The heavy, carved mahogany door clicked shut with a soft CLICK, sealing the grand bedroom against the stir of the morning bustle. I stood just inside, a familiar tension settling in my chest, the weight of responsibility pressing down in quiet insistence. Across the room, the morning light streamed through the immense, divided window, spilling gold and amber onto the polished floor and catching the edges of the ornate furniture in glimmering highlights. The room felt suspended in that moment, a private world untouched by the outside.
Lady Serena lay soundly asleep, her dark hair fanning over the pale silk pillows like a river of midnight, her face softened by the rare tranquility of deep rest. The soft zzz of her breathing was nearly imperceptible, but to me, it was a fragile rhythm I didn't dare disturb. It was a gift, this unguarded vulnerability, and I silently vowed to protect it. She had only drifted off an hour ago; the remnants of her unrest lingered in the tension of her shoulders and the occasional twitch of her hand.
I had been waiting nearby, reading silently in the half-light, listening to the faint ticking of the antique clock, the creak of the floorboards when the wind shifted the curtains. Breakfast could wait; this moment was more precious. Every second of her rest was worth more than the fleeting ritual of a meal.
Miss Sui appeared then, gliding into the room like a shadow in her dark dress. She paused at the foot of the bed, her movements careful and precise, hands folding over themselves as if bracing against the room's fragile stillness. She began to adjust the blanket, the silk rustling softly.
"You should leave the blanket," I whispered, stepping closer, my voice barely a breath. She looked up, eyes meeting mine, a flicker of comprehension passing between us. I made a subtle gesture, halting her motion. She wakes easily, I thought, every sound, every movement can disturb her.
Miss Sui paused, folding the silk back against her arms. Her slight nod acknowledged the unspoken rule: Lady Serena's sleep came first.
"Could you silently let the curtain down instead? The sunlight is strong," I continued, lowering my voice further, careful not to carry it across the room. The golden beams had grown bright, almost intrusive against the delicate serenity of the room. My concern wasn't just the glare; it was the quiet peace she needed, uninterrupted.
Miss Sui gave a delicate curtsy, her face calm but attentive. "Of course," she whispered. Then, with almost comical care, she tiptoed across the polished floor, each step so light it seemed to hover just above the surface. Her movements were exaggeratedly gentle, as if she were afraid to breathe too loudly. She reached the curtain cord, pausing and glancing back at me, a flicker of concern in her eyes.
"Um, Mr. Frederick… the family physicians will be here this afternoon," she murmured.
I froze for a heartbeat. Today… I had almost forgotten. The examinations. But now was not the time to think of schedules.
"The room will be dim enough," I replied softly, returning my gaze to Lady Serena. Miss Sui pulled the cord, and with an almost imperceptible swish, the heavy velvet curtains slid closed, muting the sunlight into a gentle, warm twilight.
I exhaled quietly and let the tension ease from my shoulders. A few more hours of rest, I thought, would do her good. I lingered, watching her chest rise and fall in steady rhythm, committing this rare, unguarded tranquility to memory.
A moment of peace, however fleeting, was a rare gift in our lives. And for now, it was enough.
The heavy, carved mahogany door clicked shut with a soft CLICK, sealing the grand bedroom against the morning bustle. I stood just inside, a familiar tension settling in my chest as I surveyed the room.
The morning light, streaming through the immense, divided window, cast a golden, almost ethereal glow across the peaceful figure in the luxurious bed. Lady Serena lay soundly asleep, her dark hair cascading across the pale silk pillows like a river of midnight, the soft zzz of her breath barely audible. Occasional soft CHIRP of a distant bird punctuated the stillness. It was rare to see her so utterly at ease, and I silently cherished the fragile calm.
I had been waiting nearby, reading quietly, ever since she finally drifted off. She had only fallen asleep an hour ago. Each second of her rest was a gift I could not squander. Breakfast could wait; the warmth and serenity of this moment were worth far more.
Miss Sui appeared then, moving like a shadow in her dark dress. She paused at the foot of the bed, hands folding delicately over the blanket as if fearing to disturb the air itself. She began to arrange the silk cover with the utmost care.
"You should leave the blanket," I whispered, catching her eye and making a slight, almost imperceptible gesture to halt her. "She wakes up sometimes when I try to cover her. You know how lightly she sleeps."
Miss Sui paused, concern flickering across her face. She gave a subtle NOD of understanding, acknowledging the delicate balance between care and caution.
