The days blurred together after Shadow’s departure. Seraphine threw herself into her duties with the same mechanical precision she had once reserved for her lessons—familiar, controlled, and unfeeling. She went through the motions, each step a choreographed movement in the performance of a life she could no longer fully inhabit.

  The weeks passed in a whirlwind of polished smiles and calculated gestures. She attended diplomatic functions where her words were carefully crafted, each sentence a weapon of politeness, her laughter a sweet, practiced sound that did not quite reach her eyes. She danced at opulent galas, the glittering chandeliers above casting warm pools of light over the ballroom, but the world around her felt like a distant echo, hollow and unreal.

  Her gowns became more extravagant, draped with delicate lace and shimmering beads, the fabrics rich with colors that should have made her feel vibrant, but instead only deepened the emptiness gnawing at her chest. Her jewelry—glittering diamonds, intricate gold designs—seemed to weigh heavier with each passing day, as if she were gilding herself in beauty to hide the hollow ache inside. The jewels no longer sparkled with the excitement of luxury. Instead, they felt like chains, shackling her to a version of herself she no longer recognized.

  She had learned the art of perfect grace early in life—the curtsy, the soft smile, the subtle tilt of the head—but it had never been more taxing than now. Her movements, once natural and fluid, now felt like a performance. She was the noblewoman, the daughter of a great family, the person everyone expected her to be. And yet, underneath the layers of silk and the polished veneer of her title, she was a stranger to herself. The more she tried to pretend, the more foreign it became. Her own reflection felt like a stranger’s.

  Her hands trembled faintly behind her gloves, a constant reminder of the way her skin still remembered his touch. The days were too long, the nights colder than they had ever been before. She couldn’t escape the echo of his warmth, the ghost of the man who had once held her with such care.

  It was the evening of the season’s grandest ball, the invitation sealed with a crest that demanded attendance. The ballroom was already bustling with nobles, their laughter rising like waves, sparkling crystal glasses in hand, the rich scent of perfume mingling with the warmth of bodies pressed close. The chandeliers blazed overhead, casting a golden light over the polished marble floors, turning the space into something unreal, like a dream she no longer wished to be part of.

  Seraphine stood in front of her vanity, her reflection staring back at her—distant, detached. She had just slipped into her gown, the silken fabric flowing like water around her form, but something inside her felt too tight, too confining. It was as if the dress itself was suffocating her, tightening the more she pulled it on. Her fingers, clad in gloves of white lace, trembled as she adjusted the delicate bracelet at her wrist—a string of diamonds that matched the necklace her mother had insisted she wear. It sparkled in the dim light, and for a moment, it almost felt like it could fill the space inside her, like it could make her feel something other than this aching emptiness.

  Her gaze fell to her arm, and her breath caught.

  There, just beneath the delicate lace of her sleeve, was the scar. Thin, faint, but undeniable. A pale line where Shadow had bound her wound, his fingers steady, his touch lingering in ways that had not been entirely professional. The memory of his hands on her skin—how they had seemed to hesitate just a moment too long, how his thumb had brushed against her pulse, grounding her in that quiet, fragile moment—struck her like a sharp breath.

  It felt like an eternity ago. And yet, the warmth of his touch still clung to her skin, still wrapped itself around her heart like an old memory, one she could not shake, no matter how hard she tried.

  Her fingers trembled again as she reached out, brushing lightly against the scar, as though touching it might bring him back. Her chest tightened with something she didn’t want to name. She stared at it for far too long, until the edges of her vision blurred and the weight of the moment grew unbearable.

  Without thinking, her fingers trembled to the edge of her gloves, pulling them on quickly, hastily, as if covering the scar might erase it from her memory. She didn’t want to think about it. She didn’t want to think about him. The moment she covered the scar, she felt a brief sense of relief, as if the action itself could sever the tie between her and him—could make her forget. But the truth gnawed at her, relentless. The scar was still there. His touch, still there. And no silk or lace could erase the fact that he had left, and with him, a part of her.

