When Amelia reached Vorlachev Manor, the whole place felt unusually still. The tall iron gates rose before her like dark metal teeth, and a cold, heavy feeling hung in the air, almost as if the manor had been waiting for her to return.
She slipped through the back door where the servants usually entered. No one stopped her. Most of the workers were already in their small rooms, resting.
Amelia walked down the long hallway to her own room and closed the door behind her.
She let out a slow breath, then began to change.
She removed the old clothes she had worn earlier and put on a different outfit—one made for silence and movement.
She wore a tight dark bodice, soft dark trousers, soft-soled boots that made almost no sound, a hooded dark cape that stayed close around her head, and a plain black mask tied over her face.
She tied her hair back so it would not fall in her face.
When she was ready, she opened her window and stepped out onto the narrow stone ledge. Her hands grabbed the cold edge of the wall, and she climbed up the outer side of the manor. Her movements were steady and practiced, as if she had done this many times before.
She reached the window of the room she had cleaned days ago—the room with the portrait.
The window opened easily.
She entered.
The room was dark and still. Amelia turned on a small flashlight, and the soft glow showed bits of dust floating in the air.
The portrait on the wall came into view. The face looked calm and gentle—almost the same as Amelia's own face. The sight made Amelia feel strange, but she pushed the feeling aside.
She began to search.
She opened drawers, looked behind books, checked inside boxes, and moved old pieces of fabric. For a long time, she found nothing.
But then one drawer stuck a little. When she pulled harder, it suddenly opened.
Inside was a small velvet pouch.
She lifted it and opened it carefully.
A necklace lay inside.
The chain looked like thin, braided gold. The pendant was shaped like a teardrop, with delicate swirls carved into it, like vines growing around a heart. In the middle was a tiny pale crystal that caught the light in a soft, gentle way.
It was beautiful—quiet, sad, and full of meaning.
Amelia swallowed and placed it back exactly where it had been.
As she pushed the drawer back in, the light caught the edge of something else deep inside.
A wooden box.
Old, with the carvings almost faded away.
She opened it.
Letters.
Many letters.
All tied together with a ribbon.
Her heart thumped as she lifted them out and tucked them into her wrap to read later.
After checking the room one more time and finding nothing else, she climbed back out the window and returned to her room the same silent way she came.
...
Amelia locked her bedroom door and set the letters on her bed.
She untied the ribbon slowly, as if afraid the papers might fall apart.
A soft smell of old paper rose into the air.
She opened the first letter.
My Dearest,
I take up my pen once more this night, though your silence has grown so deep it echoes like an empty hall. The hearth has long since surrendered its warmth, and the cold creeps through these rooms like a mourning veil. I cannot tell whether winter has come, or if it is merely the frost that has settled between our hearts.
I write because I cannot bear the weight of not knowing.
If some unthinking word, some careless deed of mine has wounded you, I beg you—let me be told. For I wander these days like a ghost within my own home, searching for the moment when your gaze no longer sought mine, when your hands forgot how to hold me.
I love you still—God knows I do.
I love you with a heart that aches as though it were carved from stone and left to weather in the rain.
Yet you do not look upon me anymore.
You move through our days like a shadow, distant and untouchable, as though my presence is something you have already buried.
If you must leave me, let it be by words and not by silence.
Silence is the cruelest blade, for it kills without the mercy of a wound.
And still… I reach for you in the dark.
Amelia felt her chest tighten.
She opened the next.
Some nights I wonder if you would all be happier without me. If I simply faded away. If my voice stopped reaching for yours. If you wish me gone… I will do as you ask. But before I leave, touch my hand once more. Look at me once more. Let me know you cared, even a little.
Amelia pressed her lips together, trying to steady her breath.
Then she read the letters written during the woman's pregnancy.
Little one inside me,
I dream of your tiny hands and your laugh. But I am afraid for you. I fear you will be blamed for my sadness, when none of this is your fault. If they ever turn cold toward you, remember this: you were loved even before you were born.
Another letter, the writing faint and shaking:
If they treat you badly, my little Liora… please forgive them. They do not understand how to face pain. They only know how to run from it. But I will not run. I will protect you, even if the whole world turns against us.
Amelia set the letters down slowly.
She leaned back in her chair and stared at the ceiling, her breath soft and uneven.
The words of the letters echoed in her head.
The woman had been gentle. Loving.
She had begged for affection.
Begged for kindness.
Begged simply to be seen.
And she had received nothing.
Amelia looked at the pile of letters—so full of love, fear, and lonely hope.
Her voice came out in a whisper:
"Liora wasn't born into a happy home… not at all."
She closed her eyes for a moment.
