Chapter Text
Would the past remain buried, or would it find a way to repeat itself?
The question lingered long before anyone dared to ask it aloud.
For generations, the name Artemisia had been spoken with reverence and restraint, as though saying it too often might summon her spirit back into the world. She was remembered as an ingenious beauty—brilliant beyond expectation, kind beyond reason. A woman whose mind had rivaled men who believed themselves untouchable, and whose grace had unsettled houses built on pride and power.
And then, long after her death, Ashiline was born.
From the moment she first opened her eyes, the resemblance was undeniable. The same sharp elegance in her features, the same quiet intensity that seemed far too knowing for an infant. At a single glance, one might have believed Artemisia herself had returned—reborn not in legend, but in flesh.
It unsettled everyone.
Her parents had not expected it. No one had. Artemisia had been gone for decades, her story sealed away like a relic meant to be admired, not repeated. And yet here was Ashiline, bearing her face as though time had bent inward on itself.
The elders whispered. The houses watched.
Artemisia had been everything they admired—and everything they failed to control.
She had shattered expectations not through rebellion, but through choice. When the four great houses had positioned themselves before her, each offering prestige, power, and lineage, she had turned away from them all. Instead, she married a painter—a man of no house, no title, no political weight. A man known only for the way his hands transformed color into meaning.
To the houses, it was unforgivable.
To Artemisia, it had been freedom.
Her marriage became legend not because it strengthened bloodlines, but because it defied them. And when she died, the grief that followed was laced with something darker: regret, resentment, and an unspoken fear that her defiance might one day echo
For years after her death, the heavens remained silent.
Children were born into the great houses, one after another. Daughters came first—beloved, celebrated, cherished—but none bore Artemisia’s face. None carried her unmistakable presence. The elders waited, patient and uneasy, convincing themselves that resemblance would come with time.
It did not.
Then sons were born.
Heirs who fit perfectly into the structures that had always existed. Sons who carried names, legacies, and expectations without question. The houses adjusted, telling themselves this was how it was meant to be. That perhaps Artemisia had been an anomaly—brilliant, yes, but singular.
Still, they watched the children closely.
Still, they waited.
And then the Archeron House fell into panic.
It was not announced publicly. Panic never was. It crept through corridors in hushed conversations and tightened expressions. A child had been born—a girl—and from the moment she was revealed, there was no denying it.
She looked like Artemisia.
Not merely similar. Not reminiscent. She carried the same gaze, the same composure that felt older than her years. The resemblance was so precise it frightened those who had once known Artemisia personally.
The past, it seemed, had not stayed buried.
Ashiline Von Archeron became a name spoken carefully. Admired. Feared. Watched.
No one said it openly, but everyone thought the same thing:
The heavens had finally answered.
Whether it was a blessing or a warning, no one yet knew.
And somewhere within the walls of the five houses, an unspoken truth settled in:
What had once been defied might now demand to be faced again.
“Ashiline, my beloved.”
The voice carried warmth rarely heard within the Archeron estate. It belonged to her grandfather, whose presence alone commanded respect, yet softened entirely when it was her name on his lips.
Ashiline turned at once.
She did not walk—she ran, skirts gathered in her hands as she crossed the marble floor, her steps light and unrestrained. When she reached him, she did not hesitate before throwing her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek against the familiar fabric of his coat.
“Grandpa,” she said, her voice bright, unguarded.
He laughed softly, resting a hand atop her head as if grounding himself in her existence. To the household, the sight was unsurprising. From the moment she was born, Ashiline had been treated not merely as a child, but as something long awaited.
She was the desired heir.
They loved her with an intensity reserved for miracles—spoiling her in the same way Artemisia had once been cherished. Every indulgence was justified. Every fault excused. It was not favoritism, they claimed, but recognition. As though destiny itself had returned in her form, and they were afraid to disappoint it.
Her grandfather pulled back slightly, studying her face with an expression that wavered between pride and something far more cautious. In certain angles, when the light struck just right, the resemblance became almost unbearable.
“She grows more like her every day,” someone once whispered behind closed doors.