"Could you silently let the curtain down instead? The sunlight is strong," I added, lowering my voice further. "I don't want to wake her."
She curtsied slightly. "OF COURSE."
With exaggerated care, she TIPTOED across the polished floor, her steps so light they barely disturbed the air. As her hand reached the heavy curtain cord, she glanced back at me, worry flickering in her eyes. "Um, Mr. Frederick… the family physicians will be here this afternoon."
The reminder tugged at my attention. Today… I had almost forgotten. But for now, her rest took precedence.
With a careful pull, the heavy velvet curtains SLID closed with an almost imperceptible swish, dimming the room to a soft twilight, warm and calm.
"I'll let her sleep, then," I conceded, returning my gaze to the tranquil form of Lady Serena. A few more hours, at least, before the world intruded.
Later, I dressed and received Miss Sui in the airy sitting room. The sunlight now filtered gently, warming the polished wood and soft carpets.
"The weather happens to be nice today," I observed, glancing out toward the glass garden.
"Yes, it's rather pleasant," Miss Sui agreed. "You could take a walk there while the physicians attend to the others."
I nodded, following her gaze. The summer blooms were just beginning to awaken in the glasshouse, vibrant and sparkling, a perfect counterpoint to the coming examinations.
"It would be nice to have a cup of coffee there," she added, pulling back the edge of the curtain slightly. "Serenity really is beautiful this time of year."
The suggestion was welcome—a small refuge against the day's inevitable formalities. I inclined my head, silently approving her thoughtfulness.
Soon after, the Serenity Family Physicians arrived.
I met them in the parlor: Dr. Astance and Dr. Lennon, both professional, precise, and quietly commanding respect. They were seated across from me and Sir Eiser, who sipped his coffee with the practiced composure of a man accustomed to scrutiny.
"Other than appearing tired from the long trip, you are in good health," Dr. Lennon reported, addressing Sir Eiser.
Dr. Astance turned to me. "You must be taking good care of yourself," he noted with mild concern.
Sir Eiser, ever composed, redirected the conversation smoothly. "And Lady Iansa? How is she?"
I recalled my recent visit, the memory sharp in contrast to the softness of the morning. "She looked thinner than usual," I reported. "And she still enjoys her drinks and cigarettes."
Dr. Lennon adjusted his glasses, a crease of worry forming across his brow. "She doesn't seem inclined to stop. She believes it won't make a difference, but her condition isn't ideal."
He looked directly at me, the weight of his concern silent but heavy. "Please continue advising her to cut back, at the very least."
I inclined my head, already anticipating the difficulty of that task. Every suggestion, every gentle admonition had to navigate her stubborn independence, her pride, and the invisible threads of family expectation.
Miss sui pov
The talk of Lady Iansa's poor habits faded, and the discussion returned to the immediate concerns regarding the household's health.
"Yes, Sir Eiser," I said, confirming my commitment to advise Lady Iansa, though I knew the task was likely futile. Her stubborn independence had always made guidance a delicate art—often more symbolic than effective.
Sir Eiser took a deliberate SIP of his tea, the porcelain cup trembling slightly in his hand before it rested with a soft CLINK on the saucer. The sound, small yet distinct, seemed to carry the weight of the question he was about to ask.
"How is Serena?" His voice was calm, almost clinical, but I sensed the underlying concern.
I braced myself, recalling the subtle changes I had observed over recent weeks. The doctors were here for a thorough check-up, but Serena's overall condition remained a chronic worry.
"Her insomnia and sleeping disorder follow the same pattern—periods of improvement, then deterioration," I began, my voice steady though tight. I watched his reaction closely. "Recently, however, her health hasn't been improving. She's lost more weight."
Dr. Astance, her expression grave but professional, nodded in acknowledgment. "Hmm… yes, there's noticeable weight loss. You had promised to maintain it, did you not?" Her tone carried a mix of gentle reproach and concern, highlighting her experience with Serena's cycles of fatigue and relentless work.
She looked directly at me, her gaze both firm and compassionate. "I feel as if I'm repeating myself, but it's my duty as Lady Serena's doctor. Rather than overworking herself, she needs sufficient rest and proper nutrition. Otherwise, her health will continue to decline."
The air in the room thickened, heavy with unspoken tension. I understood the sensitivity of the topic: Serena's tireless work ethic, her insistence on control, and her unyielding pride all contributed to her fragile condition. I leaned slightly forward, resting an elbow on the armrest, my mind racing with ways to balance concern with diplomacy.
