Chapter 8: Mockery and Introductions

Morning came not gently, but with the sharp voices and cold hands of the maids.

Rough fingers yanked Lunaria's blanket away, the sudden rush of cold air prickling her bare arms. A second later, a damp cloth was shoved into her face, another maid dragging her upright by the arm as if she were a rag doll. There were no greetings, no explanations—just the rhythm of bruising fingers dressing her, pulling her hair taut into a loose braid, and forcing her to stand.

She was still groggy, her eyes half-lidded, when they pushed her into the hallway with a command.

"The Duke wants you. Don't dawdle, girl."

Her heart sank.

The words never meant anything good.

The walk to the Duke's office was quiet except for the thud of her own feet against the marbled floor. The corridor stretched endlessly, every step heavier than the last. Her body still ached from the last punishment—her ribs sore where the head maid's foot had struck, her skin marked in quiet places no one would see but her shadow.

She paused at the double doors, hesitating, then forced herself to knock.

"Enter," came the voice, deep and cool.

She slipped inside.

The room smelled of old ink, cigars, and polished wood. Sunlight streamed in through tall windows, casting thin golden lines across the carpet. Her father, Duke Alaric Azar, sat behind his ornate desk, his fingers tapping idly against the lacquered surface.

Opposite him stood another man—broad-shouldered, with hair the color of ash and eyes like weathered steel. He was dressed in deep maroon and black, the family crest of House Dornevale—a twisted blackthorn wrapped in silver—pinned to his chest.

Lunaria froze.

The air felt heavier now, like something unsaid was pressing down on her lungs.

"Ah, the little mutt arrives," the Duke said without lifting his eyes from a document. His voice was amused, casual, as though discussing a piece of livestock rather than his daughter. "Come closer. Let Lord Dornevale see what sort of pathetic creature he's tying his family to."

The other man chuckled darkly.

"So this is the bastard, is it?" His voice was like gravel dragged across stone. "Thin. Pale. Eyes like silver coins buried in soot. She doesn't look like much, does she?"

"She's not," the Duke said with a lazy smile. "But I suppose it's fitting. A bastard for a bastard. Poetic, in its own vulgar way."

They both laughed.

Lunaria stood stiffly, head bowed, fingers digging into the fabric of her sleeves. Her chest burned with a familiar mix of shame and quiet fury. Always like this. Always jokes at her expense—always reminders that she was nothing more than an unwanted stain on their legacy.

"She doesn't even speak," Lord Dornevale noted, eyeing her with disinterest. "Perhaps that's a blessing. I've heard enough of the shrill voices of noble daughters to last a lifetime."

The Duke chuckled. "She has a mouth, I assure you. Just no spine to use it."

"Perfect wife material then."

Another round of laughter.

Lunaria felt small—smaller than usual. Their voices cut like knives, but she didn't flinch. She was used to bleeding silently.

The Duke finally waved a hand.

"Go. Your fiancée arrived early. Go find her before she gets bored and burns something."

Lunaria blinked, startled. She's here already?

Before she could ask where, the Duke rose slightly from his chair—just enough to backhand her across the face with casual ease. The crack echoed in the room like a thunderclap.

"Move faster when I speak," he said, sitting again with a sigh. "You're already an embarrassment. Don't add incompetence to the list."

Her cheek stung as she stumbled, eyes wide, the metallic taste of blood forming on her tongue. But she didn't cry. She didn't speak. She turned and left, the door closing behind her like the jaws of a beast.

Her steps were uneven, but she kept walking.

She wasn't sure where to go. No one had told her where Elowen was. Just "go find her." As if the estate wasn't sprawling, as if she weren't already lost in her own home.

Still, she walked.

Corridor after corridor blurred together. The laughter of nobles echoed faintly through walls—guests already mingling, servants rushing in preparation. Lunaria passed them like a ghost, receiving only passing glares or muttered curses.

Her legs eventually carried her to the south wing, one of the few places in the mansion where silence reigned. A cold breeze swept through the open hallway ahead, and she realized she was near the Azar gardens—the only place left mostly untouched by the cruelty of the household.

She stepped outside.

The garden was overgrown, not carefully maintained like the front estate's showcase gardens. Vines crawled up broken stone walls, and the once pristine hedges were wild now, curling like claws. The air smelled of damp soil and wilting roses, the stone path cracked beneath her bare feet.

But here… it was quiet.

Peaceful, in a strange, untamed way.

Lunaria wandered deeper in, trailing her fingers along the edge of a rusted wrought-iron bench. For a moment, she could almost forget where she was. Forget the sting on her cheek, forget the eyes that judged and mocked her.

So this is the day I meet her…

She sat quietly beneath the shadow of an old cypress tree, her gaze distant. She didn't know what she expected from Elowen. The stories were all sharp edges and cold flame. But somehow, something within her still stirred.

Maybe she'll hate me. Maybe she'll ignore me.

Or maybe…

She closed her eyes for a moment and let the wind pass through her hair.

Maybe she'll see me.