Then her final thought drifted out softly, almost like a prayer:
"This family… is full of secrets and old wounds. And I've only just begun to uncover them."
Amelia didn't have the answers yet.
But she knew the wife had not died peacefully.
There was pain behind her last days—deep pain.
Amelia pressed a hand to her chest.
"I need to know the truth."
She closed her eyes and let sleep finally take her.
....
Morning sunlight touched the windows of Vorlachev Manor.
The halls warmed with soft gold light, and the kitchen was already alive with noise. Some maids laughed softly as they prepared bread, while others chopped fruit or stirred soup. A few gathered near the counter, whispering excitedly about next week—when the four Vorlachev brothers would finally visit home.
One maid giggled as she dusted flour from her hands. "I heard Lady Liora's fourth brother is the stern one."
Another sighed dreamily. "Stern or not, they say he's handsome enough to make anyone lose their breath."
A third laughed quietly. "Handsome? I heard he's intimidating. Still… the manor will be lively again."
Their cheerful chatter drifted through the warm kitchen, filling it with a hopeful energy.
For a moment, everything felt normal.
Amelia entered quietly and poured herself a cup of warm tea. The rising steam brushed her face, and she tried to soothe the restless tide of thoughts turning in her mind.
She had just lifted the cup to her lips when the kitchen door suddenly slammed open.
A maid rushed in, her face drained of all color.
Every head turned toward her.
She gasped out her words in a trembling voice:
"Seiva has been chosen to bring Lady Liora her breakfast this morning!"
Silence swept across the entire room.
Amelia froze.
Seiva — the one who shook with fear whenever Lady Liora's name was mentioned — had been chosen?
Amelia's heart dropped. She set her tea down so quickly it nearly spilled. Without a single word, she turned and hurried out of the kitchen.
Seiva stood in front of Liora's bedroom door, holding a silver breakfast tray in shaking hands. The cups rattled against the plates because she was trembling so badly.
Her eyes were wide with fear.
Her breath uneven.
She hadn't even knocked yet.
She was frozen.
Amelia called out softly but urgently:
"Seiva!"
The girl turned her head.
Her eyes were full of worry.
Amelia stepped closer and said gently:
"Don't be scared. You don't have to do this. Let me bring the food instead."
Seiva swallowed hard.
Her voice was tiny.
"But… it's my duty. They told me to bring Lady Liora her breakfast. I—I have to obey."
Amelia shook her head.
"Your hands are shaking too much. If you go in like this, you'll drop the tray. You'll make noise. And you're terrified… anyone can see that."
Seiva looked down at her trembling fingers.
She whispered:
"I… I am scared."
Amelia placed a calm hand on Seiva's arm.
"It's alright. Let me take it. I'm not afraid."
Seiva breathed out slowly, her body loosening a little.
She looked at the tray, then at Amelia.
"Are… are you sure?"
"Yes," Amelia said softly.
"I'll handle it. You can rest."
After a long moment, Seiva nodded.
Her shoulders relaxed, and she carefully handed the tray to Amelia.
"Thank you… Amelia," she whispered.
Amelia gave her a small, reassuring nod.
....
Amelia stood in the hallway for a moment, steadying her breath before knocking. The air inside the manor was unusually quiet that morning, but behind Liora's door, she could feel the heaviness of frustration pressing out like heat.
She lifted her hand and knocked softly.
A sharp voice sliced through the door at once.
"Enter."
Amelia pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The room was lit by the pale morning sun, but even its warmth could not soften the tension inside. Liora sat at her writing desk, leaning forward, her face tight with irritation. Her pen hovered above a single sheet of paper, but she had only managed to write a few lines.
Amelia bowed her head politely.
"My lady… I have brought your breakfast."
Liora's eyes flicked upward for only a second before she returned them to the paper. Her jaw tightened.
"How am I expected to eat," she snapped, "when anger has taken away all my appetite"
Her tone was sharp enough to cut the air.
Amelia, however, did not react. She knew Liora's temper well. Instead, she answered in a soft, patient voice that never rose, even when others shouted.
"May I ask what is upsetting you, my lady?"
Liora scoffed under her breath, tapping her pen hard against the desk.
"This question," she muttered, her eyebrows knitting together. "This foolish question is asking for a wish I want fulfilled. I cannot even answer something that simple."
She threw her pen down, and it rolled across the desk.
Amelia hesitated, then spoke gently.
"My lady… may I have permission to read it?"
Liora exhaled sharply but waved her hand, giving silent approval.
Amelia stepped closer, careful not to intrude too much.
She leaned in and read the question printed on the paper:
What wish would you like to come true?
