of a half-forgotten dream, its walls lined with curling veins of thorned rose stems, clinging to the gray stone as if they, too, are bound by legacy.
The roses are deep, blood-red, blooming defiantly against the somber stone, their petals catching the light in a way that makes them glow, as though each bloom holds a heart beating faintly beneath the surface.
The gardens stretch on either side of the mansion's grand entrance, meticulously arranged but never softened, with sharp lines of hedges and iron trellises that frame the roses as if in dark reverence. The servants move like ghosts among the plants, quietly trimming back errant thorns and plucking away withered petals. They keep their eyes downcast, faces impassive; they are well-trained, and in the house of Emberthorn, obedience is expected to be both silent and seamless.
As the carriage pulls up, the knight stationed at the mansion steps forward, his armor gleaming in the morning sun. He extends his hand to help me down, a hopeful gleam in his eyes and a thundering perfume wafting. And he is not Jeremy. I have no patience for the knights of the dukedom. Without a word, I ignore his hand and step down on my own, dusting off my tattered school uniform as I straighten.
The maid assigned to escort me to the door—Marla, one of the older, sharp-eyed women of the staff—eyes me in barely concealed surprise. Her gaze flickers over the grime on my skirt, the smudges on my face, and the absence of my blazer. In the grand, polished world of Emberthorn, where perfection is expected, this level of disarray must seem like a surprising sin.
"Welcome back, Lady Rosé," she murmurs as if testing the words against the paradox of my appearance.
"Marla," I say.
The faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth betrays her shock, but she quickly bows her head and falls silent, leading me up the steps and into the entrance of the mansion
Just before I step inside, I pause, squinting against the sun as I glance up at the balcony above. There, wrapped in an aura of immaculate composure, sits the Duchess Emberthorn.
She's dressed in a casual gown of gray and sky blue adorned with a thin silver necklace. Her hair flows freely down her shoulders, yet every lock is perfectly in place. Even with the shadow of the mansion behind her, I can see her gleaming eyes, eyes that know every turn I took, take, and will take. She does not break her demeanor but stops her teacup an inch away from her dark red lips, seeing me all tattered and tired.
Like the roses that line the mansion walls—beautiful, but hiding their thorns.
Her gaze drifts over me, taking in every stain, every tear, and I can practically feel her judgment seeping down from the balcony like a cold mist.
Finally, our eyes meet. The look she gives me is unreadable, but there's something in it—a flicker of… distaste? Or perhaps disappointment, though her face remains impassive. She takes a slow sip of tea, the very image of aristocratic indulgence, as if to remind me of what I'm supposed to be. It's a silent exchange, but a weighted one, the kind we've shared too many times.
I straighten, tugging my uniform back into place as best as I can. I refuse to give her the satisfaction of seeing me falter. This—this rumpled, dirty appearance—is merely a temporary inconvenience.
She raises her cup in the faintest of gestures—a nod, or perhaps a dismissal—and I turn away, leaving her to her performance on the balcony, where she sits as if she were the queen of the entire damn world. I have no idea what she thinks of me.
She doesn't move as I pass beneath her, and I feel her gaze on my back, a silent judgment that clings to me as I enter the mansion's dim, cavernous hall. Inside, the air is cool and faintly perfumed with roses. Shadows cling to the walls, and the floor shines beneath my feet, polished to a gleam by servants who know better than to leave even a smudge in this house.
I make my way to my room, leaving Marla behind at the foot of the grand staircase, her brow furrowed with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. She must wonder what I've been up to, arriving here without a proper escort, covered in grime. But she won't ask. Servants in this house know when to stay silent. Well, except for one.
The news of last night's explosion hasn't reached the mansion yet—no whispers, no fearful glances.
The memory of last night's chaos presses in—smoke, shouting, the feeling of stone walls closing in around me. But here, within the rigid order of Emberthorn, it almost feels like it didn't happen. The world may be chaos out there, but inside these walls, everything is contained, controlled, and kept in perfect balance by the Duchess herself.
My room is just as I left it—orderly, the light purple curtains have draw back to let in just the right amount of light, casting the room in a soft golden glow. I let out a sigh of relief as I step inside, closing the door behind me, and feeling the weight of the night slip away. And yet, the moment I'm alone, It happens.
I hear Rhysand, his mischievous smile.
Two years ago, I was barely current me back then, frightened and confused, my mother's voice ringing in my ears as she ordered me to stay inside, to stay silent. I still remember the sound of the doors slamming, the hurried whispers, and the sharp smell of blood that lingered in the halls for days after.
And the figure in the chaos—a man with fingers as thin as bones and blood that oozed black as ink, mixed with our own red blood, snakes, and the pentagram on his skin. He had smiled, his lips a shade too perfect, too soft, like he was amused by the carnage around him.
I can still see him, his face half-hidden, his gaze lingering on me a little too long. I tell myself it's hatred I feel when I remember him. But it's hard to convince myself of that when my skin prickles every time his image creeps into my mind, when I feel warmth of blood and emptiness on my back.
My mother never spoke of that night again. And I know better than to ask.
But I remember the look in her eyes in the days that followed, the way her unwavering gaze softened when she looked at the empty space where my brother should have been. Perhaps that's why she always pushed me so hard, why she bruised and broke me in ways I could never quite understand. Maybe I survived because I wasn't worth saving.
Or I am wrong, and she wants me to be strong so that I won't disappear like he did, leaving me and her.
I shake off the thought, focusing on the present, on the pleasantness of my room, the comfort of my bed, and—
"Well, well, well" a dramatic voice drawls from my bed.