Six

The door stood exactly where she remembered.

Just as Mira had said—it was still here. She could try wringing the truth out of him later, but getting anything useful was unlikely.

Clutching the handle, she held her breath, steeling herself before easing it open.

The room lay untouched, as if frozen in time. The morning light filtered in, brittle and cold, casting long, uneven shadows that crawled along the floor like cracks in glass. Dust was still shimmering in the light like tiny fireflies. At the window’s edge, her sparkly lilac heels waited, abandoned and delicate, like a memory left behind.

She stepped inside and closed the door quietly behind her.

She crossed the room and sank into the plush sofa, needing to take a calming breath before pulling back the second set of curtains.

But the breath had barely left her when a voice rang out.

“Is someone there?”

Her pulse danced just beneath her skin, fast and loud, as if the room itself could hear it, and she froze. Which was ridiculous—he must’ve heard her come in. Still, her limbs locked up, unwilling to move.

So he was alive. The portrait was alive.

“I know you’re there,” the voice called again. It carried a hint of unease, but flowed smooth and regal. Deep, melodic—the kind of voice that could coax secrets from shadows.

“Please. Let me see you.”

She didn’t know why—but something in her snapped into motion, as if responding to the call. A sudden, aching need to soothe him surged through her. A desperate longing to see him.

She yanked the curtains apart, hands clinging to the velvet as she stared up at the portrait.

He was still beautiful.

His eyes were still that same endless shade of blue—like twilight over the sea, vast and unknowable, and yet somehow familiar. The kind of blue that felt like a memory you couldn’t place but couldn’t forget. Clear and bright, yet layered with a depth that seemed to reach through time, his eyes gazed down at her—wide with awe, heavy with sorrow, and filled with a yearning so raw it stole the breath from her lungs.

Her gaze faltered, unable to bear the weight of his eyes. A single tear spilled over, tracing a silent trail down her face before she could stop it.

Why did the sight of him move her so deeply? She didn’t even know him—not truly.

She shook her head, forcing her face to harden. Her eyes flicked down to his body. He was still posed formally, the jeweled sword at his side. Though his body seemed at ease, the stillness held a quiet strain, as if he were caught in a moment he couldn't escape.

She met his gaze again, signing with determination, Who are you?

He stared back, confusion clouding his features, but he didn’t answer.

She tried again, her hands more forceful, each gesture sharp with urgency.

Who. Are. You.

He slowly shook his head, his voice soft, almost regretful.

“I don’t understand.”

She signed once more, her lips shaping the words, desperate for clarity.

“Who am I?” he asked, his tone hesitant, as if the question confused him just as much.

She tilted her head sharply, a flicker of something between curiosity and disbelief crossing her face.

His mouth parted slightly, as if caught in a dazed shock. But then, with a quick effort to regain control, his expression shifted to blankness.

“You know who I am,” he said, his voice cryptic.

She shook her head.

I don’t.

She tried again.

Who are you? What are you?

His brows furrowed in confusion, his lips pressed into a frown. “Could you write that down somewhere? It’s hard to read your lips from here.”

She shook her head again, frustration simmering beneath the surface. I’m not allowed to write on anything.

He squinted at her, his tone apologetic but still strained. “Sorry, I can’t understand you. Maybe try mouthing the words a little slower?”

She let out a frustrated whine, then froze, surprised. She had used her voice again.

Her gaze snapped to him, heart racing. Could she use her voice because of him?

She tried speaking, the sound little more than a whisper—a breath against her teeth. She could hardly believe it when the air actually moved, her voice timid and fragile.

She exhaled sharply, then gasped loudly, startling him.

“What? What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice tight with a mix of fear and confusion. He looked as though he might leap out of the frame.

It was such an unexpected sight, so at odds with his regal appearance, that she couldn’t help but laugh. Clear and bright—like a siren song—until her voice cracked, followed by a snort, which sent her into another burst of cackles.

So that was what her voice sounded like. It stunned her, hearing it for the first time after all this time. It felt… freeing. To use her voice. To hear it ring in her ears.

