Dark Whisperer

The sky above was dark and heavy, the first stars flickering faintly through the thick clouds. The half-moon hung low, casting a pale, cold light that glinted off the snow-covered rooftops. The air was sharp and frigid, and even now, with winter’s chill biting at everyone’s heels, the lake lay still, vast and silent, its dark surface hinting at mysteries below.

Oil lamps flickered to life along the narrow streets, casting long shadows over the cobblestones. The few townsfolk still out moved slowly, bundled tightly against the cold, their faces hidden beneath scarves.

Ada pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders. Her muscles ached from the day’s work—fixing tools, grooming horses, sweeping floors. She glanced at Marin, who walked beside her, his shoulders hunched against the chill. “You look like you’re about to fall asleep on your feet,” she said, nudging him lightly.

“I might,” Marin murmured, a tired smile tugging at his lips. “So, what’s this great plan of yours?” His breath fogged in the air as he glanced around, eyes scanning the darkened streets.

“It’s simple,” Ada replied, keeping her voice low. “We just need to get in and out. Nobody will even know we were there.”

Marin raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “That’s it? No bribes, no distractions, no elaborate schemes?”

“Nope,” she said, a hint of a grin creeping across her face. “Just a little confidence and good timing. We’ll offer to help out and slip inside. Easy.”

“Right,” he said, chuckling under his breath. “Because sneaking into the Great Hall at night sounds so easy.”

“It will be,” Ada insisted. “Just trust me.”

He sighed, glancing down at the snowy path ahead of them. “I always do. That’s the problem.”

Ada glanced at Marin, catching the worry lines etched deep across his brow. His eyes kept flicking nervously toward the Great Hall.

The Hall itself was unlike anything else in Halrest, a structure that seemed to demand attention without effort. Set right at the waterline, it looked as if it had risen straight from the lake, a perfect pearl nestled in a cradle of stone. Ada could never quite shake the feeling that it didn’t belong there, like it was too beautiful, too pristine.

“It’s just a building,” Marin said, almost to himself, as they drew closer.

“Not just a building,” Ada replied, her eyes lingering on its smooth, rounded walls. “It’s where everything gets decided. It’s where the council meets, where the rules come from.”

“And where secrets are kept,” Marin muttered.

Ada glanced at him, but he didn’t meet her gaze. Instead, his eyes were fixed on the Hall’s surface, where the faint glow of moonlight slid off the polished stone.

Ada shivered, trying to brush off the unease that crept up her spine. “We’re going to offer to clean inside,” she said, a mischievous glint lighting up her eyes.

“Clean?” Marin shot her a sceptical look. “At this hour? Why would they even let us in?”

“Because” Ada whispered, her grin widening, “it’s easier to sneak in when you’re supposed to be there. We’ll make them think we’re supposed to be there.”

Marin shook his head. “It’s late, Ada. We should be heading home. What if your mother finds out? What if—” He hesitated, his voice dropping lower. “What if my mother finds out?”

“What if we miss our only chance to learn the truth?” Ada shot back; her eyes fierce. “Come on, Marin. This is our moment. We have to do this.”

Marin sighed, glancing down the road that led back to their warm, quiet homes. His limbs ached, and he could almost taste the comfort of a hot meal. But this was Ada. When she got an idea, she held on to it like a dog with a bone. “Alright,” he said finally, his voice resigned. “But if this backfires, I’m blaming you.”

Ada nudged him with her elbow, a playful smile tugging at her lips. “You always do.”

They shared a quick, conspiratorial glance and made their way toward the looming structure. Snow swirled around them, carried on the wind, as they approached the Great Hall. Despite the cold, the building seemed to stand unaffected, its presence commanding and still.

“We’ll just tell them it’s a last-minute task,” Ada said, her voice barely above a whisper as they neared the entrance. “We act like we belong there, and no one will question us.”

Marin’s stomach twisted with nerves, but he managed to nod. “And if they do?”

“Then we improvise,” she said, flashing a grin.

