Elira stood still near the long windows of Blackvale Hall, watching the mist in the garden rise like slow-moving ghosts. The light from the chandeliers touched her skin, warm and soft, but inside, she felt cold.
She had never been to a place like this.
The marble floors. The gold-rimmed mirrors. The way everyone smiled with their teeth but not their eyes. This was not her world. She didn't even mean to be inside.
She was here to help Mrs. Gladstone, the old florist from the village. They had been placing the last white orchids near the bride's table when the music started. The crowd had begun to pour in, all laughter and heels and sharp suits. Somehow, Elira had gotten pushed into the ballroom. She should've gone back. But something told her to stay.
Something whispered, Look around. You're meant to be here.
She didn't believe in voices. Or signs. But she did believe in her dreams.
The ones where she was running barefoot through fire. The ones where a woman with silver eyes screamed her name. The ones with blood and a dagger wrapped in vines.
She had been having those dreams since she was seven—the year she was found wandering outside the orphanage gates with no memory of where she came from.
Now, at twenty-two, the dreams had grown stronger.
And tonight, standing inside this ancient manor, they felt closer than ever.
"Who's that girl?" someone whispered behind her. Elira heard them but didn't turn.
"No idea. Probably one of the workers. Pretty, though. Weird vibe."
She didn't care. She was used to stares. She was used to being the one people couldn't quite place.
She walked slowly away from the crowd, her eyes drawn to the far wall where a giant oil painting hung. It showed a man with dark hair and cold eyes, holding a dagger covered in rubies. He stood in front of Blackvale Hall—but the hall in the painting was darker, almost twisted, with crows flying above it.
The nameplate read:
Sir Alaric Knight, 1642.
Knight.
She had heard that name before. On the news. In books. On the lips of people in town when they spoke about money and power. The Knight family was old. Rich. Dangerous, some whispered.
The man in the painting looked like he could still step out of the frame and stab you without blinking.
Elira's hand moved to the ring on her finger—plain silver, with a tiny symbol etched inside. She had been wearing it since before the orphanage. She didn't know where it came from, but sometimes, it felt warm when she was in certain places.
Tonight, it was burning.
Her heart beat faster.
Why am I here?
Meanwhile, across the hall, Aaryan stood watching the girl again.
He had tried to focus on the speeches, on the laughter, on the dance floor. But his eyes kept returning to her. Something about her felt… wrong. Not in a bad way. Just not normal.
Like the air around her didn't follow the same rules.
He didn't believe in nonsense. He believed in money, power, control. But tonight, he felt something in his chest. Something that hadn't moved in years.
He took another drink and didn't look away.
Elira moved through the hall, past the laughing guests, toward a small door at the back. She didn't know why. Her legs felt like they were walking on their own.
The door creaked open into a narrow hallway. Quiet. Dusty. Lit only by candles.
She should have turned back.
But she didn't.
She walked until she reached another door—heavy wood, carved with symbols that made her head spin. She reached out. The ring on her finger glowed faintly.
She pushed the door open.
Inside was a room like nothing she had ever seen.
Stone walls. No windows. Just a round chamber with a single object in the center: a glass case.
Inside it lay a dagger.
Not silver. Not gold.
Black. With red stones embedded in the hilt. And something like old vines or roots wrapped around the blade.
As soon as she saw it, Elira froze.
Her chest tightened. Her vision blurred.
This is the dagger from my dream.
She couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Her hands trembled as the ring burned on her finger.
Her knees buckled. She fell to the cold floor.
And then she heard it.
A whisper.
Soft, female, ancient.
"Elira…"
In the ballroom above, Aaryan suddenly dropped his glass. It shattered.
He felt it. Something pulling at him. A thread in his blood. A hum in his bones.
He turned to look where the girl had stood—but she was gone.
His heartbeat quickened.
No one noticed.
But deep inside him, something old and sleeping had started to wake up.
In the secret chamber below, Elira's eyes opened wide. She was lying flat on the floor, her breath shallow. The room had grown colder. The dagger inside the glass case now glowed faintly, as if aware of her presence.
She stood up slowly.
Tears filled her eyes—and she didn't know why.
A name came to her lips, unspoken.
A name from the past.
And far above, Aaryan whispered the same name without realising:
"Elira…"
To be continued…