Chapter 3: The Mask of Grace

By the time Lunaria turned ten, the bruises had faded into shadows beneath her skin, but the pain had simply changed form. Less visible now. More subtle. More elegant.

The scars no longer wept blood—they wore silk gloves and whispered behind closed doors.

It was around that age that the household finally remembered she existed—not as a daughter, not as a person, but as a liability.

A child of noble blood—even illegitimate—could not be left to grow wild like a weed in the mansion's rotting wing. Whispers of disgrace spread fast, and though the Duke had no love for her, neither did he tolerate the idea of his lineage being mocked.

So, reluctantly, they began her training.

Not in swordplay or magic or literature—no. That would be too generous.

She was to be taught manners and etiquette only, just enough to prevent scandal. Just enough to be a passable piece of decor, should her presence ever be required at formal gatherings—though no one truly expected it to be.

Her lessons began each morning at dawn, after a meager meal served in silence. She would sit on a cold stool in an unused salon with cracked walls and faded drapes, the scent of mildew clinging to the air. Her hair, now grown long and unkempt, was a curtain of deep midnight black, spilling like ink down her back. Her skin, pale from years spent hidden from sunlight, appeared nearly translucent in the dim lighting.

But what truly unsettled people—what they couldn't ignore—were her eyes.

Silver. Luminous. Cold.

They gleamed like glass under moonlight, reflecting every flicker of movement, every candle's glow, every uncomfortable glance.

And always, he would be waiting for her.

Instructor Gallard.

An aging man with a bony frame, thinning silver hair, and a stiff gait, always dressed immaculately in black waistcoats and gloved hands. His presence was precise, almost mechanical, and he greeted her each day with a nod that barely concealed disdain.

"Sit properly, Lady Lunaria," he would say, voice dry like sandpaper. "Back straight. Chin up. Posture is the mirror of one's breeding, however questionable it may be."

She obeyed in silence.

Her fingers fumbled over silverware. Her ankles trembled as she tried to curtsy. Her voice cracked when reciting court greetings. Gallard would sigh with theatrical disappointment, scribbling notes into his leather-bound journal with clipped, deliberate motions.

But even as his tongue scolded her, his eyes lingered too long.

Not in lust—not in pity—but in something more primal.

Discomfort.

A twitch in his brow every time he glanced at her face. A stiffening of posture whenever she held his gaze.

Lunaria noticed, though she said nothing. Her expression remained calm, blank—her years of silence had taught her well how to wear a mask.

But still, his glances grew more frequent. His comments… stranger.

"Your skin is pale to the point of translucence," he remarked once, eyes narrowing. "And that hair… midnight black as pitch. You look like something born under an eclipse, not a child of this world."

He hesitated, then added more quietly, "And those eyes… gods above, silver like a mirror. Not even the highborn of the Azar line carry such a color. It's not right."

Lunaria remained silent, folding her hands in her lap.

Gallard clicked his tongue, retreating back to his chair with a shiver he tried to hide.

"It's as though you were carved from shadow and frost," he muttered. "A doll, yes… but one that watches you back."

The whispers grew over the months.

Maids who caught glimpses of her in the halls began to speak in hushed voices.

"She looks like a ghost," one would say.

"Her eyes… they don't blink sometimes."

"She doesn't speak unless spoken to. Always watching. Always quiet."

"She's not natural."

But the lessons continued.

She learned to walk in silence, to move like water, to keep her expressions poised no matter the pain. She memorized hundreds of titles, greetings, ceremonial hand motions, posture corrections, and the subtle language of noblewomen's expressions.

She could curtsy to perfection now.

She could hold a wine glass without spilling a drop.

She could smile politely while being insulted.

But the cracks in the illusion were already forming.

One day, Gallard fumbled his notes and bent to retrieve them—only to freeze mid-motion when he saw her reflection in the polished silver tray beside her seat.

Her eyes… in the reflection, they flickered. Too bright. Too still. Almost glowing.

He jerked upright, face pale. His hand trembled slightly as he adjusted his cravat.

Lunaria tilted her head.

"Is something wrong, Instructor Gallard?"

Her voice was soft, almost too soft for a child.

"No," he said quickly. "No… nothing at all."

But his eyes wouldn't meet hers for the rest of the lesson.

And as she practiced her curtsy again, the flickering shadow beneath her dress twisted… just slightly.

Unseen.

Unspoken.

But watching.

Always watching.

The scent of perfume clung to the velvet seats. Laughter echoed in the grand hall. Gold-trimmed chandeliers bathed everything in warm, soft light, masking the coldness in the eyes of those who mingled beneath them.

Lunaria stood still by the towering carriage, her tiny form almost swallowed by the grandeur of the gathering before her.

The Duchess had chosen her dress.

