Chapter 9 – The Hollow Lilies

  At the Caelistra-Veyrath manor, a few days after Lilienne’s quiet departure, it was only a matter of time before her absence was noticed.

  Isalyn had always kept her daughter close through small gestures, never forcing her to dine with the family, understanding her silence, and trusting Seryll to care for her. Seryll would bring Lilienne’s meals, tend to her quietly, and report back with calm reassurances: “She just needs space… She’s eating… She’s resting…” And Isalyn believed her.

  She knew Lilienne didn’t trust her the way she once did, and though it quietly broke her heart, she found comfort in knowing Seryll had taken that pce. At least Lilienne wasn’t alone. At least someone was there.

  But one evening, something shifted.

  Isalyn went to check on her daughter herself. She knocked. Once, twice, a third time. No answer.

  Seryll came at once, her voice unusually firm. “She’s resting, Your Grace. Best not disturb her.”

  But Isalyn had begun to grow suspicious. Seryll had been offering the same excuse for days, always standing at the door like a guard.

  Worry settled into her chest like a stone. Her daughter had only just recovered from a near overdose. She could no longer ignore the unease.

  When she pressed further, Seryll finally broke. Her voice trembled.

  “She’s gone to the capital, Your Grace. She… she didn’t tell anyone because she knew you wouldn’t let her. She wanted to leave the manor… the whispers… the eyes that only saw her father’s ghost.”

  Isalyn’s heart sank.

  Lilienne no longer wanted to hide.

  Grand Duke Thaddeus, who had been locked away in his chambers for days, finally emerged. He had never cared for Lilienne. Her presence was invisible to him. He didn’t visit her, didn’t speak to her, never asked if she had eaten. When Isalyn and his daughters were around, he treated Lilienne like a ghost, as if she didn’t exist.

  But behind closed doors, his cruelty showed.

  When no one else was watching, he cursed at her, struck her, found any excuse to punish her. He hated the sight of her. That face, so much like General Sirius, was a constant reminder of the man now gone. And to Thaddeus, Lilienne was nothing more than a living shadow of the ghost he could never forget.

  He knew how much that man had meant to Isalyn, and he hated it. Every part of him burned with loathing. Even with General Sirius gone, his presence still lingered like a ghost in their lives.

  What Thaddeus hated most was that Isalyn still cared for Lilienne more than anything. Because to her, Lilienne wasn’t just a daughter, she was the st piece of the man she had truly loved.

  The only thing Sirius had left behind.

  Grand Duke Thaddeus sat at the head of the long dining table, a pce carved for authority and dominance, his goblet resting beside an untouched pte. The clink of silverware and low hum of conversation between Cassian and Seraphyne filled the space, until silence slowly crept in.

  As if some cold instinct had stirred in him, his sharp eyes shifted toward Isalyn. She was fidgeting, unusual for her. Her fingers twisted at the napkin in her p, and she hadn’t touched her wine. Seryll, usually composed, appeared distracted, her gaze flickering nervously toward the hallway every now and then.

  Thaddeus narrowed his eyes.

  Then, with a voice that cut through the stillness like the edge of a bde, he asked,

  “Where’s Lilienne?”

  The question hung in the air, heavy and deliberate.

  Isalyn stiffened, her fork pausing just short of her lips. Seryll’s hand trembled slightly as she poured water into Seraphyne’s gss.

  No one answered at first.

  Thaddeus’s gaze didn’t waver.

  “She’s not at the table,” he said slowly, his tone deceptively calm. “Again.”

  His voice darkened, faintly.

  “She’s not ill, is she?”

  Thaddeus’s voice was calm, but the kind of calm that felt like a warning. His gaze sharpened on Isalyn, watching every twitch of her hand, every breath she didn’t take.

  Isalyn pced her fork down, slowly.

  “She… she’s been resting,” she began, carefully. “Still recovering her strength.”

  Cassian looked up from her pte, and even Seraphyne’s usual disinterest wavered as her eyes flicked between her mother and the Grand Duke.

  Thaddeus raised a brow. “Resting? For five days straight?”

  He turned his head toward Seryll. “Is that true?”

  Seryll’s lips parted, her throat tightening. “She.. she asked for space. I’ve been delivering her meals, keeping her comfortable.”

  He stared at her, dead-eyed.

  “I see,” he muttered, low. “And yet, neither of you have seen her face.”

  Isalyn’s nerves snapped at the edge of silence. Her voice broke as she finally spoke.

  “She’s gone.”

  Thaddeus stilled.

  Isalyn straightened her spine, summoning the little steadiness she had left. “She left for the capital. Days ago. She didn’t tell us… because she knew we wouldn’t let her go.”

