Reflections of the Past

Evelyn's breath came in shallow gasps as she watched Isadora glide across the ballroom, the hem of her emerald gown sweeping over the polished floor. The resemblance was uncanny, yet there was something more—an undeniable presence of power in her posture, in the way she carried herself with quiet authority.

Lucien was rigid beside her, his gaze locked onto the man at the center of the ballroom. It was like looking into a distorted mirror—similar features, the same storm-gray eyes—but this man carried himself with a refined arrogance that Lucien never had.

"Who is he?" Evelyn whispered.

Elias exhaled, his voice barely above a murmur. "That... is Lord Alistair Devereaux, the heir to the Devereaux fortune and one of the most powerful men of his time."

Lucien's fingers curled into fists. "And you're telling me he looks exactly like me?"

Elias nodded gravely. "Not just looks. There is a connection between you two—one we need to uncover."

Before Lucien could press further, the music in the ballroom shifted. Isadora approached Alistair, their eyes meeting in a moment thick with unspoken words. A slow waltz began, and without hesitation, he took her hand, leading her onto the dance floor. The guests around them faded into the background, their movements becoming a blur.

Evelyn felt a strange pull, as though she were tethered to the scene unraveling before her. She watched as Alistair whispered something into Isadora's ear, the woman tilting her head slightly, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips. But just as quickly, a shadow passed over her expression, her fingers tightening in Alistair's grasp.

Something was wrong.

Lucien took a step forward, his instincts on high alert. "This isn't just a memory… something is happening."

Elias frowned. "We are witnessing the past as it truly unfolded. Whatever choices were made here led to the events that shaped everything."

The chandelier lights flickered, casting eerie shadows against the gilded walls. The waltz continued, but now Evelyn noticed something sinister in the way the guests moved. They were too synchronized, their smiles too vacant. It was as if they were puppets in a carefully orchestrated play.

Then, without warning, Isadora stiffened. Her grip on Alistair faltered, and she turned her head sharply toward the grand staircase at the far end of the ballroom. Evelyn followed her gaze, her heart clenching as a figure stepped onto the landing—cloaked in darkness, their face obscured.

The air grew heavy, suffocating.

"Who is that?" Evelyn whispered, barely able to get the words out.

Elias's face darkened. "The one who set everything in motion."

Lucien's jaw clenched as the figure took a deliberate step forward, the echoes of their boots sending a chill down Evelyn's spine.

The past wasn't just showing them what had happened—it was warning them of what was to come.