The History

Acacia no longer startled at the knock on the door each morning. Routine was becoming a quiet balm, the scent of mulled milk, the hush of snow pressing against the glass, the rhythm of footsteps in the corridor beyond.

She now dressed with help, pale wool gowns with fur-lined sleeves, slippers lined with fox velvet, her dark hair combed and woven back with ribbon and pins. She didn't remember ever liking ribbons. And yet... they didn't feel foreign.

Dominic visited each evening like clockwork, always precise, always polite, checking her condition without lingering. His words were measured, rarely straying beyond what was necessary. But she noticed how his eyes scanned the corners of the room as if checking for something that might harm her. Or perhaps, something that might awaken.

Astor, on the other hand, dropped in like the wind, sudden, breezy, and uninvited. He once brought her a caged star moth from the hothouse. Another time, a carved wooden puzzle box that refused to open unless you whispered the right question.

He was unpredictable, but never unkind.

Still, there were moments, in the gaps between meals and snow and silence, when she caught her reflection and felt the chasm of what was missing.

In one dream, she stood in a ballroom of gold, surrounded by faceless dancers, her feet moving in a pattern she somehow knew, until the floor cracked open beneath her and the music turned to screams.

In another, she heard a voice, cold and brittle as glass, whisper her name.

Only… it wasn't Acacia.

The days grew longer. Snow softened into frost. Still, the answers eluded her.

It was on one of those aimless afternoons that she found herself wandering the Ashcroft library alone. The library was quiet and still. Tall shelves rose high around her, filled with books that smelled of dust and age.

She wasn't sure what she was looking for. Only that her fingers moved along the spines of old volumes until one caught her attention.

"Chronicles of the Twin Empires: A History of Dominion and Decline."

She pulled it free. The leather was aged, the title embossed in faded gold. Settling into a nearby chair, she opened it.

"Before the rise of empires, this land was splintered into many sovereign nations, each proud, each divided.

From the North came the House of Grey. Their rise was swift but deliberate, born of magic, battle, and quiet ruthlessness. The small northern realms fell, one by one, and from their ashes rose the Empire of Valeriath.

In the South, the Windsor line gathered lands not with fire, but with structure. Through order and alliance, they forged the Solerith Empire governed by five noble houses, each bearing a pillar of power: justice, trade, war, wisdom, and shadow.

Of the old lands, only Azhera remains untouched, its history sealed in blood and secrecy…"

She read the passage twice, then again.

Her eyes lingered on one word.

Valeriath.

The name rang in her head like the toll of a distant bell.

It made her throat tighten.

"Why does that sound like… home?"

She closed the book, pressing her palm to the cover as if it could tell her more. But the library only offered silence.

Outside, snow began to fall again.

Inside, Acacia sat still, the name Valeriath echoing quietly in the hollows of her mind.

That night, sleep came in fragments.

She stood once more in the golden ballroom, its ceiling high and domed like a cathedral, the chandeliers dripping with crystal. Music swelled around her, strings and wind and a sorrowful note that tugged at something buried deep.

The faceless dancers circled again, but slower this time.

And across the hall, someone watched her.

A boy, no, a young man, clad in midnight blue, with silver embroidery at his collar and sorrow written in his eyes. His features were still unclear, shifting at the edges like water. But there was something in the way he looked at her, not with surprise, but recognition.

He opened his mouth to speak.

But before any sound could reach her, the floor cracked again.

She began to fall.

Only this time, the voice that called her wasn't brittle or cold.

It was warm. Familiar.

It whispered, "Crys…"

Acacia jolted awake, her breath catching. The fire had burned low, and the book lay beside her, still open to the page where the name Valeriath glowed in the dying light.