She let out another snort of delight, her fingers brushing lightly against her throat, still amazed by the sensation.

When her initial wave of delight subsided, she met his gaze again. His expression was soft, a gentle smile beaming at her.

The sight of him sent a sharp pang through her chest. He looked so familiar, as if she knew every freckle, every wrinkle on his face. As though she had memorized every curve and line of his face with her fingertips.

“What is your name?” she asked, her voice trembling and unsure.

He offered her a small, knowing smile. “You already know my name. You’ve said it before.”

She stared into his eyes—so deep, so endless—that she felt as if she were drowning in them.

“Rovin Artten,” she whispered, her voice barely a breath.

He closed his eyes, drawing in a deep, steadying breath.

“Yes,” he exhaled softly.

Her voice faltered as she asked, “What are you? Are you real?” The words hung between confusion and longing, caught in the pull of his unexplainable presence.

He parted his lips, the slightest flicker of movement as his tongue brushed over his bottom lip—so delicate, she would’ve missed it if she hadn’t been watching him so closely. He hesitated before answering, his voice barely above a whisper, “I’m not sure. I believe I am... a painting?”

He looked down at his hands. “I woke up like this. I don’t know how or why...”

He looked back at her, his gaze intense, searching. “Can you tell me where we’re at?”

She tilted her head, weighing his response carefully. You’re in Rowain’s castle.” She paused. “You must be familiar with it—your face looks like one of the noble portraits.”

He said nothing.

She pressed on, her curiosity growing. “What family do you come from? I’ve never heard of the Arttens before. Are you a distant cousin, perhaps?”

He only shook his head, his silence thick with unspoken words, offering no further explanation.

She frowned, frustration creeping into her voice. “Well, do you at least remember what happened before you became a portrait?” she snapped.

He shook his head again.

She threw her hands up, exasperated. “Is there anything you do know?”

“How old are you now?”

Her eyes widened, then narrowed. “And why is that important?”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and warm, almost nostalgic. “You were always as stubborn as a mule.”

She stared at him, incredulous. “You know who I am?”

His smile faltered as he straightened, deflecting. “Doesn’t everyone? You’re the heir to the Rumore family, daughter of Theora Rumore.”

She shook her head. “That’s not what I meant.”

He ignored her response, repeating, “How old are you now? Have you been officially appointed yet?”

She shook her head again. “No. Not yet. I turn nineteen next summer.”

He sighed, his voice soft. “So there’s a year left,” he murmured to himself, running a hand through his hair as if processing the thought.

His gaze softened, still sharp but contemplative, as though he was measuring each word and waiting for something from her.

After a long pause, he finally asked, “How did you find me?”

Blinking, she answered, “I was on my way to meet my friend, Jan, when the door to this room just... opened.”

She shrugged, attempting to act casual, though the pull toward him was growing unbearable, like fire licking at her skin. “I had to know what was inside.”

He narrowed his gaze, his voice sharp. “So you’ve never been in here before?”

His gaze pierced through hers, the air between them thick with tension, each second stretching longer than the last. She could feel her heart pounding, a steady rhythm she couldn’t quite control, yet she didn’t look away.

Why was she telling him all this? Every word she spoke felt like a crack in the walls she’d spent so long building. He hadn’t earned her trust, and yet, here she was—answering his questions, letting him peer into parts of her she’d kept hidden for years.

Why am I doing this? The thought nagged at her, but before she could fully process it, she found herself speaking anyway, despite the quiet voice inside urging her to stop, to guard herself.

“I didn’t even know it existed.”

He considered her, his intense gaze weighing her words.

“You were using signs before… is that—what changed?

She froze, unsure of how to proceed. Her words came cautiously, each one measured. “I can’t usually speak. I was born without a voice.” She paused, struggling to gauge the expression on his face. Then, as if forcing the truth from her lips, “I only found out I could talk in front of you.”

He looked... broken, his face crumpling as if her words had struck a raw nerve. He turned away, his gaze falling on his sword, the weight of the moment tracing delicate lines across his face, tension deepening the shadows. She ached to smooth the furrowed brow, but she didn’t move.