It was a pale blue satin thing, too long at the sleeves and too tight at the waist, as if designed to make her discomfort visible. Her midnight-black hair had been brushed—roughly—until her scalp burned, then tied with a ribbon that matched the color of her dress. Her skin, already ghostly pale, looked almost bloodless under the moonlight. And her silver eyes, bright and unblinking, reflected the glow of every lantern they passed.

"You will not speak unless spoken to," the Duchess had said before they arrived, voice cold and sharp. "You will not wander, and you will not embarrass this house. If anyone so much as whispers about you afterward, you'll wish you'd never been born."

She didn't need to wish that. She already did.

The grand estate they arrived at belonged to a lower-ranking marquess, one of the many sycophants who clung to the Azar Duchy's influence. It was a party to celebrate the birthday of one of his sons—a show of wealth, politics, and social maneuvering wrapped in lace and polished smiles.

Lunaria followed behind the rest of the family, her footsteps muffled by the velvet carpet underfoot. She didn't belong here. She knew that without being told.

The other children, all nobly born and groomed to perform in these spaces, laughed and chatted while their parents exchanged political pleasantries.

Lunaria stood alone by a table near the back, where the shadows gathered thicker and the music was a little fainter. She picked at a small dessert—something soft and sweet she couldn't even name—and tried not to draw attention.

For a moment, she let herself pretend. Pretend she was just another girl at a party. That her seat at this table was her own choice. That the knot in her stomach was from shyness, not fear.

But the illusion shattered the moment her brother approached.

Caelan Azar, the Duke's eldest legitimate son—tall, broad-shouldered, golden-haired and smiling the way snakes do before they strike.

A cluster of other noble youths followed him, some from other major houses, others from the vassal families under the Duchy's thumb. They were dressed in pristine coats, polished shoes, and practiced arrogance.

"Well, well," Caelan said, stopping just short of her table. "Isn't this a surprise? I thought stray dogs weren't allowed indoors."

The boys behind him laughed. One elbowed another, whispering something crude, and the laughter doubled.

Lunaria didn't respond. She kept her head bowed slightly, hands folded neatly in her lap—just as her etiquette tutor had taught her.

But Caelan wasn't finished.

"Look at those eyes," he said, voice rising just enough for others nearby to hear. "Silver, like a corpse's. Creepy little thing, isn't she?"

"Maybe she's cursed," one of the others joked.

"She doesn't even look human," another added. "Like a doll someone forgot to finish."

Lunaria said nothing. Her fingers trembled beneath the tablecloth, hidden from view. Her throat was tight. Not with tears—she'd learned long ago not to cry—but with something quieter, heavier.

A pressure that never left her.

More laughter. More jeering. One of the boys flicked a piece of cake toward her plate, where it landed with a soft splatter. Another stepped close enough to knock her chair, making her jolt slightly forward.

Still, she sat straight. Still, she said nothing.

Because she knew the moment she reacted, it would be worse.

Eventually, Caelan grew bored and waved them off, already moving on to charm the daughters of higher-ranking families. The table was quiet again, but the silence was suffocating now.

Lunaria didn't touch her food again.

When the evening finally ended and the family returned home, the carriage ride was wordless. She stared out the window, watching the night pass in blurs of trees and shadow. The others talked among themselves. No one even acknowledged her presence.

She should've expected what came next.

The moment they stepped foot inside the mansion, the Duchess's hand clamped around her wrist with an iron grip.

"You disgusting little thing," she hissed, dragging Lunaria through the halls with enough force to bruise. "Do you have any idea what people said after that display?"

"I didn't—"

"Silence!" The Duchess yanked her forward. "You sat there like a lump of clay, like some malformed beast no one wants to look at. How dare you bring shame to our name just by breathing."

She flung open a door to one of the lesser guest chambers—a room unused, dusty, and cold—and shoved Lunaria inside.

The girl stumbled forward and nearly hit the floor. She caught herself on a chair by the wall.

"Sit," the Duchess spat. "You'll stay right there until I say otherwise."

Lunaria sat, spine straight, legs together. Perfect posture. She didn't dare move.

"If you're not in that exact spot when I return," the Duchess growled, stepping back into the hall, "you will regret it. I'll see to it personally."

The door slammed shut.

And Lunaria sat in silence.

The chair was wooden, rigid and narrow. The draft from the old window seeped through her thin dress, chilling her skin.

She didn't cry.

She didn't speak.

She only sat there, alone in the dark, her midnight-black hair trailing over her shoulders like a veil, her silver eyes fixed on the floor ahead.

Even the shadows in the corners seemed to shift slightly, as if watching her with quiet curiosity.

And still, she did not move.

Because she knew better now.

The world didn't care if you broke.

It only cared if you bled where others could see.

