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"Mira, bring more water," the gardener called.
"Coming!"
The sky burned a hard, bright blue. Elara moved deeper into the garden, toward the next bush. Her fingers worked the branches on their own — her hands knew this labor down to the smallest motion, while her thoughts drifted somewhere far away.
She lifted her head. And went still.
A dark shape stood frozen in a second-floor window. Motionless, as though it were part of the room itself. Black hair, a dark silhouette cut sharp against the light behind him. He was standing there, looking — looking exactly where she stood.
Her heart slammed once against her ribs and went quiet.
/"Ten years."/
Through the glass, the distance, the shadows, she could not make out his face. But the posture was enough. The absolute, almost unnatural stillness that belonged to him and no one else. There had never been restlessness in him.
/"He found me."/
Her hands closed on their own. Leaves crushed between her fingers, staining her skin with sap, and she felt none of it. A spasm gripped her throat.
/"He is here. In the estate. Two floors directly above my head."/
"Ara...?"
The voice came out ordinary, touched only by mild surprise. Elara did not move. Mira followed her line of sight and went still as well.
The glass caught the daylight, and for one instant — brief as a flash — the eyes in the window looked entirely black. Not dark brown, not shadowed. Black.
"Don't look," Mira breathed.
Too late.
Nothing in the window changed. No movement, no reaction. He was looking through her — or at something behind her. As though the girl were simply part of the garden's scenery, one more shrub not worth the attention.
/"He knows."/
Then, with unbearable slowness, he turned back into the room, resuming his conversation. No rush, no visible triumph. As if nothing had happened.
Elara let out a breath and only then realized she had not been breathing at all. Mira stayed silent beside her, not daring to ask.
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"You have a fine estate," the Crown Prince remarked, as if in passing. "And many... interesting people."
The Duke ignored the remark.
"I would like to look more closely."
"Of course," the Duke answered evenly.
Erebus took a step forward. He was not looking at the Duke. He was looking through the window, to where a figure with silver hair flickered between the green rows. Even bound under a coarse headscarf, it caught the sun too brightly for an ordinary servant girl.
"And, perhaps," his gaze slid sideways and back to the men in the room, "meet your new servants."
Alan held his breath. The Prince watched his reaction openly, almost deliberately, forcing him to give himself away.
"I am certain," Erebus added, "there is someone among them who might prove... interesting."
The room seemed to draw in on itself.
"Have them all gathered," he said. "I want to take a look."
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Elara was still standing among the bushes when she heard Nanthelm's footsteps. His voice carried level and practiced, as though announcing the day's schedule:
"All servants are asked to gather in the great hall. Immediately."
Mira turned sharply. Their eyes met.
/"Hide the fear."/
Elara let the ruined leaves fall from her fingers. She wiped her palms against her apron. Slowly. Evenly. She had nothing to hide.
And she started toward the house.
Nanthelm had already turned the corner.
Elara walked at an even pace, shoulders lowered slightly, the same as every other servant making her way inside. Hands folded before her, eyes on the ground, breath measured. That was how he had taught her: "You are not hiding — you are simply not standing out."
The voice in her head — his voice — sounded almost calm.
/"Hide the fear. Fear shows first."/
They were nearing the doors of the estate. Through the parted panels spilled yellow candlelight and a low murmur — the shuffle of footsteps, hushed voices, floorboards creaking under those already inside.
A few more steps.
Then a hand closed hard around her wrist.
Sharp. Wordless.
Elara barely managed to turn her head. Mira did not pull — she simply changed the line of her own walk, and Elara's body obeyed the shift before her mind caught up. A step sideways. Another. They slipped out of the flow of servants as quietly as water slipping from its course — no splash, no resistance.
Silence settled around them. Mira exhaled.
"Quiet and fast. We need to go."
Elara's body had gone rigid, refusing to obey.
"He—" Mira began, and cut herself off. She read the rest in Elara's eyes. "Come on," she added, much quieter now. "I'll get you out."
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