Chapter 114

“It would be best if you regained those erased memories quickly. Otherwise, that demon will devour you whole.”

The voice was as foul as the wet chuckle that followed it. The figure of smoke uncoiled from around her body and slithered back, withdrawing like a serpent.

“You must return to me. Without fail.”

Elena could only stare, dazed, as the black shape writhed and slipped away, vanishing out through the open window. Only then did she notice the lingering reek of death clinging to the air around her. The thing that had taken shape from roiling smoke had carried no warmth, and yet each time it brushed against her body, it had felt horribly human, as though actual hands were stroking her. Just recalling that sensation was enough to send a thousand goosebumps racing up her arms and neck, until even blinking or drawing breath felt impossible.

Marten was watching her. He had stood silently through it all, his gaze fixed on her alone. The shock was so great that Elena had forgotten entirely that he was still inside the room. Only when their eyes met did the reality strike her. Since when… since when had he been standing there? Her mind went white, empty of any thought.

The door exploded open with a violent crash. Thunder itself seemed to strike as Kennard strode in, clad in formal attire.

He wore a long white silk vest tinged with beige beneath a frock coat, its surface embroidered with intricate patterns of silver thread. Around his throat glittered a heavy cravat, extravagant in design. The ensemble was dazzling, almost blinding, and yet against the chill gleam of his golden eyes it only heightened the cold air radiating from him.

Elena gaped, stunned, until she saw the others crowding in behind him—Serin, Cura, and Luna. The two young women looked at her with faces tight with worry.

“Where is the other one?” Kennard’s gaze, lethal as a drawn blade, cut across the room, sweeping past Elena before fixing squarely on Marten.

“The other one? Kennard, what are you talking about? As you can see, it’s been just the two of us here.” Marten gave a startled laugh, as if the very suggestion were absurd.

“The trace of it still lingers clear as day, and you think to lie to me?” Kennard’s voice broke into a roar.

Elena knew he had felt it too. How could he not? That stench of death still coiled faintly in the air.

“Who was here?” he demanded, his burning eyes shifting from Marten to her.

Elena could not bring herself to answer. To tell Kennard that a nameless figure had come for her would mean confessing the words it had whispered as well.

“No one… no one came,” she forced out, swallowing hard and speaking with a show of calm she did not feel.

But Kennard’s eyes only darkened, suspicion flashing like lightning. He looked angrier for her denial.

“You’ve gone blind with jealousy,” Marten said with a smirk, his tone mocking. “Kennard, a man who clings so tightly ceases to be attractive. What will you do if Elena grows tired of you?”

Kennard crossed the room in a blur and seized Marten by the collar, fury in every line of his body. “What did you do?” he snarled.

Marten staggered, gripping the window frame to steady himself. “Really now. Is this how you treat someone who dressed up for your ceremony? You mean to ruin my clothes?” He clicked his tongue, catching Kennard’s wrist.

“Keep flapping that tongue, and you’ll only hasten your death,” Kennard growled.

“Easy, easy. Do you really want blood spilled on a day like this?” Marten raised both hands in mock surrender, still smiling faintly.

Kennard glared at him for a long moment, the sound of a growl rumbling up from his chest. Finally, with a sharp shove, he flung Marten back and barked, “Serin.”

“At once, Your Grace.”

Even before the words had faded, Serin was gone. His body rippled into that of a wolf, and without a single pause he bounded across the room and launched himself out the open window.

Elena gasped and flinched. They were on the fourth floor. The drop was enormous. How could he leap without hesitation?

Marten straightened his coat with a murmur. “So noisy.”

“You followed me here because you thought I’d lay hands on your woman?” he went on. “Whatever scent you noticed must have blown in from the open window.” Each word was drawn out, deliberate, as he studied Kennard. Then, with languid calm, he turned and pushed the window closed, as if to erase the moment entirely.

“See? I’m still standing well apart. If I’d meant to seduce her, I would already have her in my arms.”