Amelia opened her mouth to speak, but Liora cut her off immediately, her voice cold:
"I understand the question. I am not stupid."
Amelia bowed her head slightly, accepting the scolding without complaint.
"I only mean, my lady," she said softly, "that if there is a wish you hold dearly—one that has lived in your heart for a long time—then writing it down is not difficult. A sincere wish… sometimes it finds its way to the world."
Liora leaned back in her chair, staring at the untouched breakfast tray. Her voice was bitter.
"And what? If I write it, does the world magically bend itself to my desire?"
Amelia turned her eyes toward the window.
The sky was soft and bright, with gentle clouds drifting lazily, almost peacefully.
"There are things," she whispered, "that hear the quiet pieces of our hearts more than the words we speak aloud. They never turn away from a true wish."
For a moment, Liora said nothing.
Her anger did not vanish, but it softened, sinking into something quieter—something almost painful.
Finally, with a tired voice, she murmured:
"…Bring me my food."
Amelia nodded, lifted the tray with both hands, and brought it to Liora's desk.
As she placed it down, she glanced at the paper again.
There were only two words written—small and neat.
"My mother."
Amelia felt a deep ache in her chest, but she said nothing, respecting the heavy silence.
Then Liora spoke again, her tone much calmer.
"Go to the bed," she said. "Natalya sent a box. Open it."
Amelia walked to the bed where a large, elegant box sat. She unfastened the ribbon and lifted the lid.
The first thing she saw was a beautifully crafted mask—decorated with fine lace, small crystals, and delicate gold patterns.
Beneath it lay an exquisite gown. She lifted it with both hands, letting the soft, shimmering fabric fall gracefully over her arms.
The gown was unlike anything worn for an ordinary event.
It was too elegant, too detailed, too grand.
This was not for a simple party.
Amelia took a slow breath, her voice quiet but certain.
This was meant for a masquerade ball
That man! Chee
"…My lady," she said, "this is a masquerade ball gown "
Liora nodded, though her expression showed no excitement.
"Yes. The party in the Baranovich banquet hall tonight…"
She paused, her eyes lowering.
"…it is not just a party. It is a grand masquerade ball."
She leaned back in her chair, looking tired just thinking about it.
"Many important people will attend. Everyone will wear expensive gowns and masks. Everyone will pretend to be someone else for the night."
Her tone was bitter. "And I must do the same."
Amelia folded the dress carefully, smoothing the fabric with gentle hands.
"So the banquet hall event… was truly a masquerade ball all along," she murmured, now understanding everything clearly.
"Yes." Liora's voice softened with exhaustion.
Amelia closed the box gently and bowed her head.
"My lady… I hope tonight brings you even a small moment of peace… or joy."
Liora didn't respond. Her eyes returned to her paper, staring at the words she had written.
My mother.
Amelia stepped back quietly, bowed one last time, and slipped out of the room—closing the door with the gentlest click.
.....
Night had come, and tonight the grand masquerade ball in Baranovich would finally take place. The whole city was alive with lights and excitement, preparing for the event that everyone had been waiting for.
But for Amelia, this night meant something far different. It was the beginning of her plan—her way to protect Liora by creating a mysterious presence that would remind the late wife's husband and sons that their past was not gone.
To start her plan, Amelia returned once again to the forbidden room.
She opened the door slowly, making sure no sound echoed through the manor. One wrong noise, and someone might catch her. Inside, the air felt heavy with memories, filled with the scent of the woman who once lived there.
Amelia moved toward the wardrobe and began searching for a dress. Her hands brushed against soft silks, glittering jewels, and old precious fabrics. She found a beautiful dress at first, but it wasn't what she needed. She needed a masquerade gown—something powerful enough to make people stop and wonder. Something that would help her slip into the ball unseen yet unforgettable.
So she searched again, carefully, slowly, afraid of making noise.
Minutes passed before she finally saw it.
A perfect gown for the masquerade ball.
A gown that shimmered beautifully under the dim light—gold mixed with soft white, glowing as if the dress carried its own light. As she held it, she remembered Liora's words earlier: people will wear gowns and masks.
Yes. This gown would allow Amelia to appear like a ghostly reminder—the presence of the wife of Vorsagion and the mother of his sons.
Amelia folded the gown and left the manor quietly.
She returned to the small place she stayed. Inside her room, she closed the door tightly. This was where her preparations would begin. Tonight was the night everything would start.
She laid the gown carefully on the bed and brought out the makeup she bought earlier. Amelia sat in front of the mirror and began transforming herself. She brushed foundation across her skin until it looked smooth like porcelain. She added a soft blush to her cheeks, making her face glow gently. She lined her eyes with dark eyeliner, giving them a sharp, seductive shape. Mascara made her lashes long and dramatic. Finally, she painted her lips a deep, bold red that stood out beautifully.
