CHAPTER SIXTEEN
OLIVIA
Agony rippled through my body, each breath a searing reminder that I was still tethered to life. An invisible weight pressed against my chest, heavy and suffocating, as if the air itself sought to crush me. My limbs felt tangled in unfamiliar linens, foreign fabric against my skin.
I gasped, my eyes snapping open—or so I thought. Darkness enveloped me, a disorienting void that left me grasping for certainty. Candlelight flickered faintly at the edges of my vision, its warm glow casting restless shadows on stone walls and towering ceilings. This was not the sanctuary of my bedroom, but an alien place cloaked in an eerie, castle-like grandeur.
My gaze landed on the massive four-poster bed dominating the room, its dark wood frame intricately carved with swirling patterns that seemed to writhe in the shifting light. The canopy above was draped with flowing silk curtains, their translucent elegance a sharp contrast to the harsh reality of my confusion.
Overhead, an ornate crystal chandelier glittered like a constellation, its cascading light illuminating the room in a golden haze. Flanking the bed stood two elegant bedside tables with gilded legs and smooth marble tops, each supporting a flickering candle that painted the mirrored surfaces with trembling reflections. Heavy velvet drapes veiled the windows, allowing only slivers of muted light to seep into the room, adding to its opulent, yet haunting, atmosphere.
“Where am I?” The words escaped my lips in a whisper, a fragile plea swallowed by the oppressive silence.
The dim glow of the candles highlighted lavish tapestries that hung like silent sentinels and velvet drapes that whispered secrets I could not understand. The air felt thick with strangeness, the unfamiliarity pressing against me as if the room rejected my presence. It was like I had been plucked from reality and cast adrift in medieval fantasy.
Instinct screamed at me to rise, to search for my baby, for Roman—but they were absent, swallowed by the opulence that mocked my longing. I ached to rub the confusion from my eyes, to blink away the fog and find clarity. But the chilling truth settled over me like ice—my eyes were already open, yet my family, my world, remained beyond reach, lost in the shadows of this unfamiliar place.
I pushed myself up from the plush bed that had cradled my disoriented slumber. My legs ached with a dull protest as I swung them over the edge, my bare feet meeting the icy chill of the floor. The air was thick, carrying the faint scent of aged wood mingled with the delicate aroma of unseen blooms.
I steadied myself against the intricately carved bedside table, its unfamiliar design a reminder that this was no place I recognized. The open door ahead beckoned, spilling dim light into the room and revealing a corridor shrouded in shadows. Tentatively, I stepped forward, the cool air brushing against my skin like an unwelcome whisper.
The hallway stretched long and foreboding, the walls adorned with grand tapestries and paintings that spoke of wars, victories, and triumphs that felt utterly foreign. Sculpted into serpentine dragons, candle sconces clung to the stone walls, their flickering flames casting eerie shapes that seemed to slither and shift with the shadows. The silence pressed down like a living thing, heavy and watchful as if the air held its breath.
I walked forward, each step hesitant, my bare feet brushing against the polished stone floor. The grandeur of this place was overwhelming, like stepping into a forgotten world of kings and queens, where alliances were forged and broken behind heavy doors. The absence of voices or footsteps amplified the strangeness, a chilling void in an ornate space.
Ahead, movement caught my eye—a woman ascending a staircase with a fluid grace that seemed almost surreal. Her gown shimmered with the glow of candlelight, a fabric too rich and regal for a servant. Threads of moonlight seemed woven into the folds, whispering of secrets and silken decadence.
“Excuse me,” I called out, my voice a fragile thread in the vast stillness. “Where is everyone?”
The woman halted mid-step, her poised form illuminated by the flickering light. She turned with the precision of a dancer; her movements were calculated yet effortless. As her gaze met mine, she dipped into a deep curtsy, her dress pooling around her like liquid silver.
“Whoa, what are you doing?” I stammered, my mind racing with confusion.
“My lady, I’m sorry,” she murmured, her eyes dropping to the stone steps as if they bore the weight of an apology she couldn’t fully express.
“Sorry for... what?” I asked, but the maid remained silent, her lips pressing into a thin line.
Swallowing the knot of apprehension tightening in my throat, I forced myself to speak again. “Where’s my husband?” The words felt foreign on my tongue, like fragments of someone else’s life spilling from my lips.
The maid’s brows furrowed, and she fidgeted with the hem of her gown, her discomfort palpable.
“He’s with the Shadow Lord in a meeting. He’s with Lazarus,” she replied, her voice laced with an odd mix of reverence and dread.
Lazarus? The name clawed at the edges of my memory, familiar yet shrouded in obscurity. A disquieting ache settled in my chest as I struggled to connect the fragments of recognition.
“Who is that?” I asked, feeling the question’s absurdity even as I spoke it.
The maid’s expression shifted, pity mingling with disbelief. “Oh, dear, that fall you had must have been terrible if you don’t remember who Lazarus is.”
Fall? The word clanged in my ears, foreign and disorienting. My fingers gripped the banister tightly as if holding on could steady the swirling void where my memories should have been. Before I could demand an explanation, the footsteps descending from above echoed through the hallway, their cadence steady and purposeful.
A figure emerged at the top of the staircase—a man whose presence seemed to command the air. My breath caught in my throat. It was Balthazar, yet not as I had known him. His skin was unmarked, its smoothness free of the lines that had once told the story of his years. His hair, now darker and longer, carried no trace of the silver streaks I remembered. He looked... impossibly younger, vibrant, and ageless.
“How is this possible?” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the drumbeat of my heart. I stepped back instinctively as if creating distance could protect me from the impossibility. “He looks twenty years younger.”
A flicker of concern—or confusion?—crossed his features. Balthazar moved with the same commanding authority I knew, yet now there was an undeniable vitality about him, as though the years had been peeled away, leaving a man in the prime of his life.
The air trembled with a silent question as Balthazar approached, his eyes swimming with a concern I didn’t trust.