Dr. Lennon, his hands clasped tightly in his lap, hesitated before speaking. "I know this may be a delicate matter…"
"It's fine, please continue," I interjected, taking a measured breath before lifting the coffee cup to my lips. The warmth of the drink was a small comfort against the anxiety threading through the room.
Later that afternoon, the formal examination began, starting with Serena herself.
Dr. Astance, accompanied by a maid, approached Serena, who had now awoken and was dressed in a soft, flowing gown that seemed to capture the light in subtle folds.
"Now, let me check the wound from your last fall," Dr. Astance said gently, her voice calm and reassuring. "It was on your side, if I'm correct?"
Serena gave a slight, graceful NOD, her composure intact despite the medical attention.
"Could you remove your gown for a moment?" the doctor requested, careful to maintain both dignity and comfort.
With practiced elegance, Serena allowed the maid to pull back the outer layer of her gown, revealing the smooth skin beneath. Dr. Astance leaned closer, inspecting the injury with meticulous care.
"Very good. It's healed nicely. You don't need to worry about a scar anymore," the doctor concluded, her relief audible in the soft cadence of her voice.
The initial check was complete, but the deeper concerns—her chronic stress, fragile health, and relentless pace—remained unaddressed. Though the physical wound had healed without blemish, the underlying tension in the room persisted. Frederick observed carefully, noting the delicate interplay of concern, duty, and the subtle unspoken anxieties that surrounded Lady Serena.
The room felt quieter now, but beneath the calm veneer, a storm of responsibilities, expectations, and lingering worries quietly simmered.

The initial check was complete, and the superficial wound on Serena's side had healed without blemish. But the deeper consultation loomed, and a heavy silence settled over the room like a shadow.
Dr. Lennon cleared his throat, his gaze lingering on me for a moment as if weighing his words. "It's been four years since you two have been married… and it is natural for you to have children."
The unspoken expectation hung in the air like a physical weight. Children were not merely a choice—they were a duty, a marker of legacy and status. I felt the subtle pressure pressing down, the constant whispers of society's standards threading through every glance and tone in the room.
But Dr. Lennon's concern shifted the weight. His voice softened, tinged with a rare warmth. "As a doctor who has seen Lady Serena since she was a child… I am concerned about her. Her health seems worse than ever." He paused, letting the gravity sink in. "She's holding up because she's young… but youth isn't invincibility."
He exchanged a knowing look with Dr. Astance, whose expression was grim and unyielding. Her turn to speak brought the verdict with the precision of a scalpel.
"I'm afraid I must say… if you plan on having children," she began, her voice dropping, deliberate and heavy, "please wait until Lady Serena has regained her health."
The words landed in my chest like stones. My jaw tightened, and a cold dread seeped into my stomach. The risk to Serena—and to any child conceived in her fragile condition—was unacceptable.
She continued, her gaze unwavering. "If she becomes pregnant now, her body won't withstand it. It will endanger both her life and the life of the baby."
A tense silence followed, punctuated only by the faint tick of the ornate clock on the mantle. I could feel the weight of responsibility settle squarely on my shoulders. I offered a terse nod, the gravity of the situation crystallizing with each passing second.
Dr. Astance's acknowledgment was quiet, professional. "Indeed, Sir Eiser."
Dr. Lennon added, with a firmness that left no room for misunderstanding, "You must ensure Lady Serena does not become pregnant at this time."
The statement hung in the air like a final edict, leaving no ambiguity. The doctors rose, bowing slightly before taking their leave, leaving me with the echo of their warnings reverberating in the empty parlor.
Later that evening, after the physicians had departed, I found Serena standing by her window, her form silhouetted against the fading light. She looked utterly drained, her posture betraying exhaustion her words never would.
"Hmm…" she murmured, a soft sigh escaping her lips, fragile and almost mournful.
I approached her quietly, careful not to startle her, my heart tightening at the sight. There was more than the doctors' warnings weighing on my mind—a detail they hadn't explicitly discussed with me, though their whispered tones had spoken volumes: the concern etched across their faces, the brief glances, the subtle tightening of brows when they thought I wasn't looking.
Dr. Astance's hushed observation came back to me vividly, the memory sharp and chilling: "…Oh, my. There are marks all over her body…"
The words had cut deeper than any spoken diagnosis. Marks. What kind? Where had they come from? Were they the result of her fall, or something else—something hidden beneath the surface, endured silently?
