A Voice in the Dark

The storm

Eira's Perspective

The rain was merciless.

It fell in cascading sheets, each drop a cold needle piercing through Eira's thin cloak. The cobblestone streets of the village glistened under the onslaught, reflecting the dim glow of lanterns that struggled to pierce the gloom. Night had descended swiftly, wrapping the world in a shroud of shadows and whispering winds.

Eira pulled her cloak tighter around her slender frame, but it did little to ward off the chill that seeped into her bones. Her long, honey-colored curls clung to her face, damp and heavy, obscuring her vision as she navigated the labyrinthine alleys that led away from her flower shop. Each step was a battle against the biting wind that pushed against her, as if trying to force her back.

She should have closed the shop earlier. The storm had been brewing since midday, clouds gathering like a foreboding omen, but customers had trickled in nonetheless, seeking shelter or a fragrant bloom to brighten their homes. Eira never could turn them away. There was solace in the simple act of arranging flowers, in the delicate balance of color and form. It grounded her, provided a fragile barrier against the memories that lurked at the edges of her mind.

But the storm didn't care for her delicate barriers. A violent shiver coursed through her, not entirely due to the cold. Fatigue weighed heavily upon her limbs, each movement a conscious effort. She hadn't eaten since dawn, and the fever that had been smoldering quietly now flared with every gust of wind. Her breaths came shallow and rapid, misting in the frigid air.

"Just a little farther," she whispered to herself, a mantra to keep moving. Her cottage was on the outskirts of the village, a modest dwelling nestled among ancient oaks. It was her sanctuary, a place where she could escape the prying eyes and whispered gossip that seemed to follow her since she arrived here months ago.

Her family's sins had clung to her like a shadow, even in this quiet place where no one knew her name before she came. And even here, she had chosen solitude over connection. Solitude was safer, quieter.

As she turned onto a narrower path, the silhouette of an imposing mansion loomed ahead, its spires piercing the stormy sky. The house stood apart from the others, both in distance and demeanor, cloaked in shadows that the lanterns dared not touch. Ivy crawled up its stone walls, and wrought-iron gates guarded the entrance with an air of silent disdain.

Whispers had followed the arrival of its owner, just as they had hers. The villagers spoke of him in hushed tones—the reclusive man with features sharp as a blade, his intense, pale eyes rumored to see through to your soul. Some said he was a fallen noble; others hinted at darker origins. Children spun tales of ghosts and curses, pointing at the windows that never seemed to hold light.

Eira had glimpsed him once, a solitary figure walking along the edge of the woods at dusk. His dark hair and striking build had seemed more suited to a painting of a tortured knight than a man of flesh and blood. There had been a stillness about him, a weight that seemed to anchor him to the shadows. She felt a strange kinship in that solitude, an unspoken understanding that some burdens were best carried alone.

A sudden gust of wind tore through the street, ripping the hood from her head and sending a spray of icy rain against her face. She gasped, stumbling as her vision blurred. The world tilted precariously, darkness nibbling at the edges of her sight.

Her strength was waning. The fever muddled her thoughts, each one slipping away like sand through her fingers. She needed to rest—just for a moment.

Her gaze drifted to the mansion's gate. Shelter was so close. The thought of warmth, of a fire to chase away the cold, was achingly tempting. But the idea of imposing on a stranger, especially one shrouded in mystery, was unbearable. She had learned long ago that relying on others often came with a price she wasn't willing to pay.

Eira took a faltering step forward, then another. Her foot caught on an uneven stone, and she pitched forward, the ground rising up to meet her. The impact jarred through her body, the cold of the wet cobblestones seeping into her very core.

She tried to push herself up, but her arms refused to obey. The rain continued its relentless assault, each drop echoing like a distant drumbeat in her ears. As the shadows closed in, her last thought was of a lullaby her mother used to sing—a melody lost to time, as elusive as the warmth she so desperately sought.

Elias's Perspective

The storm raged, wild and untamed, as if the heavens were tearing themselves apart.

Elias stood by the grand window of his study, the glass fogged slightly by the warmth within. The fire burned low behind him, the flickering light casting jagged shadows across the walls. He should have tended it, but his attention was fixed elsewhere.

His sharp eyes swept over the rain-soaked village below, his gaze trailing the cobblestone streets that stretched like veins through the heart of the town. Lightning fractured the sky, illuminating the world for a brief moment before plunging it back into shadow.

There was a restlessness inside him tonight, a clawing unease that made the air feel heavier, as though the storm was pressing down on his chest.

It was her.

It was always her.

Eira.

Her name lingered in his thoughts, a hymn and a torment all at once. He couldn't look at this village without thinking of her—her honey-colored curls catching the light, the delicate movements of her hands as she worked in her shop. He had spent years keeping his distance, watching from afar, his presence a shadow she never knew was there.

She didn't remember the boy she had saved all those years ago.

But he remembered.

Her voice had been his lifeline, trembling but fierce as it reached into the void and pulled him back. That moment had defined him, anchored him to her in ways he could never explain. And it had made him hers.

His jaw tightened as he turned away from the window, his steps slow as he paced the room. He told himself it was enough to protect her from a distance. To ensure she was safe without intruding on the fragile life she had built.

But it wasn't enough.

A movement outside caught his attention, and his breath stilled in his chest.

Through the rain, he saw her.

She was a faint figure against the storm, her cloak clinging to her slender frame, her honey-colored hair darkened by the rain. She stumbled, her steps uneven, and he felt the first stirrings of panic tighten in his chest.

She faltered again, and then the ground met her.

Elias moved without thinking, the cold wind tearing at him as he threw open the door and stepped into the storm. The rain lashed against his face, soaking through his shirt, but he didn't feel it.

He reached her in moments, his boots splashing through puddles as he knelt beside her. "Eira," he murmured, her name low and rough on his lips.

Her skin was ice beneath his fingers, her breath shallow and uneven. He cursed under his breath, the sound lost to the wind, as he gathered her into his arms. She was so light, so fragile, and the weight of her against him stirred something raw and unrelenting inside him.

She didn't belong in his arms. He wasn't worthy of her. But he couldn't let her go.

Not now. Not ever.