Scene: The Grand Dining Hall — A Storm Night Supper

Setting: Thunder rolls beyond the high glass windows of the Vael estate, rain painting streaks down the panes like the tear-tracks of long-dead ancestors. The great chandelier hums above the long dining table, ablaze with candles, silverware gleaming like weaponry. It is one of their regular mandatory weekend suppers—a tradition forged by loss, bound by blood.

Every surviving Vael is in attendance, including the children, all dressed in appropriate somber finery. The table is long enough to hold a small orchestra, but of course, no one sits close to Julian.

Who’s Present: Julian, Selene, Evelyn, Cassandra, Dorian, Lucien, Celeste, Silas, Atticus, Lucilla, Romulus, Remus, and Cassandra’s ghostly, forgettable husband.

Action:

Lucien arrives late, as always, soaked from a ride through the storm with Silas. He drips defiantly onto the marble floor and makes a dramatic show of pulling his gloves off with his teeth. Silas, soaked but grinning, takes his seat beside Celeste, who scolds him under her breath and flicks a napkin at his collar.

Julian clears his throat—pointedly—but Lucien ignores him, sending a wink across the table at Dorian, who hides a smirk behind his glass of wine.

Cassandra is already mid-monologue about how her sons tried to bury the governess alive in the garden. “Only her hand was sticking out like a daisy,” she sighs, sipping soup.

Dorian, composed as ever, interrupts to ask Celeste to play a new composition after supper. Evelyn claps delightedly. Julian glares as if Dorian suggested setting the curtains on fire.

Selene, cutting her meat with terrifying precision, inquires whether Silas has once again stolen ancient fencing swords from the cellar.

“Of course I did,” Silas says brightly. “I gave one to the dog.”

“Good,” Lucien replies. “He needs to learn defense.”

Lightning flashes. The chandelier sways. In that single moment of silence—the storm muffled, the children half-laughing—a soft sound echoes in the hallway beyond:

A piano note.

Not Celeste. Not Dorian.

A hesitant, broken, single note, struck again.

The room goes quiet. Dorian stills. Lucien rises halfway from his chair, his voice calm but firm.

“…No one touches that piano but my brother.”

Julian scowls. “Then who—?”

They all hear it now. A second note. This one softer.

Celeste stands, her eyes wide. “That’s… Father’s old melody.”

Silas bolts up. “I locked the piano room earlier. I swear I did.”

A final chord—a minor one—floods the dining room with memory.

Evelyn is already crying.

Lucien rises. Dorian rises with him, silently.

Selene takes the children by the shoulders and gently steers them toward the hall.

Julian, furious and half-terrified, remains seated but draws something unseen from beneath the table—a silver crucifix, polished too clean.

And as the twins step into the corridor, side by side, their footsteps matching, they see the hall lit only by candlelight. At the far end:

A figure.

Bent at the grand piano. Hair damp. Coat dark. Familiar.

Not Elise.

Not Adrian.

Not anyone they’ve seen in years.

But someone they recognize all the same.