The next morning came slow and cloudy, with sunlight dulled by mist and silence that pressed too tightly against the windows.
Ophelia sat up in the vast bed, the sheets tangled around her like ghostly arms. She hadn't slept—not really. Just drifted between breaths and memories, between fears and whispers she still couldn't convince herself she had imagined.
Her fingers curled around the edge of the blanket.
A knock at the door snapped her out of her thought.
"Come in," she said, her voice hoarse from disuse.
A servant entered silently, carrying a tray—bread still warm, sliced fruit arranged with precision, the fragrant tendrils of steam curled upward, carrying the promise of warmth and quiet comfort. She placed it carefully on the table and turned to leave without a single word. Not even a glance. Only that downward gaze, as if Ophelia might shatter if looked at too long.
Ophelia ate in silence. Slowly. Because the food was there. Because her stomach ached with hunger. Because she didn't know when she'd be offered food again.
When she was done, she rose and dressed in the simple gown left folded at the foot of the bed. Pale grey. High-collared. Soft. Slippery against her skin like melted ice. Another kindness she didn't trust.
She fastened the last button, picked up the empty tray, ready to find the kitchen—maybe wash dishes, do something. Anything. She was, after all, a slave now. Bought. Owned.
The door opened again.
This time, without a knock.
Lysander stood in the threshold.
Immaculate. A dark coat swept around his legs, black gloves tight on his hands. His expression unreadable.
"We're going out," he said flatly.
She stiffened. "Out?"
He tilted his head, just slightly. Eyes like frost-coated steel. "Is that a problem?"
She swallowed. "No, my Lord."
"Good."
The carriage ride was silent.
Ophelia sat across from him, hands folded in her lap, knuckles white with tension. Lysander didn't speak. Didn't look at her. But his presence filled the space like a storm cloud—silent, heavy, waiting to crack.
Outside, Ashwood rolled by. Twisting spires vanished into fog. Market stalls, narrow alleys, chimneys spilling smoke into the cloudy morning. It was beautiful in the way a blade was—shining, sharp, and always a little too close.
When they stepped down onto the cobblestones, the city felt different beneath her feet. Colder. Watching. The mist curled like ghost fingers around her ankles.
Lysander walked ahead without slowing. His strides were long, commanding, his back impossibly straight. Ophelia struggled to keep up. Each step jolted the bruises she still bore from their escape—wounds from a failed attempt at freedom. It seems he was intentionally punishing her for attempting to run away.
Pain lanced up her leg. She hissed softly under her breath.
Crazy man, she cursed inwardly.
He looked back abruptly, eyes narrowing as if he'd heard her.
Her breath caught. She bowed her head quickly, face flushing with heat, and tried to move faster.
They passed shops and stalls, the city's noise a distant hum beneath her thudding heart. She felt it again—eyes on her. Not just the casual glances of passersby. Not just curiosity.
Something deeper.
Something watching.
Lysander stopped suddenly before a massive boutique storefront. The windows gleamed. Dresses shimmered behind the glass like captured moonlight. It was a place of beauty and wealth, every inch whispering luxury.
A servant bowed. "Good morning, Lord Lysander. We are honoured to have you. What may we help you with today?"
"Take her measurements," he said without emotion, pointing at Ophelia. "Use the latest design. Make it beautiful."
Ophelia froze.
He's buying me a dress? From here?
Her mind reeled. This place screamed wealth. She could only imagine the price tag on a single thread in one of those gowns.
This man—this cold, heartless man—was buying her something beautiful?
Maybe it's a moment of beauty before the slaughter, she thought bitterly.
She was led by a polite assistant into a plush side room. Measuring tapes, pins, bolts of fabric. Swift, professional hands worked around her. She stood still, dazed.
Then came the shoes. Slippers of soft leather, heels embroidered with tiny stones. The assistant knelt to fit them onto her feet as if she were royalty.
Then the jeweler.
A set of jewelry—necklace, earrings, bracelet—laid out before her. Glittering with firelight and delicacy.
Still, Lysander said little. Offered no explanation. Just handed her the parcels.
She held them like they might vanish if she blinked.
People stared as they walked.
Some bowed. Some turned away. Some looked directly at her—confused, questioning.
Why her?
A slave. Collared. Walking beside him.
And Lysander?
He ignored them all.
As they crossed the marketplace, he slowed near a small herb stall tucked between larger vendors. Dried bundles of lavender, moonwort, ash root, and silverbane hung from strings overhead. Their scents mingled with the mist.
The vendor, an old woman with sharp eyes and fingers like claws, looked up and gave Lysander a slow, knowing nod.
"Pick one," he said casually, gesturing at the herbs. "Take whichever you like."
Ophelia blinked at him. "Why?"
"Call it… a gift."
Her eyes narrowed. Still, she reached toward a silver-leafed bundle—delicate, glimmering.
The moment her fingers brushed the leaves, a faint spark snapped between her skin and the plant.
She gasped softly and pulled back.
The old woman's gaze sharpened. "Silverbane," she said. "Used to ward off dark spells. But it burns when touched by magic not born of man."
Ophelia's hand trembled. "It… shocked me."
Lysander didn't react.
But inside, his thoughts shifted.
That reaction. That spark.
Silverbane did not sting human hands.
It responded to magic. Magic-born.
Another piece of the puzzle.
They returned before noon.
The mansion loomed larger now, like it had grown in her absence. Like it waited to devour her whole.
Inside, silence swallowed everything again.
She turned toward the stairs, heading to the servant quarters.
Lysander's voice came like a blade.
"Not there."
She froze, hand on the railing. "My Lord?"
"You'll stay in my room from now on."
She blinked. "I… what?"
He descended the steps slowly. Purposefully. Every movement deliberate.
"You belong to me now," he said, voice cold. "You will answer only to me. Wherever I go, you follow. When I speak, you listen. When I command, you obey."
Her mouth opened. No words came.
"No more wandering the halls. No more questions. You will sleep where I can see you. You will attend to me when I need you."
"Really?" she asked, voice barely audible.
His eyes darkened. "Yes."
Then he turned and walked away.
Leaving her there. Frozen at the bottom of the stairs. Heart pounding. Thoughts spinning.
She stood still.
You will sleep where I can see you.
The words echoed in her chest.
Not kindness. Not mercy.
Just control—wrapped in silk, scented like herbs, glittering like jewelry.
Still… her feet moved.
One step. Then another.
She followed.
Through corridors lined with old portraits—eyes hollow, smiles cracked. Doors that seemed to breathe secrets as they passed.
Every hallway felt colder. Narrower.
He never looked back.
He didn't need to.
At the top of the stairs, he opened a door she hadn't seen before.
A room vast and shadowed. High ceilings, velvet curtains. A bed carved from black wood—intricate, spined, like the bones of something sacred.
Lysander stepped inside.
Ophelia paused in the threshold.
Her heart beat like it wanted to escape her chest.
The air inside the room was thick with something unnamed. Something sharp.
He said nothing.
Just looked at her.
As if daring her to run again.
She didn't.
She crossed the threshold.
And the door closed behind her.