  Thaddeus’s expression turned unreadable, his face devoid of anger or surprise, yet something cold stirred beneath it.

  “She’s not a prisoner,” Isalyn added, more to herself than to him. “And she didn’t want to hide anymore.”

  The silence that followed was deafening. Even the soft clink of Seraphyne’s spoon against her bowl halted.

  “I see,” he said simply.

  The words slipped out too smoothly, too easily. His tone was even, without bite. As if it didn’t bother him at all.

  Thaddeus didn’t want to lose his temper, not in front of Isalyn. He had long since learned to rein in the colder parts of himself when it came to her. As much as he despised the girl, he understood how deeply Isalyn loved her. And he couldn’t risk that love turning into resentment toward him.

  Isalyn blinked. She’d expected more. Sharp words. A disapproving gre. Instead, he remained perfectly composed. It eased some of the weight pressing on her chest.

  She let out a soft breath of relief. “I just hope she’s resting better there,” she murmured.

  Thaddeus nodded slowly, still unreadable.

  “Then I should come to the capital as well,” he said at st, pcing his utensils down with care. “It isn’t good for her to be alone… especially with that face of hers. It’s bound to stir whispers in the kingdom.”

  Isalyn stiffened at that, her eyes lifting to his. He offered a small smile, polite but cold at the edges.

  “She may think herself ready,” he added, “but we both know what this kingdom is like.”

  —-

  The pace walls held their breath after nightfall.

  Lilienne wandered alone past the guest quarters, the hem of her cloak brushing cold stone. Candlelight danced along the corridor, pale and flickering like memory. She should have returned to her room, but her thoughts itched, restless and bruised.

  She had tried. Sat in the silence of her chamber, hands curled tightly in her p, listening to the faint clink of distant silverware and muffled ughter from rooms not meant for her. But the quiet wasn’t peaceful. It pressed against her ribs.

  The silence of the evening reminded her too much of her mother. Isalyn had always said silence was the only nguage noblewomen could safely speak. That, and obedience. Lilienne wondered now if that was what her mother truly believed, or simply the armor she wore after surrender.

  Now, with Thaddeus’s cruelty shadowing every gnce and gesture, Lilienne found herself aching for a warmth no one here offered freely.

  At least, not without reason.

  The pace itself was magnificent. Vaulted ceilings, embroidered tapestries, marble archways. But no matter how much light the chandeliers poured down, it felt too composed. Too immacute.

  Like a painting stretched over a wound.

  She paused outside the royal archives, considering the sealed doors. Lucian might still be inside. Working te, as always. Part of her hoped to see him, to share the uneasy weight curling in her chest. Her cousin always had a way of anchoring her, even when he was distracted or distant.

  She raised a hand to knock.

  Before she could, a voice interrupted from behind.

  “You wander the halls alone at night. That’s dangerous.”

  She turned sharply.

  Ravien.

  He leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed, a quiet smile on his lips. Shadows gathered behind him like obedient pets, and his presence unfazed, struck her as both familiar and foreign.

  “Your High—” she caught herself, stiffening.

  “I told you,” he said, straightening. “Call me Ravien.”

  There was no humor in his tone, but no reproach either. Just that soft insistence, unsettling in its gentleness.

  She offered a nod. “Ravien, then.”

  He stepped closer, hands behind his back. His dark velvet coat shimmered faintly in the torchlight, and silver embroidery traced its cuffs like frozen vines. She noticed the faint scent of cedar and ink on his gloves, something unexpectedly grounding.

  “You couldn’t sleep?” he asked.

  She hesitated. “No. Not exactly.”

  “I couldn’t either,” Ravien said. “Thought I’d walk the quiet halls. The royal pace breathes differently at night, don’t you think?”

  She gnced at him. “Breathes… or whispers?”

  He ughed, and it was a pleasant sound. “Both. It tells stories it doesn’t dare in daylight.”

  Lilienne searched his face but found nothing arming there. His eyes were warm, almost boyish. Like he didn’t belong in a pce like this, yet wore it better than anyone else.

  “I thought you might enjoy some air,” he said, nodding toward the eastern corridor. “There’s something I’d like to show you. If you trust me.”

  There it was again. The way he phrased things, with such care, as if offering her a choice while already knowing her answer.

  She nodded slowly. “Alright.”

  They walked in silence.

  The corridors grew dimmer as they moved deeper into the eastern wing. The marble tiles beneath their feet shifted to a darker hue, veined with silver. Lilienne brushed her fingertips along the cool stone walls, her eyes drawn to portraits half-lost in shadow. Forgotten nobles. Unsmiling faces. Some had names, others didn’t.