He sighed, shaking his head, though he couldn’t hide the small smile that played on his lips. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

“Maybe,” Ada said, bumping his shoulder with hers. “But sometimes a little crazy is exactly what this town needs. Besides,” her voice softened, “we need to know what’s going on, Marin. We can’t just sit around and wait for answers to come to us.”

He hesitated, the weight of uncertainty still hanging heavy. But then he nodded, more to himself than to her. “Alright. Let’s try it.”

As they reached the Hall, Ada’s earlier confidence wavered for just a moment. The building seemed to loom larger than ever, its walls glowing faintly under the moonlight, almost like a beacon.

“The heart of everything,” Ada whispered, her breath misting in the cold air as she spoke. Her eyes were wide, taking in the grand structure before them.

Marin nodded, his gaze lingering on the entrance. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Ada didn’t hesitate this time. “Just follow my lead,” she replied, her voice tinged with determination.

The entrance to the Great Hall was marked by two heavy, arched doors set flush against the smooth walls. Ada reached out, and as her hand hovered over one of the metal handles, she hesitated. The stillness in the air felt almost alive, as if something was waiting just beyond the doors. For a moment, she swore the Hall was breathing, drawing them in. She shook off the feeling, set her jaw, and pushed the door open just enough for them to slip inside.

The door creaked softly, and they stepped into a small antechamber bathed in shadows. A rush of chilly air greeted them, seeping through their clothes and settling into their bones. The hall was dimly lit, lanterns scattered throughout casting long, wavering shadows along the curved walls. Above them, the dome loomed, shrouded in semi-darkness, the details obscured but hinting at something vast and grand, just out of sight.

Ada’s breath caught for a moment as her eyes adjusted. The polished stone walls gleamed faintly, reflecting what little light there was, giving the entire space an almost mirrored effect. It felt otherworldly, like stepping into a different realm.

Directly before them, on a short platform just inside the entrance, stood a simple wooden desk—plain and utilitarian, a stark contrast to the grandeur that surrounded it. Marin’s eyes were immediately drawn to the attendant behind it, who was tearing into a generous spread of food and drink. Roasted meat, warm bread, a small jug of ale—all unmistakably the tavern’s finest fare. Marin’s stomach clenched, a reminder of how long it had been since he’d last eaten, and his gaze lingered on the food, his mouth watering.

The attendant, hunched over and oblivious to their arrival, barely glanced up. He was absorbed in sorting through a cluttered pile of scrolls, even as he stuffed another piece of succulent duck into his mouth, his lips glistening with grease. Marin couldn’t help but wonder how someone had managed to secure such a feast. The desk itself seemed out of place, a practical piece in a space that felt almost sacred, a reminder of the mundane intruding on the extraordinary.

The man finally looked up, his gaze snapping toward them as the door closed behind Ada and Marin with a low thud. His expression was stern, brows furrowed in suspicion, but he quickly masked it with a polite smile. “Can I help you, children?” he asked, his voice low, echoing slightly in the vast space, as if the Hall itself was listening.

Ada straightened, forcing a calm smile. “Excuse me,” she said softly, her voice carrying across the stillness of the hall.

The attendant blinked; his surprise evident as he took in the sight of the two of them. “Children?” He raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing here so late? Shouldn’t you be at home?”

Ada glanced at Marin, then back at the man. She had practiced this. “We were sent to help prepare the hall for the meeting,” she said, keeping her tone light and sweet. “A last-minute task. There’s been a lot of... urgency around the place.”

The attendant’s frown deepened, his gaze shifting between them suspiciously. “Who sent you?” he asked, his voice sharp, eyes narrowing.

“Uh, it was...” Marin stammered, caught off guard. He could feel his pulse quicken.

“Mr. Breslin,” Ada said quickly, her smile never wavering. “He said it was important the hall be thoroughly cleaned and ready. He wanted to make sure there were no—” she paused, searching for the right word, “distractions.”

The attendant’s eyes searched hers, as if trying to find cracks in her story. For a moment, Ada thought he would press them further. Then she leaned in, lowering her voice to a near whisper. “I know it’s unusual,” she said, her tone conspiratorial. “But it’s for the meeting. With everyone gathering, you know how things can get... tense.”