I looked at Serena now, her profile framed by the dimming sky outside the window. The light softened her features, yet it could not obscure the weight she carried—the invisible battles, the private pains. My chest tightened with helpless urgency. How many struggles had she endured alone? How many had I missed?
I stepped closer, the warmth of my presence meant to be a silent shield. "Serena…" I murmured, my voice low, carrying both concern and determination. My eyes scanned her form for any sign of the hidden fragility the doctors had only hinted at.
Even in the fading light, the truth was clear: the outward calm was fragile. And the hidden wounds—both seen and unseen—needed vigilance, care, and protection. I knew then that my role in her life was no longer just that of a husband or companion. It was that of a guardian, a sentinel against the world and the risks it posed, both obvious and unseen.
The quiet evening stretched on, shadows lengthening across the room, yet I remained rooted beside her. In that silence, I made a silent vow: no harm would come to her if I could prevent it, no matter the cost.
"Then I'll see you again at our next exam," I said, standing. "If you'll please excuse me… You two are welcome to finish your tea before you leave. Thank you for coming today."
With a curt nod to the physicians, I took a STEP back from the sitting area, feeling the slight weight of relief at having the formalities over. A few moments in the glass garden would be welcome—a quiet pause before resuming the relentless duties of the household.
Dr. Lennon and Dr. Astance rose as well, exchanging a brief, slightly AWKWARD glance, a flicker of unease crossing their professional masks. The parlor door SHUT behind me with a muted thud, leaving them alone in the quiet room.
Alone, the professional veneer slipped, revealing the strain and moral unease beneath. Dr. Astance leaned back, a soft PHEW escaping her lips as tension drained from her shoulders.
"It looks like… we've touched a sensitive subject," she admitted, her fingers idly tracing the edge of her teacup.
Dr. Lennon adjusted his spectacles with a deliberate PUSH, settling the frames and himself with a small sigh. "I had no choice. That's what I told Lady Serena, so I had to tell him the same thing. Honesty is part of our responsibility."
"I suppose so…" Dr. Astance mused, concern lingering in her gaze. "Though their marriage… it was arranged under contract. Our duty is to give them medical advice, not meddle in social consequences."
Dr. Lennon's expression darkened slightly. "Sir Eiser never showed much interest in Lady Serena… yet today, he seemed… bothered. Uncharacteristically so."
A pragmatic glint crossed Dr. Astance's eyes. "He is her husband, after all. Regardless of the contract, there's a responsibility there—a moral, perhaps even emotional one."
Lennon tapped a finger lightly against the polished arm of his chair, his frown deepening as the implications of their warning pressed in. "It probably sounded as if we were warning him to keep his wife from getting pregnant… with another man," he muttered, glancing toward the window as though the sun could shield him from the awkward reality.
Dr. Astance pursed her lips, silent for a moment, then nodded slowly. "A delicate situation indeed… One word misinterpreted, and the entire household could spin into rumors."
Lennon pushed his glasses up with a sigh, muttering under his breath, "UGH… Just imagine hearing that, even if it's only about what happens between Lady Serena and her lover…"
Unable to maintain his composure any longer, he finally stood, the soft STEP of his polished shoes echoing in the still parlor. He took another STEP, decisively moving toward the door, his mind clearly running through the repercussions of their professional honesty.
"If it were me…" he trailed off, voice quiet, almost lost in the room, "…I would worry for the misunderstandings this might cause."
The silence that followed was heavy, filled with unspoken concerns—not merely about Lady Serena's health, but about propriety, perception, and the delicate balance of loyalty, duty, and discretion in a household as scrutinized as Serenity.
I stood outside the parlor, having just dismissed the family physicians. Behind the closed doors, the low, strained voices of Dr. Lennon and Dr. Astance continued, their words muffled but their meaning unmistakable. The concern in their tone extended far beyond medicine — it reached into the fragile boundaries of my marriage, the delicate balance between duty and care.
The air in the hallway felt heavier with every step I took. I tried to focus on what was immediate, tangible — but the doctors' warnings lingered, echoing like a quiet storm in the back of my mind. Serena's health. Her exhaustion. Her refusal to take care of herself.
When I entered the sitting room, I found her there — poised yet fragile, her profile illuminated by the soft afternoon light filtering through lace curtains. Miss Sui stood nearby, holding a silver tray crowned with a sparkling dome cover.
The maid approached with quiet grace, offering Serena a soft GLANCE before speaking.
"Oh…" she murmured, her tone a gentle attempt at cheer. "I brought something for you, my Lady."
Serena looked up, her gaze slow, questioning. "Is that why you brought that here? What is it?"
