Chapter 137: A Voice In The Wind

Ilaria had been told the honeyed chestnut tarts were Stormlow’s pride, and after the first bite she understood why.

The pastry was delicate enough to crumble at the slightest pressure, its golden crust giving way to a soft filling that carried the warmth of roasted chestnuts and winter honey. For a brief, blissful moment, the noise of the ballroom faded entirely as she closed her eyes and savoured it.

“Oh,” she murmured softly, almost to herself.

Across the table, the Marchioness Elowyn laughed behind her fan. “I take it the Countess was not exaggerating?”

“Not at all,” Ilaria admitted, taking another small bite with the kind of quiet delight she rarely bothered hiding. “This might be the best thing I’ve tasted since arriving in Noctharis.”

I have to ask the chef for the ratio of salt in this, she thought. Levan would love this with a dark roast coffee.

The ladies around her laughed warmly, the earlier tension from Seraphine’s intrusion already dissolving into something far more comfortable. But even as Ilaria smiled and listened to their chatter, she slowly began to realize something.

The ballroom had changed. It was subtle at first, nothing more than a lingering glance here and a lowered voice there. But the longer she stood among the banquet tables, the more she could not ignore how the people were literally watching her. Not the curious looks she had noticed earlier when she first entered the hall.

These were different.

The whispers were quieter now. The bows deeper. Conversations paused when they passed. And when she looked up from her plate, she caught more than one noble quickly pretending they had been studying the chandeliers instead.

She laughed again when the Duchess said something about the pastries, but her mind had already drifted elsewhere.

The entire court was looking at her with a kind of tension that had nothing to do with the conversation at the table, but everything to do with the past that had just brushed shoulders with the present.

A small flicker of self-consciousness rose in her chest. It was not unpleasant exactly… but it felt strangely heavier than the attention she was used to. Ilaria had never been uncomfortable beneath curious eyes, yet tonight every glance seemed to linger just a little longer than it should. Especially after her interaction.

Her fingers moved absently toward the delicate chiffon near her shoulder.

“Ah—” she said suddenly, blinking down at the fabric.

The lace had shifted slightly where it draped along her arm, the clasp no longer sitting quite where it should.

Lady Stormlow noticed. “Is something wrong, Your Highness?”

“Nothing serious,” Ilaria replied quickly with a small, apologetic smile. “I believe the clasp has come loose. Would you excuse me for just a moment?”

Lady Stormlow’s expression turned into immediate concern. “If the clasp has shifted, I can have one of the attendants escort you to a private sitting room. It would be far more comfortable to fix it properly there.”

“That is very kind of you,” Ilaria said softly, shaking her head. “But it truly is nothing serious. The terrace will be perfectly fine. After all, I… I find I’ve grown a bit too warm from the excitement. I just need a moment of air before we sit for the feast.”

The hostess studied her for a brief second before inclining her head in understanding. “Of course. The terrace is just beyond that corridor. But do not be long, the Lord will call the procession soon, and the Prince’s eyes are already searching for you.”

Ilaria dipped her head gratefully before slipping away from the banquet tables.

The moment she stepped beyond the warmth of the ballroom, the music softened behind her like a distant echo. The corridor was quieter, the lanterns dimmer, and by the time she pushed open the tall glass doors leading to the terrace, the cold night air wrapped around her like a welcome sigh.

Ilaria pressed her palm lightly against the lace at her shoulder, adjusting the delicate clasp until it settled with a soft click. Then her fingers smoothed a stray curl back into place, careful not to disturb the small silver pins that held her hair in its neat coils.

For a moment, she simply allowed herself the cold air, letting it seep into her lungs and strip away the faint heat that still lingered from the crowded ballroom. But even as she exhaled, her mind refused to let the night’s events drift away.

She replayed Seraphine’s poised, deliberate words, the way the noblewoman had walked into the circle as if every eye in the room was hers to command. And then she remembered her own voice, small but unwavering, the way she had grasped Lady Stormlow’s arm and spoken for her.

Was it alright?

Ilaria tilted her head, catching the reflection of moonlight in the terrace doors. She had spoken as herself, and yet the echoes of the court’s rigid expectations still lingered like an invisible pressure. Speaking up for Stormlow had felt natural, but what of the whispers now already rippling through the nobles? Had she overstepped, or worse, misstepped?

Her fingers lingered on the silver clasp for a heartbeat longer before letting it rest. The soft click of the mechanism settling into place felt oddly satisfying, as if setting her dress right might somehow set her own thoughts right too.

