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December 20, 2024December 20, 2024

Tides of Destiny Chapter 7

The Past Awakens

The morning air was thick with the scent of damp earth and roses as Aileen stepped into the overgrown garden behind the manor. The fog clung to her boots, swirling around her as if reluctant to release her to the day. The journal, its cracked leather cover warm from her touch, was tucked securely under her arm. Since discovering it, she had devoured its pages late into the night, unable to tear herself away from Eleanor’s voice, her struggles, and her secrets.

Today, Aileen’s goal was clear: to find the garden Eleanor had so painstakingly described in her writings—a place that seemed to hold not only memories but answers.

Eleanor’s words had etched vivid imagery in Aileen’s mind. She could almost hear Eleanor’s laughter mingling with Damien’s deep voice in the garden, hidden beneath the years of neglect. Aileen’s heart raced as she brushed aside the tangled branches, imagining the once-pristine stone pathways now cracked and consumed by nature. The echoes of Eleanor’s joy and heartbreak resonated through her mind like whispers on the breeze.

At the center of the garden, she found it: the fountain. Though cracked and dry, it bore the faint outlines of angels carved into its stone base, their wings spread wide as though protecting the secrets buried here. The sight struck a chord within her, and she knelt to trace her fingers over the carvings, her breath catching in her throat.

“Damien spoke of this place as a sanctuary,” Aileen murmured, reading aloud from the journal. “A place where the world couldn’t reach us.” She flipped to another page, her fingers trembling. “And yet, even here, shadows crept in.”

Her voice broke the silence, and the garden seemed to shiver in response. As she stood, Aileen’s gaze fell upon a glint of metal in the dirt by the fountain’s edge. She bent to retrieve it, brushing away the soil to reveal an ornate key. Its design matched the intricate patterns of the manor’s doorknobs, and the thought sent a chill down her spine.

Please help me publish my book ‘Repent to Repair’ I need funds to get it published from a publishing company. I am looking forward to sell this book on e-market and book shops.

This book is my heartfelt message to everyone who is wanting to live mindfully and wants to make amends to their wrong doing and past mistakes.

I have set up a donation page for this purpose and would love to get help and love from fellow writers and readers alike. If you have any questions, feedback or suggestions please do not hesitate to contact me.

Following is the link https://givealittle.co.nz/cause/words-into-print-help-bring-my-book-to-life

Back inside, the air seemed heavier, the walls pressing closer as Aileen carried the key through the halls. She had long since stopped dismissing the peculiar occurrences in the house. The flickering lights, the faint strains of music echoing from empty rooms, and the unshakable feeling of being watched were no longer mere figments of her imagination.

Her destination was clear: the locked door on the third floor, the one she had attempted to open countless times. The key fit perfectly, turning with a soft click. The door groaned as it swung open, revealing a room preserved as if time had simply stopped.

Dust motes danced in the sunlight streaming through stained glass windows. Aileen’s breath caught as her eyes adjusted to the dim light, taking in the sight of a grand writing desk, its surface cluttered with parchment, quills, and a tarnished inkpot. Shelves lined the walls, filled with books bound in leather and gold leaf, their spines bearing titles in languages she couldn’t decipher.

On the desk lay a portrait. Aileen’s hand hovered over it, hesitant, before finally picking it up. The painting was of a woman, unmistakably Eleanor, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders and her eyes—piercing and full of secrets—gazing out at her. But there was something off. In the corner of the painting, faint but discernible, was the silhouette of a man. Damien, perhaps? Or someone else entirely?

Aileen set the portrait down, her pulse quickening. Something compelled her to search the desk. She opened drawers, revealing more journals and loose letters, their ink faded but legible. The writing spoke of forbidden meetings and whispered plans, but one phrase stood out:

“The storm will come, and with it, the truth will rise.””

As she read the words aloud, the room’s temperature plummeted. The stained glass cast fractured rainbows across the floor, but the colors dimmed as if the light itself recoiled. Aileen turned sharply, the hair on her neck rising as the mirror on the wall seemed to ripple, its surface undulating like water.

From within, Eleanor appeared. Her face was pale, her expression one of sorrow and urgency. Aileen stumbled backward, clutching the journal to her chest as Eleanor’s lips moved, forming words that carried no sound. Yet, Aileen understood.

“The key is not just to the door but to the past. To me. To him.”

Eleanor’s apparition vanished, leaving Aileen trembling in the empty room. Questions flooded her mind: Who was the “him” Eleanor spoke of? Was it Damien, or was there someone else tangled in this web of love, betrayal, and destiny? And what storm was coming?

Aileen knew she couldn’t stop now. The manor’s secrets were unraveling, pulling her deeper into its embrace. She glanced back at the journal, her fingers tracing the faded ink. The answers were here, hidden in Eleanor’s words and the manor’s shadows. All she had to do was listen.

