A guttural scrape echoed from beyond the heavy oak door, startling Elara. She had assumed Lord Valerius slept, lost in the deep, unnatural slumber that often claimed him after particularly potent magical surges or confrontations. Yet, a low groan followed, thick with something ancient and pained. Elara stumbled back from the door, a sharp gasp catching in her throat. She pressed a hand to her mouth, stifling any sound. Beneath the door, a long, wavering shadow stretched into her study, the distinct outline of a man’s feet. Valerius was awake. He watched her. Perhaps he saw her shadow retreat, felt the tremor in the floorboards. A memory of the last time, a creaking door, a fleeting glimpse… Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird desperate for flight. “Closer, Elara.” His voice, a low rumble, seemed to vibrate through the very stone of the walls. “My senses… they fray without you near.” “What… what are you saying?” Her own voice felt thin, alien. “Did you not know, Vance? You carry the scent of damp earth, of crushed nightshade and rare fern. A peculiar, grounding balm.” Thud! The heavy oak shuddered, making the very air tremble. Elara recoiled, stumbling into her research table. A lone lantern flickered wildly, casting grotesque, dancing shadows across the cramped room. Her palms grew slick with sweat, a cold dread creeping up her spine. “I am a vessel, emptied,” Lord Valerius continued, his voice softer, yet no less chilling. He leaned against the door, his forehead perhaps pressing against the cold wood. “A parchment unwritten. What am I, Elara, if not the echo you perceive?” A hideous scratching sound began, stone on stone. It was his fingernails, she realized, scraping the solid oak. The study, usually her sanctuary, suddenly felt like a trap. Valerius always sought to terrify, to deceive, to test the bounds of her composure. Fear, cold and sharp, pierced through her practiced resolve. “Tell me I still breathe,” he pleaded, his voice laced with a raw desperation, “not merely dream this decay.” Thud! Another impact, vibrating through the floor. “Tell me this madness isn’t all I’ve ever known.” “Speak of my past. Any fragment. Convince me I once stood whole, not merely fragmented dust.” Thud! His breathing was ragged, a tearing sound, as if the air itself struggled in his lungs. For a terrible moment, Elara thought he might shatter the ancient door. He wouldn’t, though. He merely scraped and hit again, a relentless torment. Cold sweat trickled down her spine. Kind, gentle, polite… She had whispered those lies to him once, a desperate gamble to save herself. A thin veneer of civility that had, impossibly, worked. Now, the proof of his true nature was a tangible force behind the door. He was far from any of those things. Her lie had bought her time, nothing more. “Lord Valerius,” she managed, her voice steadier this time. The metallic doorknob rattled again, a small, violent shiver. She clasped her hands, forcing a deep breath. “I’m… I’m preparing a herbal bath,” Elara improvised, hoping the concocted urgency would ring true. “My eyes are stinging from the fumes of the tinctures. This isn’t an opportune moment for discourse.” Complete silence descended, sudden and absolute. Unlike the wild, violent rattling from moments before, all sound ceased. His volatile mood had changed in the blink of an eye. “As you wish, Elara.” His words, precisely what she had hoped to hear, still left her unconvinced. Unease prickled her skin. Elara rubbed her cold hands together, every nerve on edge. “Ensure the ward-locks are engaged, Vance.” His instruction was the precise opposite of his earlier frenzy. Elara scratched her forearm reflexively, a nervous habit. A faint creak. Finally. Lord Valerius was leaving. As she watched his shadow retreat from beneath the door, Elara forced her stiff shoulders to relax, to let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “One more thing, Elara.” His voice, though receding, still felt unnervingly close. “Do not venture to the lower crypts. Not yet.” “Why?” The word escaped her before she could stop it. “I intend to shed a certain… affliction tonight. A rather messy process.” A dry, grating chuckle followed, devoid of mirth. “Until we meet again, Vance.” He spoke as if he knew he wouldn’t see her for a while. Elara shivered, a bone-deep chill. Sleep would not come easy tonight. Indeed, Lord Valerius would not stir for over a week after that night, sinking into a torpor even deeper than his usual slumber. — Elara woke, tangled in rough linen, her skin slick with a cold sweat. Fragments of a terrible dream clung to her mind: towering stone walls, the frantic scribbling of a quill across endless parchment. Her eyes, unfocused and gritty from lack of sleep, gradually cleared. As consciousness solidified, the specific weight of the day settled upon her. Ah, it’s ‘that’ day. All her energy, even before the day had properly begun, seemed to seep from her body. “Elara?” Seraphina’s voice, soft with concern, came from the doorway. “Still abed? The sun crests the eastern towers.” Elara pushed herself up, her head swimming. A wave of dizziness washed over her. Seraphina moved quickly to her side, her nimble fingers pressing against Elara’s forehead. A worried frown creased the maid’s brow. “Fevered, my lady. The sleepless nights take their toll.” “There’s work,” Elara said, pulling away from Seraphina’s touch. She stood, clenching her hands to try and restore feeling to her tingling fingertips. “Always work for you.” Seraphina sighed, her hands settling on her hips in a familiar posture of gentle exasperation. “Rest today. The wards hold steady. There’s little enough to be done that cannot wait.” “That is precisely when the truest work begins,” Elara countered, already veering towards the washbasin in the corner of the room. “I told you not to! Why are you so stubborn?” Seraphina’s voice grew sterner. “Take the day off! You should just tend to your herbarium or your scrolls today, not meddle with the Lord’s affairs.” Elara paused at her reflection in the polished surface of the mirror above the basin. She turned the faucet, letting cold water stream into the bowl. The woman staring back was gaunt, with eyes too large for her face, dark smudges beneath them. A faint, almost forgotten girl flickered beneath the surface. *I was born wrong.* The child in her dream, her tiny hands aching, had written it again and again. *I was born wrong. I was born wrong.* Countless sheets of parchment, stacked higher than her young head. Her reflection letter, a penance she had to fulfill whenever a moment of leisure presented itself, until she left her ancestral home at seventeen. “But Lady Elara,” Seraphina said, breaking the silence, her tone thoughtful. “There is something I forgot to ask.” Elara rinsed her face, the cold water a momentary shock against her skin. “Indeed?” “Lord Valerius, while he slumbers… in such a peculiar state… how does his body… shed its humors? Does the ancient sleep suspend all need?” Elara closed her eyes, a sigh escaping her lips. Some questions, even Seraphina’s practical mind couldn’t untangle without a deep dive into forgotten lore and forbidden texts. And those were precisely the things Elara was meant to keep hidden. ---

Chapter 17: Whispers of the Afflicted