Chapter 2: THE SUMMONS OF A DARK PATRON

The first thing I felt when I woke up was a thrum of anticipation. It wasn’t the cold, the unfamiliar mattress beneath me, or even the distant hum of morning rehearsals vibrating faintly through the walls.

For several drowsy seconds, I lay still, unsure if I was still dreaming. The cracked ceiling above me could have belonged to any cheap room I’d stayed in over the years. I had woken up beneath ceilings like this my entire life—low, peeling, indifferent. Just another reminder that the world rose above me in ways I had never been able to reach.

But then the faint scent of beeswax and roses slipped under the door, soft as a whispered promise, and memory flooded back. The Blood Opera House. The stage. The masked man in the shadows. 'She is mine.'

My hand flew to the choker. The roses were black metal, cool and smooth against my fingertips. The stone at the center—deep crimson like a droplet of wine—had cooled overnight. Yet when I pressed it, my pulse raced against it like a trapped bird.

I sat up too quickly and dizziness washed over me. I steadied myself on the edge of the bed. The cheap clock on the dresser ticked with smug, mechanical certainty, completely unaware that my world had tilted on its axis.

Half-eleven. Far too late. Rehearsals had likely begun hours ago. But sleep had held me tight, thick and heavy. My dreams tangled with music that didn’t exist and velvet hands that should not have touched me. Each time I surfaced during the night, the opera murmured around me—the soft pad of footsteps, the echo of distant scales, the occasional burst of laughter. And beneath it all, something else… pressure. As if the walls held breath they weren’t ready to release.

I forced myself up and splashed cold water from the chipped basin onto my face. The cold bit into my skin, and I welcomed the sting. I needed clarity.

When I lifted my head, the cracked mirror showed two fractured versions of me: one girl uncertain, the other wide-eyed and burning. Neither felt fully real. But together, perhaps they made someone who could survive this place. Someone who could be wanted.

I dressed in my burgundy gown—the same one that had been carefully stitched and re-stitched until it fit my shape. When I had worn it last night, I had been just Lyria Wynn, foundling, orphan, nothing.

But now… The choker transformed it. Transformed me. The black metal glinted against my pale skin, stark and oppressive. It made me look like I belonged to this world of velvet curtains and candlelight. Not Lyria Wynn, the forgotten girl of the streets. Someone marked. Someone chosen.

A soft knock rapped at the door just as I was smoothing the skirt. “Miss Wynn?” Madame Elladine’s voice cut through the fog of my thoughts. “Are you decent?”

“Yes,” I replied quickly.

She entered without waiting for permission—a tall figure carved from severity and steel. Her sharp gaze swept across the room, taking in every detail in a single glance, before settling precisely where I knew it would. The choker.

“Good,” she said, though her tone suggested anything but. “You’ve put it on.”

“It felt…” My fingers moved involuntarily to the metal. I searched for a safe word. Right came closest. “Fitting.”

Her nose scrunched slightly. “He has requested a private rehearsal.”

My breath caught. “With… me?”

Her brows arched, unimpressed. “Do you see any other girl in this room, Miss Wynn?”

Heat flooded my cheeks. “No, madam.”

“Then yes. With you.” She studied me for another heartbeat, weighing something she didn’t share. Then she said quietly but firmly, “Try to remember that he is your patron, not your salvation.”

“I know that,” I replied, though the certainty in my voice cracked like thin ice.

Do I? whispered a treacherous voice inside me. Lord Avel had looked at me as if he saw something he had been waiting for. Nothing in my life had prepared me for being wanted.

“Good,” she said, though I suspected she didn’t believe me. “Come along.”

---

The backstage world felt alive. Corridors turned and branched like veins through a beating heart. Doors opened and closed. Voices rose and fell. Everywhere, there was motion, creation, noise.

Dancers stretched with feline grace beside mirrored walls, long legs lifting in controlled arcs. Singers ran scales in dressing rooms, their trills echoing down the halls. Stagehands lugged painted scenery that transformed entire corridors into enchanted forests or candlelit palaces. And the opera house took it all in.

Still, amidst all the sound and life, only one door remained closed and silent.

Madame Elladine stopped before it. She turned to me abruptly. Without asking, she straightened my bodice with practiced hands, tugged a wrinkle from my sleeve, and brushed away a piece of lint that wasn’t there.

“You will address him as ‘My Lord,’” she said. “You will not interrupt him. You will not linger unless he instructs it. You will not ask unnecessary questions.”

She paused, waiting for confirmation.

“Yes, madame,” I muttered.

Her mouth twitched. The closest thing she had to approval.

She knocked twice—sharp, commanding.

A voice answered, low and smooth: “Send her in.”

My heart reacted before I could stop it. A startled, traitorous flutter.

Madame Elladine opened the door and stepped aside. “Miss Lyria Wynn, My Lord.”

I crossed the threshold.

I had expected opulence—velvet drapes, crystal chandeliers, carved marble. Instead, the room was a rehearsal salon—deceptively simple, subtly elegant, and far more intimate than I was prepared for. Tall windows spilled pale winter light across polished floors. One wall was made entirely of mirrors, reflecting the room from endless angles. A grand piano crouched in the corner like a creature waiting to be coaxed into song.

And standing near its center was Lord Avel Morcant.

He was no longer a distant shadow in a gilded box. No longer a half-seen figure wrapped in the hush of an audience.

He was simply there. Tall. Still. Striking in a way that felt both deliberate and effortless.

His clothes were dark again—a fitted waistcoat over a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled slightly at the wrist, the polished boots of a man who walked softly but wished to be heard when he chose.

Even without seeing his eyes, I felt them.

Madame Elladine bowed sharply and retreated, the door closing behind her with quiet finality.

The air shifted. I was alone with him.

“Miss Wynn,” he said.

The way he spoke my name felt like a hand closing slowly around my throat. Not to harm, but to claim.

“Come here.” Not loud. Not urgent. But a command all the same.

I stopped several paces away, unsure whether he wanted more or less distance between us. The mirror behind him showed us like figures in a fever dream—me, small and tense; him, impossibly still.

His attention drifted to my throat.

"Good,” he murmured. “You wore it.”

“My Lord,” I managed, “it seemed unwise not to.”

A hint of a smile touched his lips. "A practical girl,” he said quietly. “I approve.”

Heat flared low in my stomach. Approval shouldn’t have mattered. Yet it did.

We stood in silence, the kind heavy enough to shape itself around the body. My lungs struggled to find a rhythm that didn’t betray me.

He spoke first.

“You sang well last night. But you sang…” He made a faint gesture with his hand. “…for the hall. For the judges. For an audience you believed needed winning.”

He stepped closer—one measured stride.

“I want to hear how you sing,” he said softly, “when you are not performing for anyone else.”

I swallowed hard. “I don’t understand, My Lord. Who else would I sing for?”

His head tilted. The slight motion sent a tremor through me.

“For me,” he said simply.

Every inch of my body went hot.

"That is what patronage means, Miss Wynn,” he continued, voice dipping lower. “Your talent belongs to this house. To the crown, in a distant way. But most immediately…” His gaze traced the line of the choker again, slower this time. “…to me.”

I found no words.

And he didn’t seem to need them. His silence filled the room, thick as velvet.

The rehearsal hadn’t begun yet, but he had already drawn the first note from me.