“Later this evening,” he said at last, his tone gentler but deliberate, “there is an event. You must join us.”
Ashiline tilted her head. “An event?”
“A gathering,” he corrected, smoothing her hair. “Important families will be present.”
She sensed it then—the weight beneath his words. Events in Archeron House were never simple celebrations. They were measured, deliberate, designed to be seen.
“Do I have to?” she asked quietly.
He smiled, though his eyes did not. “Yes, my dear. You do.”
Around them, the house seemed to hold its breath.
Ashiline nodded, unaware that the invitation was less about attendance and more about introduction. Tonight was not merely an event—it was a reappearance. A reminder. A declaration whispered through silk and candlelight.
The past had been patient.
And now, it was ready to be seen again.
The event—the gathering—unfolded not with celebration, but with restraint.
Archeron House had always known how to host in a way that commanded attention without begging for it. Candles lined the hall in deliberate symmetry, their flames steady, unwavering, as if even fire itself had been instructed to behave. Music lingered at the edges of the room, soft enough to be ignored, present enough to remind everyone they were meant to be civil.
Of course, it was Don Archeron who had called them together.
Of course, it was to mark Ashiline’s existence.
The announcement had traveled carefully, sealed in formal invitations and measured words. No reason was stated outright. None was needed. When Archeron summoned the great houses, history was always involved.
The doors opened.
First came Lazar.
Matthias Lazar entered with the discipline of a man who had learned early that posture was power. His dark coat was immaculate, his expression carved into something unreadable. Age had sharpened him rather than softened him, turning restraint into instinct. He surveyed the hall as if measuring threats long since retired.
Then Valen.
Caius Valen followed with a smile that came easily, his presence warm, disarming—unchanged from the man he had once been. He greeted servants by name, accepted compliments with practiced ease, and moved as though he belonged everywhere and nowhere all at once.
Next was Arden.
Gustavus Arden arrived quietly, his steps unhurried, his gaze steady. He spoke little, but when he did, people listened. Time had weighed on him differently—not through sharpness, but through gravity.
And finally, Rowan.
Jovian Rowan entered last, his expression open, his manners sincere. He paused briefly at the threshold, as though memory had caught him unaware, before stepping fully into the hall.
Four men.
Four houses.
Four lives shaped by a woman who was no longer there.
“Finally,” the older Archeron said, stepping forward with an ease earned by authority. “I’ve been waiting for you all to arrive.”
“Thank you for having us,” Matthias Lazar replied, inclining his head. His voice was measured, polite, carefully neutral.
“We’re glad to be here, Sir Archeron,” Caius Valen added smoothly, his smile unwavering.
“It’s been decades,” Gustavus Arden said, eyes lifting toward the vaulted ceiling. “I see the house remains unchanged.”
“You look as handsome as ever,” Jovian Rowan said lightly, though his gaze lingered longer than courtesy required.
The older Archeron laughed, a low, knowing sound.
“Tall as ever, young lads,” he replied.
His eyes moved over them slowly, deliberately.
He remembered them as they had been—young, hungry, convinced the world would bend if they willed it strongly enough. He remembered the arguments, the promises, the certainty in their voices when they spoke Artemisia’s name.
Four men who had believed themselves chosen.
Four men who had been wrong.
Without turning back, the older Archeron lifted his voice.
“Ashiline.”
The name cut through the room.
Conversations faltered. Music softened. Even the candles seemed to flicker.
Ashiline stepped forward.
She moved with quiet confidence, her posture elegant without affectation, her presence commanding without intention. The silk of her gown whispered against the floor as she crossed the hall, unaware of the history unfolding with every step she took.
And then the four men saw her.
Time fractured.
For a heartbeat—then another—no one breathed.
The resemblance struck not gently, but violently. It was not suggestion or memory or resemblance shaped by longing. It was certainty.
Artemisia stood before them.
Not as she had been, but as she might have been—untouched by years, unmarred by regret.
Matthias Lazar’s composure cracked first. His jaw tightened, eyes narrowing as if denial might alter reality.
Caius Valen’s smile vanished entirely, his breath catching before he could stop it.
