Elana hovered silently outside the closed doors of the duke’s study, the lantern in her hand snuffed out. She could make out only pieces of her parents’ conversation. The duchess had been behaving oddly since the afternoon. Whenever this happened, the only way to glean any insight into either of her parent’s mental state was to listen in on them.
It was Elana’s means of staying informed. Her parents never told her anything. No one did. If she had to stoop to eavesdropping, then so be it. She closed her eyes, trying to focus on the muffled conversation coming through the door. It sounded like… some kind of argument? And, even muffled, she could clearly recognize the sound of her own name.
Elana frowned. Had she done something? No, that didn’t make any sense. The duchess had been perfectly fine even through the midday lessons, it was only afterwards that her mood notably soured. It had made dinner an even more bleak and uncomfortable affair than usual.
Not that it was notably out of the ordinary. Or at least, not to outsiders.
Even on the best of days, the manor was a silent, solemn place. And, so were its inhabitants. But it hadn’t always been like this.
In Elana’s earliest memories, the manor had been a much livelier place. A home brimming with warmth and good cheer. A place that had never once known despair. But those days were long gone. Even the memories of those better days had grown faint, mere shadows of the moments they’d encapsulated.
Gone were the echoes of children’s laughter and footsteps running down the corridors, of warm banter over the dining table. Gone were the days of having her hair braided by her older sisters, or being roped into the pranks and antics of her brothers.
Death was the unspoken eighth member and constant companion of the Vanquise family. It had been since the first time she’d been dressed in funeral black.
Elana had begun wearing mourning black when she was six years old, and she had not changed out of them since. Of the six siblings she’d grown up with, not a single one remained.
Antoine, her oldest brother, was the sole survivor—but he had been exiled from the family so long ago that he was no better than a stranger now. He had been removed from all of the family portraits. The other indication that he had ever been there at all was a single portrait that lay, eternally face-down, in the Duchess’ dressing room. All others had been removed.
And now, all that lingered in the hallways was cold, oppressive silence.
The glow of a lantern illuminating the hallway jolted her from her thoughts.
Elana hastily backed away from the duke’s study, instinctively tucking herself against behind one of the alcoves lining the hallway, hiding behind the decorative statue it was designed to show off. She held her breath.
Had she hidden in time? Surely, she wasn’t about to be caught red handed, eavesdropping on the duke? The glow of the lantern dimmed. She couldn’t hear any approaching footsteps. Cautiously, she peered out from the lip of the alcove—
A low, whisper-soft voice jolted her from her thoughts. “My lady.”
Elana jumped. A gloved hand clapped itself firmly over her mouth, before any sound could escape.
“Pardon my intrusion,” the voice murmured.
Elana slumped. She should have known who it was.
Even before she could make out his face in the shadows, she recognized that low, familiar bass. The one other permanent fixture of the Vanquise estate, every bit as frequent a presence as the shadow of death—
Soren. Of course it was him.
The boy, a little under two years her senior, that her parents had taken in before Elana was even capable of forming memories. Antoine’s former page, and the squire that her father favored most. When he came of age in the winter, he would officially join the duchy’s Knightage.
It was a small wonder that her father hadn’t made an exception and allowed him to join the Knightage early. Soren’s combat skills were second only to the Captain’s, even though he’d been taken in from the streets.
Elana batted his hand away, freeing herself. Soren was the last person she wanted to see in this situation. Especially when they were in earshot of her father’s study. She envied him. She couldn’t help it.
He was an orphan that had been all-but-adopted by her family, their scion from the start, due to his prodigal talents. Even at a young age, he’d had an uncanny affinity for the sword, coupled with the latent potential to wield mid-tier magic. The latter was a level of ability rarely seen among commoners.
Most of the Kingdom’s citizens were born with at least some mana and affinity for magic, but stronger talents were largely reserved for the nobility. It was one of the many byproducts of the Academy system; talented mages were sought after and either adopted or married into existing powerful bloodlines.
Soren was a rare talent. He was her opposite in every way. Common-born. Talented. Well-liked by his peers.
A handkerchief eclipsed the light of the lantern in his hand, leaving only the faintest ring of warmth cast at his feet. His disapproval was written all over his face.
“My lady,” he repeated, gentle but stern. “Listening at doors is a rather crass habit.”
“Are you going to tell my father?” Elana asked, pursing her lips.
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