Embers in the Dark (3)

The sun had long since bled away below the horizon, leaving the sky a deep, bruised indigo.

Within Whitefield Manor, only the soft golden glow of oil lamps held the shadows at bay. A rising wind whispered against the tall windows, making the sheer curtains shiver like restless ghosts.

The study in the east wing was a tomb of silence.

Elise sat alone at her father's vast mahogany desk.

The space was preserved in amber, exactly as Count Sirius Whitefield had left it: the silver-trimmed quill tray aligned to a hair's breadth, the crimson-stitched armchair facing the cold, empty hearth, the brass clock on the mantle ticking with relentless, metronomic precision. It smelled of old leather, drying ink, and beeswax.

Her hands moved soundlessly, flipping through correspondence, reviewing ledgers, stamping approvals with a firm, final thump. She hadn't spoken a word in over an hour.

But her perfect posture had begun to fray.

She leaned forward, the slightest of slumps, her chin resting briefly against her gloved knuckles. The fingers of her other hand tapped a silent, erratic rhythm against the polished wood—tap, tap... pause... tap. The motion stilled, as if she'd caught herself, then resumed a moment later. Her gaze fixed on a line of figures, but her eyes were unseeing, staring straight through the page. The only sound that filled the study was the soft hiss of dying coals in the fireplace.

She reached absently for the teacup at the edge of the desk, her fingers brushing its porcelain side. It was cold. She had not drunk from it. She made a mental note to stop wasting tea like this.

She turned the cup a precise quarter-rotation, aligning the handle perfectly with the edge of the ledger, and set it back down.

The door creaked open.

"Evening, my lovely lady~"

Daisy peeked in, her cheerful smile a bright, foreign thing in the somber room. She balanced a fresh porcelain teacup on a lacquered tray, steam curling invitingly from its surface.

Elise didn't look up. "You're up late."

"No, you are," Daisy chirped, gliding into the room. The scent of chamomile and lemon followed her. "I was waiting for you to come up, but you never did, so I made this for you."

"There was no need."

"Well, I brought it anyway." She set the tray down gently and fished a sealed letter from her apron pocket. "Oh, and this came for you—courier brought it just before the outer gate closed. From Lord Whitefield."

Elise's hand stilled above the paperwork.

She took the letter, her movements suddenly sharp and efficient, and broke the wax seal with a clean snap.

The handwriting was unmistakably her father's—precise, slanted, austere, each letter a command.

Her eyes scanned the contents, once, then again, ensuring no nuance was missed.

Ensure Louis continues overseeing the monthly tithes for the northern tenants.

Remind Annabelle to resume her elocution training. Tell her not to overwork herself.

Have the west ledger sent to the bookkeeper by week's end.

I will be back in a fortnight.

That was all. Terse. Direct. A checklist of obligations. No signature. And no inquiry into her well-being.

She folded the letter neatly, once, then again, creasing the edges with her thumbnail until it was a perfect, sharp rectangle. She set it beside the cold teacup.

Daisy studied her quietly. "Did His Lordship say when he's coming back?"

Elise's gloved fingers pressed down on the letter, flattening it against the desk. "Two weeks."

"Hm, pretty soon," Daisy nodded, trying to inject optimism into the heavy air. "He's been gone for a while. Do you think he brought gifts?"

Elise didn't respond. She only sat utterly still, her gaze fixed on some point in the middle distance, her spine now rigidly straight, as if correcting its earlier lapse.

Two weeks. The words echoed in the silent room. She just had to maintain everything by herself for two more weeks. The topiary on the east lawn needs trimming. The west wing guest rooms must be dusted again. The Baron of Kalenrow's invitation requires a response—Louis will have to attend. Annabelle's lesson plans need reviewing. The guild's quarterly report is due. The... the...

"My ladyyy," Daisy waved a hand gently before Elise's unblinking eyes. "Shall we get you ready for bed? I've already drawn your bath and—"

Elise stood. The motion was so sudden and fluid it made Daisy startle back a step. She didn't look at her maid.

"...I am going for a walk."

Daisy blinked. "A... walk? But it's the middle of the night?"

Elise was already gathering the paperwork into a neat, punishingly square stack. She moved swiftly out of the study, her boots whispering on the rug. Daisy scrambled after her as she took the stairs to her bedchamber.

