The quiet before
The sun was up by the time she reached the woods.
Light filtered through the branches in patches — broken, uneven. The deeper she went, the quieter it got.
She didn't hesitate.
No road. Just memory. She moved like she'd been here before.
Past the hollow tree. Past the bent roots. Past that dip in the ground that no map showed.
Then — there it was.
Not grand. Not broken. Just there. Waiting.
A manor, half-swallowed by the trees. Grey stone. Slanted roof. Shutters askew. No sound. No smoke.
But not abandoned.
It felt like it had eyes.
She climbed the steps. Took the handle. Opened the door.
No creak. No chill.
Just a voice, quiet and steady:
"Welcome back."
Not warm. Not cold.
Just… waiting.
She stepped inside.
The door closed behind her.
...
The Grand Cathedral gleamed like a polished lie.
Stained glass scattered color across the floor — too red, too gold, too bright to mean anything. Every step echoed, too careful to be real.
Servants moved like ghosts.
Lilies were lined up in perfect rows. The scent was everywhere — thick, sweet, suffocating.
Candles. Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds. And the portrait. Smiling. Pretty. Fake.
No one cried.
But the stage was ready.
...
They were standing outside his room.
No one said his name. No one had to.
The Duke hadn't left since yesterday.
The silence behind that door was heavy — too heavy for anyone to knock.
"He has to be told," someone whispered.
"Then you tell him."
The steward scoffed. "I outrank you."
"And I value my life."
A maid glanced at the clock. "It's almost time for the procession."
"Then go," someone hissed. "Knock."
Silence.
"I heard he didn't sleep."
"I heard he broke something."
"I heard he—"
"No, he didn't."
"Did you check?"
"Did you?"
The steward ran a hand down his face. "This is ridiculous. We're grown adults."
"Exactly," someone muttered. "Old enough to know better."
The maid sighed. "We draw straws, or we die standing here."
The steward looked at the door.
"…Fine. Straws."
They scrambled.
One pulled out a ribbon. Another tore a strip of cloth.
The maid cut them uneven with her teeth.
"Shortest goes."
"Turn around. No peeking."
They drew.
Silence.
Then—
"…Shit."
The youngest maid looked down at the pitiful length between her fingers.
No one offered to trade.
She didn't ask.
---
She knocked. Once.
No answer.
She knocked again.
Still nothing.
Then—steps.
Heavy. Slow. Getting closer.
The door opened just enough to show his face. Or what was left of it.
Eyes rimmed red. Hair a mess.
Not anger. Not quite. But he looked like a man still mid-collapse.
"…What."
The maid didn't stammer. She'd used it all up shaking outside the door.
"It's today, Your Grace."
He said nothing.
"The procession is in less than an hour. You… need to get ready."
Another pause.
She thought he might slam the door.
Instead, he sighed.
"Tell them I'll be down soon."
And the door closed.
She ran.
Down the hall, down the stairs, heart thudding harder with every step.
The others looked up when she burst into the servants' corridor.
"Well?"
"He's coming."
Relief. Brief. Shaky.
Behind them, the clock ticked louder than it should've.
...
Inside the room, the Duke hadn't moved.
He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on knees, face in his hands.
The silence pressed in like fog. Not peaceful. Suffocating.
Eventually, he stood.
Pulled on his gloves. Fastened his cloak.
The black one — the formal one.
His reflection in the mirror didn't flinch.
Neither did he.
...
The bells began to ring.
Low. Slow. Heavy.
The dead were being honored.
And the living had no choice but to play along.