"Your belongings have already been placed inside," Hawthorne informed me as we reached the room. "I shall show your attendant to the staff quarters."

When I heard that Eamon would be shown to separate quarters, panic surged through me, clawing its way up my throat and spreading like wildfire across my body. A prickling unease settled over me, sharp and suffocating. Without thinking, I reached out and grasped his arm, my fingers tightening around him as though he were the only solid thing in a world that had suddenly shifted beneath my feet.

His touch steadied me, a lifeline in the storm of thoughts swirling from the weight of the revelations I had just endured. “Get comfortable,” he said softly, his voice as soothing as the warmth of his hand gently prying my fingers loose. “I’ll be back soon, I promise.”

He gave me that look—the one I had known since we were children, the one that always came with a promise he intended to keep. It worked like it always did, slowing the erratic rhythm of my heart and quieting the noise in my head, if only for a moment. I nodded, though the hollow ache in my chest didn’t relent as he stepped away.

Left alone in the unfamiliar stillness of my new chambers, the walls seemed to close in around me, their ornate decorations oppressive rather than inviting. I pressed a hand to my heart, the other resting lightly on my abdomen, and drew in a deep breath, holding it for a count of four before exhaling slowly. It was the same exercise my father had taught me long ago—a way to tether myself when emotions threatened to overwhelm.

But the thought of him, of my father, sent a sharp pang through me. My heart faltered, stumbling over the memory of his face, and sadness swept in like an unbidden tide. I pushed the thought away, clinging to the rhythm of my breathing. In, hold, out. Count to four. Again. Again.

A sudden knock at the door shattered the fragile calm I had managed to build. My breath caught, and my hand dropped to my side as I turned toward the sound, the moment of self-soothing gone as quickly as it had come.

"Enter," I replied.

A young maid slipped into the room, her hazel eyes wide with deference, framed by a cascade of chestnut curls. She introduced herself as Elara, a slight tremble in her voice betraying her nervousness.

"Would you care for breakfast, my lady?" Elara asked, her hands clasped tightly before her.

"Please," I murmured, grateful for any semblance of normalcy. Though I was sure I wouldn't be able to eat much.

Elara quickly left but returned just as fast with a tray of food. She set up the table with an ease that brought back memories of my own childhood. 

Another knock resounded, and Eamon entered, he was now dressed in the uniform the male staff wore. But it looked much better on his broad frame. Elara's gaze lingered on him a moment too long; admiration etched into every line of her face.

"Thank you, Elara. That will be all," I said, dismissing the maid with a subtle nod.

"But, my lady, it is not proper to be left in your room alone with a man." Elara stammered as she looked between Eamon and me.

"It will be all right," I answered. 

Elara hesitated before she curtsied and exited, leaving us alone in the splendor of the chamber.

Eamon scanned the room, taking in the grandeur with wide eyes. 

"You're high nobility, my lady, and an heiress."

The word 'heiress' echoed in my mind, setting off a cacophony of whirling thoughts. 

"Aren't only males allowed to inherit titles?"

"Usually, yes," Eamon conceded, his tone steady and calm. "But laws vary from kingdom to kingdom. "

I collapsed onto the bed, the sheer enormity of my new reality pressing down upon me. 

"Why would my mother send me here knowing..."

"About your abilities and the prejudices of this kingdom," Eamon finished for me, understanding exactly what was going through my mind.

I groaned, a sound of both resignation and dread. Staring upward, I focused on the ceiling where an elaborate fresco depicted a garden of eternal spring, the painted flora seeming to bloom beneath an ever-blue sky. Raising my hand, a soft green glow emanated from my palm, coalescing into the shape of a blossoming flower.

"This place is why witches went into hiding," I whispered, the magic dissipating into the air. "So why would she have me return?"

*

I returned the leather-bound tome to its rightful place among the countless volumes that lined the towering shelves of the Marquess' library. The hushed sound echoed in the vast chamber, where spiraling staircases wound upward like ivy, connecting the 4 stories of books. Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass dome above, casting mosaic shadows on the polished mahogany floors below.

“Didn’t find anything?” Eamon’s voice cut through the stillness, dispelling the sense of timelessness that hung between the rows of ancient spines and gilded titles.

I descended the stairs, my gaze lingering on the intricate carvings of mythic beasts and heroes that adorned each banister.

