Air shifted the mont they arrived back in the castle. The stone beneath their feet was cold, but real. Steady. The world no longer slled of ash—only faint lavender.
Anneliese stood still in the corridor, her hands trembling at her sides.
Vincenzo watched her carefully, still holding her hand with quiet assurance. She had not cried—not once since the vision... but her silence echoed louder than any sob.
The hallway was empty. Quiet. They were still alone, on the forbidden floor where no one else dared to stay. But the weight of what they’d seen had not stayed behind in Bridgehallow. It had followed.
Taking her to the tea room, he finally let go of her hand.
"I will call for tea," he said quietly.
She did not answer.
Moving past her, he pulled the silver-looking chain.
She moved, as if sleepwalking, crossing the marble floor toward the far end of the sitting area. The room was spacious and solemn, draped in sea blue and silver tones. Ornate deep blue velvet curtains hung still at the tall windows, untouched by breeze. At the center, a low table sat between two high-backed chairs, but she walked past them without pause.
She reached the arched opening where the floor ended in a half-circle balcony. The sea-blue marble railing, laced with veins of deep blue and silver, as if it had been carved from the ocean floor and left to shimr in moonlight. At each corner stood polished stone pillars—tall, round, veined in faint blue like frozen rivers.
Candles in the chandelier above burned bright, casting a warm glow that trembled across the ceiling. On the other side, moonlight spilled across the floor in cold silver, streaking between the shadows.
She leaned her forehead against the pillar nearest the edge. Her eyes had drifted shut, her breathing slow, uneven.
He stepped closer—not to comfort her, but simply to stand beside her. "You are here," he said, his voice low, just enough for her to hear. "It is over."
Her eyes opened. But her voice ca hoarse. "No. It’s not."
"I don’t rember their faces," she whispered. "Even now. I saw the fire... the destruction... I saw myself. But I still don’t rember who they were to . Why did I destroy the village of healing? How did I end up in Haselburg?"
There was no self-pity in her voice. Only guilt. A hollow, aching confusion.
Vincenzo stared past the marble railing, toward the forest draped in night, before he finally spoke.
"mory does not return all at once. It cos in pieces. Fragnts. Like broken glass that cuts you before it shows you the full reflection."
She turned to look at him.
He t her eyes then—steadily, without hesitation.
"And what if I don’t want to see the whole thing?" she asked.
"Then we won’t," he said. His gaze did not waver. "Good or bad—the truth does not matter to . Only you do. And I will not let anything—not even your past—take you away from ."
Anneliese blinked, stunned by the truth in his voice. "Only you do." He’d said it like a vow. Steady. Certain. As if the truth—however dark, however damning—could never change the way he looked at her.
Sothing shifted in her chest—sothing fragile. Not just because of what he said, but because of the way he was looking at her now. It made her feel seen. Not as what she had done, or what she might be—but simply as herself. And it terrified her.
"I do not understand you," she said quietly. And she ant it. Just days ago, this man had nearly drowned her to death. Now his words held her like a promise. How was she supposed to trust a man who had nearly strangled her—and now looked at her like she was sothing precious he never wanted to lose.
Before he could reply, a soft knock ca at the door.
Vincenzo didn’t move from her side. He rely said, calm and clear, "Co."
The door opened soundlessly. A servant stepped in, head bowed, and moved quietly across the room. He set the silver tray on the low table between the high-backed chairs: A porcelain teapot, two cups, and a small dish of honey biscuits arranged neatly beside slices of pear.
Then, without looking up, he gently poured the tea into both cups. Bowing once more, the servant turned and exited, closing the door behind him.
Vincenzo turned to Anneliese. His voice gentled again. "Co."
Quietly, she followed him back toward the sitting area. He pulled out the chair for her, a small but deliberate gesture, before taking the one opposite.
The warmth of the hearth flickered nearby. Outside, the moonlight still spilled across the marble. But here, the glow of the chandelier made the room feel softer. Almost safe.
She accepted the tea he offered, her fingers brushing his. Pale, floral. The scent of lavender and sothing sweeter—rosehip, perhaps—rose with the steam. Her fingers curled around the porcelain cup, its warmth grounding her.
Lady Cassia stood by the arched window, behind the veil of sheer curtains in the west tower—high enough to glimpse the marble balcony, where chandelier light mingled with moonlight.
She could barely make them out from this distance—two silhouettes frad by silver and blue stone, seated across from each other. But she didn’t need details to understand what she was seeing.
Sothing had happened.
She lifted the delicate glass in her hand, filled with crimson liquid—blood. It glinted under the candlelight like garnet. Her lacquered nails tapped once against the glass. A soft, deliberate sound.
That’s the girl.
The one her stepson brought into the castle.
The one no one was allowed to question.
The one who now sat beside the Lord of Versimoil... as if she had always belonged.
She took a slow sip, the taste tallic and familiar, her gaze never leaving the balcony beyond the veil.
The pieces were moving.
And she had waited far too long to lose this ga.
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