The Unforeseen Anger

It has been a full week since Lito visited Willowbrook to check on Eliana's well-being, but there has been no update from him yet. 

Sebastian paced the length of his chamber, the soles of his boots silent on the plush rug. Shadows clung to the corners of the room, whispering secrets of the troubled night as he passed by the flickering candle on his desk. Each step was a testament to his restlessness, his mind ensnared by thoughts of Eliana trapped in the rustic embrace of Willowbrook. The scent of the damp stone walls seemed to press upon him, mingling with the heavy air of anticipation.

A sudden creak from the door sliced through the silence. Lito, the embodiment of loyalty and strength, entered the chamber. He moved with a predator's grace, his tailored uniform betraying none of the scars it concealed. Lito's amber eyes held a storm within them, reflecting the gravity of his findings.

"Sebastian," Lito began, his voice the calm before a tempest, "the village is suffocating under a shroud of despair."

The words hung in the air, weighted like an anchor in the depths of a turbulent sea. Sebastian turned to face his friend, his own silver eyes narrowing as they met Lito's gaze. The unspoken truths that passed between them needed no voice; the grim set of Lito's jaw spoke volumes.

"Tell me," Sebastian demanded, his resonant voice barely above a whisper, yet commanding the room's attention as surely as a clarion call.

Lito's gaze fixed upon Sebastian, a tempest of concern swirling within. "Eliana," he started, his words carefully measured as if to temper their sting, "she suffers under their hands like a rose amidst thorns." He paused, the weight of each word bearing down like shackles. "Victoria, she mocks her at every turn, parading her before her people in rags, whilst her own brood are swathed in velvets and silks."

Sebastian's jaw clenched, each detail a thorn in his side. "Rags, you say?" His voice was low, a growl rumbling from deep within.

"More than that," Lito continued, his amber eyes darkening with the recount. "Her meals... mere scraps unfit for the lowest servant. And the children, they take after their mother—taunting Eliana with morsels before tossing them to the hounds."

Sebastian's hand balled into a fist, the knuckles whitening. He could almost hear the echo of Eliana's dignified silence amidst mockery, her resilience an unspoken rebellion against the cruelty.

"Even the servants are forbidden to speak with her," Lito said, the disgust clear in his tone. "Her isolation is complete, enforced by Victoria's meticulous design."

"Isolation," Sebastian murmured, his thoughts churning like a stormy sea. The image of Eliana, alone and surrounded by malice, stirred a tempest within him. He pictured her silver hair, once cascading freely, now perhaps dulled by neglect; her red eyes, vibrant even in sorrow.

"Tell me more," Sebastian urged, his voice steady despite the turmoil that brewed beneath the surface.

Sebastian rose abruptly, his silhouette stark against the flickering shadows that played upon the ancient tapestries lining his chamber walls. The air was thick with expectation, every word from Lito's lips a kindling to the fire that smoldered within him.

"During the last harvest festival," Lito spoke, hesitance lacing his voice as though each syllable were a weight upon his conscience, "Eliana was made to serve the feast, her hands chafed raw by the cold washwater."

"Serve?" Sebastian's voice sliced through the space between them, sharp and cold as steel. "A spectacle for their twisted enjoyment?"

"Indeed," replied Lito, his gaze unwavering despite the tempest he saw brewing in Sebastian's eyes. "And when she faltered, even slightly, they would... jest at her expense, speaking of her as if she were less than human."

The words coiled around Sebastian like chains, binding him with a fury that demanded retribution. His nostrils flared as he imagined the scene—Eliana, stoic in her suffering, while the heartless laughter of her tormentors filled the air.

"Sebastian?" Lito's voice broke through the haze of anger, a note of concern threading through the name.

"Forgive me," Sebastian muttered, the apology more for himself than for Lito. He was a duke, a master of his emotions, yet here he stood, wrath seething beneath a composed exterior. His mind raced, battling between the urge to unleash the demon powers coursing through his veins and the knowledge that such actions could ignite a war within the delicate fabric of their feudal world.