Minutes passed, and then she slipped into the gown.
The gold-and-white fabric flowed gracefully, hugging her waist and falling like liquid light down her legs. When she walked, the dress shimmered. She then took the matching gold and white mask, decorated with fine patterns, and placed it aside for later.
Amelia let her long blonde hair fall into soft waves down her back. The curls framed her face perfectly. She also fastened a delicate necklace around her neck—a thin chain with small gold details that caught the light.
When she looked at herself in the mirror, she was almost shocked.
She looked stunning. Beautiful enough to capture the attention of any man in the room.
Amelia smirked softly.
But beauty alone wouldn't protect her.
She strapped several small throwing blades—light, deadly, and easy to hide—onto her legs and secret places on her body. They weren't guns, but they would protect her if anything happened while she protected Liora. Maybe one day she could get a gun… if she ever ended up joining some underground organization
Now she was ready.
Wearing her masquerade gown, she touched her mask gently. Then she slid it onto her face. With one last breath, she stepped out into the night.
...
Amelia pressed herself into the shadows beside the grand entrance, hidden just beyond the reach of the red carpet lights. From there, she watched the elegant guests glide toward the banquet hall—women in shimmering gowns, men in polished suits—each one showing their invitations before passing through the tall doors.
She studied them quietly, her mind racing.
How do I get inside…?
She waited until a small gap formed between arriving guests. Then she inhaled deeply, stepped out of the darkness, and positioned herself at the very edge of the red carpet—visible, but looking fragile and out of place.
She let her shoulders slump, sucked in a shaky breath, and pretended to wince, placing a hand on her leg as if it hurt to stand. She forced her eyes to well with tears. If a man came by, she could easily charm him—she knew how to use her beauty when she needed to.
But Amelia hadn't expected the next approaching figures to be an elderly couple.
The old woman walked arm-in-arm with her husband, moving slowly up the carpet. They almost passed her completely… until the woman caught the trembling shape of Amelia at the corner of her vision.
She stopped.
"My dear… are you alright?" she asked gently.
Amelia lifted her head just enough, letting a single tear slip down her cheek.
"M-my boyfriend," she whispered weakly. "He… he left me right before we arrived. We were supposed to come together… but he walked away." She sniffed softly, voice breaking. "My invitation was in his hands… so now I can't get inside…"
The old woman's expression melted into pure pity.
"Oh, poor child…"
Her husband frowned with concern. "Should we help her?"
The woman squeezed his arm. "We can't just leave her like this. Let's bring her with us. We'll tell them she's under our care."
The old man hesitated only a moment before nodding.
"Come with us, child," he said softly. "You shouldn't be alone out here."
...
The three of them walked together along the red carpet, and Amelia stayed close between the old couple, pretending to be shy and fragile. But even with her mask on, even with her head slightly lowered, people still turned to look at her.
The gold-and-white gown shimmered beautifully under the bright lights. The soft waves of her blonde hair fell perfectly down her back. Her figure was graceful, elegant, and attractive enough that several men paused mid-step, trying to get a better look at her. Even though her face was hidden behind her mask, her presence alone was enough to draw attention. She carried an aura that made people whisper and wonder who she was.
Some men glanced twice.
Some women stared in curiosity.
And photographers lifted their cameras, confused but mesmerized by this mysterious woman walking with an elderly couple.
Amelia only gave small, innocent smiles—soft, gentle, harmless. It made her seem even more mysterious.
The red carpet felt endless, but eventually they reached the front entrance where several guards stood holding silver trays for invitations.
One guard stepped forward politely.
"Good evening, may I see your invitations?"
The old woman held up hers and her husband's. Then she placed a gentle hand on Amelia's back.
"She's with us," the old woman said with confidence. "Make a way for her."
One guard looked at Amelia carefully, suspicious at first. But when he saw her gown—expensive, elegant, obviously belonging to someone of high status—his expression immediately softened. The old man added quietly:
"She had… a difficult moment before coming here. Please understand."
The guard nodded respectfully.
"Of course. Please, all of you, proceed inside."
Two other guards stepped aside and opened the grand double doors.
Warm golden light spilled out, along with the soft sound of violins playing from deep inside the hall. A wave of perfume, roses, wine, and rich elegance drifted toward Amelia.
The old woman squeezed Amelia's hand gently.
"Come, dear. You're safe now."
And slowly, gracefully, Amelia stepped past the doors—
—into the grand masquerade ball of Baranovich.