"Step back," he commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Seraphina watched the exchange in silence, her heart inexplicably heavy.
There was something in his voice—something unyielding yet deeply melancholic—that made her chest ache.
Seraphina Evercrest raised her eyes, locking onto the faint but unmistakable anger in The Young Master's gaze.
Her breath hitched. How could someone so pale, so sickly-looking, carry such an aura of danger?
The fire in his eyes felt as though it could burn through her very soul.
The maidservant, sensing the tension, bowed deeply without a word and quickly retreated.
The pavilion fell into an eerie silence, leaving Seraphina standing frozen, unsure of what to do next.
Should she stay?
Should she leave?
Everything seemed impossible to decide.
The Young Master 's breath caught in his throat, and he stifled a cough before finally speaking, his voice quiet but sharp: "Forgive me. I failed to introduce myself. I am Emerys Dusk."
Seraphina's mind raced, trying to recall any prominent family in the capital with the name Dusk.
But no matter how she searched her memory, she came up empty.
And yet, this man... This presence was impossible to ignore.
She forced a smile, a bit too stiff but necessary. "Ah, Young Master Emerys. It's a pleasure to meet you."
Her words were polite enough, but something in Emerys Dusk's cold, almost celestial eyes shifted.
There was a flicker of something she couldn't quite place.
Disappointment?
Regret?
She couldn't tell, but it gnawed at her.
Did he know her somehow? Was she being mistaken for someone else?
Before she could ask, Emerys turned his gaze back to the wine in his hand and poured her another glass.
He didn't look up as he slid the cup toward her with a quiet murmur, "Tell me, Miss Evercrest… Why were you crying in the garden?"
The question hit her like a stone in the chest. Seraphina's mind spun.
What could she say?
That she was forced to marry the Ghost Prince?
That she had endured torment at the hands of Lysander Celestis on her wedding night?
Or should she tell him how hopeless and trapped she felt?
The words stuck in her throat, each one more painful than the last.
And yet, to most of the capital, this was a dream—a privilege.
Being chosen as the concubine of the Ghost Prince, Lysander Celestis himself, was an honor many women would envy.
Lysander's reputation was built on his brilliant victories, his unmatched military prowess, and his ability to lead an army of 100,000.
He had shattered the Northern Han's forces, securing victory where others had failed.
To be his wife or even his concubine was the ultimate achievement.
But what did that mean for Seraphina? Nothing but poison.
Lysander Celestis was nothing more than a gilded cage, suffocating her at every turn.
With a deep breath, Seraphina sat straighter, her back as rigid as steel.
She stared at the golden cup before her, her hands trembling slightly as she raised it.
The wine was sharp on her tongue, burning down her throat like fire.
She set the cup down with a soft clink and replied coolly, "It's nothing."
Emerys studied her for a long moment, his gaze as piercing as the darkest night.
His eyes never left hers, and she could feel the weight of his silence pressing down on her.
Despite the red, swollen puffiness around her eyes, there was something in her expression now—a quiet strength, a determination born from the storm.
Finally, his lips parted, revealing a faint but genuine smile, almost imperceptible. "I… was presumptuous," he murmured, his voice a soft apology that didn't seem to match the usual coldness he exuded.
Seraphina felt a strange sense of relief at his words, as though a weight had been lifted from her chest.
He didn't press her further. And for that, she was thankful.
The silence stretched between them once again, a heavy and tense quiet that seemed to fill the room with a tension she couldn't escape.
The wind picked up, ruffling the air around them and causing the dim lights to flicker in the pavilion.
Occasionally, the shadows shifted, stretching and retreating with each gust.
Emerys, seemingly unaffected by the cold, refilled both of their glasses. "The night is bitterly cold, Miss Evercrest. A drink may help you fend off the chill."
Seraphina could already feel the warmth of the wine spreading through her, and though her body still ached from the cold and emotional turmoil, the liquid seemed to dull the sharpest of her pains.
Her head began to swim slightly from the alcohol, but she forced herself to focus.
She forced a smile, one that didn't quite reach her eyes. "May I ask, Young Master Emerys... Are you a friend of the Ghost Prince?"
Emerys's gaze softened, though his voice remained as cold as ever. "A guest," he said simply.
Seraphina blinked, surprised.
A guest?
If there was one thing Seraphina knew about Lysander Celestis, it was that his temper and pride wouldn't allow just anyone into his private space.
Guests weren't casually entertained by the Ghost Prince.
She frowned slightly, unsure of what to make of his words.
Emerys seemed to sense her hesitation.
He took a slow, deliberate sip from his glass, his pale fingers moving smoothly around the golden rim.
As he swirled the wine, his gaze shifted to her, the corners of his lips curling ever so slightly as if amused by her skepticism.
Seraphina's eyes caught the delicate play of light across his fingers, the dark contrast against the gleaming gold.
And then, just as quickly, something shifted in her chest—a sudden, cold sensation creeping up her spine.
She caught a glimpse of something between his fingers.
Something dark.
Her heart skipped a beat.
Seraphina's eyes were attracted by the black color between his fingers, and she couldn't help but take a second look.
But just one glance made her horrified.