"Her bed," Lito continued, drawing Sebastian back from the precipice of his rage, "is but straw and old blankets on the ground, in the corner of the scullery, where the chill seeps in unbidden."

"Straw?" Sebastian echoed, the word a bitter taste on his tongue. From his own plush, feathered bed to the harsh reality of Eliana's existence—the contrast was a jagged blade to his conscience.

"Sebastian," Lito implored, stepping closer, the lines of worry etched deep into his face. "What will you do? You know the Duchess holds considerable power in her own strange way. To defy her... may bring extra problems as you want to lay low. I don't know what the best plan is right now."

"Damn the consequences," Sebastian spat out, defiance flaring in his crimson eyes. Yet, within him, the conflict raged—a battle between the wildfire of his anger and the calculated calm of his lineage. To act rashly would be to play into their hands, but to do nothing would be to forsake the very essence of his being.

"Ensure that no harm comes to her," Sebastian commanded, his voice a low rumble, resonant with the authority he wielded so effortlessly. "I will not stand idly by while innocence is trampled beneath the boots of the callous."

"Of course," Lito bowed, acknowledging the unspoken resolve that emanated from Sebastian like an aura of dark intent.

Sebastian turned away, his jaw set in grim determination. The decision lay before him, a path shrouded in shadow and fraught with peril. Yet, amidst the turmoil, one truth emerged clear and unwavering—the protection of Eliana, the light within the suffocating darkness of Willowbrook, was worth any risk. And so, Sebastian, enshrouded in the complexity of his heritage and the burden of his power, made his choice.

Sebastian paced the length of his shadow-clad chambers, the dim glow from a solitary candle on his desk casting an amber dance across the stone walls. The flickering light struggled against the encroaching darkness, much like the duke's own battle to maintain composure in the face of raw, seething anger. Each measured step he took resonated through the silence, a somber echo in the vastness of his isolation. The air was still, heavy with the scent of old books and the lingering trace of sandalwood that had permeated the room from incense burned hours earlier.

His thoughts churned like a tempest, the quietude around him a stark contrast to the cacophony of emotions waging war within. The parchment beneath the candle seemed to absorb the scant light, its edges curling ever so slightly as if trying to escape the flame's heat. Shadows played upon the high ceiling, shifting and contorting into grotesque shapes that mirrored the complexity of the decision that weighed upon Sebastian's soul.

A soft rap at the door sliced through the tension, the sound far too gentle for the gravity it carried. The door creaked open, and a young maid stepped timidly into the penumbra, her hands clasped in front of her apron. Her eyes held a glint of anticipation, reflecting the candlelight as she bowed her head slightly, not daring to meet the gaze of the imposing figure before her.

"Your Grace," she began, her voice a mere whisper in the vast chamber, "a letter for you." She extended a shaking hand, offering the missive as though it were an olive branch amidst the brewing storm.

Lito, who had remained a silent sentinel by the hearth, glanced at Sebastian, his amber eyes betraying a flicker of curiosity before returning to their usual stoic watchfulness. The duke ceased his pacing, turning toward the maid with a controlled grace that belied the turmoil beneath his calm exterior.

"Leave it on the desk," Sebastian instructed, his words laced with an authority that commanded obedience without need for volume. His eyes, however, were fixed upon the envelope, noting the seal that adorned it—a seal that hinted at tidings which could alter the course of events yet to unfold.

As the maid placed the letter beside the candle and retreated with a curtsy, Sebastian's mind raced with possibilities, his senses acutely attuned to every detail—the way the wax seal caught the light, the rustle of the paper, the faintest scent of ink that now mingled with the room's perfumed air. The candlelight continued its dance, oblivious to the change it heralded, while the shadows seemed to lean in, eager spectators to the unfolding drama.

Sebastian's fingertips grazed the seal, a rampant lion embossed in crimson wax—recognizable, regal. He felt the weight of the parchment, heavy and expectant in his palm. With deliberate movements, he slid a dagger under the seal, prying it apart. The paper resisted before yielding, unfolding with a crisp whisper that seemed to echo in the hushed chamber.

