Eamon sat on the edge of the bed, the towel draped loosely around his neck as he ruffled his damp hair. Droplets of water clung to his bare chest, catching the dim light and tracing paths down to his navel.

“Why would the Marquess want to meet with you?” he asked, his tone light, though his curiosity was unmistakable.

I shook my head, sinking further into the bed’s embrace. “I have no idea,” I said softly. “He must have me confused with someone else.”

Eamon paused, the towel stilling in his hands. Peeking through the strands of damp hair falling over his eyes, he regarded me with a look so tender it sent a flutter through my chest.

“You’re unlike anyone else, Luci,” he said, a faint smile curving his lips. “It wouldn’t be easy to mistake you for someone else.”

A blush spread across my cheeks, and crept down my neck. 

They’re just words, I told myself, brushing off the familiar teasing tone that I had long ago learned to dismiss. Eamon had a way of throwing out compliments with a carelessness that made it impossible to tell if he meant them. Avoiding his gaze, I lay back and stared at the uneven planks of the ceiling, focusing on the imperfections in the wood rather than the quickening of my heart.

“That has to be the only explanation,” I murmured, more to myself than to him.

Eamon chuckled, the bed shifting under his weight as he rose. “I suppose we’ll find out tomorrow,” he said.

At his words, I bolted upright, my eyes narrowing at the mischievous grin spreading across his face. He stood there at the small dresser, his back reflecting in the mirror behind him. He had one hand resting casually on his hip, his linen pants slung low in a way that felt entirely too intentional. The smirk he wore only deepened my irritation—and the warmth rising to my face.

“We’ll be gone before they arrive,” I blurted out, lying back down in a futile attempt to compose myself.

“As you wish, my lady,” he replied, the laughter in his voice unmistakable.

I closed my eyes, willing myself to conjure the image of Eamon as he had been when we were children, trying to banish the image of the half naked man who now shared this room with me. 

The memories worked their magic, and I felt a small smile creep onto my lips. Flashes of a younger Eamon, stumbling over himself as he adjusted to life with us, filled my mind. The boy with the bowl cut that hung unevenly over his forehead, the gap-toothed grin that was missing two teeth.  

Those moments were so far behind us now, irretrievable relics of a simpler time. A pang struck me as I realized how little remained of those days. There was a sweetness to those recollections, a warmth that dulled the sharper edges of the years gone by. But they came with a tinge of something heavier—a somberness that settled deep in my heart.

We would never all be together again.

The thought pressed hard against me, my breath caught in my chest as though the air itself had been stolen by the memories. 

The floorboards creaked softly as Eamon walked over to me. 

“How’s your arm?” he asked, his voice gentle.

I held my wrist above my face, inspecting the faint bruises beginning to form. “It’s fine,” I replied, my voice steadier than I felt. “I’ll heal it tomorrow.”

Eamon crouched beside the bed, blowing out the flickering candle. In the near darkness, I could just make out the silhouette of his face, framed by the faint light slipping through the window. Instead of retreating to his makeshift bed on the floor, he reached out, his fingers brushing against my arm with a tenderness that made me shiver.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice so quiet I almost thought I’d imagined it.

I pulled my arm close to my chest, shielding it from his touch. 

“I should’ve been faster,” he continued, his tone heavy with regret.

“I’ll be fine, Eamon,” I said, hoping my words would reassure him. The scent of sandalwood clung to him, mingling with the faint sweetness of clean skin. He leaned closer, his face now above mine.

“Don’t forget to set the lock, Luci,” he murmured, his words brushing warmly against my lips.

By the seal of shadows deep, let this room its secrets keep; None shall enter, none shall hear, within these walls, no one draw near.

I felt the magic roll off me, and surround us.

*

The world was still cloaked in shadow when I woke, the faintest traces of dawn barely breaking the horizon. Eamon lay curled by the bed, his face half-buried in the pillow, his back rising and falling with each steady breath. In the dim light, my hand moved of its own accord, tracing the old scars across his skin.

“What a lovely way to wake up,” he mumbled, his voice rough with sleep.

I jerked my hand away, heat flooding my face. “We need to leave,” I said quickly, rising from the bed and grabbing my clothes.

The shared bathroom down the hall was sparse, with no mirror to tempt unnecessary fussing. I changed quickly, splashed water on my face, and returned to find Eamon fully dressed, our belongings already packed.