“You know why,” she said quietly.

He nodded, stiff and distant.

“And you won’t tell me?”

He sighed wearily, running a hand through his hair again, more roughly this time. “I don’t think that’s the best thing to do at the moment.” He paused, his gaze sharpening as he studied her. “Do you understand how to use your bloodline’s powers?” His tone was more serious now, his posture rigid as if bracing for her answer.

She considered for a moment, her gaze distant, as doubt crept in. Should she tell him everything? Was it even safe to admit what had happened? She let out a quiet breath, pushing the thought aside. The secret was already out—what more could she lose? A small sense of relief settled over her. It felt… refreshing, to finally tell someone, to speak her truth.

“In theory, yes, but I could never try it for myself.”

She hesitated, a faint frown tugging at her lips. “Except… today, I tried opening something with my thoughts, and it worked.” She shrugged, as if dismissing the moment as an anomaly. “But usually, it doesn’t work at all. I’m not sure how that happened.”

He nodded, his gaze steady. “You’re right, usually, you have to verbalize your wants for them to manifest. A brief flicker of something crossed his face—pain, raw and sudden—before he regained control. “Only a union between two noble families would grant you that kind of power.”

Her brow furrowed in confusion. “But I’m not married to the prince yet.”

He frowned, a shadow crossing his face. “The prince?”

She nodded, her words spilling out. “Prince Aiden Veron, heir to King Eero Veron of Rowain.”

His eyes darkened, the change in his expression like a thundering storm. A cold, controlled fury washed over him, and his posture snapped rigid.

“And you’re engaged to him?” His voice dipped, heavy with something unreadable.

She tipped her head, bewildered by the sudden shift in his demeanor. What had she said to unsettle him?

He stared at her for a long time before confessing, “There are days when it feels like time stretches on forever. Like I’ve lived through this moment more times than I care to count.”

She blinked. Was that how he knew about the room?

She gnawed at her lips. Had he been watching her somehow? Or did he just know more than he let on?

Was that why he felt so familiar?

She tilted her head, her brow furrowing. “Have we met before?”

“No,” he said, his voice tinged with sadness.

A quiet desperation hung in the air, and she felt an overwhelming urge to reach across the space between them and pull him out of it.

“Well,” she said playfully, trying to dispel the tension, “it’s nice to meet you, Rovin Artten,”

His eyes flickered, and then a smile curved his lips. “It’s good to see you, Arrella Rumore,” he said, his tone deep and measured. “The pleasure is entirely mine.”

She shivered, tugging her thin sleeves tighter around her arms. The sun had already begun to dip below the horizon, the sky darkening rapidly. The shadows in the room stretched longer, deepening with each passing minute.

She took a step toward the door, her mind telling her it was time to leave.

“Stay.”

She turned at the sound of his voice. His eyes were wide. The urgency in his tone caught both of them off guard. Her heart twisted again. She longed to stay, to learn every subtle detail of him, to savor the sound of his voice. Everything about him was so achingly familiar. It unnerved her, yet she couldn't resist the pull towards him.

“I should go,” she said, her words coming out weaker than intended. “It’s getting late, and I’m a little cold.”

“Stay,” he pleaded, his voice more insistent now. “There’s a hearth you can light. It’ll keep you warm.

She shook her head. “There’s nothing to light it with.”

“You don’t need it. Just say it.”

Dumbfounded, she processed his words. Then a wide grin stretched across her face. Without wasting another moment, she dashed toward the hearth, her excitement bubbling over. Pointing her finger dramatically, she called out with a steady voice, “With fire, ignite.”

Flames burst into the old logs, burning brightly. With a squeal, she turned around and looked at the portrait. At Rovin Artten.

“I did it! I made it light up!” she laughed.

"You did," he answered, his eyes briefly catching the light.

She laughed again, standing behind the umber sofa, her fingers brushing the dancing shadows that flickered with the flames. The light seemed to play with her hands, casting fleeting, whimsical shapes on the walls.

“Stay,” he asked again, eyes hopeful and gleaming like distant stars.

This time, she nodded with a smile.