  “I used to imagine they whispered to each other after dark,” Ravien said quietly beside her. “Those hanging portraits. I thought maybe they were trapped inside their frames.”

  Lilienne gnced at him. “That’s rather morbid.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe. But comforting, in a strange way. Even the dead are never truly alone.”

  The comment lodged somewhere beneath her ribs.

  They stepped into the courtyard. Fog had crept in, ying low over the cobblestones and curling through the hedges like something alive. The moon hung like a thin sliver, faint behind the drifting haze. There were no guards nearby. No courtiers. Just the hush of footsteps on old stone and the soft rustle of their cloaks.

  “Here,” Ravien said, stopping before a wrought-iron gate.

  Beyond it sat a modest gsshouse tucked against the pace’s outer wall. Vines curled around its frame, thick with dew. Lilienne hadn’t known it existed.

  He opened the door, and warmth spilled out like breath.

  Inside, the air was lush, thick with moisture and floral sweetness. The gss ceiling above them blurred with condensation. Every surface bloomed. Pale violets. Twilight orchids. White lilies with crimson centers.

  She stepped in slowly, boots sinking into the moss-lined path. The scent of damp earth and flowering life overwhelmed her.

  “It’s alive,” she whispered.

  Ravien nodded. “This garden was my mother’s. She used to say beauty was rebellion. That the world needed softness to resist the bde.”

  He moved beside a bed of lilies. “Your name suits this pce.”

  She blinked. “What?”

  “Lily.”

  She stiffened.

  Only Lucian and her mother had ever called her that. And even then, only when she needed to feel real again, when everything else had begun to slip.

  “How did you…?” she asked.

  “Lucian said it once,” Ravien replied, tracing one lily with a gloved finger. “I liked it.”

  She didn’t answer. He gnced at her.

  “I won’t call you that again unless you want me to,” he added. “I’m not trying to steal something sacred.”

  Lilienne’s throat tightened. “It’s not sacred. Just… personal.”

  “That’s what I meant.”

  There was silence. Not awkward, but thoughtful. The kind that lets emotion gather in the lungs like breath before speech.

  He walked deeper into the gsshouse, pausing before a bed of roses, small, pale blooms touched with silver at the edges. Dew clung to their petals like tears that refused to fall.

  “These only bloom here,” Ravien said. “Nowhere else in the kingdom. They were bred to resist the frost.”

  “They’re beautiful,” she murmured.

  He looked at her. “Some things deserve to survive the winter.”

  She met his gaze and found something flickering behind his calm.. pain, perhaps. Or something older. Deeper.

  “Do you ever feel like you’re pretending?” she asked softly.

  Ravien tilted his head. “Always. But it gets easier the longer you wear the mask.”

  She looked away.

  “I used to think I was becoming someone better,” he continued. “Now I wonder if I’m only becoming quieter.”

  Lilienne turned to face him. “Why show me this?”

  “Because most people here see only what they’re told to. And you…” He hesitated. “You look at things like they might still be real.”

  She didn’t know what to say. The compliment– or was it a confession?– Clung to her skin like the scent of lilies.

  “Do you trust me, Lilienne?” Ravien asked suddenly.

  The question felt too sharp.

  “I want to,” she said honestly.

  He smiled, but there was no joy in it. “Good. That’s the start.”

  Then, before she could speak again, he stepped toward her, slow, deliberate. He took her hand gently.

  “You don’t belong in the shadows,” Ravien said. “You were meant for more than silence.”

  Her heart beat too loudly.

  “You barely know me,” she whispered.

  “I know what it’s like to be unseen,” he said.

  The moment stretched.

  Then he released her hand, just as gently. “Come. I’ll walk you back.”

  They left the gsshouse. The fog outside had thickened, curling around the pace like a secret waiting to be spoken.

  As they walked, Lilienne gnced at Ravien’s face, still serene, still unreadable.

  When they reached her door, he bowed slightly.

  “Rest well,” he said.

  “You too.”

  And then he was gone.

  Later, as she y in her chambers beneath the glow of dying candlelight, Lilienne could still feel his touch.

  There had been no cruelty in it. No pressure. Just warmth.

  But she couldn’t forget Lucian’s voice echoing in her mind:

  “Or maybe he watched it all happen and didn’t stop it.”

  “And yet he never brought their stories forward. Never exposed what they went through.”

  Lilienne turned her face into the pillow and shut her eyes.

  Outside, the fog deepened.

  And somewhere in the castle’s throat, a door creaked open where none should have.