“It’s just stuff I already know,” I replied, frustration tinging my words.

Eamon gestured broadly to the surrounding expanse of knowledge. 

“Well, I am sure there will be something useful in one of the many books here.”

I nodded, feeling dwarfed by the sheer magnitude of the collection. 

“It’s overwhelming,” I admitted, my green eyes scanning the sea of literature. “I wish I could pinpoint the books I need.”

“Use magic to identify the books with the answers.” Eamon stated matter of fact.

"Aren't you the one always telling me not to use my magic? Now you're encouraging me?"

"I tell you to use magic wisely," Eamon responded with a smirk.

"I don't know exactly what I am looking for though. I'll have to use a spell." I raised my hands, as I spoke the incantation:

Secrets hidden, truths entwined, reveal the knowledge I must find.

Nothing happened. I tried another.

Let magic’s glow, fair and lean, mark the wisdom yet unseen.

Green light flickered from my fingertips, casting an ethereal glow upon my face. Around us, several spines shimmered with a verdant luster, beckoning.

Eamon winked at my triumph. “Well, look at that; there are more than you thought.”

As I stepped towards the nearest glowing book, the heavy doors of the library groaned open. Heart pounding, I abruptly ceased my spell; the emerald radiance vanished, and the books stood innocuous once more.

Lord Abernathy entered, his bow deep and formal, causing a knot of discomfort in my stomach. 

“My lady, I am afraid that his lordship cannot meet with you again today for lunch. He sends his apologies.”

I offered a small smile, masking the sting of rejection. 

“Thank you for informing me. I hope he will join me for dinner.”

Abernathy’s expression remained impassive, his eyes giving nothing away. With a final nod, he turned, leaving Eamon and me enveloped by the library's silence.

“Third day he has been unable to see me,” I murmured, turning to Eamon. “You don’t think he’s avoiding me, do you?”

“This mansion feels like a shrine to her,” Eamon noted, his voice calm.

“It does.” 

“Don’t you have an uncle too?”

I nodded, the question igniting a curiosity about the man who was not the Marquess' successor.

A sudden clamor from outside yanked me from contemplating familial ties and succession. I turned to see Eamon already at the window, his brow furrowed as he peered through the glass. 

“What is happening?” I asked, as I approached. Outside the usually calm staff were a flurry of motion, crisscrossing the grounds like scattered leaves in a storm. 

“Must be an unexpected arrival,” Eamon deduced, his eyes tracking the chaos with keen interest. “Fancy a closer look?”

Before I could assent, Eamon had already seized my arm, guiding me with a conspiratorial gleam in his eye. We slipped from the library, our footfalls silent against the plush corridor rugs. Ducking behind a marble pillar near the stair railing, we glimpsed the foyer just as the front doors slammed open.

A commanding figure stormed in—a cascade of dark red hair flowed behind him. His presence seemed to swallow the space, an aura of regal fury emanating from his broad shoulders draped in a coat of deep crimson velvet trimmed with gold. 

“Where is my father?” The timbre of his voice bounced off the marble.

Hawthorne approached, discomfort etched on his face. 

“Lord Kildare, you have returned from your trip so soon. Did you enjoy your time?”

Ignoring the question, Lord Kildare shrugged off his coat, tossing it without looking toward a scurrying maid. He strode past the butler, heading straight for the stairs where Eamon and I crouched.

“Lord Kildare, the Marquess is in his study,” offered Lord Abernathy, materializing from the shadows.

Lord Kildare paused, irritation wrinkling his brow. 

“Is that sly wench still here? I want to see her—bring her to my father’s study!” His scorn sliced through the air.

Eamon snickered beside me, whispering, “I believe the sly wench is you.” 

His hand muffled his laughter as I rolled my eyes, a spark of annoyance igniting within me.

With the men gone, I tugged Eamon back to the safety of the library, the echo of Lord Kildare’s words lingering like a specter.

“That was your dearest uncle,” Eamon quipped, amusement coloring his tone.

My sigh was heavy with resignation. 

“Had I known the welcome that awaited me, I might’ve spared myself the journey.” I gestured dismissively towards the grand doors.

“Ah, but then you’d forsake your birthright,” Eamon countered.

“Birthright?” I spat the word as if it were bitter on my tongue. 

“How can I claim inheritance in a land that I can barely call home, where they surely forbid the ascent of a foreign-born to nobility?”