The silence of the room was heavy. The kind that pressed against Lunaria's ears and made every breath sound too loud, every heartbeat echo too sharply in her chest. She sat motionless in the hard-backed chair, her small hands resting in her lap, fingers pale and stiff from the cold.

Her limbs ached. Her back throbbed. But she didn't move. Couldn't.

The hours dragged on, marked only by the distant ticking of an old clock in the hallway. No one came. No voice called for her. No footsteps neared. The only companions she had were the shadows—long and thin, stretching along the walls like silent sentinels.

Her eyes, heavy from exhaustion, drifted toward them.

They weren't normal shadows. She had noticed that for some time now—how they didn't always follow the light, how they seemed to shimmer faintly when the room was perfectly still. As if they breathed with her. As if they listened.

She blinked once.

Twice.

Her body began to slump forward, her mind tugged under the weight of fatigue.

And eventually, the world went dark.

She was standing in a forest.

But not one she recognized.

Towering trees loomed over her, skeletal branches tangled like grasping fingers. Mist crawled across the moss-covered ground, swallowing her ankles, thick and cold. The air reeked of iron and decay.

She took a hesitant step forward.

The forest groaned.

Behind her, the trees twisted and shifted, closing in. Shadows danced at the edges of her vision, never quite solid, never quite still. Something unseen whispered her name—not with words, but with breath—a low exhale that brushed against her neck like a predator's sigh.

She turned, heart pounding. No one was there.

The whisper came again.

And this time, the trees were bleeding.

Crimson trickled down the bark, slow and thick, staining the roots and pooling in the mist. The scent of rot thickened, curling through her lungs like smoke.

Then she heard laughter.

Cruel, mocking.

It was Caelan's voice. Distant but clear. Then the Duchess. Then the sneering voices of the nobles from the gathering. The echoes of their cruelty chased her in a rising crescendo.

"Corpse-eyed freak."

"Stray mutt."

"She should have died with her mother."

Lunaria clutched her hands to her ears, but the voices only grew louder—surrounding her, devouring her. The trees twisted further, forming warped faces in the bark—sneering, grinning, eyes hollow and mouths wide open in silent screams.

She ran.

Her feet pounded through the underbrush, slipping on damp moss and jagged roots. The mist clawed at her legs. Branches snagged at her dress like grasping hands. She ran until her lungs burned, until her vision blurred.

But no matter how far she fled, the whispers followed.

"You are nothing."

"You were never wanted."

"You should not exist."

She stumbled and fell.

Mud coated her palms, the chill seeping through her bones. She looked up—and froze.

There, just ahead, stood a mirror.

Tall. Ornate. Its frame was made of twisted black iron, shaped like writhing vines and clawed fingers. It had no place in this forest, yet it stood there like it had always belonged.

She crawled toward it, drawn by something she didn't understand.

Her reflection stared back.

But it wasn't her.

The girl in the mirror had silver eyes, yes—but they glowed faintly, filled with hollow light. Her skin was so pale it almost looked translucent, and her hair spilled like ink across her shoulders. But her face…

Her face was twisted in grief. A grotesque, silent cry frozen in time.

Then the reflection began to speak—its lips moving, forming words Lunaria couldn't hear. The sound was muffled, like it came from underwater.

Suddenly, hands burst through the mirror.

Dark, clawed, bleeding hands that reached for her.

She screamed and scrambled backward, but the hands grabbed her wrists, pulling her toward the glass. Her knees scraped against the stones, her vision flashing with panic. She tried to resist—but her strength was nothing compared to theirs.

Her body hit the surface.

But instead of shattering, the mirror swallowed her.

And suddenly, she was back in the chair.

Her eyes flew open, breath coming in sharp, frantic gasps. Cold sweat clung to her skin, her limbs trembling from the shock. Her fingers clawed at the fabric of her dress, grounding herself in the here and now.

The nightmare clung to her like cobwebs, thick and suffocating.

She shivered—and only then realized something was different.

The air felt… warmer.

Softer.

Her eyes flicked around the room.

The shadows.

They had moved.

Where once they clung to the corners and crept along the baseboards, now they curled faintly around her chair—thin wisps rising and weaving like strands of smoke. They didn't feel threatening. Not this time.

They felt… close.

Protective.

She reached out with a shaking hand toward the nearest one, half-expecting it to vanish like fog.

But it didn't.

Instead, the shadow gently curled around her fingers—like a cat nuzzling against her palm.

Lunaria stared in disbelief.

For the first time in her life, something had touched her without hurting her.

The warmth in her chest was unfamiliar. Alien. But not unwelcome.

She didn't speak. Couldn't. Her throat was tight, and her heart beat so loudly it echoed in her ears.

But she didn't feel alone anymore.

Not entirely.

And somewhere, buried beneath all the pain, fear, and cold—

Something stirred.