“Efficient, as always,” I remarked, though my voice lacked its usual lightness.

The inn was quiet as we descended the stairs, the elderly man at the desk snoring softly. It took Eamon nudging him gently to wake him so we could leave the key. Outside, the city was just beginning to stir. Sunlight seeped between buildings, painting the cobblestones in soft gold as vendors prepared their stalls.

Eamon paused, scanning the streets to orient himself, but my gaze was drawn to a carriage parked a few feet ahead. Its horses stood tall and regal, their coats gleaming in the morning light. The coachman sat upright, his posture stiff as if awaiting an imminent departure.

A figure stepped from the shadows near the carriage, his hat in hand. My stomach sank. It was the older gentleman from the night before. He smiled, his expression warm and unbothered.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Eamon muttered under his breath, his irritation palpable. “Has he been out here all night?”

As if hearing the question, the man approached us, his movements measured and purposeful. Three knights emerged from the lingering shadows, their silent presence making it clear that running wasn’t an option.

“Good morning,” the man said cheerfully. “So glad to see you both awake so early.”

I wanted to bristle at his confidence, but his sincerity was disarming. He had won, and he knew it.

With little choice, we followe him and climbed into the carriage. As the city rolled past, the man finally introduced himself.

“I am Lord Abernathy, the Marquess of Lorne’s personal advisor,” he said simply, his tone leaving no room for further pleasantries or introductions.

Eamon’s hand found mine, his grip firm and reassuring as we continued the ride in silence. Lord Abernathy’s gaze flicked toward our entwined hands occasionally, though he said nothing.

As the carriage moved into the wealthier parts of the city, the streets grew cleaner, the buildings grander, and my stomach churned with unease.

When we reached the familiar grand metal gates, their intricate swirls and menacing spikes etched against the sky, my breath hitched as I attempted to swallow the anxiety that was clawing its way up my throat. 

The carriage wheels grounded to a halt, and Eamon offered his hand to assist me as I descended onto the cobblestone path. A stern figure awaited us at the front doors. His back ramrod straight, hands clasped behind him, dressed in an impeccable tailcoat that whispered of unwavering duty.

"Welcome to the Lorne estate. I am the head butler, Hawthorne." 

Without waiting for us to introduce ourselves, he turned and guided us through the grand double doors that opened into a spectacle of opulence. Gold leaf adorned the high ceilings from which hung chandeliers, their crystals casting rainbows upon marble floors polished to mirror-like perfection. Portraits of stern ancestors gazed down upon them, and the scent of ancient wood and beeswax floated in the air.

Hawthorne ushered us through the labyrinthine corridors into a sitting room with dark wood paneling climbing up the walls. Built in bookshelves encased various tomes and oddities collected over generations, and in the center of the room two plush velvet couches in a dark green. 

"Please make yourselves comfortable," Lord Abernathy instructed before whispering a command to Hawthorne, who bowed slightly. "Tea will be brought shortly, and the Marquess shall be informed of your arrival."

The door clicked shut, and silence enveloped us, as we both looked around us feeling completely out of place. 

"Luciana, this is a big deal." Eamon's tone held an edge, his gaze intense. "The Marquess —" he trailed off as he gestured to the room around him. 

"So he has money and a big house?".

"It is more than that," he said, exasperated. "In Aurorea, a Marquess is just below a Duke and the King himself, in status."

Before I could process his words, Hawthorne reappeared, his voice cutting through the tension. 

"The Marquess of Lorne."

The doors swung open again, admitting a figure of undeniable authority. The Marquess' copper hair blazed like the setting sun, and those striking green eyes, so like my own, surveyed us with keen interest. Age had etched lines of wisdom into his skin, and his cane, ornate and elegant, tapped lightly against the floor, a metronome of power.

Eamon dropped into a bow, fluid and respectful. His tug at my arm prompted my awkward imitation. I heard the Marquess chuckle, a sound that held both warmth and apprehension.

"Please excuse my lady, your lordship," Eamon spoke up quickly. "She does not mean offense; she is not accustomed to the proper greetings of Aurorea."

Surprise flickered across my face as I realized Eamon knew more about this kingdom than I had initially thought. His stern glance urged me forward.

"It is a pleasure to meet your lordship," I managed to say, though my voice stumbled a bit. A flash of my childhood diplomacy classes flashed across my mind as I attempted a cursty and introduced myself. "I am Luciana Galilahi Kildare."

