As the sunlight filtered into the room, I found myself face to face with an imposing figure seated on one of the sofa seats. His black hair, now tinged with ashen gray, hinted at a lifetime of experience and wisdom gained through years of rigorous training.
He handed the newspaper to a servant before fixing his gaze upon me. "Sit down, Elysia," he commanded, his voice carrying the weight of authority.
Quickly obeying his directive, I took a seat across from him, doing my best to maintain eye contact despite the intensity of his gaze. His eyes, a faded shade of amethyst, bore into mine with an incredulous glare that sent a shiver down my spine.
"What are you doing?" he demanded, his tone sharp and accusing.
My mind raced as I struggled to formulate a response. Sitting down? Wasn't that what he had asked me to do? Confusion clouded my thoughts as I searched for an explanation, unsure of what I had done wrong to warrant such a reaction.
As I opened my mouth to respond, he preemptively dismissed any excuses with a wave of his hand. "Let us not waste time on excuses. I have something to discuss," he declared, his tone brooking no argument.
Reaching for a letter resting on a tray provided by a nearby servant, he continued, "As you know, the social season is nearing. Now that you are 16 years old, you can now attend and debut in the upper echelons of society." With a deliberate motion, he extended the letter toward me, the seal bearing the insignia of an eagle clutching a snake in its talons.
"You will be given additional lessons and classes to prepare for it," he continued, his gaze piercing as he met my eyes with a stern look. "Do not disappoint the family and dishonor the duchy."
With a suddenness that startled me, he rose from his seat, signaling for the doors to be opened by a servant. "Seeing as you did not greet me properly, you are to study etiquette until late at night," he decreed, his voice leaving no room for argument as he exited the room, leaving me to ponder the weight of his words.
As the Duke strode out of the room, leaving me alone with the unopened letter, I felt a surge of apprehension wash over me. With a hesitant hand, I reached for the paper-knife that one of the housekeepers had offered me, silently thanking her for the gesture.
To my surprise, the housekeeper let out a short gasp, as if my gratitude were unexpected. I raised a curious eyebrow, puzzled by her reaction. It seemed she was taken aback by my simple expression of thanks, her demeanor shifting as she realized her lapse in protocol.
Quickly regaining her composure, the perturbed housekeeper bowed slightly once again, muttering a silent apology as she retreated several steps backward to her previous position. I couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for her discomfort, realizing that even the smallest deviation from proper etiquette could have unintended consequences in such a rigidly structured environment.
With a resigned sigh, I turned my attention back to the letter in my hand, steeling myself for whatever revelations or responsibilities it might contain. As I carefully sliced through the purple wax seal with the paper-knife, I couldn't shake the feeling that my life was about to change in ways I had never imagined.
As I gazed at the letter, adorned with its elegant gold envelope and the distinctive purple wax seal bearing the insignia of the Havan family, a sense of apprehension washed over me. This was no ordinary correspondence—it was a missive from the royal family, a symbol of prestige and power.
With a tentative hand, I reached for the paper-knife, intending to open the letter and uncover its contents. But in my haste, my clumsy forefinger found itself in the path of the blade, resulting in a sharp prick of pain and a streak of red.
The sudden commotion drew the attention of the servants in the room, their panicked inquiries blending in a cacophony of concern. But despite their frantic efforts to assist me, my mind was elsewhere, consumed by the weight of the letter in my hand and the mysteries it held within.
As I clenched my injured finger, the pain served as a stark reminder of the gravity of the situation. This was no dream—this was reality.
As the pain throbbed in my finger, confusion and fear clouded my thoughts. Why did I feel pain if this was supposed to be a dream? Was I trapped in some sort of twisted reality? What the hell was happening to me?
My breath quickened, and beads of sweat formed on my palms as the weight of the situation bore down on me. The air felt thick, and suffocating, and every sound and every sensation seemed amplified, overwhelming my senses.
A whir of static buzzed in my ears, growing louder and more insistent with each passing moment. A numbing headache seized hold of me, intensifying until it felt as if my skull would split apart. And then, with a disorienting rush, darkness descended once again, enveloping me in its cold embrace as consciousness slipped away. Again.
