The manor had been silent for years. Cedric Hart had grown used to the echo of his footsteps, the hollow creak of aging wood, the mournful whistle of wind through cracked windows. But tonight, the silence was different.
It watched him.
He stood by the hearth in his study, a glass of brandy in one hand, Lila's untouched letter from Lady Evelyne in the other. His fingers traced the embossed seal—a serpent coiled around a rose. Beautiful. Poisonous.
Much like the woman herself.
"Invitations from the Merrows always arrive with a knife under the ribbon," he muttered, setting the letter aside.
He took a sip of the brandy and grimaced. Even that had dulled. It used to taste like fire and citrus. Now it just reminded him how long it had been since anything he touched held value.
And now he was the one bringing value down.
The guilt clawed at him, quiet and constant. If Lila knew the full extent of what he'd done to preserve their name, the choices he made when she was still too young to understand court politics, when the pressure of bearing the Hart legacy had driven him into the hands of silver-tongued lenders and false friends she might never forgive him.
He'd sent letters to every surviving ally. Swallowed his pride. Even tried to arrange a politically favorable marriage for her when things grew desperate. But no one wanted a match with a dying house. No one except scavengers.
Until he came.
Adrian Blackwood.
Cedric had known the boy's father. Warborn, yes—but not heartless. Victor Blackwood had been hard, military to the bone, but honest in the way men born for battle sometimes were. Adrian, however, was different.
He was cold in ways even his father hadn't been. Calculating. And yet, beneath that… Cedric had seen something in his eyes when they first met.
Regret? Guilt? Affection?
He wasn't sure, and that terrified him more than anything.
Because if Adrian Blackwood did care for Lila—truly care—then the game had become far more dangerous than debt collectors and empty coffers.
It had become personal.
Later that night, Cedric wandered the halls, as he often did when sleep refused him.
He passed the east gallery, where portraits of long-dead Harts lined the walls. His ancestors looked down at him with paint-frozen scorn. Men and women of power. Warriors. Diplomats. Dreamers.
And now… him.
A man who couldn't even keep the roof from leaking.
He paused at a small door near the back of the hall—the old family vault. Locked now, sealed when Lila was a child. Inside were heirlooms, records, and one item he had sworn never to touch again:
A silver-bound journal with the Hart crest burned into the cover.
It belonged to her.
His wife. Lila's mother.
He clenched his jaw and turned away from the door. Not tonight. Not with ghosts so close to waking.
He found Adrian in the great hall, seated by the fire with a book in his lap. Not reading it just holding it, as if it might answer the questions he was too proud to ask aloud.
Cedric cleared his throat. "Can't sleep either?"
Adrian glanced up. "I don't sleep much."
Cedric crossed the room and sat across from him. For a while, neither spoke. Just the soft crackle of flame between them.
"You knew her mother," Cedric said eventually.
Adrian's eyes flicked to him, unreadable. "Briefly."
"She was... extraordinary," Cedric said. "Not just in magic. In conviction. She made people believe."
Adrian nodded. "I've heard the stories."
"I'm sure you have," Cedric said bitterly. "Legends are easier to remember than the woman who had to patch the roof herself when the staff fled."
Adrian gave a faint smile at that. "She died young."
"She died protecting something we didn't understand," Cedric said quietly. "Something tied to her bloodline. Something ancient."
There it was.
The unspoken truth.
The Hart line wasn't just noble it was marked. Tied to old magic that predated the Crown. It had always been rumored, but only the family truly knew.
And now Lila carried that legacy… alone.
"I need to ask," Cedric said suddenly. "What do you want from her?"
Adrian didn't pretend to misunderstand. "Everything," he said.
Cedric stiffened.
"I want her to survive," Adrian continued. "I want her to thrive. I want her to live free of this—of all of this. The debts, the politics, the bloodlines. I want to shield her from what's coming."
"And what exactly is coming?"
Adrian closed the book. "Lady Merrow isn't the only one sniffing around. The Arcanum knows. There are movements in the east. Lila is more than just the daughter of a fallen house. She's a thread in something bigger."
Cedric stared at the fire, dread curling in his stomach.
"I've made mistakes," he said. "But if you use her—if you treat her like a pawn…"
"I won't," Adrian said, standing. "Because she isn't one."
He left without another word.
Cedric remained there long after, alone with his thoughts and the fire's fading warmth.
He thought of Lila as a child, chasing fireflies in the orchard with her mother. He thought of the promise he'd once made to protect them both. One he'd failed to keep.
Now, he was being given another chance. Not by fate, but by a man he wasn't sure he trusted. A man too powerful, too secretive.
And yet… Cedric could not deny what he had seen in Adrian's eyes when Lila's name was spoken.
Not coldness. Not manipulation. But fear.
Fear of losing her. And perhaps, just perhaps, hope.