The Portrait hidden in the dust

Quiet settles into the house now that the party is done, yet something lingers. A trace of motion stays behind, like echoes of music clinging to cold walls long after silence returns. Restless energy runs through me without warning. The weight of too many glances burns under my skin again, along with Christian’s twisted expression, sharp and unkind. Heat flashes at the thought of Noah’s palm pressed against me, firm and impossible to forget. His words return - low, steady, edged with threat - as though spoken just seconds ago.

Out there, beyond four walls, a path waits. Walking pulls me forward, away from the chair I’ve worn down. The yard feels like a cage now. Step by step, streets offer something else.

A small nod comes from Mrs. Greyson after I mention wanting to see the first-level rooms. Down the eastern hall, she tells me, hang the ancestor pictures - those ones can be looked at, apparently without issue. Her voice makes it sound like allowing eyes on canvas is some kind of favor. The western part holds the Duke’s personal office and living space; that area stays untouched by visitors

It isn’t about bothering others. Just needing a place that doesn’t remind me of walls closing in.

A stretch of dim quiet runs through the east wing's hall. Light from high windows cuts across in thick sheets, pale and dull, showing specks drifting without sound. Old paintings cover the sides, row on row of Wingknight faces. Each one has that heavy forehead, the pointed chin, eyes holding centuries like stone. Armored figures stand beside robed ones, none smiling, all watching with a coldness that settles into the bones.

Each step feels heavy, the carpet swallowing every sound. Not looking at anything around me. Instead, there's Noah’s expression from hours ago, a brief crack in his usual act. His words to Christian echo - she belongs to me now.

A weight shifts inside me, sudden and quiet. Safety wraps around me, yet bars form where warmth should be - blurred now, one melting into the other without warning.

Halfway along the hall, my steps slow. A beam through a wide window hits one picture more than the rest. This one is modest in size, not lined up with serious old family faces. Instead, it sits alone on a narrow patch of wall - set off by itself, like a quiet moment tucked away.

It’s a painting of a girl.

Maybe fifteen, maybe seventeen. Dark hair like Noah’s, though longer - spilling forward in smooth curves down her collarbone. Eyes darker than his, yet somehow brighter, alive with quiet cleverness and a spark that suggests she knows something you don’t. A grin spreads, sudden and honest, cutting through the dull glow of the corridor lights. Not polished, not posed - just striking, because she feels completely present, utterly herself. A quiet blue dress covers her, nothing like royal attire. The tiny brown bird rests in her palms, neck bent like it might start humming any second.

It clicks - the woman in the portrait - no need to check the tiny metal tag down below. That’s Lady Elara Wingknight. The one they missed most after she was gone.

A memory surfaces - something buried in the pages. Not much, just a name slipped between sentences. The duke had lost someone. Grief carved him sharp. Now she stands there, breathing, real in a way that jars. One old phrase turns into flesh right before my eyes.

Others feel this way too.

That smile holds my eyes, pulls them tight - so I miss the shape waiting behind, where dark pools near the frame. A man stands there, frozen, outside the glow. His shoulders dip low, spine straight, like something heavy leans down on him. The quiet around him feels thick. Not a twitch, not a breath seen. Just stillness, painted into place.

Noah.

Stillness hangs around him, though my words were clear. Inside that frame, something has pulled him deep, far from here. The usual tightness across his back gives way now, softened into a curve. Against the plaster, near where the image stares out, rests one palm - fingers stretched like roots, knuckles pale, gripping nothing yet everything.

Out rushes the breath from my chest. Something here feels off. A vision I should have stayed clear of, always.

Backpedaling feels like the right move. Staying put is what my feet decide. Shock pins me there, watching him fold under an old ghost. A ruler on the floor, undone by something only he can see.

Out of his mouth comes sound, thin and broken. Almost gone before it begins. Not for ears. Certainly not mine.

A sound escapes before he means to speak. Heavy with sorrow, raw as an open cut, it hangs in the stale hallway air. Not old pain - this is new. This came with daylight. Came again at dawn. A weight lives inside him, sharp and quiet, lodged where breath begins.

“I should have been there. I should have stopped it.”

Something grips my throat. Her fate stays unknown. The book never tells. Still, watching him now, listening to how guilt drags down every word, I imagine something awful must have come. He carries the weight like it belongs only to him.

His fingers reach out, then still - touching where the painting ends, skin meeting wood like something fragile might break. Never have I watched him move so softly. Here, he sheds titles, plans, sharp edges; none of them fit anymore. Just a man now, hollowed by what’s gone.

Underneath me, a wooden plank groans as I shift. The sound rises slow from the old house bones.

Right away, it happens. Without delay, change appears. Instantly, things shift.

A shape slips away from the dark. There stands the Duke, now facing forward.

Speed makes him vanish. Just now he seemed broken, heavy with sorrow. Then - suddenly - he stands rigid, tight like iron. The shift comes sharp. His arm falls from the wall without sound. Light touches his face. What shows there? Nothing soft. Only cold anger sits in every line.

Yet beneath the anger lies something deeper. Fear lives there too. The terror of exposure. Of being known completely. His fragile core exposed to me - someone he cannot dominate so easily.

His face loses every trace of color, skin turning ashen under dim light. Burning eyes fix on mine without moving. There it is - shame first, then the sting of exposure, followed by rage building slow and deep. Caught exposed, he stands frozen, heat rising beneath stillness.

Quiet sits heavier than noise ever could. His voice stays low, yet everything feels louder.

A foot lifts, then settles forward. After that, the next follows slow and low. Each motion cuts space without sound, like something hunting. My body locks. Words vanish before they form. Eyes stay fixed on him, while inside my chest a frantic rhythm beats, wild and caged.

A step from me, he looms. Gone now - the heat, the sadness - swallowed by a chill sharper than frost at midnight. His neck flickers, a frantic beat under skin. That tremor hides behind stillness. Only that jump gives him away.

That look hits like a shove. Every lie I wear burns off under it, vanishes into smoke. Staring now - like discovering a stranger where someone familiar should be - and that stranger wears my face but means harm. His eyes lock on mine, slow, heavy, full of something sharp and cold.

A breath escapes him first. Then sound - a roughness there that wasn’t before. This isn’t the flat calm of shelves and silence. Nothing like the hush he wore at chandeliers and wine. Instead, a raw edge drags through each word, heavy enough you can feel it in your ribs.

One word sits alone. It acts like an order, yet pushes away at the same time. Judgment lives inside it.

“Out.”

Quiet it may be. Yet it strikes deep, like a fist beneath the ribs. Heavy with sorrow, thick with shame, sharp with rage that won’t bend. A silence that says I’ve seen what wasn’t meant to be seen. Proof I stepped where stepping ends everything after. Inside this house, within his realm, some rooms stay closed to me - even though I’m the one who sees through shields. The furthest? That hidden stretch where his hurt lives.

Backward I go, unsteady on my feet. Not sure when I started moving. The cold stares of old Wingknight figures line the hall, watching without blinking. Heat burns my cheeks, though I can’t name why. A single broken word echoes inside my head, loud enough to drown everything else.

Out.

A wall of silence hit me when I tried to reach him - colder than stone walls here. Standing there, alone, I realized I’d witnessed something raw beneath his title… now he’ll spend forever making sure I regret seeing it.