Miss Sui TURNED the tray slightly, then reached forward, fingers careful and deliberate as she LIFTED the dome. The faint scent of coffee and chocolate filled the air.
"You know Lady Iansa came yesterday," Miss Sui said softly.
Beneath the silver lid lay a beautifully crafted Opera Cake, its glossy layers gleaming under the afternoon light. "She made this herself," Miss Sui continued, smiling gently. "She always does, and brings them for you… perhaps you could try just one bite today…"
Serena remained still, her expression unreadable — as if the delicate dessert before her was a stranger.
Miss Sui hesitated, her voice softening further. "It would make her happy, my Lady."
Serena's long lashes FLUTTERED, but her expression stayed cold. The silence stretched thin, trembling on the edge of discomfort.
Then, quietly, she spoke. "That old woman is simply wasting her time again." Her tone carried the faintest bitterness — not malice, but a deep weariness that seemed to drain the color from her voice. She looked away, her back straightening as though to shield herself from any further persuasion.
Miss Sui's hopeful expression faltered, her gaze dropping to the untouched cake.
A familiar frustration burned in my chest. Serena, please… you can't keep doing this.
"There. It's done," I said, stepping forward, my voice calm but edged with restrained emotion. "You heard what Dr. Astance said."
Serena gave a faint, reluctant NOD, her chin dipping only slightly.
I knelt slightly before her, forcing her distant eyes to meet mine. "You need to eat properly," I said softly. "Three meals a day — something more than just grapes."
Her gaze, serene yet defiant, held mine for a moment. "Just give it to any of the staff," she replied, her voice quiet, detached. "Or throw it out."
Her words stung more than they should have. Not for their harshness, but for the emptiness behind them — the quiet surrender I couldn't seem to reach.
I stood slowly, swallowing the frustration that rose in my throat. The physical battle was one thing; the quiet war she waged within herself was another. One I could not win for her.
My thoughts turned, unbidden, to the doctors' warnings — their grave tone as they spoke of the danger of pregnancy, of her fragile health, of those faint marks on her skin they whispered about when they thought I couldn't hear.
The heavy silver jewelry around her neck caught the dying light, gleaming like a cruel contrast to her fragility.
My hand rose instinctively to my chest. A dull ache settled there, deep and cold.
If anything were to happen to her because I failed to protect her — because I hadn't done enough — it would destroy me.
That certainty sat in my heart like a stone, immovable and absolute.

That's a beautifully introspective and emotionally layered continuation — you've captured Serena's inner weariness, the quiet tragedy of her situation, and the suffocating elegance of her world. Below is an expanded and polished version of your text — keeping your emotional depth and first-person tone, but enhancing imagery, pacing, and atmosphere for a more novelistic flow:
I sat alone in the sitting room, the air still heavy with the echoes of the physicians' words. Their visit had ended hours ago, but the unease they left behind clung to the walls like lingering perfume. My husband, Frederick, had just departed after his fruitless attempt to make me eat. I could still feel Miss Sui's distressed GAZE hovering over me, like a fragile thread stretched too tight.
"That old woman is simply wasting her time again," I had said earlier, my voice colder than I intended. A small, weary part of me regretted the cruelty—but another, larger part knew that kindness would change nothing. The Opera Cake sat untouched on the silver tray beside me, a silent emblem of indulgence and expectation. It was another gift from Lady Iansa, another reminder that everything in my life—my meals, my words, even my smiles—was being quietly observed and judged.
The weight of my dress felt oppressive, its layers pressing down on me like armor I no longer had the strength to wear. The necklace at my throat gleamed beautifully in the lamplight, but it only reminded me how easily beauty could strangle. I pressed a hand to my chest, the fabric beneath my fingers too warm, too tight.
I have to stop doing this to myself, I told myself for what felt like the hundredth time. But the words never seemed to take root.
Four years. Four long years since I had first stepped into this life—a gilded cage built from obligations, secrets, and half-truths. Four years since the world had first started whispering about me. The whispers had never truly stopped; they merely changed shape with each passing season.
The rumors about my supposed lover clung to me like shadows. They said I was restless, that I sought comfort elsewhere, that I had grown tired of my cold husband. But people will always believe the story they want to tell—especially when it makes them feel superior.
The truth was simpler, and crueller. My marriage to Frederick had been arranged long before I ever had a choice. It was not a bond forged from love, but from signatures and necessity. The contract governed everything: how I lived, what I represented, what I was expected to provide. I had memorized its conditions the way one memorizes a prayer—coldly, mechanically, without faith.
