"Even silence leaves traces."
The morning broke without permission.
Sunlight spilled through the windows like an uninvited guest, brushing over velvet drapes and dusting the floor with gold. I sat still, unblinking, as if stillness might undo the day before it began.
But it had already begun.
The violet hairpin rested on the edge of the desk — innocent, gleaming, cruel.
Last night's calm had only been skin-deep. Beneath it, the storm was patient. Watching. Breathing with me.
A knock.
Not loud. Not soft. Just… certain.
"Mara?" I asked.
"No, my lady. It's me — Thomlin. The steward said the seamstress is waiting in the antechamber."
Thomlin had served our house since before I was born. His silence was a polished weapon, sharper than any blade. He was the butler.
Of course.
The engagement procession.
"Tell her I'll be there shortly."
A pause. "Yes, my lady."
Footsteps receded.
I didn't move. I stared at the hairpin.
It hadn't changed. Same violet shimmer. Same silver clasp. Same impossible question:
Who else remembered?
Because Lucian didn't.
His words, his gaze, his silence — they were the same as before. A man sculpted by war and title. A blade polished into a posture.
But someone… someone had twisted the script.
The hairpin proved it.
I rose, and the chill in the room slid down my spine like a warning.
Let them dress me. Let them pin flowers in my hair and call it fate.
Today, I would walk in the gardens with my murderer — and smile.
Downstairs, the house had already awakened.
Chatter filtered through the halls, busy and bright like paint over cracks. Silver trays clinked. Gowns rustled. The air smelled faintly of metal and anticipation.
Mara waited by the door, already dressed in slate blue.
"You're pale," she said, voice low.
"I've always been pale."
Her gaze lingered on the violet pin nestled in my hair. "You're wearing that?"
Liora's hand brushed it lightly, as if confirming it was still there. "Yes."
Mara hesitated. "It's… striking."
She said nothing more, but I saw it — the tension in her fingers, the breath she didn't take.
The corridor to the antechamber was all sunlight and silence. Too golden for a girl walking to the gallows.
But that's what this was, wasn't it?
A gilded noose.
The seamstress curtsied as I entered. Her assistants fluttered like nervous doves. My gown lay waiting — ivory and moonlight, soft shimmer and cruel stitching.
"Shall we begin, Lady Viremond?"
Lady.
Even now, the word felt like an echo that hadn't reached me yet.
"Yes."
Let them pull, tighten, adjust.
Let them sculpt me into something palatable.
The silk settled over my skin like a memory. Familiar. Beautiful. Heavy.
"It fits perfectly," one murmured.
Of course it did.
This was the same gown. The one I wore in the past when I stood in that cathedral beside Lucian Noctare and spoke the words that sealed my death.
But this time, I knew the ending.
And I wouldn't walk blindly into it.
The corridor smelled faintly of sandalwood. Light poured in through stained glass, scattering red and gold across the floor.
Liora walked with quiet poise. The hem of my gown whispered against the stone.
Mara followed behind, clutching a velvet pouch.
Down the staircase, servants parted like the sea. Nods. Averted eyes. Feigned indifference.
Let them wonder.
Lucian stood waiting in the west chamber — the one reserved for formal matters. He faced the windows, shadow splitting his expression.
I didn't pause.
"My lord."
"You look well."
"I slept well."
We walked the garden path, my hand resting lightly on his arm. A pose for peace.
"That hairpin… it suits you."
I offered him a soft smile. "Thank you, Your Grace. It was a thoughtful gift."
There it was—the barest flicker in his expression. A flinch, so slight that anyone else might've missed it. But I didn't.
He noticed that I kept my guard up,
disobeying him.
I tilted my head slightly, eyes cool beneath my gentle smile.
Strange.Lucian Vortan never once complimented me in their past life. Not my gowns, not my hair, not even when I wore sapphires to match the crest of his House. He barely looked at me—never mind noticed details like this.
And now? A single hairpin earns his attention. Curious.
My fingers brushed the violet hairpin nestled above my ear as we continued walking.
Was this meant to confuse me? Or was he playing some new game I didn't yet understand?
"I heard you returned from Armath," I said.
"I did."
No explanation. No apology.
"And how fares the capital?"
"Restless," he replied. "But there are whispers — Noctare may be preparing movements near the border."
A breeze stirred my veil.
"How fortunate, then, that our union is a symbol of peace."
His jaw tightened.
The North wanted obedience. The South wanted security. And I was handed over like a treaty parchment, sealed with silk.
By the fountain, beneath the plum tree, I let go of his arm.
"You've changed," I said. "You used to say more."
"I find silence more useful."
I turned. "And yet, you gave me a violet hairpin."
A flicker — almost imperceptible.
"I thought it might suit you."
I smiled. Sweet. Enigmatic.
"How strange. I owned one once. Nearly identical."
No reply.
Cool wind swept the path.
"I'll see you at supper, my lord."
I didn't wait for his answer.
Back in my chambers, I sat at my writing desk. The hairpin gleamed beside my elbow like a loaded weapon.
I hadn't told Mara what I found — not yet.
In that other life — after the bruises, after the silence, after hope had rotted — I bought the pin in Noctare's inner markets.
And now... he had given it to me.
Lucian shouldn't know it existed.
Unless he remembered.
Or someone else did.
My eyes drifted to the writing desk.
There — a stack of pale parchment. A slip of paper resting on top, two words etched in a hand not of mine:
Write back.
I froze.
The note hadn't been there when I left.
My hand moved before my fear could stop it. I pulled the parchment forward and uncapped the ink. The quill felt too light.
"How do I send a letter," I whispered, "when I don't even know who I'm writing to?"
But something in me— reckless or brave — pushed forward.
"To the one who wrote beneath the hairpin:
I don't know who you are. I don't know what you remember.
But I want to know why you sent that message. Why now. And how.
If you're watching me, you must already know how much I've lost."
I didn't sign it. Didn't need to.
For a moment, nothing.
Then, the ink began to fade.
Not smudge. Soak.
It dissolved into the page as if the parchment drank my voice.
I leaned back, stunned.
Then—
New words emerged, not my own:
"Curious, aren't you?
Good. Curiosity is the first sign of survival.
This parchment doesn't care for addresses. It listens. You wrote to me. That's enough."
I touched the page. The ink didn't lift. The message was embedded as if the page itself had changed.
A breath escaped my lips.
"Magic," I whispered.
That wasn't supposed to exist.
Because in my past life, it hadn't.
I stared at the message, my heartbeat a quickened rhythm beneath my skin. The silence thickened, dense with questions. The air itself felt sharper.
I reached again for the quill, hesitating only a second this time.
Beneath the elegant script, I scrawled:
"Who are you… and what is this?"
The ink shimmered briefly—
Then dissolved, like dew on a flame.
And slowly, with a deliberate pulse, new words began to form:
"A friend.
For now.
And this… is magic.
The kind they buried. The kind they killed for.
The kind you were never meant to touch again."
The parchment stilled.
And so did I.
TO BE CONTINUED