The man’s suspicion seemed to waver, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Yes, yes, I suppose that makes sense,” he muttered, more to himself than to them. “Tomorrow’s going to be quite the gathering, after all...”

“Tomorrow, right?” Ada asked, trying to keep her tone casual, as if she already knew the answer.

“Yes, yes, tomorrow,” the attendant repeated, his attention drifting back to his scrolls. “Now, go on then, quickly! If Daithi sent you, I don’t want to be the one to explain why it wasn’t done in time.”

“Of course!” Ada said brightly, nudging Marin as they moved forward. “We’ll get started right away.”

The attendant waved them off, already absorbed in his work again. As soon as his back was turned, Marin looked at Ada, wide-eyed, barely suppressing his shock. She merely grinned, her eyes sparkling with triumph.

“Did you just—” Marin began, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I did,” she whispered back, smirking. “See? Easy.”

Marin let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me for it,” she teased, giving him a quick, playful wink before grabbing a nearby broom.

As they began sweeping, the weight of the Hall pressed down on them. Ada couldn’t help but glance around, her eyes tracing the curves of the dome above, the smooth stone walls that seemed to hold a thousand secrets. There was a reverence to the space, an unspoken grandeur that made her feel small and significant all at once. For a moment, she wondered what it had been like when the Hall was first built—what promises had been made, what rituals had been performed under the same roof that now sheltered them.

As they moved to begin their task, Ada and Marin found the brooms stashed in the antechamber’s corner. They started sweeping the grand hall’s stone floors, the bristles scratching softly against the polished surface. The sound echoed through the vast space, settling the weight of tomorrow’s task between them. They were close—so close.

“Do you think they always keep it this dark in here?” Marin murmured, glancing around. “It feels... different.”

Ada nodded; her eyes drawn to the shadows stretching across the floor. “It’s like it’s hiding something,” she said quietly. “Or waiting for something to happen.”

Marin hesitated, then asked, “And we’re just going to waltz back in here tomorrow? During the meeting? That’s your plan?”

“If we can figure out how to get in,” Ada replied, gripping the broom handle. “We know when it’s happening. That’s a start.”

Marin’s brow furrowed. “A start? Ada, that’s not enough. We can’t just walk in like today.”

She sighed, sweeping faster as if the motion would clear her thoughts. “What do you want me to say, Marin? We need to be here, and we don’t have a lot of options.”

He stopped, leaning on his broom. “We could try hiding,” he suggested. “Find a spot, stay out of sight until the meeting starts.”

“Overnight?” Ada’s eyes darted toward the darkened corners of the hall. “Someone will check. They always do.”

“Then we need to find somewhere they won’t look,” Marin said, his tone firm. “Or figure out how to blend in. Maybe there’s a way.”

Ada bit her lip, frustration flickering across her face. “I wish we could just ask someone. But if we do...”

“We give ourselves away,” Marin finished, nodding. “I get it. But we can’t afford to guess wrong.”

They fell silent, the rhythm of their brooms filling the hall. Ada glanced up, catching a glimpse of the intricate mural on the dome. Even shrouded in shadow, it seemed to loom over them, pressing down with a weight she couldn’t explain.

“We’ll think of something,” she said finally, her voice barely more than a whisper. “We have to.”

Marin’s eyes softened, but he didn’t look convinced. “It’s not just about having a plan, Ada. We need luck too. And right now, I’m not sure we have it.”

She met his gaze, her determination hardening. “Then we’ll make our own.”

The great stone seats loomed silently, distinct and unique, their edges softened by the dim lantern light. Beyond them, three tiers of curved benches rose like an amphitheatre, each row higher than the last, their backs nearly swallowed by shadows. A faint draft drifted through the hall, carrying the scent of old, dry stone mixed with something sharp and metallic. It was as if the Hall itself was holding its breath, waiting, while Ada and Marin moved through it like intruders in a slumbering beast’s den.

The hall was mostly empty, except for the attendant—a hunched, thin man wrapped in a dark woollen cloak. He paced, back and forth, muttering under his breath. His movements were restless, his bony hands wringing together as if trying to squeeze out his worries. Every now and then, his eyes darted to the pair of young workers, his expression caught between suspicion and doubt, like he was second-guessing his decision to let them in.

