Missing bruises

Aurelia awoke not from a restful slumber, but from a delicate touch—a fleeting brush of fingers against her wrist, gentle as the flutter of moth wings. She slowly opened her eyes, their heaviness laden with the remnants of sleep and dread.

The morning light struggled to break through the drapes, casting the room in a soft gloom, and she lay still, her breathing shallow and measured as if each exhale might shatter the fragile barrier between her and the shadow of the night that had just passed.

Beside her bed knelt a girl, one of the maids she had often glimpsed in passing. The maid's soft, doe-like eyes held a kind of careful purpose, her presence hauntingly ethereal, as though she were a ghost trained to navigate the air without disturbing it.

"I'm sorry to wake you, ma'am," she whispered, her hands neatly folded in her lap. "But today is the day. The Master says you are to be prepared... for the palace."

The word "palace" pierced the air. Precise. Final.

It felt surreal, yet unsettlingly tangible, settling in Aurelia's stomach like a stone swallowed whole. She slowly sat up, her shoulder protesting with a low ache. Her arm trembled, caught in eager anticipation—

But nothing came.

She glanced down at her wrist—smooth, pale, untouched.

In disbelief, she turned it over, pressing her fingers against the very spots where pain had once bloomed like rotting flowers just hours before. The blood, the swelling, the savage imprint of his grip were all gone. No trace remained—only cream-toned skin, as if her body had been rewritten by some unseen hand.

This couldn't be a dream.

Confusion swirled in her mind, an insistent whisper that demanded to be acknowledged. The pain had felt real. Her bones remembered. The ache lingered beneath the skin, hidden in a sanctuary no hand could reach.

"Is something wrong, ma'am?" the maid asked, voice laced with careful concern.

Aurelia couldn't find her voice. She rose, breath caught in her throat. The bruises had vanished, but something deeper remained—a hollow stillness where pain had once lived.

---

They led her through unfamiliar corridors. The obsidian floors gleamed like polished glass. Portraits lined the walls, their painted eyes hollow and knowing.

They brought her to a bathing room carved in stone and steam. Firelight flickered on sconces, casting shadows that swayed like dancers. The scent of lavender, rose, and smoke curled through the air.

A marble basin awaited—petals drifting on warm water tinged faintly pink.

Without a word, the maids began.

One undid her nightgown. Another caught the fabric mid-fall. A third unpinned her hair, letting it cascade like dark ink.

Aurelia stepped into the bath. The warmth welcomed her.

Hands followed. Quiet. Measured.

They washed her with practised care. Lathered cloth stroked her shoulders, her spine, her calves. Fingers threaded oil through her hair. Another maid, kneeling, scrubbed her feet with devotion.

No words were exchanged between them.

But their gazes lingered, heavy with unspoken understanding.

On her wrists, delicate and fragile. On her arms, like the petals of a bruised flower. On her throat, where shadows of hurt whispered their silent stories.

They had seen it all.

Yet now, there was nothing left to reveal.

He had meticulously obliterated it.

Not merely the bruises.

But the very essence of their shared history.

---

They dried her with tender care, as if she were precious porcelain. The towels were warmed by a crackling fire, their softness inviting. Fingertips brushed her skin with the gentleness of a summer breeze. Cradled from the water's embrace, she was swathed in warmth.

Then came the undergarments—delicate lace and luxurious silk, cool against her skin like a gentle caress.

And then—the gown.

A breathtaking vision in deep wine-red, nearly black under the dim light. Silver constellations sparkled across the bodice, each stitch a promise, a memory. Sheer sleeves clung to her arms, whispering like mist in the stillness. The skirt billowed around her, flowing like liquid night, pooling at her feet, a dark halo of elegance.

It fit her exquisitely.

There was no need for words.

He had chosen it—every exquisite detail, every nuance.

The corset was cinched. Clasps clicked like locks. Her hair was twisted and adorned with pins of dark filigree. Gloves were slid over her arms. Her throat was sprayed with scent—crushed petals and forgotten time.

"You look like a queen," one whispered.

But Aurelia didn't feel like a queen.

She felt like a question dressed in silk.

---

Outside, the hall was bright, hushed. Sunlight streamed across marble. Her slippers made no sound.

She walked.

Each step deliberate.

The grand staircase awaited—curved, gilded.

And at its base—

Tenebrarum.

Still. Waiting. A sculpture in shadow.

His mask, pale and faceless, bore no mouth, no eyes. Yet his presence saw everything.

She descended.

Her dress whispered against the stairs. Her hand brushed down the rail slowly.

Halfway down, she saw it.

His tightened jaw, like he didn't like the dress.

He had chosen the dress, she was sure of that.

To him, it gave her too much spine, an authority he didn't like.

Too much silhouette or should I say defiance.

Aurelia's fingers tightened around the cold, polished bannister, the grainy wood biting into her palm as she steadied herself.

She didn't waver.

With determination, she ascended the final step.

And paused.

The air thickened with an electric tension that crackled between them.

She raised her chin defiantly.

Her gaze met the mask that obscured his features.

Though she could not see the depths of his eyes, she could feel their piercing intensity.

They traced over her like sharpened blades held perilously close.

This time, she did not flinch or look away.

He remained silent, the stillness between them pregnant with unspoken words.

But in that silent void, something shifted.

A flicker of acknowledgement.

Neither approval nor disapproval, but an enigmatic spark of something deeper.

He had dressed her like a fragile doll, adorned in exquisite layers.

Yet she had descended with the regal stride of a queen, resolute and unyielding.

He advanced toward her, each step reverberating like rolling thunder in the stillness of the room.

She stood her ground, her posture unwavering and fierce like a statue against the tide.

Not you again…

The tremor in her voice was barely a whisper, a haunting echo of vulnerability that hung in the air, fragile and almost lost.

---

To be continued...