Chapter : 94 "The Shadow She Left Behind"

The hall had returned to stillness.

A stillness that cut, cold and final.

August stood at the center of it, pale as moonlight, but steel laced his spine. The slap he delivered still hummed through the air like a tuning fork. And Everin—once proud, now trembling—remained same, face flushed with shame, voice a cracked whisper begging for forgiveness.

But August had already turned away.

"Giles," he said, eyes never drifting back, "Escort him out."

Everin looked up sharply, blood rushing from his face.

"What…?"

Giles, dutiful and quiet, stepped forward. His gloved hands did not hesitate.

"Of course, my lord."

August walked.

He didn't stop. Not when Everin gasped. Not when he grabbed desperately at the edge of his coat. Not even when he whispered, "Please, don't do this…"

The only reply was the soft echo of Giles' voice:

"Lord Everin,

Everin staggered to his feet, trying to follow, but two of the guards gently intercepted, standing like twin shadows between him and August's fading figure.

"You can't just throw me out!" he cried.

You're—"

But the slam of the great door behind August cut him off.

And suddenly it wasn't his home anymore.

Giles gestured to the doors.

"This way, my lord."

Everin stared at the threshold.

Tears rimmed his eyes again—this time not for love lost, but for pride undone. Slowly, he stepped forward, one boot after another, as if dragged by a sentence he could not pardon.

Just before crossing the manor's high arch, he turned and looked back—one last time.

"I only wanted him to love me," he whispered.

But no one heard.

The great doors closed behind him like the seal on a tomb.

And the wind swallowed the rest.

Upstairs, the world had begun to shift.

Elias sat on the edge of the massive bed, fingers still pressed to his temple, like a man trying to push back a tide with his bare hands.

Nothing.

Nothing came.

Only the silence.

He rose again—pacing now, restless. Each polished stone of the manor floor felt like a heartbeat beneath his steps. He crossed to the window, gaze falling over the garden below. The roses bloomed like spilled ink, red and soft, the hedgerows curved like questions with no answers.

And still… nothing.

No memories. No moments. Just a hollow ache in the chest where something used to be.

He leaned his forehead to the glass.

"It's his home," he murmured. "Not mine."

August. His name burned like a candle behind Elias's eyes. He pictured him again—standing there in the hallway, framed by light, eyes silvered with grief and fury.

The way he slapped Everin.

The way he didn't flinch.

The way his gaze had found Elias across all that noise and settled—like an accusation… or a plea.

Elias turned away from the window with a low groan, dragging a hand through his hair.

He went to the bed again. Lay down stiffly, arms behind his head, staring up at the ceiling like it might spell out the truth in its cracks.

"Why him?" he whispered. "Why does it feel like everything started and ended with him?"

His throat felt tight. His chest ached—not from anger, not even from confusion.

But from loss.

A loss he didn't even remember having.

And as his eyes drifted closed, one last thought whispered through his mind like a blade brushing silk:

If I loved him… why did I ever let him go?

August reached his chamber with quick, measured steps—his coat flaring behind him like a shadow too proud to fall. He did not glance at the polished vases or the tapestries drawn in faded gold. Not even the breeze curling through the open window stirred him. His eyes were fixed ahead. Fixed inward.

But as his hand touched the doorknob, something stilled him.

His gaze lifted.

There—above the mantle—hung the portrait.

The one he always passed,

It showed a woman seated gracefully, her hair like soft golden wound in silk, cradling a pale child against her chest—his curls unmistakably white-blonde, eyes smoke-grey even in oil and brushstroke. A man stood behind them, severe of brow and posture, his hand resting on the woman's shoulder with rigid, quiet care. A man who looked like he'd never smiled, but who knew the shape of love nonetheless.

August's throat tightened.

And then—like fog thinning on a mirror—he remembered her.

Not her, but the other.

The woman from his dreams.

The woman who place her "child hand into his" to protect the boy. The one who was struck down before she could finish her plea. The one he'd thought—always thought—was his mother.

But now, the truth rose in his chest like a breath too long held.

That woman wasn't his mother.

It was her twin.

Maralise.

The one who wrote the letter. The one who begged for her sister to protect her children. The one who disappeared into ash and fire.

And suddenly, August's vision swayed. The letter. The dreams. The hidden nursery.

He whispered aloud, as though speaking would anchor him to the earth:

"She asked my mother to save her children…"

His heart slammed against his ribs.

The nursery.

The wardrobe.

He turned so fast the air seemed to crack. His boots struck the floor like urgent bells. Through the corridor, past long-forgotten doors, he reached the bedroom his parents had once shared.

The key turned with a soft click.

The door opened.

Dust drifted in the light like memory incarnate. He crossed the room with reverent steps. Nothing had been touched. Not the embroidered pillows. Not the silver combs. Not the books resting where hands had once placed them.

At the end of the room, behind the antique dressing screen, stood the wardrobe.

August opened it slowly.

And descended.

Each creaking stair was a descent into another life—a world preserved in shadow and silence. At the bottom, he paused.

It was all still there.

The canopy cradle draped in lace. The little rocking horse, its painted smile chipped with time. Rattles and toys and soft, folded blankets lined in blue and pearl. Tiny clothes still hung like ghosts—untouched, unloved, waiting.

August stepped forward as though afraid the floor would break beneath him.

And then he saw it.

The red and gold box.

It sat beneath the cradle, exactly How He left.