Lunaria's fingertips grazed the edge of a cracked stone planter overrun with creeping ivy, her eyes trailing upward toward the gnarled rose vines that choked it. Despite their unkempt state, the blooms were a deep crimson, vibrant even in the pale morning light—a wild, defiant kind of beauty that stood in contrast to the rest of the decaying garden.

She let her gaze wander, letting herself drown in the rare silence. The sharp scent of rose and damp earth filled her lungs. It was peaceful here. Almost too peaceful.

Until a faint sound disrupted the stillness.

A click of a heel against stone. Light. Deliberate.

Lunaria stilled, her hand tightening slightly over the planter edge. The sound came again—another slow, deliberate step behind her. Something about it sent a chill crawling up her spine, not of fear… but of awareness.

She turned.

And there she stood.

Elowen Dornevale.

Lunaria felt her breath catch.

The girl standing a few paces away was not what she had expected—not entirely. Her presence was arresting in a way that defied description. Graceful but sharp-edged. Poised like a blade, honed and waiting to draw blood.

She wore deep crimson and obsidian black, a color palette that echoed the very roses in the garden. The high collar of her coat flared slightly, the embroidery of thorned vines shimmering faintly in the light. Her platinum blonde hair fell in loose waves down her back, contrasting her pale skin, while her eyes—piercing amethyst—held a cool intensity that made Lunaria feel momentarily bare beneath their gaze.

But there was more.

An undercurrent of something dangerous in her poise. Like a predator wrapped in silken layers. She was beautiful, undeniably so—but there was a sharpness in that beauty, a hint of cruelty softened by elegance. Like a rose in bloom that lured with scent and struck with hidden thorns.

"So you're the little Azar bastard," Elowen said finally, her voice smooth and low like velvet drawn over steel. She tilted her head slightly, studying Lunaria with something unreadable flickering in her eyes.

Lunaria's fingers curled instinctively against her skirt.

"You're… Elowen Dornevale," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Elowen's lips twitched, not quite a smile, but something close.

"Correct," she replied, stepping closer, her movements languid and purposeful. "I suppose you've heard the rumors, haven't you?"

Lunaria nodded slowly.

"Elowen the Mad. The Violent Rose. The Thorned Heiress. I've collected quite the bouquet of names."

She chuckled lightly at her own words, but her eyes never left Lunaria's face. "Do I look as terrifying as they say?"

Lunaria hesitated. Her instincts screamed caution—every tale she'd heard about Elowen whispered warnings in the back of her mind. But looking into those eyes now, she didn't see mindless violence. She saw a storm—quiet, focused, coiled.

And something else. A flicker of loneliness. Of hunger—not for blood, but for something deeper.

"No," Lunaria said softly. "You look… different."

Elowen arched a brow, clearly intrigued. "Different how?"

"I don't know yet."

That earned a real smile, small but genuine.

"Well, you're bolder than I expected." Elowen stepped closer, and Lunaria caught a faint scent—something floral but spiced, like dark roses laced with ash. Her presence seemed to fill the space between them effortlessly, subtly oppressive, magnetic.

"You're trembling," Elowen noted, voice quieter now, tilting her head again. "Is it fear? Or anticipation?"

Lunaria didn't know the answer.

Her heartbeat had quickened, but it wasn't entirely from fear. There was something in this girl's gaze—something that reached past her defenses and curled around the hollowness she'd kept buried. For years she had lived in silence, in shadows, unseen and unloved. And now, in this chaotic bloom of presence, Elowen saw her.

She didn't even flinch.

Elowen's eyes lingered on Lunaria's face for a long moment before her gaze dropped lower, taking in the bruises peeking past the collar of her dress.

"I see your family treats you well," she said, tone dripping with dry disdain. "I suppose that makes us two of a kind."

Lunaria's eyes widened slightly.

"You too?"

"Of course," Elowen said. "They say bastards have no place in noble bloodlines, only in noble plots." Her gaze sharpened. "My father kept me in the west wing—far from his perfect family. They let me learn etiquette with knives, politics with punishments. Tutors came and left. Some stayed longer. Most ran screaming."

There was no bitterness in her voice. Just fact. Cold and steady.

"But I survived," she added. "And now, apparently, I'm to be wed to you."

Lunaria felt her chest tighten at the words. Wed to you. Spoken so plainly, as if it were already etched into stone. But the way Elowen said it—there was a weight behind it, a possessiveness that made her breath catch.

"You don't seem upset about that," Lunaria said cautiously.

Elowen's eyes gleamed faintly.

"Should I be? Or should I be curious instead?"

She reached forward, brushing a gloved finger against Lunaria's silver hair, letting a strand fall between her fingers like silk. The gesture was strangely intimate—too intimate for strangers.

"I've never seen eyes like yours before," she murmured. "Silver in black… like moonlight trapped in ink."

Lunaria flushed faintly, unsure how to react.

Elowen stepped back, her smile returning—slightly sharper this time.

"I suppose I'll be seeing more of you soon. That is what betrothed do, isn't it?"

Lunaria couldn't speak. Her mind swirled with fragments of emotions—confusion, curiosity… and a strange, simmering warmth.

As Elowen turned and walked away through the twisted roses, Lunaria could only stare after her.

