The Blackwood estate rose from the hillside like something torn from the bones of an ancient beast—tall, angular, all sharp corners and black stone. Its towers pierced the sky like jagged teeth, and vines of silverthorn wrapped around its gates, blooming with pale blossoms that shimmered in the dusk light. Even the air felt different here. Heavier.
As the Hart family carriage rolled up the gravel path, Emma kept her expression composed, her gloved hands folded neatly in her lap.
Inside, she was screaming.
Why am I here? What do they want from Lila Hart?
She'd played this scene out in her head a hundred times, and in none of them did it end well. But the truth was simple: someone had changed the story. And that meant the rules had changed, too.
She was no longer invisible.
The footman opened the door, and Emma stepped down, her heeled boots crunching against the gravel. Her gown was dark emerald velvet, cut in the modest Hart fashion—simple, elegant, unassuming. Marah had woven tiny white flowers into her hair, and a black ribbon tied them off at the nape of her neck.
She looked like a background character still.
But if she wanted to survive this, she'd need to start thinking like a main character.
Inside, the Blackwood manor was even more intimidating. The ballroom shimmered with obsidian chandeliers and crimson drapery. Musicians played a haunting string ensemble from an upper alcove. Nobles circled like vultures in glittering silks, fanning themselves, smiling with their teeth.
Emma took it all in without blinking.
"Lady Hart," announced the steward at the top of the marble staircase. "Daughter of Baron Frederick Hart."
Heads turned.
Only a few, but enough.
She descended slowly, one hand on the polished black railing, and resisted the urge to shrink under the sudden attention. She was a minor noble. No one cared about her. That was good. That was safe.
So why did it feel like every shadow in the room was watching her?
She crossed the ballroom floor, stopping at the refreshments table, and let the crowd blur around her. She spotted a few familiar faces—characters from the book, each more dangerous than the last.
Lord Darius Renwick, the power-hungry Minister of Trade.
Viscount Aerlin, one of the Crown Prince's bitter rivals.
And even, briefly, a glimpse of Princess Seraphina, radiant in silver and blue, laughing quietly with her handmaidens. Her hair was like fire in candlelight. She hadn't noticed Emma.
Good, Emma thought. Let's keep it that way.
She turned back to her goblet of sparkling cider and froze.
He was there.
Standing at the far end of the room, his back to the crowd, speaking quietly with two other noblemen. Tall, broad-shouldered, clad in black lined with silver embroidery. His hair was as dark as night, cut short and slightly tousled, and his presence seemed to drain color from the air.
Adrian Blackwood
The heir to House Blackwood. The Warborn Duke. The man who could kill with a glance or save an entire battalion with a whisper.
Emma's blood went cold.
The last time she saw him—on the page, not in person—he'd been kneeling in a pool of blood, gripping the lifeless body of someone he loved, cursing the gods who had made him.
He wasn't meant to meet Lila Hart.
And yet, as if pulled by an invisible thread, Adrian turned.
Their eyes met across the ballroom.
It was only for a second.
A flicker.
But in that second, something changed.
His expression didn't shift. He didn't smile, or frown, or narrow his eyes. He simply watched her.
Like he recognized something.
Like he knew.
Emma turned away fast, too fast, and pretended to admire the string ensemble. Her heart pounded so loudly she was afraid people would hear it.
What did he see? Why did he look at me like that?
She barely noticed as someone approached from behind.
"Lady Hart?"
She jumped slightly and turned to see a young man with reddish-brown curls and warm eyes, dressed in a muted blue coat.
She blinked. Theo Greaves.
A minor character. Son of a noble from the western territories. Friendly, likable, destined to fall for a merchant's daughter and elope. Harmless.
"Yes," she said, smiling. "That's me."
"I thought so," he said with a sheepish grin. "We met once, years ago. At the autumn hunt?"
She had no idea.
"Of course," she lied smoothly. "How could I forget?"
He looked relieved. "I'm glad you're here. I barely know anyone else, and frankly, this place is terrifying."
Emma laughed, and it wasn't fake. "You're not wrong."
Theo offered her his arm. "Would you like to escape the suffocating nobility for a walk through the conservatory?"
She hesitated.
It was a small detour. A harmless conversation. And she needed time to think.
"I'd love to," she said.
The Blackwood conservatory was a vast glass structure attached to the eastern wing, filled with exotic plants and glowing crystal lanterns. The air was warm and fragrant with the scent of moonvine and fire-lilies.
They wandered slowly between the flora, Theo chatting about nothing in particular—books, horses, the upcoming eclipse.
Emma tried to listen, but her thoughts drifted again and again to Adrian Blackwood's expression.
He hadn't looked surprised to see her.
He'd looked... prepared.
As if he'd known she would be there.
And then, something flickered at the edge of her senses.
A chill.
A hum.
Like the voice from her dream, but subtler.
Her footsteps slowed.
"Do you hear that?" she asked quietly.
Theo paused. "Hear what?"
Emma turned slowly, scanning the garden. Something shimmered briefly at the far edge of the path. A distortion in the air, like heat off stone.
She stepped forward—and the feeling vanished.
Nothing. Just nerves. Just shadows.
"Sorry," she said quickly. "Thought I saw a... spider."
Theo chuckled. "Nature's fiercest foe."
She smiled, but her thoughts were racing.
Whatever was watching her that night in her dream… it wasn't just a dream. It was still watching. Still waiting.
And now, even the flowers at House Blackwood seemed to know her name.