Ada paused mid-sweep, glancing up as his voice rose a little louder. “Can’t believe I let them in,” he mumbled, his tone tight. “What was I thinking? It’s important business tomorrow. Very important. Council wouldn’t like it, no... but wait—”

He halted abruptly, squinting as he peered closer at Marin, the recognition slowly dawning on his face. “Wait a moment.” His eyes narrowed, then widened with sudden clarity. “That’s—yes, that’s Brehon’s boy, isn’t it? Marin Brehon. Good lad. Responsible. Of course, of course.” The tension in his posture softened, his tone lightening with relief. “Should’ve known. Nothing to worry about. Not with him here.”

Ada’s lips twitched as she shot Marin a teasing glance. “Hear that?” she murmured, just loud enough for him to catch. “You’re famous.”

Marin rolled his eyes, but there was a hint of a smile he couldn’t quite hide. “Famous, huh?” he whispered back. “Doesn’t take much around here.”

“Oh, come on, admit it,” Ada teased, flicking the end of her broom playfully at him. “Everyone thinks you’re the town hero. The one who never causes trouble. Always on time, always doing what you’re told.”

Marin’s smirk grew, but as the attendant relaxed, Marin’s eyes flickered to the desk, where a spread of roasted meat and fresh bread gleamed in the lamplight. The food, left half-eaten, was tantalizing and rich, and Marin’s stomach growled despite himself. He swallowed hard, tearing his gaze away even as the scent made his head swim.

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” he murmured, turning back to Ada. “It’s just because my mother’s on the Council. Makes people trust me when they shouldn’t.”

She grinned, leaning closer. “Exactly. Which is why we’re getting away with this.” She glanced back at the attendant, now clearly more at ease, almost pleased. “You’re our ticket in, Golden Boy.”

Marin laughed softly, shaking his head. “More like everyone knows I’m the boring one,” he said, though there was a flicker of humour in his eyes. “Not like you. Always getting into things you shouldn’t.”

“Getting into things?” Ada gasped with mock offense, clutching her chest. “Why, Marin Brehon, I’m shocked. I’m merely curious.”

“Curious?” he repeated, arching an eyebrow. “Curious is when you ask questions. You, Ada, go looking for answers no one asked you to find.”

“Maybe someone should be asking,” she shot back, her grin widening. “Besides, you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t think the same.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but Ada’s expression twisted suddenly. She gasped, her hand flying to her stomach as a sharp pain cut through her abdomen. Her broom slipped from her grasp, clattering against the stone floor as she doubled over.

“Ada!” Marin’s voice sharpened with concern, the humour vanishing in an instant. He dropped his broom and knelt beside her, one arm slipping around her shoulders to steady her. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“I—” she stammered, her breath hitching as the pain flared again. For a moment, her vision blurred, everything narrowing to that single, excruciating point. But then, just as quickly as it had come, the pain ebbed, leaving her weak and trembling.

She blinked, her eyes finding Marin’s, his face inches from hers. His brow was furrowed, blue eyes bright with worry as he searched her expression. “I’m… I’m fine,” she managed, forcing a shaky smile. “I think it was just a cramp.”

“Just a cramp?” he repeated, incredulous, his grip tightening. “You looked like you were about to pass out.”

“I’m fine,” she said again, her heart pounding—not from the pain, but from the sudden closeness between them. His arm was warm and strong around her, and she felt an odd comfort in it. For a moment, she couldn’t look away from his eyes—the concern, the way he held her, as if she were something fragile.

Then, the moment shattered.

“What’s all this, then?” The attendant’s voice rang out, sharp and piercing in the quiet hall. “What are you two doing, dawdling like that? The work’s done, and you need to be getting home before your parents have my head for keeping you here!”

Marin helped Ada straighten, his arm lingering a moment longer before he turned to face the old man. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, polite but firm. “Ada just felt a bit unwell. We’ll be leaving now.”

