She had been expected. Prepared for. Studied. Chosen.
Elara's fingers curled tighter around the notebook as Mara stepped into the room, her movements quick but quiet, like she was trying to outrun the sound of her own footsteps. She kept her gaze low, but Elara could see the tension vibrating through her shoulders.
"If you're ready, Miss Vance," Mara murmured, "I'll take you to breakfast."
Elara nodded once, set the notebook gently on the desk, and followed the girl out into the hallway.
The corridor outside her room wasn't as dim as the main entrance hall, but the air still felt heavy—the kind of stillness that settles when a house is listening. Mara led her down the hall at a brisk pace, the hem of her gray dress whispering against the stone floor.
Elara cleared her throat. "You don't have to call me 'Miss Vance.' Elara is fine."
Mara flinched—not dramatically, but like the name itself burned. "I… can try."
Elara slowed slightly, watching her. "Are you alright?"
Mara hesitated. Her hands, clasped in front of her, tightened until her knuckles blanched. "It doesn't matter."
They descended a narrow staircase tucked behind an archway. The steps spiraled tightly, the walls closing in as they went. Elara reached out once, letting her fingers skim the stone. It was smooth, worn by generations of hands.
At the base of the stairs, a small alcove opened like a pocket carved into the estate. A single wooden table stood in the center, set with simple but beautiful dishware.
Steam curled from a bowl of porridge, a plate of sliced fruit, and a fresh pot of tea. The air smelled faintly of cinnamon and something darker underneath—like fennel or cardamom.
Elara took a seat slowly. "This looks… nice."
Mara lingered near the wall, fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve.
"You should eat while you can," she murmured.
Elara blinked. "While I can?"
Mara closed her eyes briefly, as if cursing herself. "Just… it's a long estate. People forget to take care of themselves when they're working. That's what I meant."
It was the kind of correction that felt practiced. Too practiced.
Elara picked up her spoon but didn't eat yet. "Mara… how long have you been here?"
Mara stiffened.
"A while," she whispered.
"That's not an answer."
"Some questions don't have answers you can carry." Mara's voice tightened. "Not here."
Elara set the spoon down. "Are you trying to warn me about something?"
Mara's gaze flicked instantly toward the hallway—checking, listening, bracing. When she finally looked back at Elara, her eyes were wide and full of something that looked dangerously like fear.
"I shouldn't say this," she said, barely above a whisper. "But you need to be careful."
Elara leaned forward. "Of what?"
Mara swallowed, throat bobbing. "Not what. Who."
Elara felt a cold ripple move along her spine. "The Overseer?"
Mara didn't nod. She didn't shake her head. She simply didn't move at all.
That alone was an answer.
Elara lowered her voice. "What exactly is he asking me to restore?"
Mara's hands tightened again, fingers twisting in her skirt. "It's old. Older than this estate. Older than the city. He keeps it in a sealed chamber on the lower level."
"That doesn't sound like something that should be restored."
Mara's breath hitched. "It shouldn't."
Elara's pulse quickened. "Then why does he want me to?"
Mara looked over her shoulder again—fear sharpening her features. She leaned in abruptly, the movement quick and birdlike, her voice shaking:
"Because the last person who tried couldn't finish it."
Elara's breath froze. "What happened to them?"
Mara exhaled sharply, eyes darting toward the staircase. Something in her expression closed, shuttered. She stepped back as though an invisible leash had just yanked her into place.
"I should bring tea," she said suddenly, voice too bright, too controlled. "You'll need your strength."
"Mara." Elara's voice snapped tighter. "What happened to them?"
Mara's eyes flicked to her—one flash of raw truth before she dropped her gaze again like she'd been struck.
"They didn't leave," she whispered.
A heavy silence fell between them.
Elara felt her stomach twist. "Are you saying they died?"
"I didn't say that."
Mara's voice trembled.
"I said they didn't leave."
Before Elara could press further, a soft rustle sounded from the hallway.
Mara went rigid.
Her eyes snapped to the doorway.
Elara followed her gaze… but saw nothing.
Still, Mara bowed her head instantly—as if someone had just entered. Or as if someone was always listening.
"I'll return with the tea," she said quickly. "Don't leave this alcove. Not until he comes for you."
"Why? Mara—"
But the girl was already moving, fast and silent, slipping up the narrow stairs like a shadow fleeing the light.
Elara was left alone at the table, the bowl of porridge cooling in front of her, her pulse pounding in her ears.
Somewhere in the estate, something shifted—soft, distant, unmistakable.
A door opening.
A breath of cold air.
Footsteps.
Someone was coming.
And it wasn't Mara.