Tides of Destiny Ch 6:

Romance, Thrill, Suspense, Novel, Ball Room, Tides of Destiny

The Chains of Obligation

The year was 1925, and spring had arrived in Rothschild Manor with deceptive gentleness. The sun painted the stone walls in warm hues, and the garden bloomed with wild abandon, a riot of roses and ivy that threatened to overrun the estate. Yet, for Eleanor, the beauty of the season only sharpened her despair.

Her engagement to Harold Blackthorn had been announced weeks earlier. The news was delivered with pomp and celebration, but to Eleanor, it felt like a sentence. Harold was everything her father admired—wealthy, influential, and rigidly traditional. But to Eleanor, he was a stranger cloaked in propriety, his intentions as cold and sharp as the winter winds that had only just passed.

Her heart, however, belonged to Damien Carter.

Damien was no match for Harold in the eyes of society. A painter with little to his name but his talent and a fierce, restless soul, Damien represented everything Eleanor’s family despised. His love for her was raw, unpolished, and free of the suffocating expectations that weighed on her every moment.

They met in secret, in the forgotten corners of the estate—the overgrown gazebo near the woods, the hidden passages beneath the house, and occasionally, beneath the great willow tree where Damien often sketched her.

But the walls of Rothschild Manor had ears. The whispers of their forbidden love grew louder, carried by servants too loyal to her father’s strict authority to keep silent.

April 20, 1925

Eleanor sat in her bedroom, her reflection in the gilded mirror distorted by her tears. The woman in the mirror no longer looked like her. She was a stranger—a prisoner draped in fine silks and jewels, with sorrow etched into every line of her face.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Enter,” she called, quickly wiping her eyes.

The door creaked open, revealing Damien. He looked disheveled, his dark hair tousled and his hands smudged with charcoal. He closed the door behind him, his expression both urgent and tender.

“Eleanor,” he said, crossing the room in long strides. “We don’t have much time. Your father knows.”

Her heart sank. “Knows what?”

“About us. The servants are talking. He’s furious.”

Eleanor’s breath caught. “What will he do?”

Damien reached for her hands, his grip firm. “It doesn’t matter. We’re leaving. Tonight.”

She shook her head, panic flooding her chest. “Damien, he’ll never let me go. You don’t understand the lengths he’ll go to—”

“I do understand,” Damien interrupted, his voice low and fierce. “But I won’t let him keep you here. We’ll run, Eleanor. To the coast, to Paris, to anywhere but this cursed place.”

Eleanor wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that their love could outlast the wrath of her father and the shadows of the manor.

But the house had other plans.

As night fell, the manor seemed to come alive. The walls groaned as if resenting their plans, and the air grew heavy with an unspoken warning. Eleanor and Damien met by the old willow tree, where a carriage awaited them.

Damien helped her into the carriage, his touch steady despite the tension that crackled between them.

“We’ll be free,” he said, climbing in beside her. “I promise.”

But as the carriage began to move, a loud, piercing scream shattered the night. It came from the direction of the manor.

Eleanor froze. “It’s my father,” she whispered.

“No,” Damien said firmly. “It’s the house. Ignore it. It’s trying to stop us.”

The scream came again, louder and more anguished. Eleanor’s hands flew to her ears, her resolve crumbling. “I can’t, Damien. I can’t leave him.”

Damien grabbed her shoulders, forcing her to look at him. “Eleanor, listen to me. Your father doesn’t own you. This house doesn’t own you. If you go back now, you’ll never escape.”

Tears streamed down her face. “You don’t understand. It’s not just my father—it’s something else. Something dark. It’s in the walls, Damien. It’s in the mirror.”

He stared at her, his expression a mixture of confusion and desperation. “Eleanor, please. We have to go.”

But the carriage jolted to a sudden stop. The horses reared, their eyes wild with fear. The coachman jumped down, shouting something neither of them could hear over the howling wind that had risen out of nowhere.

The door of the carriage flew open, and a shadow loomed outside.

Eleanor screamed as a figure stepped into the moonlight. It was Harold Blackthorn. His face was pale with rage, his fists clenched at his sides.

“Going somewhere, Eleanor?” he spat, his voice dripping with venom.

“Leave her alone,” Damien said, stepping out of the carriage to face him.

Harold sneered. “Ah, the painter. Did you really think you could steal her away from me?”

Eleanor climbed out after Damien, her knees weak. “Harold, please. Just let us go.”

Harold’s eyes gleamed with something dark and dangerous. “You think you can shame me? You think you can run away with this—this nobody?”

He lunged at Damien, and the two men grappled in the mud, their shouts and grunts filling the night.