“Yes, yes, best be off,” the attendant muttered, waving them away as if shooing flies. His earlier nervousness had shifted to impatience, an eagerness to see them gone. “Finished just in time, too. Don’t want anyone catching you here. It’s important business tomorrow night. Very important.”

Ada’s ears perked at that, but she kept her expression neutral, offering a small, sheepish smile. “Thank you for letting us help,” she said sweetly, ignoring the suspicious glance he threw her way. “We’ll be on our way.”

“Hmph. Off with you,” he grumbled, turning back to fuss over an invisible speck of dirt on the floor. “And don’t be getting any ideas, you hear me? It’s none of your business.”

“Yes, sir,” Marin replied quickly, guiding Ada toward the door. But once they were out of earshot, Ada’s grin brightened.

“Did you hear that?” she whispered, her excitement bubbling over. “Tomorrow.”

Marin’s expression grew serious, but there was a flicker of admiration in his eyes. “The meeting’s tomorrow night.”

“See?” Ada’s smile was triumphant. “I told you we’d find out.”

Marin shook his head, though his lips curved in a small smile. “You never give up, do you?”

“Not when it’s important,” she said softly, her gaze lingering on his for a moment longer than usual. Then she straightened, brushing off the remnants of the strange pain. “Come on, let’s get out of here before he changes his mind.”

As they neared the door, Marin’s eyes drifted to the wooden desk. The smell of roasted meat and fresh bread still lingered, teasing him. With a quick glance to ensure the attendant wasn’t watching, he reached over and snagged a small piece of bread, savouring the warmth against his fingers. But as he pulled back, something shiny caught his eye—a small key, lying partially hidden under a folded cloth, its brass glinting softly in the dim light.

They slipped out of the Great Hall, the door closing quietly behind them. Outside, the snow had thickened, falling in soft, swirling flurries that sparkled under the glow of the oil lamps. Ada took a deep breath, the cold air stinging her lungs but clearing her mind. The pain was gone now, leaving only a faint sense of unease in its wake.

Marin glanced at her, his eyes still shadowed with concern. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” she insisted, smiling up at him. “Really. Now we just need to figure out how to listen in tomorrow.”

He sighed, but the corners of his mouth lifted slightly. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“And you love it,” she teased, nudging his arm playfully.

Marin didn’t answer, but his smile grew, a soft, lingering thing that made her heart skip a beat.

“Come on,” he murmured, his voice low and warm in the quiet night. “Let’s get you home.”

And with that, they set off through the snowy streets, their footprints the only marks in the untouched blanket of white. This part of the town was silent, still—waiting. Just like them. Waiting for tomorrow.

Ada and Marin made their way through the quiet town streets, the night deepening around them. Halrest was peaceful at this hour, the soft glow of lanterns casting a warm, flickering light on the snow-covered cobblestones. The houses, huddled close together, seemed to fold in on themselves, their windows glowing softly like watchful eyes in the dark. Wisps of smoke drifted lazily from chimneys, filling the air with the scent of burning pine.

They finally arrived at Marin’s home; a cozy stone structure nestled between two larger houses. It had an inviting look to it, with thick, sturdy walls and a thatched roof that sloped gently under the weight of fresh snow. The front yard, meticulously cleared of snow and bordered by a low wooden fence, spoke of careful maintenance. Even at a distance, Ada could see the small details that marked this as a place of order and structure—something about the perfectly straight path leading to the door, the precisely trimmed shrubs lining the fence, all radiating a sense of discipline that felt almost foreign to her.

As they approached, Marin’s steps slowed, his gaze flicking up to the small, round window on the first floor. A faint, wavering light shone behind the glass, just bright enough to catch his attention.

He let out a small sigh, his shoulders drooping ever so slightly. “That’s my mother’s candle,” he murmured, more to himself than to Ada.

Ada blinked, confused for a moment. “What do you mean?”

“She does that when she’s waiting up for me,” he explained quietly. “It’s… it’s her way of saying she knows I’m late.” His jaw tightened, and he turned to Ada, forcing a strained smile. “Looks like I won’t be walking you home tonight after all.”

Ada glanced up at the window again, the meaning of the light sinking in. A pang of guilt pricked at her chest. “Marin, I’m sorry. You’re only late because of me.”

