He had not been outside to see Aurelia off. He would never miss saying goodbye to family, no matter how ill he had been. The realization sent a sharp pang of fear through her, and she quickened her steps, heading inside.
The house was quieter than usual, a stillness that made her tense. Evelyne’s apprehension deepened with each step as shemoved through the dim corridors, the echo of her footsteps the only sound in the vast manor.
She hurried to the servants, her voice tense as she asked each one—had they seen her brother? Spoken to him? Heard anything? The answers were all the same: a shake of the head, a quiet “No, my lady.” His young red-haired handmaid, always by his side, only stared back with wide, uncertain eyes. No one had seen him since last night.
The storm had been fierce, wind howling through the trees and rain hammering against the manor with relentless force. It would have drowned out the sound of anything: a door opening, footsteps slipping away into the night. Had Cillian left of his own accord, vanishing into the darkness while the tempest raged?Or—ice creeping up her spine—had something taken him?
She suddenly remembered the dream—or had it been a dream?—that had plagued her sleep. The inky black mist curling through the hallways, seeping under her door and cooling her skin beneath the warmth of her blankets. Deep in her heart, she felt it had come with purpose. That it had taken something.
Her heart pounded as she forced herself up the stairs and pushed open Cillian’s door. The room was eerily silent, and a deep, penetrating cold washed over her when she stepped inside. A suffocating wrongness clung to the walls, the air charged with something unseen but palpable, pressing against her skin like the static before a lightning strike.
Cillian’s desk was in disarray, books and papers strewn across the floor as if he’d been frantically searching for something. Loose pages covered every surface—each one filled with his handwriting. Symbols. Drawn over and over again. Some hastily scratched out, others circled in dark, heavy strokes. Evelyne’s stomach turned as she picked one up, running her fingers over the grooves where the ink had bitten deep into the page.
She could feel his desperation in every mark—an obsessionthat must have consumed him. It was as though these symbols had haunted him, demanding to be remembered. Perhaps he’d drawn them endlessly so he wouldn’t forget. Or perhaps, by tracing them again and again, he’d hoped to understand what they meant.
Whatever truth Cillian had been chasing, Evelyne feared it had already unraveled him.
She turned and forced herself to move, pushing open the door to his bathing chamber. Everything remained undisturbed: towels neatly folded, his night robe draped over the chair as always. But the familiarity only made her dread grow. Swallowing her panic, she grabbed two books from his desk and hurried downstairs.
In the drawing room, she found her parents, the scent of tea and burning wood lingering in the air. The calm, everyday scene only fueled her frustration.
“He’s gone,” Evelyne said, her voice slicing through the quiet.
Her mother barely glanced up. “Who?”
“Cillian,” she snapped. “No one has seen him since last night.”
Her father placed his cup down, his expression firm, while her mother sighed and shook her head. “Evelyne, you’re overreacting.”
A quick, incredulous laugh burst from her. “Overreacting? He would never leave without telling someone, without saying goodbye to Aurelia! You know that.” Her heart thundered in her chest. She took a step forward, gripping the books tighter. “Something is wrong!”
She paused and let out an exasperated breath.
“I saw him last night in the library. He wasn’t himself. His eyes weren’t gold, Mother. They were black. And he was… He was different. Angry.” She swallowed hard, the memory clawing at her mind. “And last night, I swear I saw something, felt something. It was cold and dark. I thought I was dreaming, but—”
Her mother only shook her head again, dismissive, unconcerned. “Have you asked his handmaid?”
“Yes. Sonya does not know where he is.”
She looked at her father, but he was silent.Toosilent. His jaw had tightened, and his eyes flickered with something she couldn’t name. He was thinking.
“You know something,” she accused.
Her father exhaled sharply but said nothing.
Evelyne stepped closer. “What do you know?”
“Evelyne—” her mother began, but she cut her off, her voice sharp and frantic.
“What do you know?”
A heavy silence fell over the room before her father finally spoke.
“This may be related to Velenshire.”
At that, her mother stiffened and turned to gape at her husband. Her lips pressed into a thin line.
Evelyne looked between them. “What is happening in Velenshire?”