"W-wait, Lady Elise, it's dark! Wouldn't it be dangerous?" Daisy frantically asked, her voice pitching higher with worry.

Elise said nothing. She crossed to her dresser, pulled out her leather belt holster, and buckled it around her waist with practiced, almost violent efficiency. She moved to the engraved walnut cabinet near the hearth, unlocked it, and retrieved her revolver. The oiled click-clack of her checking the chamber was the only answer she gave.

"My lady!" Daisy tried again, wringing her hands. "You've been working all day. You need to rest! It's already past your bedtime!"

"I'll be quick," Elise said, her voice low and tight. She swept her midnight blue cloak from its stand and clasped it at her throat.

"Let me come with you! Or a footman! Did you tell Mr. Garen? Anyone?" Daisy followed her to the door, a frantic shadow.

Elise's pace didn't slow. She descended the stairs, a swirl of dark blue fabric and purpose. Hammond, making his final rounds, saw her approach and, reading her expression instantly, moved to open the grand front door without a word.

"Oh, Lady Elise, where are you—" he began, his voice laced with concern.

"At least bring someone with you!" Daisy called from the top of the stairs.

But her mistress was already gone.

.

.

.

The crisp aroma of decaying leaves and damp earth lingered in the night air. Above, an endless expanse of ink-black velvet was pierced by bright, cold stars. Islands of warm light pooled on the cobblestone streets of Cerulea where gas lamps flickered, their glow casting long, dancing shadows that swayed with the whispering breeze. The night was profoundly quiet, save for the distant hoot of an owl and the soft, scraping rustle of dry leaves sweeping past the heels of Elise's boots.

She walked with steady, unhurried steps, the familiar, comforting weight of her revolver a constant at her hip. Her midnight-blue cloak flowed behind her, concealing the sharp silhouette of her form as she moved through the sleeping town's arteries.

It was foolish to be out alone at this hour. Unwise for anyone to wander Duskmoore's streets after dark, let alone a noblewoman, even one who was arguably the most dangerous thing in the shadows.

Yet she walked anyway, compelled by a silent, immense pressure that gnawed at the edges of her mind, refusing her rest. Her feet carried her without conscious direction—just away.

The grand wrought-iron gates of Whitefield Manor loomed behind her now. At their base, nestled within the stone planters that lined the estate's borders, the famous blue roses bloomed. Their petals glowed with a faint, ethereal luminescence beneath the moonlight, a soft sapphire against the dark stone.

Her gaze lingered on them for a breath too long, her gloved fingers giving a faint, involuntary twitch at her side. Then, without a word, she turned and continued on, allowing the deep, consuming night to swallow her whole.

The town of Cerulea was a creature that never slept, only changed its skin. No matter how familiar its streets had become over the years, there was always some new detail, something subtly out of place. Her icy eyes catalogued the quiet town as she walked, noting every shift.

An old flower shop had been replaced by a modiste's boutique, its window now showcasing headless mannequins in silk dresses instead of fresh bouquets. The pub on the corner had a new sign, its faded wooden lettering replaced with gilded paint that gleamed obtrusively under the lamplight. Even the cobblestones seemed different, a section repaved and smoother underfoot, a change made in her absence.

She never had time to notice these things before. Not when her days were a mosaic of duty, every waking moment dedicated to a purpose other than her own observation. But now, beneath the isolating hush of midnight, with no one to pull her away or demand her attention, she could see Duskmoore for what it was—a living, breathing entity, evolving steadily whether she was watching or not.

A low murmur of voices interrupted her thoughts. Ahead, two figures approached, walking in tandem through the dim glow of the streetlamps. Their steps were measured and synchronized, and as they drew closer, the familiar violet hue of their coats identified them instantly.

Fellow hunters.

The older of the two, a man with severe, neatly combed dark hair and a veteran's weary eyes, met her gaze and inclined his head in a gesture of deep respect. "Lady Elise."

She offered a small, silent nod in return.

The younger man beside him seemed to be a recruit by the fresh, unweathered look of him. He stared at her, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and unease, his footsteps faltering. He had heard the stories, of course. Of Lady Elise Whitefield, the Porcelain Doll of Duskmoore. Her beauty was indeed as striking as the tales claimed—pale golden curls perfectly framing a face of delicate, symmetrical perfection, eyes the color of glacial ice.