Eleanor stood frozen, her heart pounding. She wanted to intervene, but terror rooted her in place.

Suddenly, the ground beneath them began to shake. The wind howled louder, and a low, guttural sound rumbled from the direction of the manor.

Both men stopped fighting, their faces turning toward the house. The windows of the east wing glowed with an eerie, flickering light, as though flames were dancing behind the glass.

“The house,” Eleanor whispered.

“It’s angry,” Damien said, his voice low.

Harold took a step back, his bravado faltering. “What is this?”

No one answered. They could only stare as the light in the windows grew brighter, the rumbling louder. The night seemed to close in around them, the air thick with menace.

“Eleanor,” Damien said, grabbing her hand. “We have to go. Now.”

But Eleanor couldn’t move. The house was calling her, its voice a siren song that wrapped around her mind and refused to let go.

“Eleanor!” Damien shouted, shaking her.

She tore her gaze away from the manor and looked at him, her eyes wide with fear. “I can’t. It won’t let me.”

Harold, now pale and trembling, muttered something under his breath and took off running into the darkness.

Damien tightened his grip on her hand. “Then we’ll fight it. Together.”

But as they turned to flee, the ground beneath them split open, and the night swallowed them whole.

December 16, 2024December 17, 2024

Love Against the Shadows

Chapter 4

I wanted to make a little update/announcement for all my readers and this is completely voluntary for you to act or not to act on this one but please do donate to my cause that is close to my heart and this is for Mental Health. You might or might not live in New Zealand but you would agree and you would have known at least some one who would be going through a Mental Illness or hard time in life would have made them prone to Mental Health Issues. To help my community and country I am fundraising for Mental Health please do donate anything you can. No help is too small every penny helps. Below is the link. Thank you so much for your time to read my blogs.

https://fundraise.mentalhealth.org.nz/zoebali

Love Against the Shadows

The year was 1925, and the Rothschild estate stood in its prime—a beacon of wealth and influence, yet shrouded in whispers of misfortune. The manor’s sprawling grounds were meticulously maintained, its grand halls hosting the elite of society. Eleanor Rothschild, the youngest daughter of the family, was the epitome of grace, her every movement shadowed by the expectations of her lineage.

Yet, beneath the polished exterior, Eleanor was a woman at odds with her world. She despised the suffocating propriety of high society and the cold indifference of her family. Her solace came in the form of books and late-night walks along the estate’s wooded paths, where she could breathe without the weight of the Rothschild name pressing down on her.

It was on one such walk that she first met Damien.

Damien Carter was a man of humble origins, the son of a local craftsman who had worked for the Rothschild family for decades. Unlike the men Eleanor was accustomed to, Damien carried himself with quiet confidence, his hands calloused from hard labor, his dark eyes full of intensity.

Their first encounter was unplanned—a chance meeting near the garden’s edge. Eleanor had wandered off, seeking solace in the moonlight, when she stumbled upon Damien repairing a stone bench.

“Forgive me,” she said, startled by his presence. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

Damien looked up, his expression softening. “You’re not disturbing me, Miss Rothschild. The garden belongs as much to you as the stars belong to the night.”

Eleanor blushed, unused to such straightforwardness. She lingered, asking about his work, and soon their conversation flowed effortlessly. There was something about Damien’s voice—a steadiness, a warmth—that drew her in.

Over the months, their meetings became deliberate. Eleanor would find reasons to visit the gardens, and Damien would ensure he was working nearby. They shared stolen moments among the roses, their whispered conversations laced with a growing intimacy.

Damien was unlike anyone Eleanor had known. He spoke of dreams untainted by wealth, of a world where people were valued for their character rather than their status. Eleanor found herself falling for him, her heart yearning for a life far removed from the confines of her gilded cage.

But the manor had eyes everywhere. Servants began to whisper, their words reaching Eleanor’s father, Charles Rothschild—a man as calculating as he was powerful.

One evening, Charles confronted Eleanor in the library.

“Do you take me for a fool?” he demanded, his voice cold.

Eleanor stood her ground, her chin held high. “I’ve done nothing wrong, Father.”

“Nothing wrong?” Charles sneered. “You’ve been seen cavorting with that… that laborer. Do you understand the disgrace you bring to this family?”

“He’s more honorable than anyone in this house,” Eleanor shot back.

Charles’s expression darkened. “You will end this nonsense, or I will ensure Damien Carter regrets ever setting foot on this estate.”

Eleanor and Damien met that night under the cover of darkness. She relayed her father’s threats, her voice trembling with anger and fear.

“We can’t stop,” Damien said firmly. “What we have… it’s worth the risk.”

“But he’ll ruin you,” Eleanor whispered, tears brimming in her eyes. “He’ll ruin us both.”

