The carriage rattled through the damp roads that led out of Greenmere, its wheels clattering over the cobblestone and dew-soaked soil. Mist hung low over the forest, veiling the trees and all the secrets hiding within.
Inside, Dorian sat back against the seat, eyes half-open. Though his chest was heavy with grief, a strange calm settled over him. As a psychoanalyst, the contrast amused him faintly. It felt as though his emotions weren't entirely his own.
"I'm used to treating people like this," he thought, "not becoming them."
The gold band in his palm was cold. It hadn't moved. It hadn't pulsed or changed.
But it felt like an answer.
He thought of Elara—how her laughter used to echo in the tiled kitchen of their Greenmere home, how she stood barefoot in their garden after rain, always drawn to silence and soft things. Her presence had been quiet, but firm.
He looked out the window as droplets traced paths down the glass. Trees blurred past—wet trunks, tangled branches, moss-covered roots.
The forest kept its silence.
By the second hour of the ride, he had stopped trying to think clearly. Every memory led into fog. Conversations with Elara seemed frayed at the edges, like old letters half-dissolved in water. Even her face, usually burned bright in his mind, was starting to slip from clarity, replaced by impression and sensation—the slope of her collarbone, the warmth of her breath.
It scared him.
So he clutched the ring tighter, as if it could anchor him.
By mid-morning, Norin's western gate came into view — tall dark walls, fortified towers, iron sigils glinting beneath the golden sun. Norin, the capital of Velora, stood like a watchful guardian between Windcrest and Blackspire, two jagged mountain ranges. Smoke curled from forges, bakeries, and steam-labs. The palace rose high in the city's heart.
From a distance, Norin was the same.
But Dorian was not.
The journey had drained him. He'd travelled to the town of Sylven, then two days on the locomotive, cutting through mountains and woods and now, as soon as the carriage halted inside the city walls, he stepped off and sprinted toward the Velhart estate, ignoring Lutger calling out for him to stop.
He didn't wait. He didn't rest.
In Norin's finest district, Arthurena, one where the higher society of Norin resided, the Velhart Mansion stood sharp and pale, quiet and noble. A broad green lawn spread before it; A fountain burbled gently.
To others, it was just a nobleman's estate.
To Dorian, it was home. The one where he spent his childhood with his family.
He pushed past the gate, into the main hall. His breath was ragged.
"Inform my father," he told the maid. "Now."
Alric Velhart stood by the window, back turned, hands clasped. He turned slowly as the door shut.
His face held no surprise.
"You arrive unannounced," he said. "Is something wrong?"
Dorian swallowed. "Yes." A pause. "She's gone."
"Who?"
"Elara."
Alric didn't move. Didn't blink.
Dorian stepped forward. "You know who she is. Please. Tell me you remember."
"No," Alric replied. "I don't."
A part of Dorian broke.
"She was my wife," he said. "My wife, Father."
"You were never married," Alric said calmly. "I'd remember."
He moved to the desk, poured water, and drank. Dorian was offered none.
"She lived with us for a year, then with me in Greenmere for more than half a year. You met her. You gave us the ring."
"Dorian..." Alric placed his hands on the desk. "You've been under a lot of pressure. You're exhausted. You always had an active mind, you—"
"Enough." Dorian pulled a velvet pouch from his coat. From it, the gold ring.
He placed it on the desk.
Alric went silent.
He stared at it.
Something flickered across his face. Not confusion.
Something colder.
And then it was gone.
"That ring," he said slowly. "It was your mother's. You must have taken it."
Dorian shook his head. "You gave it to me. For her, for Elara."
Alric stared dead at his son, his fierce blue eyes locking onto Dorian's.
"I don't want to talk about this now. We'll speak tomorrow. You need rest."
"No," Dorian pressed. "You remember. I saw it. When you looked at the ring—"
"I was reminded of your mother," Alric said sharply. "That's all."
"You're lying."
"Stop deluding yourself," Alric snapped. "Leave."
A silence heavier than before filled the room.
Alric turned back to the window.
Dorian didn't move. He stared at his father's back.
In that moment, something changed.
Not in the ring. Not in the room.
Inside him.
His father was lying.
Which meant there was something worth hiding.
That night, in his quiet room, Dorian sat on the bed. The ring lay on the table beside him.
He had locked the door behind him—not out of fear, but instinct. The kind that comes when something no longer fits within the bounds of reality.
The light from the oil-lamps painted long shadows across the wall. The ring caught it briefly, flaring gold, before dulling once more to its inert, soundless self.
He'd thought of confronting his father again. Screaming if he had to. Shaking him. Demanding the truth. But something deeper inside him whispered no—It was a warning, to him from something within himself.
He knew the way Alric avoided the topic, the mechanical shift in tone when Elara's name was spoken. The cold flash in his eyes as he stared at the ring.
And that flicker.
A memory?
No.
Terror.
Dorian stared at the ring now, as if it could offer answers directly.
But it only stared back.
His thoughts grew heavy, collapsing into silence. His limbs ached, his clouded mind clearing under the effects of exhaustion, he lay down, spine against cool linen, one arm draped toward the table.
Sleep took him slowly—like ink bleeding across a page.
He dreamt of dust falling through his fingers. Of windows cracking without a sound. Of Elara's voice, faint, near yet far.
When he woke, the room was still.
The ring was no longer on the table.
It was on his finger.
And he didn't remember putting it on.