Eamon tilted his head, a smirk playing on his lips. 

“No laws in Aurorea deny titles to those born abroad, provided they are citizens. And your mother’s blood grants you citizenship.”

Suspicion clouded my gaze. 

“You’re well-versed in the intricacies of Aurorean law.”

“Indeed.” Eamon strolled over to a towering bookshelf, fingers trailing over leather spines until he selected a tome embossed with intricate silver filigree. “Laws and Lineage: The Governing Principles of Aurorea,” read the title as he handed it to me.

“Believe it or not, I do more than just loaf about, my lady.”

I felt a twinge of guilt as I took the book from his hands.  

“You could’ve been anything, you know?” I mused,, my voice sincere. 

Eamon shrugged, a modest tilt to his head as he regarded the labyrinthine shelves around us. 

“Perhaps,” he conceded. “But then I wouldn’t be here.”

“Here, in this mess?” My voice carried an undercurrent of disbelief. My gaze swept the ornate bindings and leather covers before settling back on him.

“Yes, here with you.” He met my eyes steadily.

A silence settled over us, filled only by the creaks of ancient wood and the rustle of parchment. It was I who broke it, my voice barely above a whisper. 

“Why have you stuck with me, Eamon?”

The question caught him off guard, his sharp inhale audible in the quiet. For a moment, his usual confidence seemed to waver.

"When everything fell apart... when we lost it all, and my father’s name was dragged through the mud..." I struggled to maintain eye contact, my throat tightening with the memories. "Why didn’t you leave to make your way? You’re brilliant, Eamon. You could have made something of yourself."

His smile returned, heartfelt and warm, reaching deep into his azure eyes. 

"Because I promised to always stay by your side, Luciana."

Memories flooded back—a six-year-old girl with wide, trusting eyes shaking hands with an eight-year-old boy, sealing a pact of everlasting companionship. A softness touched my heart, but it vanished as quickly as it came when Eamon’s mischievous grin reappeared.

"Besides," he chuckled, leaning closer to me, "I always suspected you’d do something great. Admittedly, I never pictured you as a Marchioness, but now that you are one..." He winked, "Why labor away when I could simply bask in your eventual glory?"

Laughter bubbled up from my chest, a sound I hadn’t realized I’d been holding back. It echoed through the library, bouncing off the spines of books that had witnessed centuries of solitude. Eamon joined me, his laughter a harmonious counterpart to my own.

The laughter that filled the library vanished as suddenly as it had erupted, swept away by the creak of the door and the harried entrance of Lord Abernathy. His face, usually a mask of composed servitude, was now drawn tight with lines of concern. 

"My lady, the Marquess would like you to join him in his study," he said, his voice quivering urgently.

My heart skipped a beat, and I exchanged a glance with Eamon before following Lord Abernathy out of the library. As we paced down the stairs and through the corridor to the study, I took in the grandeur I hadn’t seen yet. Rich tapestries depicting mythical creatures hung on the stone walls, and armor-clad knights stood silent vigil in niches, their empty gazes following our every step.

"His lordship is with Lord Kildare, his son, and your uncle." Lord Abernathy continued, halting mid-stride as if weighed down by words yet unsaid. He looked almost pained, a man torn between duty and personal conflict. "Please do not take Lord Alaric's words too personally. You must understand that learning of your existence would be rather...shocking."

Before I could reply, we arrived at the two imposing wooden doors, stark in their simplicity compared to the luxury around them. Lord Abernathy’s hands trembled slightly as he pushed them open, announcing with a strained voice, "Lady Luciana is here, your lordships."

Inside the room, the Marquess sat behind a dark mahogany desk, its surface a battlefield of inkwells, scrolls, and wax seals. Despite his impeccable attire, he looked every bit the worn commander after a long siege, exhaustion etched into his features.

Alaric was a storm personified, pacing before an ornate mirror that reflected his scowl and the flush of anger on his cheeks. At my entrance, he spun on his heel, his agitated energy a sharp contrast to his father’s weary stillness.

"Leave us," the Marquess commanded, his voice resonating with authority. 

Lord Abernathy immediately obeyed before turning back and  reaching for Eamon, whose feet seemed rooted to the floor. A sorrowful look passed between Eamon and me before he was dragged out, and the heavy doors clicked shut.