Her presence lingered long after she disappeared from view—like perfume, like a shadow, like a whisper.

And deep in her chest, something stirred.

Something dangerous.

Something hopeful.

They walked through the rose garden, the stone path winding between overgrown hedges and thorn-entwined arches. The breeze carried the scent of aged petals and wilted ivy, stirring faintly around them—but Lunaria barely noticed.

Her gaze was fixed entirely on Elowen.

It was not intentional at first. But once it started, she couldn't look away.

There was a rhythm to the other girl's steps, poised and effortless, as if every movement had purpose. Her long coat swayed slightly behind her, the delicate embroidery of thorned roses catching the light in fleeting glimmers. The faintest trace of her perfume lingered in the air—floral and sharp, like rose petals bruised beneath a heel.

Lunaria found herself watching the way sunlight filtered through Elowen's platinum hair, the way her fingers occasionally brushed past petals or leaves, as if they belonged to her—like the whole garden bent around her presence.

Magnetic.

That was the only word Lunaria could think of. Elowen Dornevale was magnetic. She drew attention like a tide, quietly and irresistibly. It wasn't just beauty—it was gravity. Presence.

Lunaria hadn't expected this. Not from the girl the maids whispered about with dread. Not from the villainess spoken of in fearful half-sentences and stories wrapped in cruelty.

She's nothing like I imagined…

The realization unsettled her. She'd braced herself for venom, for arrogance, for the bitter bite of nobility's cruelty. But Elowen had been composed—sharp, yes, but not unkind. There was control in her words, restraint in her gestures.

And now she was speaking again, her voice soft as velvet.

"I've always found roses fascinating," Elowen said, idly reaching out to trace a finger along the edge of a deep crimson bloom. "They bloom brightest in places where nothing else survives. They thrive on pain, drink deep from decay. No wonder nobles love them—it's poetic in a way, don't you think?"

Lunaria hesitated, then offered a faint nod.

"Yes… I think so too."

Elowen glanced sideways at her, a slight smile curling her lips.

"That was the first full sentence you've said since we started walking."

Lunaria felt heat crawl up the back of her neck. She quickly looked away, mortified by how tightly her throat had knotted since Elowen's presence had enveloped her. It wasn't like her to stumble over words—there simply had never been anyone to stumble over them for before.

"I'm… not used to speaking much," Lunaria admitted quietly.

"Hmm," Elowen hummed, her eyes lingering on her. "Then I'll take that as a compliment. I suppose I'm special."

Lunaria's heart stuttered unexpectedly.

"I didn't mean—"

Elowen raised a hand, silencing her gently. "I was teasing."

But there was warmth in her tone. A softness Lunaria hadn't expected to hear. The more she spoke, the more her icy veneer melted—just a little. Enough for cracks to show. Enough for Lunaria to catch a glimpse of the lonely girl behind the sharp edges and reputation.

And it made something ache inside her.

They reached a fountain—dry, cracked from years of neglect, vines curling around its edges. Elowen stopped beside it, resting her hand lightly on its rim.

"It's strange, isn't it?" she said quietly. "We're betrothed now. Strangers, yet bound. I wonder… will that make us enemies, or allies?"

Lunaria hesitated, her throat tightening again.

"I don't… know."

She meant to say more, but the words stuck.

Elowen turned toward her, leaning slightly closer, eyes narrowing in faint amusement. "You're staring again."

"I'm not," Lunaria said quickly, then winced at her own tone.

Elowen raised a brow, clearly enjoying her flustered state.

"You are. But it's alright—I don't mind being looked at."

Lunaria couldn't respond. Her face was burning now, her thoughts a tangled mess of confusion, fascination, and a creeping awareness of just how quickly this girl had undone her composure.

Why was she so drawn to her?

Why did her voice linger in Lunaria's ears like a melody?

Why did her presence feel like a flame against her long-frozen skin?

Elowen tilted her head, watching her silently for a moment longer. Then she stepped closer again, invading Lunaria's space just enough to send her nerves into chaos.

"You're quieter than I imagined," she said. "But your eyes are loud."

Lunaria blinked. "What?"

"They speak for you. Loudly." Elowen's voice dropped lower. "There's a storm in them."

Lunaria swallowed thickly, her breath catching in her throat.

"No one's ever said that before."

"They wouldn't. Most people don't look closely enough." Elowen's tone softened. "But I do."

Those last three words echoed in Lunaria's mind long after they were spoken.

But I do.

She didn't know what to say, how to respond, how to breathe with the weight of Elowen's attention pressing into her so directly. For the first time in her life, someone had seen her—not as a burden, not as a stain, not as a blemish to be hidden—but as something worth looking at.

And that realization wrapped around her heart like a vine—thorned, aching, but warm.

They stood in silence for a few moments longer, the rustle of rose leaves their only witness.

Finally, Elowen turned away and began walking again, her voice drifting behind her.

"Come. We should return before your oh-so-loving family thinks you've run off."

Lunaria followed, still silent, still dazed.

But her footsteps were lighter than before.

And for the first time in her life…

She didn't feel quite so alone.