Ten years later, at the stroke of midnight.
In a lavishly decorated chamber within one of Lumea's grandest mansions, a nobleman lay dying.
The soft glow of a ceiling lamp flickered across his gaunt, pallid face. Even in the shadow of death, his features bore a sternness untouched by fear or uncertainty. He was about fifty-two, and though illness had dulled the fire in his once-brilliant black eyes and drained the color from his cheeks, the aquiline precision of his profile still spoke of a youthful beauty.
Anyone could see the pride etched into the curl of his upper lip, the harsh dominance in the creases of his brow, and the ruthless coldness carved into his entire countenance. His expression didn't scowl, but radiated a severity born of something deeper—some consuming passion or dark sentiment rooted in his soul.
Two figures stood by the deathbed.
One was a woman of twenty-eight, stunning yet severe in bearing. Her black hair tumbled loose over her bare shoulders, exposed by the hurried way she'd thrown on a robe. That robe clung at the waist, subtly revealing the elegant shape of her tall, graceful frame. Her beauty was commanding: large, blazing eyes; a finely cut aquiline nose; lips red, full, and slightly pouting; a delicate chin with an edge of sensuality. She was majestic—a woman born to inspire awe, to arouse desire, yet repel impertinence with a single glance.
But her appearance deceived. No one dared offer flattery to Atheia, the deaf and mute daughter of the proud Lord Aurel of Blackmere.
Thirteen years earlier, at just fifteen, her mother had died under mysterious circumstances. The trauma nearly claimed her life. And when she recovered, the doctors delivered a grim truth—Atheia had lost her hearing and speech forever.
Those who knew her before, especially Dr. Orion , the family's physician, said she'd once been sweet and shy. But the illness changed her. Now, her eyes could blaze with rage at the slightest misstep from a servant. Her lips trembled with fury over any small offense. She showed no restraint, even with her father, and often responded to his authority with icy anger. Yet, oddly, the count adored her. He saw in her his own imperious spirit and took pride in her fierce gaze and regal bearing.
The young man beside her was Theseus, her Twenty's-year-old brother. Unlike his sister, he had none of their father's harshness. Where the count was cold and cruel, Theseus was warm-hearted, open, and kind. His soft blue eyes and chestnut hair mirrored his gentle soul. Perhaps that was why his father harbored so much disdain for him.
Antheia, however, adored her brother with a love deeper than sisterly affection. She watched over him, protected him, and delighted in his happiness. To offend Theseus was to provoke her wrath. Any cruel glance from their father toward her brother would trigger a storm in her silent, flashing eyes.
These were the three gathered in that room of shadows and flickering light.
Lord Aurel of Blackmere had been sick for weeks, but that night, Dr. Orion had told him death was close. The nobleman requested to see his children alone. When Theseus and Antheia entered, the doctor and the priest withdrew.
Now, Theseus stood on one side of the bed, Antheia on the other. The dying man summoned his strength.
"Theseus," he said, his voice cold, "I will speak briefly, but what I say is of great importance. You believe in the symbol beneath your hand?"
"The crucifix?" Theseus exclaimed. "Yes, father—it is the symbol of the faith that guides our lives and our deaths."
"Then kiss it and swear—swear to obey my final instructions."
Theseus, tears in his eyes, kissed the crucifix. "I swear, father. I will fulfill your wishes—so long as they ask nothing dishonorable."
"No conditions!" he snapped. "Swear without hesitation, or receive my dying curse instead of my blessing."
"Father!" Theseus cried in anguish. "I swear. Without hesitation."
He kissed the cross again.
"You choose wisely," the count said, fixing him with a blazing gaze. "This key,"—he pulled it from beneath his pillow—"unlocks that door."
Theseus glanced at the far corner of the room. "The one that's always locked?"
"Who told you that?" Lord Aurel demanded.
"I've heard the servants....."
"Then silence such gossip when I'm gone!" he snapped. "That door leads to a closet, accessible only from this room. My command is this: on the day of your marriage—no matter when that may be—you must open that door. Take only your bride. No one else. Do it the very hour after the ceremony. Inside, you will uncover a mystery—one tied to our family, to me, and to your future. It may bring great benefit to you and your wife."
Lord Aurel paused, then added, "If you never marry, the closet remains sealed forever. And this—this command must remain secret. Your sister must not know. She cannot hear me, and you must never reveal my words—not by writing, nor signs. I give you my blessing—but if you break this vow, may it become a curse. The curse of Hell."
"Father," Theseus whispered, overwhelmed, "I swear. Whatever lies behind that door, I will obey you."
He took the key and placed it safely in his pocket.
"You will inherit all," the count went on. "My will also includes provisions for Antheia—only if, by some miracle, she regains her senses. Otherwise, she must rely on your kindness."
"I love her dearly," Theseus replied. "She is everything to me."
"Enough," Lord Aurel muttered. Exhausted by the effort, he collapsed back into the pillows.
Antheia, who had kept her face buried in her hands, looked up and saw her father's condition. She motioned urgently to Theseus, who rushed to summon the doctor and priest.
Dr. Orion returned swiftly, but as he approached, he shot Antheia a meaningful look. She answered with a slow, sorrowful shake of her head. The doctor's eyes narrowed with concern, but her imploring expression softened his resolve. He gave a subtle nod in return.
This silent exchange, full of unspoken understanding, lasted only a second. Theseus noticed nothing.
Dr. Orion tried to revive the count, but it was too late. The nobleman slipped into a deep stupor and never awoke. By five a.m., he was gone.
Theseus and Antheia, now orphans, embraced each other tightly. Theseus wept. Antheia did not.
There was a strange light in her eyes—not grief, not joy, but something intense and unreadable.
Breaking their embrace, Theseus signed to her: "You have lost a father, but you still have a brother who loves you."
She responded: "Your happiness is my life's purpose."
Father Edmond and Dr. Orion stepped forward, gently leading the siblings away.
"You wish to spare us the pain," Theseus said, glancing back at the room. "It's hard to lose a father—especially now, when I know so little of the world."
"The world is full of temptations, especially for the powerful," said Dr. Orion. "But a strong heart and honest purpose will always guide you. Remember that, young Lord Aurel of Blackmere. It's advice from an old friend."
With a final squeeze of their hands, the doctor and priest departed.
The siblings embraced once more, then retreated to their rooms—each now carrying the weight of a legacy shrouded in mystery.