Christiana's boots made soft clicks as she found her way into the garden. Her gaze drifted from one flower to another, a faint smile resting gently on her lips.
The air was cool and fragrant, carrying the delicate scent of blooming petals and freshly cut grass. Lanterns placed along the pathway cast a soft golden glow over the garden, illuminating the vibrant colors of the night-blooming flowers.
Her eyes settled on a deep blue rose, its petals rich and velvety under the dim light. She extended her fingers and caressed it gently, as though afraid it might fade at her touch. Slowly, she plucked it from its stem and brought it closer to her face, inhaling its subtle fragrance. Lowering it slightly, she continued to admire its beauty, turning it delicately between her fingers.
Then, softly, she began to sing—
"Flower, flower in my palm,
Bloom as you would in the soil,
Carve your unique petals,
And bring forth a sweet scent,
Paint yourself in rainbow—
Be a pleasant sight in my—"
Her voice trailed off abruptly.
She froze.
Standing not too far away, partially obscured by the shadows of the garden, was Lord Zachary.
Their eyes met.
"Oh, please do not stop because of me," he said, stepping slightly forward, his tone polite yet warm. There was a subtle appreciation in his voice, as though he had genuinely enjoyed the brief, unguarded moment.
A flicker of irritation crossed Christiana's features. She had come here to be alone—free from the stares, the expectations, the endless presence of others—and yet he had followed her, just as others had that evening.
Still, she maintained her composure.
"Is there something you need from me, Lord Zachary?" she asked, her lips forming a tight, controlled smile.
Lord Zachary paused.
Something in her tone made it clear—he had overstepped.
"No, my lady," he replied at once, offering a slight bow. "Forgive my intrusion."
Without another word, he turned and began to walk away, his footsteps fading softly into the night.
Christiana exhaled quietly, the tension in her shoulders easing only slightly.
She no longer felt like remaining in the garden.
Clutching the blue rose in her hand, she turned and continued deeper into the castle, her steps steady as she moved further away from the music, the crowd, and the watchful eyes that seemed to follow her everywhere she went.
The faint glow of candlelight guided Christiana's path as she continued deeper into the castle. The further she walked, the quieter her surroundings became, the distant sounds of music and chatter from the ballroom fading into a muted echo.
She turned down corridor after corridor, each passage more secluded than the last, until she finally slowed her steps. Something had caught her attention.
At the far end of the hallway, moonlight streamed through a tall, narrow window, spilling across the wall and illuminating what appeared to be a painting.
Drawn by curiosity, she approached.
Her blue eyes lingered as she took in the scene before her. The atmosphere here was different—still, almost untouched by time. The air felt heavier, quieter, as though the space had been forgotten by the rest of the castle.
She moved closer, her footsteps echoing softly against the stone floor until she reached a narrow passage branching away from the main corridor. Pausing, she glanced around, her curiosity deepening.
Along the walls, she noticed brushes and paint containers left behind in apparent haste. Some lay scattered on small ledges, others resting on the floor, as though the artist had abandoned their work mid-process.
Her brows furrowed slightly.
The place felt lived in once… yet long neglected.
Turning her attention forward again, her gaze settled on the first painting.
Her eyes widened.
It was a portrait of a dark-skinned man, his expression stern, almost commanding. The artist had captured him with remarkable precision—every contour of his face, every subtle shadow, carefully rendered. The lighting was masterful, highlighting the strength in his features while casting softer tones across the edges of the canvas.
Christiana reached out slowly, her fingers hovering before gently brushing against the surface.
The varnish felt aged beneath her touch, slightly worn and yellowed with time, confirming that the painting had been here for years—perhaps decades.
Her gaze lowered to the bottom of the frame.
There, beneath a thin layer of dust, an elegant inscription had been carefully written in calligraphic script.
She leaned closer, brushing away a bit of the dust to read it clearly.
"Collins Anderson."
Christiana's gaze shifted to the adjacent painting, and she was immediately struck by the contrast between the two subjects. The second portrait depicted another dark-skinned man, but this one wore a playful smile, his eyes sparkling with warmth and mischief. There was life in his expression—an ease that stood in stark opposition to the stern figure in the first painting.
As she studied it more closely, her breath caught slightly.
The resemblance was unmistakable.
Their features mirrored each other so closely it was almost uncanny—the same sharp jawline, the same structure of the nose, the same depth in their eyes. It was as though the same sculptor had carved them both from a single mold, only shaping them with different emotions.
"Could they be related?" she murmured under her breath, curiosity threading through her voice.
She leaned in slightly and blew gently across the surface of the frame. A thin layer of dust scattered into the air, revealing the inscription beneath.
"Malachi Anderson."
The name rolled softly off her tongue as realization dawned. A quiet murmur followed as her thoughts began to connect.
"Mmm… they must be related."
There was no denying it now. The resemblance, the shared surname—it pointed to something deeper. Brothers, perhaps. Or cousins bound closely by blood.
A strange pull settled in her chest.
She found herself drawn to the paintings—not just as works of art, but as fragments of lives long past. Who had they been? What stories had shaped the men behind these faces? And why had those stories been reduced to silent strokes of paint on canvas?
Her gaze drifted to the next portrait.
A chill crept up her spine.
The man in this painting bore the same unmistakable resemblance, yet something about him felt… different.
Still.
Cold.
His expression was neutral, almost eerily so. There was no warmth, no flicker of emotion—only a quiet, unsettling stillness that seemed to stare right through her.
Her eyes moved to the inscription.
"Anthony Anderson."
She spoke the name softly, but it lingered heavier in the air.
Unlike Collins' stern authority or Malachi's lively charm, Anthony's presence was unreadable. His face revealed nothing, his gaze offering no clue to the man beneath it. And yet, the resemblance tied them all together—the same bloodline etched into their features.
Christiana's brows furrowed, unease settling quietly beneath her curiosity.
Her attention shifted once more.
The next painting drew her in immediately.
This time, it was not a man.
A fair-skinned maiden gazed back at her, her vibrant blue eyes almost luminous beneath the soft light. Her hair, a striking shade of fiery red, cascaded elegantly around her shoulders, framing a face both delicate and strong.
Christiana felt an unexpected warmth rise within her at the contrast.
And yet… there it was again.
That same connection.
Subtle, but undeniable.
The high cheekbones, the gentle curve of the jaw, even the shape of her eyes—though softened—echoed the features of the Anderson men. It was as though the same lineage flowed through her veins, only expressed differently.
Christiana leaned closer, her voice barely a whisper.
"Anneria Anderson."
The confirmation settled heavily in her chest.
She belonged to them.
But how?
What had her place been among them? A sister? A daughter? Something more complicated?
Christiana's mind spun, weaving possibilities—stories of love, rivalry, betrayal… secrets buried beneath time and silence.
She was so lost in thought that she didn't notice the shift in the air behind her.
Until a voice spoke.
Low. Calm. Unsettlingly close.
"Far from home, are we?"
Her heart leapt violently into her throat.