  The door to her chambers opened then, her maid entering with a soft smile, but Seraphine could barely manage the return of it. Her smile was stiff, brittle, like the porcelain mask of a doll that had seen too much. She was already standing, her mask of nobility slipping into place. It was seamless, instinctual, but no less painful.

  “The ball awaits, my lady,” the maid said, her voice light and cheerful, oblivious to the storm within her mistress.

  Seraphine nodded, but her throat tightened. The ball would be like every other event she had attended since Shadow’s departure—another performance, another chance to hide the truth from everyone, including herself. The glittering lights, the soft music, the laughter that was both foreign and familiar—it all felt so empty. Yet, it was the life she had chosen, or rather, the life that had been chosen for her.

  Later that evening, the gathering had reached its peak. The sounds of conversation and laughter swirled around her like the perfume in the air, a cloud of voices she barely understood. Seraphine danced with partners she hardly recognized, exchanged pleasantries with distant cousins, her words polite but shallow, her smile a little too tight. The whole evening felt like a blur, an endless repetition of motions she had perfected over the years. Yet no matter how she tried, her thoughts kept drifting back to the scar on her arm, the memory of Shadow’s hands on her skin, his presence just beyond her reach.

  The mask she wore could not quiet the storm inside her. She stepped away from the crowd for a moment, needing a break from the glittering chaos. Her heels clicked sharply on the marble floor as she walked toward one of the tall windows that lined the grand ballroom. The world outside seemed so distant, so removed from the gilded cage she was trapped in. She could see the distant hills, the dark silhouette of the trees against the inky sky, but more than anything, she was staring into the emptiness, hoping—foolishly—hoping to see a shadow that would never appear.

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  She didn’t realize how long she had been staring until a voice broke through the quiet of her thoughts.

  “Seraphine?”

  She turned swiftly, her heart leaping in her chest as she spun toward the source of the voice.

  It was one of the diplomats, a well-groomed man with too much oil in his hair and too much charm in his smile. He raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable.

  “You’ve wandered far from the festivities, my lady. Surely there’s a dance waiting for you?” he said, his voice polite but teasing, as though he were inviting her to play the part she had always played.

  Seraphine’s throat felt too tight, the words lodged there like stones. She smiled, but it was as brittle as glass, cracking under the weight of what she refused to say.

  “Of course, my lord,” she said, her voice steady, but hollow, like a bell that had been rung too many times. The mask she wore was slipping, the cracks too sharp to ignore.

  She moved toward him, her steps automatic, her hands barely trembling now. But her eyes, as they flicked back toward the window, searching once again for the shadow of a figure that would never come, betrayed the lie.

  In the dance, she was a marionette again. Beautiful, graceful, and yet, hollow. Always hollow.

  The days blurred together after Shadow’s departure from the estate. The weight of Seraphine's absence settled in his chest, heavy and suffocating. He plunged into reckless, grueling work, desperate to drown the ghost of her in sweat, blood, and exhaustion. Each job, more dangerous than the last, seemed to push the ache in his ribs a little farther down, though it never truly disappeared.

  He took on a caravan escort mission, far from the estate, where bandits lurked like shadows, waiting for an opportunity. It was a brutal, dangerous affair, but it served its purpose. Shadow fought with a ferocity born of a need to break himself, his sword moving in a blur as he cleaved through enemies who barely saw him coming. The satisfaction of each kill was fleeting, but at least it gave him something to focus on other than the hollow, gnawing emptiness inside.

  When the work ended, he drank. In dim taverns where the low hum of conversation and clinking tankards was drowned by the burn of whiskey scraping its way down his throat, Shadow allowed himself to numb the ache. But it never touched the deeper pain beneath his ribs—the ache that thrummed in his blood, no matter how much he tried to drown it. He barely ate, the exhaustion taking a toll on his body that he refused to acknowledge. His hands were bruised, and the skin around his knuckles split from gripping his sword too tightly. His muscles ached from constant combat, but even that physical pain couldn’t outpace the one gnawing at his core.