The Marquess regarded me with a piercing intensity that felt like it was reaching into my very soul, the silent exchange charged with a tension that rattled my bones.

"Please, take a seat," the Marquess de Lorne gestured with an affable tilt of his head. Eamon moved to stand behind me, as I lowered myself onto the plush velvet of the couch. Hawthorne, poised and watchful, returned with a maid in tow, her hands steady on a tea cart laden with china that gleamed beneath the chandelier's opulent glow.

The clink of porcelain against wood punctuated the silence as they arranged the tea service on the table nestled between the two facing couches. Once served, the fragrant steam curled into the air, a delicate dance of jasmine and bergamot. The Marquess cleared his throat, his gaze seeking mine with an unsettling tenderness.

"I am sure you are wondering why I requested an audience with you?" His voice was smooth, each word measured.

"Yes," I replied, my smile strained at the edges. "I don't believe we have any business."

"Yesterday afternoon, you were standing out at the gates." The Marquess pressed, his eyes searching for something within mine.

I flinched. "Yes, I was. But it was by accident; I seem to have been given the wrong address. I apologize if that caused any offense." I found my resolve. "As my attendant has previously mentioned, I am still learning the customs of your kingdom."

"So you hail from beyond Aurorea?"

"Yes, we have traveled here from Nimrea."

The Marquess studied me for a bit before continuing, "That address you were given, who was it supposed to lead you to?" His question hung heavy in the air.

A moment's hesitation gripped me; honesty warred with caution. 

"I am not sure." I answered truthfully. "My mother gave it to me. She...she told me to go to that address before she died." The last words uttered through a gasp as the grief of her loss wrapped around my throat. 

The Marquess recoiled as though struck, his seasoned facade crumbling for an instant. His eyes mirrored a stormy sea, misting over rapidly.

"Your mother is dead?" he whispered, more to himself than to me.

"Yes, she passed away a year ago," I said, my voice a ghostly echo in the grandeur of the sitting room, as I clutched the velvet fabric of the couch, steadying myself against the waves of sadness that I knew would pull me under if I lingered too long on her memory.

A ragged sigh escaped him, and he stood abruptly, his movements betraying a frailty unbefitting his station.

"I am sorry for your loss," he murmured before turning to Lord Abernathy. "I leave the rest to you." With those words, he exited, leaving a wake of stunned silence.

Lord Abernathy, with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, slid a thick ledger across the table towards me. The leather cover cracked as I opened it, revealing portraits that whispered of bygone days. A younger Marquess smiled back at me from the past, alongside a woman and two children—a girl and a boy.

"Would you confirm if you know the woman in these portraits?" Lord Abernathy asked, his voice laced with a hidden gravity.

My gaze flitted over the older woman in the picture, a stranger yet oddly familiar. I shook my head, ready to deny any recognition, but then I turned the paged=s, and my breath hitched, words lodged in my throat.

There, amidst the sepia tones and faded edges, my mother radiated with her red hair a fiery cascade over her right shoulder. Her bright green eyes full of life starring into my soul from the page. Beside me, Eamon inhaled sharply, his presence a sudden heat at my shoulder.

"Is this..." I began, my voice quivering like a violin string too taut.

A profound silence enveloped us, broken only by the soft ticking of a clock somewhere in the depths of the mansion, marking the seconds that stretched into eternity.

Trembling fingers traced the contours of my mother's face. It was a face much younger than one I had ever known.  My vision blurred as tears spilled over.  

"This is my mother," I whispered.

For six months, I had fought to forget, to bury the pain beneath the demands of survival, the miles of distance from Nimrea. But now, confronted by this image—so vibrant, so achingly alive—there was no escape. The grief surged, relentless and all-consuming, filling the space where breath should have been.

Lord Abernathy's eyes softened, a gentle smile gracing his lips as he nodded. 

"As we expected."

Eamon, who had been silent up to this point, stepped forward. 

"You already knew? How?"

"Her eyes," Lord Abernathy said, pointing at my tear-streaked face. "In Aurorea, only those of the Marquess' bloodline possess such eye color. And the Marquess of Lorne is merely a title; Kildare is the family name," he added, turning back to me with an expression that seemed to carry centuries of secrets.

"So then my mother was..." My heart pounded in my chest, the shock rendering me speechless. 

"The eldest daughter of the Marquess and the rightful heir to the marquessate." Lord Abernathy confirmed.