Gustavus Arden’s gaze hardened, his expression shifting into something dangerously still.
And Jovian Rowan—who had once loved her without ambition—felt the past surge forward without mercy.
It was cruel.
It was impossible.
It was undeniable.
Ashiline stopped before them and inclined her head politely.
“My lords,” she said softly.
Her voice was not Artemisia’s.
That alone reminded them she was real.
The older Archeron watched them with thinly veiled satisfaction.
“Yes,” he said, breaking the silence at last. “I thought you might notice.”
No one answered.
The gathering, meant to celebrate a birth, had become something far heavier—a reckoning dressed in silk and candlelight.
And in that moment, everyone understood the same truth:
The past had not returned to haunt them.
It had returned to be seen.
Jovian Rowan was the first to find his voice. It came softly, almost unwillingly, as though speaking might shatter the fragile distance between past and present.
“She looks like her,” he said.
The room did not move.
No one pretended not to understand who her was.
Matthias Lazar inhaled sharply, as if the air itself had turned against him. His eyes never left Ashiline’s face. When he spoke, it was barely more than a breath—low, fractured, and unguarded.
“Artemisia…”
The name slipped out before he could stop it.
It trembled on his tongue, heavy with years that had never truly passed. His voice cracked—not loudly, not dramatically, but in a way that revealed damage long concealed. Pain he had learned to bury beneath duty and discipline rose to the surface, unmistakable.
Ashiline heard it.
She turned toward him, her expression calm, curious rather than offended. She had heard the name before—whispered in corridors, spoken too carefully at family dinners—but never like this. Never with such naked sorrow.
She met his gaze.
For a fleeting second, Matthias Lazar forgot where he was. The hall, the gathering, the years between them—it all dissolved. There was only the echo of a woman who had once looked at him the same way, unafraid and unconvinced.
But Ashiline did not flinch.
She smiled instead—soft, composed, undeniably her own.
“Ashiline, sir,” she said gently. “That is my name.”
The words landed quietly.
They were not a correction meant to wound, nor a rebuke meant to shame. They were simply truth, offered without bitterness.
And yet, they hurt all the same.
Matthias blinked, the spell breaking. His jaw tightened as he inclined his head, shame flickering briefly across his features.
“Of course,” he murmured. “Forgive me.”
Caius Valen exhaled slowly, his usual charm nowhere to be found. “You have her eyes,” he said, his voice softer than before. “But… there’s something else there too.”
Gustavus Arden remained silent, though his gaze had not left Ashiline since the moment she stepped forward. He saw it as well—not just resemblance, but restraint. A composure born not of legacy, but of awareness.
The older Archeron observed them all, his expression unreadable.
“She is Ashiline,” he said firmly, as if sealing the moment. “My granddaughter.”
Ashiline inclined her head once more, hands folded neatly before her. She did not yet understand why the room felt heavier than it had moments ago. She did not know why four men who held power in their own right now looked as though something fragile had been placed back into their hands.
But she felt it.
Whatever had lived before her was unfinished.
And whatever had been lost had found a way to look back at them.
The candles continued to burn. The music resumed, tentative and distant.
But nothing in Archeron House would ever be the same again.
The older Archeron cleared his throat.
The sound was deliberate—meant to be heard, meant to gather the room back into order. It broke the fragile stillness that had settled like dust over memory.
“You must be shocked, then?” he said, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
None of the four answered.
There was nothing to say that would not reveal too much. Shock implied surprise. What they felt was something closer to recognition—sharp, unwelcome, and undeniable.
Ashiline stood between them, her expression open, almost uncertain. She sensed the shift in the room but could not yet name it. The glances exchanged above her head, the careful silences, the way the air tightened whenever Artemisia’s name hovered unspoken—none of it made sense to her.
She did not know what had been resurrected in her presence.
The older Archeron turned to her, his expression softening just enough to pass for affection.
“Ashiline,” he said calmly, “you may enjoy the event.”
It was not a request.
“Yes, Grandpa,” she replied obediently, offering one last polite smile before turning away.