Yet, there was something profoundly unnerving about her... a poise too exact, a grace too measured, a stillness that felt almost inhuman. She seemed less born and more... sculpted.

The older hunter noticed his partner's gawking and drove an elbow sharply into the younger man's ribs.

"Mind your manners," he hissed under his breath. Then, turning back to Elise, he put on a more formal voice. "Good evening, my lady. Are you heading somewhere specific? Do you require an escort?"

Elise simply shook her head. "No need. Continue your patrol."

He nodded. "Very well. Stay safe out here."

She watched them go, their muted conversation fading as they disappeared around a bend. Only when the sound of their footsteps had vanished entirely did she resume her walk, her fingers ghosting over the checkered grip of her revolver, soothed by the cool, polished wood beneath her touch.

"Bastards! Filthy, cheating bastards!"

The tranquil silence of the night was shattered by a slurred, furious roar.

"I'll kill 'em! I'll—hic—kill every last one of 'em!"

The voice erupted from a narrow alleyway ahead, thick with drunken rage. A loud crash followed—the explosive shatter of a bottle against cobblestone, glass skittering across the ground.

Elise's steps halted. Her fingers instinctively curled around the checkered grip of her revolver. The damp chill of midnight now carried a heavy, acrid stench of cheap whiskey and vomit. She took a silent step forward, her eyes narrowing to slits.

"Hey... hey, you." The voice dropped to a vulgar leer. "Where d'you think you're going, huh? Pretty little thing like you, all alone? What are you, some nobleman's lost pet?"

No other voice responded. Only a silence deeper than the night itself.

"C'mon, sweetheart. Don't pretend you don't hear me. Gonna walk away like you're better than me? Huh? I'm talkin' to you."

Still no response. Elise's brows furrowed slightly in cold disdain, walking faster.

"You think you're too good for me?! Too soft to fight back? I could take you right here—"

Another bottle exploded against the wall. Shards rained across the road.

"I said—don't fucking ignore me!"

The wind shifted.

The streetlamps above flickered. Once. Twice.

Then, one by one, they were snuffed out, as though pinched between invisible fingers.

Elise snapped her head up and looked around.

The entire street was plunged into darkness. All the lamps were extinguished.

Her breath hitched, every muscle in her body coiling tight.

The air turned frigid. A cold that bit to the bone.

She clenched her jaw and ran forward, her boots deliberately making no sound on the damp stone.

"You think... you think you're too good for me, don't ya?!" the man bellowed, his voice echoing in the confined space. "Get back here, you little... you—you—"

There, at the mouth of the alley, she caught a glimpse.

An unshaven man swaying about with a bottle in hand, eyes bloodshot with fury.

And facing him, a towering silhouette deeper within the shadows, utterly still, a void of absolute darkness.

The drunk made a furious and clumsy lunge.

Suddenly—

A flash of motion.

No sound. No warning.

A silver gleam cut the air like moonlight on a blade.

Schlk.

A wet, sickening tear. The sound of a seam ripping—but the fabric was flesh, the thread was sinew, the button was bone.

Elise's world narrowed to that single, horrifying point.

The man's head separated from his body with an unnatural, graceful ease. A precise, effortless severance, as if the air itself had sharpened into a blade.

For a single, suspended heartbeat, the head hung in the moon-sliced darkness. Time stretched, distorted, as if unsure how to proceed. The drunk's face was frozen in a mask of mid-curse fury, his eyes wide with a dawning realization that would never fully form. The sound of his last word seemed to still vibrate in the air.

Then, gravity reasserted its claim.

The head dropped, striking the cobblestones with a thick, wet thump, like a overripe melon hitting the ground. It bounced once, a grotesque parody of life, before rolling to a stop against the alley wall, its glassy eyes staring into a void only it could see.

The body remained standing for another impossible second, a fountain of arterial blood already welling at the neck. Then it crumpled, collapsing into itself like a puppet with its strings cut, hitting the ground with a heavy, final thud. Blood gushed in rhythmic, violent pulses from the stump, painting the cobblestones and brick walls in hot, glistening crimson.

A fine mist of warm, coppery blood settled on the air.

A single, fat droplet spattered across Elise's cheek, shockingly warm, starkly metallic against her chilled skin.

She stood utterly frozen, her breath trapped in her chest.