Anthesis of Sadness
Chapter 79: Lysara Thalaris Von Eskarion

Chapter 79: Lysara Thalaris Von Eskarion

I signed my name at the bottom of the last page.

A slow, precise, almost ceremonial gesture.

A habit I had picked up from Anthony.

He wrote at night, his gaze lost in the shadows, his thoughts weaving worlds that only he truly understood.

I did it in the morning.

When the mind is still pure, washed clean of the previous day’s fears, suspended between dream and reality.

It was a moment for myself, intimate, fragile, like a breath before the storm.

With every word laid on the paper, I felt myself take root.

I felt that I was leaving a mark.

That ritual calmed me.

It had something sacred, fragile, profoundly real.

As if putting the words down on paper confirmed, in a way that neither speech nor memory could equal, that all of it was real.

That I wasn’t dreaming.

That this life, this house, this name... weren’t fleeting illusions meant to vanish upon waking.

Each written line became tangible proof.

An anchor.

And as long as the ink dried beneath my fingers, I could believe — no, I could know — that I was truly here.

Alive. Loved. Free.

Once I closed my book, I left the cocoon of my suspended bed, delicately held aloft by strands of crystallized shadow.

In the dim morning light, the structure swayed gently, in perfect harmony with my will, responding to every breath of thought.

At the instinct of a fleeting desire, it rocked, like a gondola drifting effortlessly through a motionless sky where even the wind seemed to have gone still.

Each movement was a silent dance, proof that even in this world of shadows, my mind could still shape it in the image of my dreams.

I smiled.

What an exceptional bed...

A wonder of comfort and strangeness, at the crossroads of magic and dream.

Suspended between matter and thought, it seemed almost alive, receptive to my moods, lulled by my silences.

Nothing like the coarse straw beds, the cold stones, or the bare floors of my former shelters.

This bed... it was more than a piece of furniture.

It was a symbol.

Of what I had conquered.

Of what had been offered to me.

Of what I had become.

And that simple smile, discreet, sincere, was my silent tribute to all of it.

Every time I used it, I thought of him.

Of what he had done.

This bed, this jewel of magic and comfort, had been made for me.

Not out of whim, nor to impress me.

But with love. With care.

With that quiet, patient attention he poured into everything he gave me.

Like so many other things he had created or chosen for me — not to buy me, but to heal me.

To elevate me. To root me in a world that, at last, recognized me.

And each time I felt that gentle sway, that silent response to my thought, I remembered that I was here because he had willed it.

Because he had believed in me.

Even before I could believe in myself.

My gaze drifted around the room, slowly, almost tenderly.

And I couldn’t help but think: all the furniture in my room is mad.

Not a single piece was ordinary.

The dresser floated a few centimeters above the ground, gently rocked by a non-existent breeze.

The desk slightly bent its legs, as if stretching after a long night of vigil.

Even the shelves seemed to breathe, adjusting their height to suit the object placed upon them.

An animated universe, strange, deeply magical.

And I adored them. All of them.

Not for their strangeness, but for what they represented: a space designed for me, shaped in my image, with an eccentric tenderness.

A place where every object seemed to whisper: you are home.

An inverted mirror, suspended from the ceiling, reflected every detail of my room... except me.

No matter the angle, the light, the moment: my reflection never appeared.

As if the mirror refused to acknowledge my former existence.

Or perhaps... as if it recalled a time when I didn’t quite exist yet.

A vestige from before.

A discreet symbol of erasure, or of rebirth.

Not far from it, a library — but without a single book.

Instead, it held memories.

Fragments of crystallized thoughts, blurry images, laughter suspended in translucent shards.

I could brush them with my fingertips, pass through them, and relive buried moments.

Some made me cry.

Others, laugh until I couldn’t breathe.

It was an intimate, living museum of my own memory.

Of what I had been.

Of what I had become.

And in a shadowy corner, almost invisible at first glance, a strange cocoon glowed with a soft, pulsing light, like a sleeping heart.

When I approached, it opened slowly, noiselessly, and wrapped around me like a benevolent embrace.

Inside, time slowed.

The world ceased to hurt me.

I could meditate there, refocus, lose myself without fear, and find myself again without shame.

A few hours there were enough to erase entire days of tension.

It was my sanctuary.

My silence.

My center.

I loved that eccentricity.

That strange excess, that blend of magic and gentle madness.

Every piece of furniture, every corner, every anomaly in my room seemed to tell a story — not the story of a cold and perfect palace, but of a place shaped with love, with boldness, with disordered tenderness.

Nothing was conventional.

Nothing was normal.

