Chapter 41
The butler stopped in front of a pair of finely carved dark wooden doors and opened them without a word, stepping aside to let Arzhel pass. He entered with the lithe grace of a cat, the bouquet still in hand, his red eyes scanning the room quickly.
The parlor was warm yet austere, painted in shades of midnight blue and cream. Heavy drapes framed the windows, softening the daylight. A thick rug covered the polished hardwood floor, and a discreet fire danced in the hearth, despite the mild season. The antique furniture—velvet armchairs, a walnut coffee table, built-in bookshelves—exuded the quiet elegance of high nobility that had nothing left to prove.
Seated upright in a chair with sculpted curves, Madame Eleanor Reinhardt awaited him, a steaming cup of tea cradled between her fingers.
Her chestnut hair was carefully styled in a low bun, adorned with a simple silver comb. Her pale, almost translucent blue eyes regarded Arzhel with unwavering calm—the same gaze Silas or Isaline wore when hiding an important truth.
She wore a long gray-blue velvet gown with a subtly embroidered square neckline. No extravagance, yet the flawless cut highlighted a figure still straight despite the years. Around her neck hung a strand of freshwater pearls, and on her wrists glimmered two matching white gold bracelets, discreet yet costly. Only a single, simple ring adorned her left ring finger.
"Young mage Arzhel," she said simply, tilting her head slightly.
Her voice was soft, neither warm nor cold. A neutral tone, perfectly controlled.
"Please, sit. The tea has just been served."
She indicated the chair opposite her, where a cup already rested on a fine porcelain saucer.
Arzhel approached and seated himself, bouquet resting on his lap, his movements fluid yet subtly guarded. A silence settled immediately, dense as a thundercloud.
The mage crossed his legs, fingers gently tapping the ribbon on the flowers, while the hostess's clear eyes stayed locked on his.
They looked at each other without a word, like two players silently engaged in an invisible chess game.
The chair creaked softly under Arzhel's weight. The scent of tea floated between them, almost incongruous in the tense atmosphere.
Finally, he exhaled, a wry smile tugging at his lips:
"So, you were expecting me, madam?"
Eleanor lifted an eyebrow slightly and brought her cup to her lips.
"Of course."
She slowly sipped, masking for a moment the fleeting emotion that had crossed her gaze. She had prepared to meet a somewhat insolent young man—typical of the mages from the Tower, as the rumors said. But not to face a seventeen-year-old whose mere presence seemed to bend the air around him.
He said nothing. He smiled. That lazy yet sharp smile, almost mocking, yet carrying a disarming warmth. His red eyes shone like living rubies—alert, lively, almost playful. The gaze of a spirited child trapped in a body already sculpted by magic.
No matter how rational she tried to be—married to a pragmatic man, mother of two, responsible aunt—this young man unsettled her.
Not because he was rude—he wasn't. Not because he was dangerous—or at least, not openly.
But because he imposed himself effortlessly, like a certainty.
And she despised the certainties that eluded her.
"You are young," she finally said, placing her cup on the saucer with perfect control.
Arzhel raised an amused eyebrow, interlaced his fingers under his chin, bouquet still lazily resting on his lap.
"Young enough to be underestimated, old enough not to be controlled?" he replied, his voice soft, yet laced with transparent amusement.
Eleanor pressed her lips together. She did not like verbal sparring, but she felt confronted by a playful young predator—not a monster, no… but a wild, unpredictable, obsessive animal.
Obsessive about Vidalia.
That was the knot of it. That burning, almost invasive affection he carried for her niece—little Vidalia, whom she had watched grow fragile, broken, and who now shone under everyone's gaze.
And this boy was always there. Always around her.
They knew nothing of him—his past, his origins, even how their niece had met him. Only that name she sometimes whispered with a small smile: Arzhel.
Her husband insisted he was just a reckless child, a turbulent mage, a valuable friend to Vidalia. Eleanor wasn't so sure. That gaze was no mark of friendship. There was something else.
Something infinitely possessive, something dangerous… and protective all at once.
But he wasn't lying. She could feel it.
He wished her no harm. Quite the opposite.
And that was precisely the problem.
She moistened her lips, lifted her cup, forcing herself to maintain the icy composure that defined her. Beneath that smooth exterior, she was already calculating each word to come.
"You're not here just for tea, I imagine?"
Arzhel tilted his head slightly, a mocking glint in his eyes.
"I am here for her. Always for her, madam. And you know it."
A new silence fell. Eleanor lowered her gaze to the swirling steam of the still-hot tea. She felt old, all of a sudden.
"And if one day… she no longer wants you, Arzhel?"
He did not answer immediately.
His smile vanished, his eyes darkening, almost pained, as if the question itself had hurt him.
Then he exhaled softly:
"Then I will leave. But not before ensuring no one ever harms her. Ever again."
Arzhel's scarlet eyes gleamed with a dangerous, almost incandescent determination. Eleanor could not suppress a slight shiver of unease. How could a seventeen-year-old exude such certainty? How could he simultaneously inspire visceral mistrust… and an odd sense of confidence? The last time she had felt this unsettled, it had been in the presence of the King of Lyséranth himself.
"But, madam Eleanor?" Arzhel said, casually picking up a macaron from the silver tray. "I doubt you summoned me just for that."
Eleanor felt a sting of vexation, almost outraged that this young man had so easily read her intentions. All her life, she had hidden her thoughts behind polite smiles and carefully crafted verbal exchanges. Even her husband—a shrewd businessman and seasoned politician—had never read her so clearly.
