Octavia Grigore/Background/1660s

I listened, captivated by her story. “Wow, what happened?”

Octavia paused, the soft rustling of vineyard leaves filling the silence. Her eyes, cold and distant, gazed long into the shadows beyond the veranda, as though searching through centuries for answers hidden in the dark.

"Fire," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper, edged with something like regret. "They came by torchlight—men with faces obscured by hunger and hatred, banners waving in the smoke. The peasants, stirred to madness by fear and whispers. Our home, the gardens, the old oak—all set ablaze."

Her fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on the delicate stem of the wine glass, a rare tension rippling through her otherwise impeccable composure.

"My father fought. Brave, foolish man. I watched from behind a column, small and hidden. He shouted orders, but his voice was lost in the roar of flames. And my mother—" Octavia paused, her eyes briefly closing, a controlled, painful breath slipping through parted lips. "She turned to me, calm as always, with eyes full of love and sorrow. 'Run, Octavia,' she told me. 'Hide. And whatever happens, don't look back.'"

The wind stirred gently, carrying the scent of sandalwood and roses from Octavia's hair, blending softly with the night. Her voice lowered further, heavy with the impact of the distant memory.

"Of course, I did look back. From the edge of the forest, I watched the flames consume everything. I saw my father fall, sword in hand. And I saw them drag my mother away, her gaze locked to mine until shadows and smoke swallowed her whole."

Octavia turned her face back toward me, those glacial eyes catching the faint lantern light. For just a moment, beneath centuries of practiced control, vulnerability flickered. She let the weight of her words linger in the cool summer night. The vineyard remained quiet, the stars overhead unmoved.

I blinked. “Did… did they survive? What happened next?”