He knelt. Lifted it with trembling hands. Opened it.

Inside, beneath a veil of yellowed silk, were tokens. Beautiful, delicate, meaningful.

Everything inside is beautifully Royal A tiny glass horse. A charm etched with the letter A. And beneath them all, half-buried—

"And there he found"

An emblem.

Intricate. Heavy.

An eagle with wings outstretched, a sword clashing downward through its center, carved with unyielding precision.

August stared.

His breath hitched.

Something about it felt… wrong. Foreign. Like a visitor in a room meant for lullabies.

He closed the box with care, but as he rose to leave, his gaze caught on the small clothes once more. A pair of tiny boots. A lace bonnet. A velvet cloak the size of a doll's. His heart ached, sharp and silent.

Where are they now?

Those children.

Were they still alive?

Or had their thread been cut long ago, lost to fire and silence?

He didn't know.

He needed to.

But not yet—not out loud.

This was a truth he had to unravel alone.

With slow, steady steps, he climbed the staircase once more. At the top, he closed the wardrobe. Locked the bedroom door behind him.

And walked, quieter now, to the study.

The door opened with a soft groan. His chair awaited him like an old friend weary of watching. He sat down, back stiff, head heavy.

A cough wracked his chest.

Twice.

Then again.

His hand trembled slightly, and he pressed it to his ribs. The ache was back. Deeper. Quieter. Like something knocking.

He cleared his throat. "Giles."

The old butler appeared at the door with ghostly speed.

"Yes, my lord?"

August reached into the folds of his long tailored coat and pulled free the emblem.

He placed it on the desk like a challenge.

"Do you recognize this?"

Giles's eyes dropped. His posture stiffened.

Silence stretched.

Then—barely audible—he whispered, "…Yes, my lord."

August's gaze narrowed. "Where have you seen it before?"

Giles looked up slowly. His voice, when it came, was laced with something old and heavy.

"It belongs to the Kingdom of Althérian Dominion."

"And who leads it?" August asked.

Giles hesitated, then bowed his head, almost shamefully.

"A man named Morvane Eldrith."

The name struck like frost on bone.

August had never heard it before—but the sound of it felt wrong, unnatural. Like a name meant to be buried.

"There is valuable Gifts That Are From Althérian Dominion." he asked, mostly to himself.

Giles did not answer.

August looked up—but Giles was already bowing, already retreating with guilt writ in his every line. He hadn't meant to speak. He hadn't meant for August to know.

The door clicked shut.

And August was alone again.

With the emblem.

With the ache.

With questions that had no beginning… and no end.

He sat in silence for a long time, staring at the emblem resting beneath the golden lamplight.

The eagle. The sword.

The truth.

It was waiting for him.

Buried in the past like bones beneath snow.

And as long as he lived…

He would find it.

The fire had long gone out.

Only the faintest ember glowed in the hearth, pulsing like the last heartbeat of a dying star.

August sat beneath its dim warmth, still at his desk, the lamplight flickering softly over parchment, letters, and opened books scattered like the remnants of some fevered mind. Ink stains bloomed across the edge of his cuff. Pages lay crumpled near his elbow—discarded diagrams, broken theories, names circled and underlined a dozen times.

He had not moved in hours.

And yet, his mind would not still.

Althérian Dominion.

Morvane Eldrith.

The emblem.

The twin.

Each word spun like iron cogs in his skull, grinding against old memories, reshaping old truths. He saw her again—not his mother, but the other. The woman from his dreams. The voice that pleaded with quiet urgency.

She looked exactly like his Mother.

But it wasn't her.

Maralise.

He whispered the name without meaning to, as if the air demanded it.

"Maralise…"

And the room somehow heard it. The walls listened. The shadows leaned in.

She had written to his mother. She had begged her to protect the children. And somehow, impossibly, his mother had obeyed.

But where were they now?

What happened to them?

"And what of the emblem"

He clenched his jaw, fingers tightening on the edge of the desk. There were no answers—only ghosts. And yet, he worked.

Relentlessly.

Even as the candle gutters threatened to drown in wax. Even as the chill crept into his spine, curling like ivy.

He turned another page.

Tried to read.

But the cough came again.

Sharp. Violent. Like his lungs were made of glass, splintering from the inside.

He covered his mouth with his hand, shoulders trembling with the force of it. For a moment, he couldn't breathe.

And then—

He reached, blindly, for the glass.

It stood where it always did—placed carefully on the desk's edge. Unchanged. Unnoticed. Until now.

He poured the water with shaking hands, the sound of it a silver hush in the silence.

And sipped.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

The cool liquid slid down his throat like a promise he couldn't keep. It did little to soothe him—but it gave him pause. A moment to inhale. A breath to steal back from the chaos.

He leaned back in his chair, letting his eyes close just for a second.

Just one.

The room around him blurred, warm and amber-toned—draped in parchment and candlelight. The emblem still sat at the corner of the desk, untouched, watching him like an eye that never blinked.

He thought again of the children.

The cradle. The tiny dresses.

Were they out there, unknowing, unnamed?

Or had time already buried them beneath stone?

Maralise's face hovered behind his eyes half-hers, half-Mother's. A woman who looked like home and heartbreak all at once. A shadow drawn in the same lines.

August pressed a hand to his temple.

Everything hurt.

Everything.

And still he worked. Because stopping meant sinking.

And he could not afford to drown.

Not now.

Not when the truth had begun to stir.