Melody of the Sun

Chapter 3

"Absolutely not; I have no intention of being a maid, especially for him."

The question lingered—why hadn't the Heatherstones interfered since Lord Ancunin's arrival? For the first time, Dahlia found herself completely in the dark. The countess had hidden most of the morning's letters, and news of the proposal had only spread through the maids, their whispers reminiscent of a cold winter breeze creeping into every corner.

Satisfaction was a fleeting thing, akin to a mirage in the desert, always stirring a deeper hunger, gnawing at the edges of restraint. Was there ever a point when a man stopped once his desires were fulfilled? Or did each conquest merely fuel the descent into the abyss of his own addiction?

Was it ego, pride, or something darker? Whatever the cause, one truth held firm: no man, ensnared by his desires, could ever master true discipline.

Discipline and weakness—they clashed fiercely, a dance as old as time itself. Neither ever truly won. One might momentarily falter, allowing the other to take control, but the balance always returned, a precarious seesaw that both forces relied on to survive. Lord Ancunin understood this all too well. His methods were subtle, taking small fragments, bit by bit, until suddenly, a larger piece was gone, and no one could trace the loss back to him.

After all, who would ever accuse a Lord—innocent, noble and revered like a god by the naive—of such quiet, calculated cruelty?

That's why Dahlia stood in the private study of the Countess and Earl, both of them present but as silent as the heavy drapes that framed the windows. What did it mean to be his? In an era marked by war, progress and unrelenting change, who would entertain such a proposal—no, a demand— to claim the host's staff as his own?

Tension coiled tight in her chest as she searched for a solution—something that made sense, but only one response came to mind.

"I will remain your secretary, won't I?" The words came out quieter than intended, a step closer to the countess, a subtle attempt to bridge the gap.

But the countess shifted in her seat, arm draped over the backrest, forehead resting against her bare forearm. Her otherworldly beauty shone through her middle-aged features, a constant, uncomfortable reminder of the vast difference between them. The distance between them felt insurmountable, growing with every moment of silence, as if even the Heatherstones were slipping further away, favouring the elven vampire over her.

"My Lady, I am here to serve you, as we agreed." Dahlia began, her fingers twitching, itching to adjust the collar of her dress. The irritation and realisation of the square neckline soon eclipsed her anxiety, replaced by a surge of anger at the possibility of betrayal.

Each word was weighed carefully as she considered the prospect of her final days under the piercing gaze of those crimson eyes at the West Estate.

"For a decade," she continued, pressing on despite the countess's calm. "You kept me close, even when offers to search for my whereabouts abroad emerged. You promised there would be an investigation, and here I stayed, for your sake." Dahlia took a step closer, her posture straight but her voice hushed to avoid the Earl's prying ears on the other side of the room.

"How can a promise waver like this?"

Every word seemed to rebound against an unseen shield of defensiveness enveloping the countess—a barrier of quietude and hesitation.

"I've given everything to this family and fought for it tooth and nail. But I... I absolutely refuse to serve a stranger in this house."

Hope, once a flickering flame of desperation, had dissipated like smoke in the cold morning air. Dahlia's voice trembled despite her efforts to mask it, teeth clenched as she forced out the question, "What have I done wrong?"