Her footsteps retreated, light and untroubled, unaware of how closely they were followed. Conversations resumed slowly as she moved deeper into the hall, but the four men did not look away.
They watched her leave.
They watched the past walk forward, unburdened by the weight they carried.
Only when she disappeared into the crowd did the older Archeron speak again.
“You see,” he said quietly, satisfaction threading his voice, “some things refuse to stay forgotten.”
Matthias Lazar’s jaw tightened.
“This was intentional,” he said at last.
The older Archeron’s smile widened, thin and knowing.
“Everything worth remembering always is.”
Caius Valen exhaled sharply. “You shouldn’t involve her.”
“Shouldn’t?” Archeron echoed softly. “My dear boy—she was involved the moment she was born.”
Gustavus Arden’s voice was low, edged with warning. “You’re playing with history.”
“No,” the older Archeron replied, eyes gleaming. “I am reminding it where it began.”
Silence followed, heavier than before.
Somewhere in the hall, Ashiline laughed—light, unguarded, unaware.
And for the first time that evening, the four houses understood the same terrible truth:
This gathering was never meant to celebrate a birth.
It was meant to wake something old.
“History repeats itself, young lads,” the older Archeron said quietly.
His voice carried just far enough to reach them—and no farther. He turned his gaze upon them one by one, measuring, remembering. Then, slowly, deliberately, his eyes shifted past them.
To their daughters.
They stood at the edges of the hall, unaware they had become the center of his attention. Each bore traces of her father in posture, in temperament, in the subtle habits no one thought to hide. Reflections not of faces, but of choices.
“Look at them,” he continued. “So much like you once were.”
The words settled heavily.
“Be more responsible,” Archeron added, his tone sharpening. “Watch closely as your daughters fall into the same trap you once did.”
The four men froze.
It was not anger that stilled them—but recognition. They had walked those paths themselves. Loved too fiercely. Chosen too poorly. Believed too much in the illusion of control.
Jovian Rowan’s breath hitched. “You shouldn’t—”
“Shouldn’t?” Archeron cut in smoothly. “This has been decades in the making.”
He straightened, clasping his hands behind his back.
“When Ashiline was born,” he said, eyes glinting, “I knew from the start it would come to this.”
Matthias Lazar turned sharply. “You’re using them.”
“I am preparing them,” Archeron corrected. “The world does not forgive repetition—but it does demand it.”
His gaze lingered once more on the daughters, on Ashiline’s absence among them.
“Artemisia refused the game,” he said softly. “Her echo will not.”
Silence followed, thick and suffocating.
And in that silence, the four houses understood something far more terrifying than prophecy:
They were no longer the ones being tested.
Their daughters were.
“Who do you think will end up with Ashiline?” the older Archeron asked.
The question was spoken lightly, almost conversational, as if he were asking about the weather. But his eyes were sharp, deliberate, watching closely for fracture.
The four men stiffened.
Gustavus Arden was the first to respond, his voice firm, carrying the weight of a vow made too late in life.
“I won’t let my daughter play out the same fate I did,” he said. “Not again.”
For a moment, the older Archeron studied him—then smiled.
Matthias Lazar hesitated. It was rare for him to do so. Words had always come easily when authority was involved, but now they lodged somewhere between pride and regret.
“You’re really testing them,” he said slowly.
His gaze lifted, locking onto Archeron’s.
“You’re cruel,” Matthias added.
The word hung in the air.
The older Archeron laughed—not loudly, not warmly, but with a low, incredulous sound that carried no humor at all.
“Cruel?” he repeated. “You must be mad if you think this is cruelty.”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice as though confiding a truth meant only for them.
“History does not repeat itself without reason,” he said. “It repeats the moment someone is born bearing the same face, the same presence, the same gravity as the one who came before.”
His eyes darkened.
“Ashiline was never just a child. She was a return.”
Caius Valen shook his head. “You’re turning them into pieces.”
“No,” Archeron corrected calmly. “I am reminding you that you were pieces once.”
Silence followed, heavy and damning.
“Be smarter, young lads,” Archeron continued. “I allowed my daughter Artemisia to choose her own path. I let her walk away from power, from lineage, from all of you.”