“Hey,” he said softly, reaching out to touch her shoulder. “Don’t apologize. I’m the one who agreed to stay out this late. Besides…” He hesitated, glancing up at the house, the light flickering behind the curtains like a watchful eye. “It’s not just about me being late, really.”

“Then what is it?” Ada pressed, her voice a whisper in the quiet night. The air felt colder here, as if even the soft glow from Marin’s home couldn’t warm the chill that had crept into her bones.

Before Marin could answer, the front door of the house creaked open. A tall, imposing figure stepped out onto the porch, her silhouette stark against the warm light spilling from the entryway. Marin stiffened beside Ada, his hand dropping to his side as he stood a little straighter.

“Marin,” the woman called, her voice low and firm. “Where have you been?”

Ada glanced up, taking in the sight of Marin’s mother. Orla Brehon was an image of austere elegance, her frame slim and straight, her posture rigid with the kind of discipline that seemed to come naturally to her. She wore a well-fitted dark dress, almost severe in its simplicity, and a pair of small spectacles perched on her nose, catching the light as she looked down at them. Her hair, dark and streaked with a few strands of silver, was pulled back in a tight bun, not a single strand out of place.

There was an undeniable strength in the set of her jaw, in the piercing gaze of her pale blue eyes—eyes that were now fixed sharply on her son. Ada felt a shiver run through her. This was a woman who commanded respect, who held the reins of control over everything within her reach. She looked at Marin not with the softness of a mother, but with the keen, calculating scrutiny of a councilwoman assessing a potential investment. And in that brief, critical moment, Ada realized just how far Marin’s life must be from her own.

“Sorry, Mother,” Marin said quickly, stepping forward. His voice was soft but respectful, every line of his posture radiating deference. “I… I lost track of time.”

“Lost track of time?” Orla repeated, her tone razor-sharp. She glanced at Ada, her gaze cool and assessing. “And you were with... her again?” Her lips curled slightly as if the word itself left a bitter taste. “I thought I was clear about what I think of you spending time with Miss Agnew.”

Ada swallowed, feeling the weight of the woman’s scrutiny pressing down on her. She forced herself to stand tall, lifting her chin slightly. “We were helping clean the Great Hall,” she said evenly. “It was a last-minute task. The attendant asked for our help.”

There was a long silence. Orla’s gaze swept over Ada from head to toe, as though assessing every flaw and finding them all. Then, slowly, her mouth tightened, and she let out a soft, dismissive huff.

“I see,” she said at last. “Well, it’s late, and I don’t think your mother would appreciate you wandering about the town at this hour.”

Marin took a step forward, his brow furrowing. “I was going to walk her home,” he began, but his mother cut him off with a sharp glance.

“No need. She’s a big girl, isn’t she?” Orla tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing. “I’m sure she can find her way on her own.”

Ada bit her lip, the heat rising to her cheeks. She knew what the woman was really saying—that Ada was independent to a fault, that she didn’t belong. She had felt it before, from other townspeople—the sideways looks, the whispered comments. But coming from Marin’s mother, it stung in a way she hadn’t expected.

“It’s fine,” she said quickly, forcing a smile as she turned to Marin. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Marin’s face was a mask of conflicting emotions, his jaw tight as he glanced between her and his mother. “Ada, I—”

“I’ll be fine,” she insisted softly. “Go inside. I don’t want you to get into more trouble because of me.”

He hesitated, but then nodded slowly. “Alright,” he murmured. “But… I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” she agreed, offering him a small, reassuring smile.

With one last look—one that seemed to carry a thousand unspoken words—Marin turned and stepped up onto the porch, his shoulders hunched slightly. His mother watched him, her gaze hard and unyielding, before shifting back to Ada.

“Miss Agnew,” Orla said, her tone polite but laced with ice. “I think it would be wise for you to focus more on your contributions to the town rather than distracting my son. He has potential, great potential, and I don’t think it’s fair on him for you to... lead him astray.” She paused, letting the words sink in, each one a precisely aimed cut. “Goodnight.”

The finality in her voice, the way she dismissed Ada before she could even process the words, was like a door slamming shut in her face.