One line haunted me the most.
"The wife shall bear an heir within five years to ensure the continuation of the Serenity-Grayan alliance."
The words of Dr. Astance still echoed in my mind: "If she gets pregnant in her current condition, her body won't be able to handle it. It will endanger both the baby and Lady Serena."
That diagnosis—grim as it was—had become my only shield. My reprieve. A small, fragile wall between me and the expectations that sought to consume me.
I lifted my wrist slightly, the faint marks still visible beneath the soft lamplight. The doctors had noticed them earlier, murmuring to one another with furrowed brows. They thought them signs of frailty. I knew better. They were reminders—of pressure, of anxiety, of the invisible battles I fought to keep from breaking apart.
It's just an excuse, I told myself bitterly. An excuse to delay the inevitable.
But even an excuse can feel like salvation when one lives on borrowed strength.
If Frederick were to demand that I fulfill the contract now—if he were to act like the husband the world imagined him to be—I knew the outcome. My body would not survive it. And if I refused? The whispers would only grow louder, feeding the rumors of infidelity, of betrayal, of my phantom lover who existed only in gossip and envy.
I turned my gaze to the window. Beyond the glass garden, the sky was beginning to fade into a pale gold dusk. The flowers swayed gently, their reflections shimmering in the glass walls—so beautiful, so distant.
I need to get better, I thought. Not for the doctors, not for Frederick, not even for the contract. For myself. To reclaim something—anything—that was still mine.
But the thought was weak, drowned out by the dull, heavy pulse of exhaustion that ruled my every waking moment. I leaned back in my chair, letting my head TILT against the cushion, closing my eyes.
The silence that followed was soft, almost comforting. A fleeting, fragile peace before the evening duties began—and before the whispers returned once more.
Ever since Eiser came back… I had been on edge constantly, my nerves taut like strings ready to snap. Images flickered through my mind: Eiser, leaning in too close, his gaze sharp and possessive; the way his presence seemed to demand ownership of every space I moved through. And then my own reflection in memory—strained, eyes darkened by the weight of a silent, unending battle.
Ugh, my head throbbed. SIGH. I rubbed my temples, wishing I could vanish somewhere beyond the stifling walls of the mansion, somewhere the air didn't carry centuries of tension and unspoken history.
CLACK. CLACK. CLACK.
The sound of my heels echoed on the polished stone of the garden path, bouncing off trimmed hedges and marble fountains. I moved carefully, seeking a corner of quiet, a moment of respite from the incessant demands of this gilded cage.
I should ask Frederick… to take me somewhere outside, where the world isn't constantly weighing on me. Somewhere calm.
CLACK.
A dull ache lingered at the base of my skull, stubborn and unyielding. I pressed my fingers to my temple, adjusted the heavy, ornate necklace around my throat, and tried to push it aside. But it didn't leave. The familiar flutter of discomfort returned—the feeling of being watched, of trapped, as if unseen eyes were following each of my steps.
Then—a flash. A glimmer of light through the towering panes of the greenhouse caught my attention. Something bright, almost shining, reflected across the leaves and glass.
WAIT… WHAT'S THAT?
I squinted, forcing my gaze through the lush greenery, the vibrant foliage of the sunroom creating a mosaic of shadows and light. Two figures emerged from the blur.
My heart skipped. The taller figure, unmistakable even at a distance… EISER.
And there was someone with him. My eyes narrowed, scanning for details through the leafy screen.
IS THAT…
The man next to Eiser came into focus. He was impossibly striking, his tailored suit crisp and elegant, the lines of it emphasizing his broad shoulders. His expression was calm, almost neutral, yet there was an air of command about him, a subtle gravity that drew the eye. He did not move like a visitor; he moved like someone who belonged to power itself.
A shiver ran down my spine. I had not expected this… this intrusion into the fragile bubble I had fought so hard to maintain. My fingers curled tightly around the edge of the railing, knuckles white.
I swallowed hard. Who is he? And why is he here… with Eiser?
The wind whispered through the glass panes, carrying the faint scent of damp soil and blooms. The tension in my chest tightened. My instincts screamed—something was unfolding, and I was dangerously close to being caught in the middle.
I had to see more. I had to understand. Yet, every step closer felt like stepping onto a stage where I had no script, no control.
And then, the man's gaze flicked—brief, almost imperceptibly—in my direction.
My blood ran cold.



Chapter 5 end