"Without wishing to sound impolite," Arzhel continued, his eyes locked on hers, deep and clear as a still lake, "we have known each other for more than three years. Until now, neither you nor Viscount Reinhardt ever invited me for a private meeting."
Eleanor swallowed a frustrated sigh. Complaining would be unbecoming of a lady of her rank—and being intimidated by a teenager, even more so. She slowly set down her cup and interlaced her fingers over her velvet gown.
She stared at him without flinching. He was right. Arzhel was always… around Vidalia. For lack of a better word, he naturally gravitated toward her. He came to the manor almost every time her niece stayed there. He tutored her in magic, and sometimes in other more particular disciplines. He sparred with Silas, exchanged sharp but amusing barbs with Camélia, the Duke Greenwood's daughter, and shared lighthearted moments with them. He brought grimoires for Vidalia, history books for Isaline.
They had formed, through Vidalia, a small, tightly knit circle. Strange, but surprisingly harmonious.
Arzhel made Vidalia smile. Laugh. Blush. Like no one else could.
Yet neither she nor her husband had thought to investigate him. They had offered only polite gestures, as long as their precious niece seemed happy in his company.
But lately, the questions were no longer about Arzhel.
They were about Vidalia.
About her absences, her silences. Her polite but firm refusal to live at the manor permanently.
Eleanor no longer slept. Anxiety gnawed at her nights like a slow poison. She dreamed that Vidalia's smile slipped away, vanished. That she never returned.
She drew a deep breath. At that moment, etiquette mattered less than the maternal panic knotting her throat.
"You've known my niece a long time, haven't you?" she asked softly, eyes fixed on the bouquet of blue roses in his lap.
Arzhel's hand, mid-reach for a second macaron, froze in midair. He straightened slowly, then offered a melancholic smile.
"Oh, yes…" he said thoughtfully. "Nine years, to be exact. I'll never forget that day. I met a little goddess who had descended to Earth."
Eleanor blinked, surprised, then let out a soft, genuine laugh. She regained her composure, resting her gaze on her clasped hands.
"So… please," she said, lifting her eyes to him this time without diversion, "can you tell me why Vidalia comes only a few days each month? Why does she insist on staying with the Sullivans?"
The silence stretched, heavy, between them. The young man who, moments ago, had worn a mischievous smile and an air of insolent confidence had become a statue, his eyes empty and calculating. His face expressed nothing now, save for an icy reserve. Eleanor held his gaze without wavering. She wanted answers. But she already understood that the words she sought would not come easily.
"Vidalia is her sister's servant," Arzhel stated in a neutral tone.
Eleanor clenched her fists on her knees, jaw tight.
"I already know that… but why does she continue?" she suddenly snapped. "She is the official heir of the Reinhardts, the third of her name! She now possesses a fortune capable of rivaling the greatest houses in the kingdom. She has no reason to remain under that pest's orders!"
Silence returned, even heavier than before.
Arzhel calmly set down the untouched macaron.
"If Vidalia has never spoken of it to you, then I fear there is nothing I can do for you, Madame Eleanor. I will not betray the trust she has placed in me."
Eleanor closed her eyes briefly, swallowing her despair, but tears were already gathering at the edges of her lids. She knew. Caius had warned her: Arzhel would remain loyal to Vidalia, no matter what.
The young mage rose slowly, smoothing the folds of his coat, then approached the bouquet on the console, his fingers brushing the petals. He cast one last glance at Eleanor.
"Vidalia is trapped by a soul bond… and, alas, she cannot free herself alone," he said softly.
Eleanor lifted her head, stunned, eyes wide.
The smile Arzhel offered then was devoid of warmth, almost bitter.
"I know how much you care for her—both you and your entire family. I cannot reveal more to you." He ran a distracted hand through his hair, causing the earring at his ear to jingle lightly. "But I swear… I will do everything to free her from this trap."
He opened the door, ready to leave.
"Even if, for that… I must burn the Empire," he finished, just before the door closed behind him.
Eleanor remained alone in the parlor, frozen, eyes fixed on the closed door. Finally released, tears rolled silently down her cheeks, mute witnesses to her helplessness.
≈≈≈≈≈
Arzhel sighed as he climbed the wide staircase of the manor. He had expected this: Vidalia's family was beginning to ask questions. For some time, their concern had become palpable, and he knew it would eventually come to this.
But Vidalia refused to worry them further. She preferred to withhold the truth rather than involve them in the Sullivans' hell. For if Caius or Eleanor discovered that she was still bound by a slavery contract, they would not hesitate for a second: they would have rushed to the Sullivans' home, without restraint. And then… everything would have worsened.
Vidalia knew: it would become a scandal. A public drama. Their lives would be laid bare to the gossiping salons and the hypocritical smiles of high society. And she did not want her family to suffer for it.
Arriving at the cream-colored door, with delicate moldings—the door to Vidalia's room—Arzhel felt his dark thoughts begin to dissipate. Merely seeing that door calmed the turmoil that raged within him. He drew a long breath, then knocked softly, eyes fixed on the bouquet he had carefully brought.
"Yes? Come in." Vidalia's soft voice, slightly muffled by the door, sounded.
Still polite, Arzhel thought, even with the servants. That's her. His sweet Lia.
They would spare her the meeting—not so secret—with her protective aunt.
He pushed the door open, his heart a little lighter.