“Goodnight, ma’am,” Ada replied quietly, bowing her head slightly. Without another word, she turned and began to walk away, the snow crunching softly beneath her feet. She could feel Marin’s eyes on her back, his worry a tangible thing even from a distance. But she didn’t look back.

The front door clicked shut behind her, the sound small and final, as if it had slammed the gate to a fortress. Ada swallowed hard, the pain of rejection washing over her in a sudden, overwhelming wave. Orla’s words weren’t just a dismissal; they were a cold, indifferent rejection of Ada’s very presence. Marin’s mother hadn’t seen a girl worthy of her son, but a nuisance. She felt like an outsider.

Left alone in the biting cold, Ada wrapped her arms around herself, blinking rapidly against the sting of tears. The night air pressed in on her, the silence deafening in the wake of the door’s closing. She stood there, shivering, feeling small and utterly alone—left out in the cold, both literally and figuratively.

“Tomorrow,” she whispered softly to herself, the word a fragile thread of hope that felt hollow in the emptiness around her. But even as she forced herself to turn and head home, a small voice in her mind echoed Orla’s cold dismissal, over and over.

Maybe she really didn’t belong.

The town was shrouded in stillness as Ada made her way home, her footsteps light on the snow-covered path. The moon cast a silvery glow over the rooftops, turning the world into a quiet dreamscape. But even in the soft beauty of the night, all she felt was the sting of rejection, like a bruise on her heart.

She shoved her hands deeper into her cloak, trying to ward off the chill that seeped through her bones. It wasn’t just the cold—it was the way Marin’s mother had looked at her. That subtle, dismissive stare, like she was something that didn’t belong. A weed in a garden.

Her family’s house came into view, dark and quiet, the windows barely glowing with light from the hearth. By night, it looked different. Smaller. Dimmer. She hesitated at the door, the weight of the evening pressing down on her. “You’re fine, Ada,” she muttered under her breath. “It doesn’t matter. Marin matters. And he—he doesn’t see you like that.”

But even as she said it, doubt twisted in her chest. She bit her lip and stepped inside, the warmth of the house wrapping around her like a blanket. The familiar smell of woodsmoke drifted in the air, and she heard the faint murmur of voices from the kitchen.

Her boots came off, and she moved down the hallway, past the sitting area, to the room where the water bucket was kept. She stared into the still, dark surface, her own face staring back at her. Tired, pale. “Outsider,” she whispered, the word bitter on her tongue. “Is that what I am? Is that all they, see?”

The voices from the kitchen—Lina’s bright chatter, her mother’s deeper tone—drew her. They were her family. They would understand. They would need her. She splashed water on her face, trying to clear away the doubt, and headed toward the kitchen.

The voices stopped the moment she entered.

“You’re late,” Elara said, her tone sharp. She glanced at Ada’s clothes, the snowflakes still clinging to her hair. “We’ve been waiting...”

“I—I’m sorry, Mother,” Ada stammered, trying to explain. “I was—”

“You forgot,” Elara cut in, her voice flat. “Again. Everyone else does their part. And you… you’re always somewhere else, always distracted. What am I going to do with you?”

Ada bit back the retort that sprang to her lips, her fists clenching at her sides. She could feel Lina’s eyes on her, wide and worried, and it only made the shame burn hotter in her chest. Why couldn’t she just get it right for once? Why couldn’t she be the daughter her mother wanted?

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, staring down at the floor. “I didn’t mean to—”

“That’s the problem, Ada,” Elara snapped. “You never mean to. But that doesn’t change the fact that you keep failing, does it?”

The words cut deep, slicing through her like a blade. She looked up, meeting her mother’s gaze, searching desperately for something—understanding, forgiveness, anything. But all she saw was disappointment. Disappointment and... something else. Something sharper, darker, that twisted in her chest like a knife.

“It won’t happen again,” Ada whispered, her voice trembling despite herself.

“See that it doesn’t,” Elara said coldly, turning away from her. “Go and clean up. Dinner’s almost ready.”

