Martha’s eyes widened momentarily, then she quickly composed herself.
“Oh, just a kid,” she replied curtly, not meeting Eiravyne’s gaze.
Eiravyne frowned slightly, sensing Martha’s evasion.
“He seemed… familiar. Who is he?”
Martha busied herself with adjusting the sheets on Eiravyne’s bed, pretending not to hear the question.
“It’s been a long day, Lady Eiravyne. You should rest now,” she said, her tone gentle but firm.
Eiravyne’s curiosity deepened, but she decided not to press further for the moment.
“Alright, Martha. Thank you.”
With a final nod, Martha left the room, closing the door softly behind her.
Eiravyne sat on her bed, her mind swirling with questions.
Who was the boy, and why was Martha so secretive about him?
As she settled into bed, Eiravyne couldn’t help but replay the brief encounter in her mind.
The child’s laughter, so pure and joyful, was a stark contrast to the dark and oppressive atmosphere she had come to associate with the mansion.
The boy had golden hair that shone like sunlight, cascading in soft waves around his cherubic face.
He wore the clothes of a noble child—a finely tailored tunic of deep blue velvet, adorned with silver embroidery, and matching trousers.
His shoes were polished to a shine, and a small, elegant pendant hung from his neck, catching the light as he moved.
What struck Eiravyne most were his eyes.
Unlike the bright, lively eyes one might expect in a child, his were dark, almost black, and held an intensity that seemed out of place on such a young face.
They were eyes that looked too familiar to her, as if she had seen them before in another context, another time.
Since arriving at the mansion, Eiravyne had never shared a meal with anyone.
She had always eaten alone, her solitary confinement emphasized by the isolation.
However, on this day, everything changed when Martha came hours later to announce that the Duke wanted her to join him for dinner.
Panic gripped her as she considered the invitation.
In Verdant Vale, she rarely joined family meals, only appearing when visitors were present.
She had expected similar treatment here, avoiding the intimidating presence of Ilkar as much as possible.
The thought of dining with him now felt like stepping into the lion’s den.
When Martha arrived to assist her, Eiravyne had to force herself to move.
Her legs felt like lead, and her hands trembled as she adjusted her dress.
She could barely concentrate on Martha’s calming words, her mind racing with worst-case scenarios.
Each step towards the dining room felt heavier than the last, her heart pounding in her chest like a drum.
As they neared the dining room, her breaths became shallow and rapid.
She could feel the beads of sweat forming on her forehead and the clammy sensation in her palms.
Eiravyne’s mind was a whirlwind of anxiety, imagining all the ways this dinner could go horribly wrong.
Her vision blurred slightly with the intensity of her panic, and she had to focus on Martha’s reassuring presence to keep moving forward.
Finally, they reached the grand doors of the dining room.
Eiravyne paused, her hesitation clear.
With a deep breath, she steeled herself and stepped inside, her body tense with dread and her heart still racing uncontrollably.
As Eiravyne entered the dining room, she was met with an opulence that contrasted sharply with her apprehension.
The table was adorned with fine silverware and crystal glasses, flickering candlelight casting shadows that danced across the polished wood.
At the head of the table sat Duke Ilkar Verenth, his presence commanding yet inscrutable.
Ilkar acknowledged her with a brief nod, his expression stoic and unreadable.
Martha guided Eiravyne to her seat opposite Ilkar, her hands steady despite the tense atmosphere.
The meal began without a word spoken between them, Martha serving dishes with practiced efficiency.
He ate in silence, his attention seemingly fixed on his plate, his every movement deliberate and controlled.
Eiravyne felt like an intruder in his world, her presence unnoticed except by Martha’s occasional glances.
Each minute stretched into an eternity as Eiravyne struggled to maintain her composure under Ilkar’s dispassionate gaze.
She dared not speak, afraid to break the silence that hung heavy between them.
The air was thick with unspoken tension, and the cold indifference emanating from Ilkar chilled her to the bone.
When the last course was finished, Ilkar rose abruptly from his seat, his dismissal palpable.
Without a glance in her direction, he left the dining room, leaving Eiravyne alone with Martha.
The maid cleared the table silently, her movements precise yet distant.
Eiravyne felt a mixture of relief and unease as she followed Martha back to her room.
The encounter had left her unsettled, realizing that in Ilkar’s presence, she was nothing more than a silent observer, an outsider in his world of power and privilege.
As Eiravyne returned to her room, the weight of the dinner with Ilkar still hung heavily on her mind.
Martha lingered as she tidied up, a slight tension in her movements that didn’t escape Eiravyne’s notice.
“Martha,” Eiravyne began tentatively, her voice hesitant.
“What was that all about?”
Martha paused in her task, her eyes meeting Eiravyne’s briefly before returning to folding the linens.
“What do you mean, my lady?” Her tone was neutral, carefully masking any hint of the tension that had permeated the dining room.
Eiravyne furrowed her brow, searching Martha’s face for any sign of understanding.
“Why was the Duke so… silent?” she pressed, her voice tinged with both curiosity and apprehension.
Martha hesitated, her fingers pausing momentarily on a folded sheet.
“The Duke….is not one for idle chatter or unnecessary interactions.”
“B-but why invite me to dinner then?” Eiravyne persisted, frustration and confusion knotting in her stomach.
“What does he want from me? I thought …I thought he only needed my …blood …so …why did he allow me to leave my room …and even join him to dinner !!”