The Death Beneath the Ashes

Morning spilled through the sheer curtains in rivulets of pale gold, casting long, trembling shafts of light across the cold stone floor. The sunlight reached inward like ghostly fingers, brushing the edge of the velvet tapestries and the mosaic tiles beneath them, but it brought no warmth. Not to the air. Not to the walls. Not to her.

And today, unlike the mornings before, no memories were waiting to stir.

No whispers curling behind her ears in Lily's voice.

No flicker of her past life brushed the back of her mind like the trailing hem of a forgotten dream.

Only stillness.

Empty. Heavy. Watching.

The knock came like a crack across glass—sharp, sudden, jarring. She startled, her breath catching in her throat before she could speak. The door creaked open on hinges that groaned like an old wound, and Emily stepped inside.

She moved with a quiet dignity, the kind forged not by pride but by endurance. Every step was measured, silent, careful—not the carefulness of grace, but of someone trained never to intrude. Her pale apron was crisp, pressed with perfect folds, and her eyes remained lowered, seeing everything while pretending to see nothing.

"Hi, Emily," the girl murmured.

She slipped from the warmth of the covers, her bare feet meeting the cold flagstones with a flinch. A breath hissed between her teeth, and she padded toward the washroom in silence. Behind her, Emily moved without comment, fetching the water with soft, ghostlike steps that barely disturbed the air.

The basin filled slowly. A thin stream of water met porcelain, gentle and rhythmic, as if even the sound feared to break the quiet.

She paused by the window. The glass was cool beneath her fingertips. Outside, the gardens were veiled in early morning mist, clinging low like forgotten smoke after a fire. The hedges were silhouettes, soft-edged and swaying. Maids drifted through the haze like shades, their movements slow and spectral.

She watched them for a long moment, her thoughts pulling backward to the day she first arrived. There had been eighteen maids, maybe more. They'd flooded her room like a battalion, armed with soaps and oils, scrubbing her skin raw with perfumed water, as if trying to scour away the life she'd lived before.

Now, there were only a few.

Only Emily stayed by her side.

Something had changed. No—shifted. Something beneath the surface, deeper than routine, deeper than budget cuts or reassignments. The rhythm of the house was unraveling, thread by thread, beneath the weight of something unseen.

Below, in the parlor, voices murmured. Male voices. Clipped, low, careful. The kind of voices used when dangerous truths were being traded in measured pieces.

She pressed her palm flat to the glass. Were they talking about Duskvale? Had Julian already given away Briswen Hollow, as the novel said he would?

And General D'Arcane—was he already lost?

Emily's voice broke gently into the silence as she poured warm water over her shoulders. "Will you be seeing your brother this morning, my lady?"

"I plan to." Her tone was distant, still fixed on the men below. "Do you know where he is?"

Emily's hands paused for only a breath. "He went to check on General D'Arcane. To see how he's healing."

Her brow furrowed. "That's all?"

A beat passed. Then another. Emily's fingers resumed their gentle work, slower now, more hesitant. "I… heard strange sounds from the room."

"What kind of sounds?"

The maid didn't answer. Her silence wrapped around them like a second skin—fragile, uneasy.

The girl sank deeper into the water, letting the warmth soak into her limbs, but her thoughts grew colder. If Lily's parents were framed, then someone had orchestrated it. Someone had laid the trap with precision.

But who?

A stranger? A spy?

No. No outsider could have breached the estate's defenses, not when the Duke was alive. The man had been terrifying in his vigilance. He could sense betrayal like others sensed a shift in the wind.

Which meant the traitor had never needed to cross the gates.

They'd been here the entire time.

"Emily," she asked suddenly, "how many servants remain in the household?"

"Seventeen maids. Three butlers." A pause. "And one knight."

She sat up. "A knight? Who?"

"I don't know his name, my lady. I've never seen him. They say he's imprisoned."

Her eyes narrowed. "Imprisoned? For what?"

"They say… he tried to assassinate the king."

The words struck her like frostbite—sharp, breath-stealing. "What?"

Emily's voice dropped, quiet as a thread unraveling. "It happened the same day your parents were arrested. He vanished during their transfer to Athera… and then reappeared. That's when he struck."

She stared at the rippling water in the basin, its surface suddenly seeming far too deep. The timing wasn't just suspicious—it was perfect.

Perhaps the knight had learned the truth. A truth so terrible, so damning, that he risked everything to silence the one behind it.

"Was he executed?"

Emily shook her head. "Your father… begged the king to spare him."

Her breath caught.

Lily's father begged. For a traitor?

Why?

"Is he still alive?"

"He is. But no one's allowed near. The king forbade any contact. Not even Julian has seen him."

Too convenient.

After dressing, she crossed the east wing, every step echoing faintly along the marble halls. The morning chill clung to her skin beneath the fabric of her gown. She paused at Julian's office, hesitating. Her knuckles hovered above the door.

"It's me, Julian," she called softly. "I need to talk to you."

Silence.

She tried again. Nothing.

Her hand closed around the handle, and she pushed it open. The room was dark. Abandoned. No candle burned, no ink scent lingered. Not even a warm teacup.

She turned to leave—then paused.

A book lay on his desk.

Its cover was bare. No title. No crest. No sign of ownership. She lifted it slowly, thumbing through the pages. Each one was blank. Clean. Expectant.

Something felt off. Too deliberate.

Her gaze swept the bookshelf. One corner had a seam—narrow, near invisible, like a scar disguised as decoration. She stepped closer, eyes narrowing.

A door.

Tucked behind the books, masked by paneling.

Her pulse quickened.

She took a candle from the sconce. A sword from the wall—not just for show, she realized. Heavier than it looked. Real.

The hidden corridor was narrow, suffocating. Dust hung in the air like powdered bone. She crawled forward, heart thudding with each step, until the space opened into a chamber.

At its center stood a door.

Marble. Towering. Ancient.

A floating stone pulsed at its heart, casting eerie shadows across the room. No keyhole. No latch. Just a carving—a snarling wolf's head, half buried in age and dust.

She reached out.

A shadow cut across the candlelight.

She turned.

Julian stood in the entrance, arms folded. His silhouette was iron, rigid, immovable.

"I thought we had a spy," he said. "But it's just you."

Her voice was calm, but strained. "I was looking for you. I found this instead."

He stepped past her. His gaze locked on the marble door.

For a moment—just one—his mask cracked.

"You know it," she whispered.

"No."

"You do. You looked like you saw a ghost."

He didn't answer.

"I know I'm not her," she continued. "Not your sister. Maybe I don't deserve to be. But—"

"You don't."

His words cut cleanly, mercilessly.

She recoiled, just slightly. The ache bloomed quietly in her chest, not loud but deep. He hadn't meant to wound her—she could see that in his eyes—but the damage was done all the same.

Maybe it wasn't even her pain.

Maybe it belonged to Lily.

She turned without a word, footsteps soft against the cold stone.

There was nothing left to say.