And that was exactly what made it perfect in my eyes.

It wasn’t just a room... it was a reflection of me.

Of what I had become.

Unique. Unpredictable. Alive.

It wasn’t just my room.

It was a reflection of what I was becoming.

Not a slave.

Not a wanderer.

But Lysara Thalaris Von Eskarion.

Daughter of a legendary vampire.

Free. Alive.

And, at last... happy.

That morning, determined to at least share breakfast with my father, I set down my pen, closed my journal, and slowly left my suspended bed.

The strands of crystallized shadow responded immediately to my thought, releasing the elegant floating nacelle in which I slept each night.

It stabilized in the air with a supernatural softness, almost reverent.

That bed was a masterpiece.

Exceptional.

Like every detail of my room, for that matter.

I crossed the warm mist of the Shimmering Wing — my personal sanctuary, suspended between two floors of the manor, accessible only if I wished it.

A place outside the world.

The silence there vibrated, alive.

The walls whispered without sound.

Every piece of furniture seemed to listen to my movements.

I passed the inverted mirror, which reflected the entire room... except me.

A library brushed against me silently, placing a soft memory in my mind: the first time Anthony had offered me a strategy treatise, annotated with his sharp comments... and a few surprisingly humorous touches.

I stepped through the semi-liquid wall, a fluid wave that closed behind me, and emerged into the main corridor, returning to the familiar atmosphere of the manor: vast, solemn, breathing controlled power.

I descended the staircase carved from Abyssium, each step gently vibrating beneath my feet, as if it recognized me.

On the walls, enchanted lanterns held cold flames, slowly flickering, casting elongated shadows that danced to the rhythm of my steps.

Stewards passed near me.

None spoke.

They bowed deeply, hands crossed, eyes lowered in silent reverence.

Words weren’t needed.

Ever since I bore the name Thalaris Von Eskarion, their respect had taken on a subtle shade of veneration.

I still didn’t know if I deserved it.

But I accepted it.

For him.

For Anthony.

I continued my descent.

On the third floor, my gaze settled on the organic door to my father’s room, visible in the distance between the obsidian arches.

It throbbed gently, like a sleeping heart, its living surface marked by slow, steady pulses.

That door responded to his mood, his presence, his will.

This morning, it was peaceful. Calm.

Anthony must still be asleep... or meditating in one of those deep silences he so loved.

Just from that glow, I knew he was well.

I resumed my path, farther down still, to the level of the private arcana.

As I passed, I caught sight of the entrance to the Sanctuary of the Inner Flame — a double arch carved from black Brascroc, intertwined with living runes.

A faint crimson light leaked out from within, undulating like an ancient breath.

I didn’t even slow down, but the warmth — soft and penetrating — brushed against my side.

A shiver ran through me.

That place still fascinated me.

It was a burning heart, a forge of the soul, a secret.

The fire warmed you... even without touch.

At last, I reached the second floor.

The Brain of the Beast.

That’s what they called it.

Where thought, memory, and command of the manor converged.

Anthony’s strategic mind was imprinted everywhere, like an invisible presence, always alert.

I first walked through the Strategy Room — vast, silent, almost solemn.

At its center, the living table gently rippled, its crystalline veins lit with a pale glow.

Semi-organic pawns moved slowly across it, alone, as if driven by dreams of war.

A war they anticipated, or perhaps longed for.

I paused for a moment, fascinated, and observed a zone in constant agitation: the grey mists of Kharz’Gorath.

The borders of that cursed realm pulsed with nervousness.

Unstable. Uneasy.

Something was moving there... and it was not a good sign.

A silent steward appeared, as though emerging from the stone itself.

Without a word, he gestured for me to follow, and we entered a long vaulted corridor, its walls carved from raw Malacite, vibrating with ancient power.

Symbols etched into the stone came to life as we passed — fragments of forgotten oaths, pacts binding names even the dead no longer dared to utter.

They appeared, flickered once, then vanished like memories refused.

A strange breath brushed against the nape of my neck.

I slowed.

To my left, invisible to the eye but burning in the mind, I felt the call of the Library of the Eclipse.

A place impossible to ignore.

The scent of ancient leather, of pages sewn with memory, struck me like a familiar whisper.

I shivered.

The temptation to enter was strong.

But not today.

Another time, I would linger there.

When my mind would be ready to face what it kept.

Then I descended the last stairs to the first floor.

The walls changed.

Subtly, but inevitably.

The stone grew lighter, adorned with reflections of pale gold and molten mother-of-pearl.

The architecture opened, unfolding with a more formal grace.

It was another face of the manor.

Less intimate. More observed.