  Yet despite everything, she haunted him.

  Her voice echoed in his mind at odd moments—low, soft, like a whisper in the back of his thoughts. The memory of her touch on his wrist, the faintest caress as his fingers had bound her wound, was a constant presence on his skin. It was never enough to leave him. It was in his dreams, in the hollowed-out space between his ribs where his heart used to be. It was her breath, trembling, close to his ear when she leaned in to say something too quiet for anyone else to hear. Every memory twisted in his mind like a knife turning deeper.

  One night, after another brutal bout of work, Shadow slumped into a chair at a tavern, the glass of liquor in his hand cold against his fingertips. His head was heavy, weighed down by both the alcohol and the sheer exhaustion he had not yet allowed himself to acknowledge. But it was then that something unexpected caught his attention—something that shattered his fragile calm.

  A fiddler sat in the corner of the room, the soft, lilting tune he played striking a familiar chord in Shadow’s chest. It was the same melody Seraphine had hummed by the fire during their journey. The same tune that had lingered in the quiet of their nights on the road, so soft, so innocent.

  The moment he heard it, everything else faded away. The laughter, the clinking of tankards, the buzzing of voices—they all dulled into a distant, irrelevant hum. The glass of whiskey froze in his hand, the liquor untouched. His knuckles turned white from gripping it too tightly.

  For a few seconds, it was as if the room itself no longer existed. All he could hear was her voice, soft and breathless, humming that same tune. Her eyes, her laugh, her touch—they all returned in a flood. And with it, the crushing weight of what he had lost.

  The fiddler’s music wrapped around him like a rope pulling him into a chasm he was struggling to escape. His breath hitched in his chest as his thoughts spiraled out of control. Without a word, without a second thought, Shadow stood, leaving the tavern behind. His coin lay untouched on the table, a reminder of the price he had been paid for his role in her life. But he couldn’t stay. He couldn’t endure the weight of that melody another second.

  The door swung open, the cold night air biting at his face, but even the chill couldn't numb the heat in his chest. He walked into the night, each step heavy, as if the weight of her memory had physically manifested in the world around him.

  That night, as he sat alone in the rented room, he reached into his bag and pulled out the pouch he had received from the estate—the one filled with the payment for returning Seraphine. The coins inside were still heavy, each one a reminder of the transaction, a reminder of his place in her world. His fingers clenched around the pouch, the gold and silver pressing painfully into his palm.

  For a long time, Shadow simply stared at it. The weight in his hand felt more like a burden than a reward. The thought of the family’s cold, detached gratitude gnawed at him, as did the memory of Seraphine's face when she had turned away from him, when she had dismissed him as nothing more than an instrument of her family’s will.

  A bitter sneer curled on his lips. The pouch seemed to grow heavier with each passing second, as if it mocked him. He had been paid for his silence, his distance, his role as her protector. Yet no matter how many coins filled the pouch, they could never fill the emptiness inside him.

  Without thinking, Shadow stood and hurled the pouch into the fire. The coins fell with a soft clink, but it was the flames that devoured them. The fire roared, its bright light flickering, the gold and silver melting into the flames, gone forever. But the ache in his chest—the ache that had grown into a hollow void—didn’t lessen. It remained. The fire didn’t cleanse him of her memory. It only burned away what he had tried to hold onto.

  He watched the flames for a while longer, the smell of the burning coins filling the room. His chest felt tighter, like the weight of the past was squeezing the air from his lungs. He could still hear her voice in his mind, the sound of her laughter echoing in the back of his skull. He hated it. He hated the way it made him feel so small, so weak. He wanted to let it all go, but the memories were relentless.

  Finally, he turned away from the fire, his face hardening as he stepped back into the shadows of the room. He would keep moving. He would drown it out.

  But he knew—no matter how far he ran, no matter how hard he worked or drank, he would never escape the ghost of her.