His voice hardened.
“Because she came to me and said you were ready to kill each other.”
The accusation struck deep.
None of them denied it.
“I trusted her judgment,” Archeron said. “I let her love freely. I let her marry the painter. And what did that mercy earn her?”
He paused.
“Death,” he said softly.
The word fell like a verdict.
“And now,” he continued, “the heavens have returned her likeness to me—not as a woman, but as a girl surrounded by daughters who carry your blood, your tempers, your hunger.”
His gaze drifted once more toward the younger generation, laughter and light masking the trap beneath their feet.
“Tell me,” Archeron said quietly, “do you truly believe they will choose better than you did?”
No one answered.
Because deep down, they already knew the answer.
And that knowledge—that terrible, inherited certainty—settled into their bones.
The past was not asking permission to return.
It had already taken its place.
“I’m looking forward to seeing their desires for my beloved granddaughter,” the older Archeron said, his voice low, deliberate, dripping with a satisfaction that was almost cruel.
And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving the four men standing frozen in the grandeur of the hall. The air felt suddenly heavier, as if the walls themselves were pressing down on them. Every shadow seemed deeper. Every candle flicker carried a silent accusation.
“He’s really testing us,” Caius Valen muttered, his usual charm gone, replaced by unease. His hand brushed against the back of a chair as though grounding himself.
“I pity Julien if she falls for that woman,” Jovian Rowan said, voice tight. There was something in his words, a sharp edge of fear disguised as humor.
Gustavus Arden’s eyes narrowed. He stepped closer to Rowan, voice low and cutting.
“What kind of man pities his own daughter?” he asked. There was no anger—just cold, precise judgment. “Think before you speak.”
Before Matthias Lazar could respond, a small commotion at the entrance drew their attention.
“Father, do you know that woman?” a voice called out, tentative but firm. Maximilian Lazar stood there, poised yet tense, pointing directly at Ashiline.
Matthias’s jaw tightened. His dark eyes, usually controlled and calculating, flickered with something darker—possessiveness, fear, and an echo of old regrets.
“Don’t get close to her,” he said, voice low, dangerous.
The hall seemed to contract further as more daughters entered, each bearing the mark of their house, each carrying the weight of their father’s sins.
Cassian Valen followed, stepping lightly but with the same deliberate caution as his sister had shown. Gael Arden came next, quiet, observant, every movement measured. And finally, Julien Rowan, whose gaze swept over the hall as if seeking some unseen truth.
“Stop approaching that woman,” Gustavus Arden’s voice cut through the room, final and commanding. It was a warning, but carried the undercurrent of desperation, a silent admission that he feared the inevitable.
“But why?” Julien’s voice cracked slightly, disbelief lining every syllable. He had not expected to be ordered, restrained, warned away from someone he did not yet know—but somehow already understood was dangerous.
“Yeah, why?” Cassian echoed, eyes narrowing at his father. Confusion and frustration made him lean forward, curiosity ignited by the tension in the air.
Matthias’s gaze remained fixed on Ashiline, unmoving, calculating. His voice was colder now, almost whispering to the air rather than to his children.
“Because,” he said finally, “that woman carries history. Every choice, every desire, every betrayal of your forebears lives in her. If you step forward, even one of you, it will consume you as it consumed us.”
The room fell silent. Even the servants seemed to hold their breath. Ashiline, unaware of the storm her presence had already summoned, tilted her head slightly, her expression curious, unassuming.
Caius Valen’s hand trembled ever so slightly, though he quickly hid it. “It’s… unfair,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “We’re being punished for what? For what happened before we even existed?”
The older Archeron’s earlier words echoed in their minds, cold and sharp: “Be more responsible, young lads. Watch your daughters fall for the same trap you fell into.”
And now, in this hall, they understood the truth of it: the trap had returned, precise and patient. It was no longer a memory—they were living it again, and this time, the danger was embodied in the very air around them, in the soft, unknowing smile of Ashiline.
For a moment, none of them dared move.
Because deep down, they all knew the past had a way of swallowing those who dared defy it—and the first to fall might very well be their own children.