The Guest Nights, as Anthony called that wing.

Where our footsteps never quite belonged to us.

I walked through the Gallery of Past Visitors.

A long, silent corridor, framed by moving portraits, slightly veiled like in a lucid dream.

The former guests watched us, their gazes still alive, filled with memories and forgotten protocols.

Some nodded with dignity, others greeted me with a mischievous wink, companions in a humor lost to time.

Whispers drifted through the air, fragments of old negotiations, oaths exchanged in low voices beneath the gilding of a bygone age.

A nobleman long dead — fine beard, sharp and lifeless eyes — bowed with elegance as I passed.

"Lady Lysara."

His voice was a whisper, almost a scent.

I answered with a simple glance.

I needed nothing more.

They knew.

All of them.

A little farther on, the Moon Salon opened like an alcove bathed in silvery gloom.

A spectral harp, resting in a corner as if forgotten by a weary muse, played by itself.

Its strings vibrated under invisible hands, weaving a slow, melancholic melody.

The harp changed with the days.

Today, it sounded sad.

As if it, too, felt the mood of the manor.

Or perhaps... mine.

And finally, I approached the suspended dining room.

The air there was cooler, almost charged with an imperceptible vibration, as though the manor itself was holding its breath.

Tinted glass walls gave me a glimpse of the Ember Garden below — a bed of vitrified ash where red flowers danced, radiant, alive despite their scorched nature.

Their slow, graceful movement whispered a promise of resilience with every breeze.

I entered.

And the room welcomed me.

The black furniture with its sober lines, the tablecloths woven with threads of shadow, the intricately crafted silverware etched with secret patterns — all seemed to await me, silent, almost reverent.

Here, everything had its place.

Nothing was left to chance.

And at the far end of the room, near the wide window open to infinity, he was there.

Anthony. My father.

Seated in the pale morning light, a steaming cup between his fingers, his gaze fixed far away, lost in thought like an immovable fortress.

At the mere sight of him, without a word, without a gesture, everything within me calmed.

And for a moment — suspended, unreal — I felt it more strongly than ever:

The warmth.

The safety.

The stillness.

That quiet, intimate certainty that as long as he was there, I would never have to be afraid again.

I sat gently beside him, silent, savoring that simple moment.

A shared breakfast.

Nothing grand, nothing ceremonial.

Just us.

And yet, in a world woven of wars, mysteries, and shifting shadows, that simple gesture was worth more than all treasures.

A fragment of eternity in a predatory universe.

What followed was a day full of lessons.

My schedule no longer resembled a life of wandering.

It now had the rigor of an ascent.

In addition to courses in common languages, refined writing, and elaborate cooking — essential for one day hosting without shame — I attended strict sessions in noble etiquette.

The art of poise.

Gestural codes.

The silent rules among the powerful, those subtle signals that forged or shattered alliances with a mere tilt of the head.

To that were added classes in political history, strategic geography, and ancient stories passed down in hushed voices through the great bloodlines.

Truths forbidden to ordinary citizens.

At first, I felt like a stranger.

Like a raw piece of metal tossed into a fragile golden case.

Unshaped. Unfit.

But little by little...

Through perseverance, attention, and that insatiable hunger the streets had taught me, I found my place.

My teachers — scholars severe, sometimes inhuman, sometimes at the very edge of what one might still call alive — treated me with respect.

Some out of caution. Because of my name.

Others... because they saw in me a serious student.

A determined flame, untamed, starving for knowledge.

And I learned.

With the same silent fever that once pushed me to steal bread in filthy alleys.

Every word, every gesture, every detail absorbed, digested, anchored into my muscles and mind.

But this time... it wasn’t to survive.

Not to obey.

Not to beg for a place.

It was to live.

To live fully. Freely.

And in that routine, which others might have found burdensome, I discovered a kind of joy.

A rhythm.

A deep breath.

A reassuring, almost sacred constancy.

Because every morning, I was expected.

Not as a burden.

Not as a duty.

But as a recognized, integrated, important existence.

Every day, I had a purpose to pursue, a flame to feed.

And every evening, as the light unraveled into dark wisps behind the glass walls, I returned to my suspended room, gently carried by the filaments of crystallized shadow.

And my heart... was light.

My life was changing.

Not all at once, not like a bolt of lightning.

No.

It was changing like the slow warmth of a quiet fire, spreading patiently beneath the ash, insidious but unstoppable.

A fire that didn’t devour: it built.

It warmed.

It lit the way.

And I...

I was becoming alive.

Alive like I had never been before.

Not just out of instinct.

Not out of necessity.

But because I had finally found permission to exist.