She pressed the tips of her fingers to the back of her hair again, rearranging a loose curl that threatened to escape. The faint scent of winter air mingled with the faint traces of honey and pastry still clinging to her hands, grounding her.

Though even as she focused on the minutiae of her wardrobe, her mind wandered, circling the same thought. So when the wind off the terrace stirred the hem of her gown, she stepped closer to the edge, letting the city lights of Obsidianhold glimmer beneath her like distant stars.

For a long while, Ilaria simply stood there, leaning lightly against the stone railing. The cold seeped through the silk of her gloves, a grounding bite that anchored her to the present as she drew in the crisp, nocturnal air. Out here, the ballroom was nothing more than a ghost of a sound.

she exhaled, watching the mist of her breath vanish into the moonlight. her gaze drifted upward, idly tracking the rhythmic sway of the iron lanterns hanging from the terrace arches. They moved with the wind, casting lazy, golden halos that danced against the ancient stone.

One lantern, however, refused to follow the rhythm.

It swayed once. Twice. And then, it stopped mid-motion, as if held by an invisible hand.

The flame inside did not just flicker, it recoiled. The golden light shriveled into a thin, trembling thread of violet-blue before flaring upward with a sudden, silent violence.

A chill that had nothing to do with the winter frost prickled the back of Ilaria’s neck. It was a cold that did not stop at her skin, it slipped deeper, a spectral shiver that moved through her marrow like a whisper through an empty hall, making her breath stilled, freezing in her lungs.

Slowly, almost unconsciously, her fingers moved to her opposite wrist. And beneath the delicate, embroidered silk of her glove, something burned.

For months, there had been a blessed, terrifying silence. No shifting shadows, no voices in the wind, no strange currents pulling at the hem of her gown when no one was looking. She had almost convinced herself that the Blithe had finally moved on, but it seems the silence was over.

The wind curled around her shoulders, but it did not bite. It was a caress so suffocatingly intimate that it made her dig her fingers into her gloved wrist. The lantern above her trembled violently now, its light shivering in a frantic, staccato rhythm against the terrace walls until it fully vanished.

Ilaria’s breath hitched, a soft sound that felt too loud in the sudden, unnatural vacuum of the night.

And then she heard the sound.

It was not a sound that hit her ears, but a vibration that settled directly into the base of her skull. It was a voice layered with the rustle of dead leaves and the sound of water moving over deep stones like a thousand whispers overlapping until they became a single, haunting chord.

It brushed against the edges of her mind, a cold, familiar touch that sent a jolt of recognition through her chest.

“There you are… Did you enjoy the pastries?”

The words slid through her mind with an almost playful cruelty. Ilaria unconsciously slowed her breath. Her fingers tightened instinctively around her wrist beneath the glove, nails pressing into the silk as if the pressure alone might ground her.

The cold wind curled around her again, lifting the hem of her gown in a soft whisper that sounded far too much like laughter. Her heart began to pound before she could stop it.

No.

She swallowed, forcing the panic down before it could rise any further. Panic would only make it worse. She knew that much from experience. So slowly and carefully, she drew in a breath through her nose and willed her heartbeat to slow.

The lantern above her remained dark now, its extinguished wick trembling faintly in the wind.

Ilaria lowered her gaze to the stone railing, refusing to look around as if searching for a speaker. There was nothing to see. There never was. Her voice, when it finally came, was shaky.

“…You have very poor timing.”

The whisper stirred immediately like dry leaves rustling together. A low hum of amusement threaded through her thoughts.

“Do we?”

We?

The wind brushed along her cheek, almost thoughtful.

“You seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

Ilaria pressed her lips together.

For a brief, humiliating second, she considered pretending she had imagined it. Pretending she could simply walk back inside and forget the voice that had haunted the edges of her life since that day. But that lie had never worked before.

Instead, she lifted her chin slightly toward the dark sky.

“You weren’t answering me before,” she said, her voice steadier now, though her fingers still gripped her wrist beneath the glove. “The last time I called for you… there was nothing.”

Silence stretched across the terrace. The lantern chain above her creaked though the wind had fallen still. Then the whisper returned, softer this time, almost amusedly so, as if it did not expect such a word from the sheltered princess.

“You called?”

The words carried a mock innocence that made the back of her neck prickle, followed by the same, unsettling laugh that curled through her thoughts and sent a chill racing down her spine. Just like before.

“How unfortunate.”

The wind circled lazily around her again.

“We must have been… occupied.”

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