"An invitation," Sebastian murmured, eyes scanning the flowing script. The scent of iron gall ink rose, sharp and pungent, mingling with the faint musk of the candle's smoke. The words on the page conjured images of Willowbrook's vibrant affair, its revelry a stark contrast to the somberness of his domain.

"Seems the Marquess is throwing a grand masquerade." Lito's voice was tinged with a hint of intrigue as he peered over Sebastian's shoulder.

"Indeed," Sebastian replied, his tone betraying a sliver of anticipation. "A masquerade where all are masked, yet not all are hidden."

His thoughts darted to Eliana, her silver hair a ghostly shimmer against the backdrop of their shared past. Could she endure another night under the Duchess's heel? The possibility chafed at him like shackles he could neither see nor break.

"Sebastian?" Lito's voice cut through his reverie.

"Forgive me, I was... considering the possibilities," Sebastian said, his gaze lifting from the letter to meet Lito's steady stare. "This event may present an opportunity."

"An opportunity?" Lito's eyebrow arched, question clear without needing to be voiced.

"For intervention. To step out from these shadows and observe—" Sebastian paused, his resolve solidifying like steel being forged, "—to ensure Eliana's well-being."

Lito regarded him silently, understanding the unsaid. They both knew this was more than a mere foray into society; it was a chance for Sebastian to act, to extend his influence beyond these walls and perhaps change the course of a life.

"Then we shall prepare," Lito stated, the finality in his tone mirroring the determination in Sebastian's eyes. "Willowbrook will not know what darkness descends upon it."

"Nor the light that might emerge," Sebastian added, folding the invitation with care. His thoughts were already weaving through the labyrinth of plans and contingencies, each step towards the masquerade a dance with fate itself.

Sebastian's fingers ceased their dance over the folded parchment, his knuckles whitening as he clenched the invitation. The shadows in the room grew long and sinuous, writhing across the walls as the candle sputtered on its last breath of wax. The faintest scent of smoke mingled with the lingering aroma of ink—a signal of the waning day and the urgency that now clung to the air like a tangible shroud.

"Time is slipping," he murmured under his breath, more to himself than to Lito, who watched him with the quiet reserve of a man well-versed in the tempests of his friend's soul.

The flickering candlelight cast an erratic glow upon Sebastian's face, painting him in hues of gold and shadow. His silver eyes, reflective as the blade of a well-honed dagger, glinted with the sharpness of a newfound resolve. Each flame-born specter that danced across his visage seemed to stir the embers of his determination, fanning them into a blaze that no darkness could suppress.

Lito stood silent, understanding that this was the calm before the storm—a time where words had less power than the silent communion of shared intent. The room around them held its breath, the heavy drapes and ancient tapestries absorbing the weight of imminent decision.

"Willowbrook may be the crucible," Sebastian finally said, voice low and even, each word chosen with deliberate care, "but it will not be the end. Not for us, and certainly not for Eliana."

"Indeed," Lito replied, his tone an echo of Sebastian's restrained intensity. "We must be the architects of change."

Sebastian rose from his seat with the fluid grace of a predator uncoiling, his movements betraying none of the storm that raged within. He crossed to the window, peering into the night as if seeking counsel from the stars themselves. They were distant, cold points of light—unmoved by mortal plight—but to Sebastian, they whispered of possibility.

"Preparations must begin at once," he declared, turning back to face the room, his silhouette framed by the darkness beyond the glass. "Every detail matters."

"Of course," Lito responded, already mentally cataloging the tasks ahead. "I will see to it personally."

The candle gave one final flicker before succumbing to the inevitable embrace of darkness, casting the room into near obscurity. But it mattered little to Sebastian. His inner vision was alight with plans and stratagems, each one a step toward the masquerade that would serve as the battleground for Eliana's freedom.

"Let the darkness come," he whispered, more vow than statement. "For in its midst, we shall find our truth."

And with that, Sebastian, enigmatic master of his own fate, began to weave the threads of destiny through the loom of his will. Shadows bowed to his command, and the night itself seemed to pause in anticipation of what was to come.