Kennard’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Whom did you invite in, behind my back?”

“How many times must I say it? There was no one. You’re far too sensitive. I came only to offer Elena my congratulations.”

“By knocking unconscious the man I assigned to you?” Kennard’s voice dripped venom.

Marten leaned against the window, folding his arms. “You know better than anyone that I can’t abide having my movements restricted. Why pretend otherwise?” He sighed dramatically and flicked open his fan. The lace at its edge rippled as he shook it idly before his face.

Kennard’s fury flared hotter. “Why do you persist in scraping at my nerves?”

The air in the room turned heavy, suffocating, taut as a drawn blade. Even standing apart, Elena could feel Kennard’s rage like a fire against her skin. It pressed down upon her chest, choking her breath. And all the while, the stranger’s words—Elena Rosou. That is your true name.—swirled through her mind, over and over, until her vision blurred.

Her knees weakened. She gripped the folds of her dress tightly, closing her eyes against the spinning haze.

“Lady Elena,” Cura exclaimed, rushing to her side as she saw the blood drain from her face. “Are you all right?”

But Kennard was already there, faster than anyone. In an instant he had closed the distance, catching her and guiding her head against his shoulder. His voice, low and tender, brushed her ear. “Are you unwell?”

“It’s only a moment’s dizziness,” she whispered.

The words came out automatically, but unease crawled in her chest. Normally his arms were her refuge, a place of safety. Yet now she felt restless, uncomfortable even, leaning into him.

Elena Rosou. Was that truly my name? Did he already know? And what did it mean—that I erased my own memories? The questions gnawed at her like worms burrowing through her thoughts, returning again and again until they stung her nerves raw. Anger prickled at the edges of her mind, sudden and foreign, and she hardly recognized herself.

She pushed gently against Kennard’s chest and lifted her head, avoiding his gaze. He studied her intently, but she turned her eyes down, unwilling to meet his.

“Are you certain you’re all right? If you feel unwell, we can delay the ceremony,” he said.

She hesitated, the thought rising like a stone lodged in her throat. Can I truly go through with the wedding like this?

Marten’s voice cut through the silence, derisive and sharp. “Such fuss. And what of the guests? Do you mean to keep them waiting? Every noble out there is desperate to know who stole your heart.”

He hummed as he crossed the room, fanning himself and casting sidelong glances their way. Kennard’s eyes followed him, cold and slitted.

“Congratulations on your marriage, Lady Elena,” Marten said brightly. He paused at the open doorway, turning back with a smile. Lifting his fan, he tapped twice against his temple.

No one else would have thought the gesture strange. But Elena felt the meaning strike her like a blow.

Regain your memories.

***

The ceremony was held in the castle’s garden.

She had hardly seen the place since arriving here. Though far smaller than the sprawling grounds of Terra Demorte, it was by no means modest. Flowers and jewels had been woven into garlands along the castle wall, white banners cascading like waterfalls. Petals whirled up into the sky with each breath of wind.

Music filled the air—measured, graceful, yet brimming with a quiet joy that stirred the heart.

The garden was overflowing, nobles packed so tightly that there was no room for a single additional step. Each was adorned as brilliantly as the next, jeweled and perfumed, a riot of color that dazzled the eye.

Elena walked slowly down the long colonnade that opened onto the garden, her arm guided by Kennard. The chiffon lace trailing from her back to the ground tugged at her with every step, its weight reminding her of the ceremony’s gravity. Her hair, usually left to fall free, had been braided and piled into an elaborate knot, crowned with a tiara of diamonds. Around her neck and ears gleamed rubies and diamonds strung like a net, setting off the pale delicacy of her throat.

The lingering taint of death still clung faintly to her, but Cura had anointed her hair and nape with fragrant oils at Kennard’s command, and the scent had nearly been washed away.

Everywhere she passed, jaws fell open. A noble nearly choked on his wine, coughing into his goblet.