Ada stood there for a moment, the words ringing in her ears. She felt small, insignificant, a child once more under the weight of her mother’s disapproval. But then, out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of Lina’s face—round, soft, and filled with a quiet, unwavering support.

“Welcome back, Ada,” Lina whispered softly, offering her a small, shy smile.

Something in Ada’s chest loosened. She forced a smile in return, nodding slightly.

“Thanks, Lina,” she murmured. Then, with a deep breath, she turned on her heel and left the room, the sting of her mother’s words still echoing in her mind.

Saddened, Ada followed her mother’s instructions.

Why me. Ada thought.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of quiet tasks and heavier silence. Ada moved through the small house like a shadow, her movements automatic, her mind somewhere far away. Her hands worked on their own—laying out the utensils, helping Lina scoop stew into bowls, scrubbing the pot clean once dinner was done. But her thoughts kept circling back to her mother’s sharp words, to the way her voice had cut through the warmth of the kitchen, leaving behind a chill that clung to Ada’s bones

She tried to smile when Lina offered her extra bread, even managed to nod politely when Elara directed a curt instruction her way. But the sting of their argument, the cold, impersonal way her mother had looked at her, weighed heavily on her shoulders. With every passing minute, the exhaustion that had simmered under her skin all day crept further up, wrapping around her limbs like a smothering blanket.

Finally, when the last dish was dried and set away, Elara dismissed them both with a short nod. “Go on to bed,” she murmured, her gaze already focused on the simmering fire in the hearth. “Morning comes early.”

Ada didn’t argue. She followed Lina down the dim hallway, shadows flickering along the walls. Even in the gloom, she could make out Lina’s drawings—bright, clumsy flowers and birds pinned up with care. Surrounded by those traces of innocence, Ada felt the weight of the night’s events settle in, heavy and suffocating.

“Goodnight, Ada,” Lina said softly.

“Night,” she whispered back, forcing a smile.

She moved to her bed, slipping out of her clothes, hands clumsy as she fumbled with the buttons. Her breath came in short, uneven gasps. Finally, she sank onto the thin mattress, pulling the blanket over herself. It felt lighter than usual, failing to offer the comfort she craved.

Staring up at the low ceiling, she tried to let the quiet of the room calm her, but it only made her feel smaller, the walls pressing in, the darkness too heavy.

She rolled onto her side, facing the window. The moon’s cold light spilled across the floor, mocking her. It felt distant, indifferent, like it was watching her struggle with a cruel, detached gaze.

“You never mean to. But that doesn’t change the fact that you keep failing, does it?”

The words replayed in her mind, relentless. Each one cut deeper, chipping away at the fragile shell she’d tried so hard to build. Mistakes. Failures. Disappointments. They piled up, blocking out any hope she might have had.

“What’s wrong with me?” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. “Why can’t I just do things right?”

A sob caught in her throat, sudden and sharp. She buried her face in the pillow, trying to stifle the sound, but her shoulders shook, and the tears kept coming, hot and unbidden. She hated it—hated how weak it made her feel. Crying wouldn’t change anything. It wouldn’t make her mother proud, wouldn’t erase the look in Marin’s mother’s eyes, wouldn’t fill the emptiness she felt inside.

But alone in the dark, the pain was too big to hold back.

The tears soaked into the pillow, her sobs fading into broken gasps. She curled into herself, pulling the blanket tight, as if it could protect her from the harsh reality of her thoughts.

“You’re fine, Ada,” she whispered, but even to her own ears, the words rang hollow, empty.

She bit her lip, tasting blood, and slowly, almost reluctantly, turned onto her back, staring at the ceiling through a blur of tears.

“Just... get through it,” she murmured, a plea slipping out with the words. “Tomorrow will be better. It has to be.”

The tears slowed, her breathing steadied, but the ache remained, a dull throb under her skin. Exhaustion dragged at her, but her mind wouldn’t quiet, fragments of hurt swirling endlessly.

The last thing she saw was the faint outline of the moon, its light distant, unreachable, like a promise she couldn’t grasp.

“Tomorrow,” she thought as she drifted off, clinging to the word. “Tomorrow, I’ll find a way to make it right.”

Tomorrow, she would be better. She had to be.