Damien took her hands in his. “Let him try. I would face a thousand storms for you, Eleanor.”

Moved by his resolve, Eleanor made a decision that would alter the course of their lives. She told Damien about the whispers she’d heard growing up—the stories of a curse tied to the house. How the manor demanded loyalty and punished betrayal.

“I never believed it,” Eleanor admitted. “But now… it’s as if the house knows. It watches us.”

Damien frowned but didn’t dismiss her fears. “Then we’ll find a way to outsmart it,” he said. “Whatever it takes, Eleanor, we’ll find a way to be together.”

Their rebellion began in secret. Eleanor smuggled books from the family library, poring over anything that might shed light on the manor’s dark history. Damien sought out old-timers in the village, listening to their tales of strange happenings on the estate.

One story struck a chord:

Decades earlier, a maid and a stable boy had fallen in love. When their affair was discovered, the maid disappeared, and the boy was found hanging in the stables. It was said that the house itself had played a role, its malice extending beyond the reach of human cruelty.

“It’s not just a curse,” Eleanor realized one evening, her voice trembling. “The house… it’s alive.”

Damien was skeptical but supportive. “Then we’ll confront it,” he said. “Together.”

Their resolve was tested when Charles announced Eleanor’s engagement to a wealthy suitor. The suitor, a man named Harold Ashcroft, was cold and calculating—a perfect match for the Rothschild legacy.

“I will not marry him,” Eleanor declared.

“You will,” Charles said, his tone final.

The house seemed to echo his decree. That night, Eleanor heard whispers in the walls, faint but insistent:

“Obey the house… or suffer its wrath…”

Determined to defy both her father and the house, Eleanor and Damien made a plan to escape. They would leave the estate under the cover of darkness, abandoning the wealth and privilege that had chained Eleanor for so long.

On the night of their planned escape, Eleanor packed her belongings, including a locket containing a picture of her late mother—a woman who, Eleanor now suspected, had also suffered under the house’s control.

But as she waited by the garden gate for Damien, a chilling wind swept through the trees. The house seemed to hum with energy, its windows glowing faintly in the moonlight.

Damien arrived, his face pale and his hands trembling.

“The house…” he began, but before he could finish, a deafening crash echoed from within the manor.

Eleanor turned, her heart pounding. The house loomed behind them, its presence more menacing than ever.

“What have we done?” she whispered.

Damien gripped her hand. “We fight. Whatever happens, Eleanor, we fight.”

Writers notes/prompts:

Please do like and share my work. If you have any feed back please comment and if you would like me to shape the story as per your liking I will try to incorporate your ideas as well and credit with your name where possible.

If you want me to like, read or comment on any of your posts please do write me in your comment or ask for my email address or subscribe to my blog. Thank you for your time and support. – Zoeb Ali A.K.A Zee.

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December 13, 2024December 13, 2024

Tides of Destiny

Chapter Two: Echoes of the Past

Aileen sat cross-legged on the dusty floor of the locked room, the journal open before her like an illicit treasure. The flickering light of her lantern cast erratic shadows on the walls, and the mirror in the corner seemed to shimmer faintly, as though waiting for something—or someone.

Her fingers trembled as she turned the pages. Each entry was dated, but the handwriting varied, suggesting that the journal had passed through multiple hands. It wasn’t just a diary—it was a ledger of the house’s strange and sorrowful history.

“February 14, 1925.
He warned me that love in this house is never simple. The manor has its own will, its own desires. But how can a house desire anything? It’s just stone and wood, isn’t it?
And yet, I feel it watching me. It knows my heart better than I do.”

The name signed below the entry was Eleanor Rothschild. Aileen’s breath hitched. Rothschild. The name carried weight in Everspring’s history. The Rothschilds had been the original owners of Solace Manor, their wealth and influence unmatched. Yet their legacy was marred by whispers of betrayal, loss, and disappearances.

Aileen traced the faded ink, her mind racing. Could the woman in the mirror be Eleanor? And if so, what had happened to her?

As though answering her thoughts, the mirror rippled again. She looked up, her pulse quickening. The surface smoothed, and once more, the woman’s face appeared—Eleanor, as Aileen now suspected. Her features were delicate, framed by dark curls, and her eyes brimmed with unshed tears.

Aileen rose cautiously, clutching the journal as she approached the mirror. “Who are you?” she whispered.

The figure in the mirror didn’t speak, but her expression grew more desperate. She raised a hand and placed it against the glass. Instinctively, Aileen did the same, her fingers brushing the cold, smooth surface. A jolt of energy surged through her, and for a moment, the room around her vanished.

Aileen found herself standing in the manor, but it wasn’t the decayed shell she knew. The walls were vibrant with fresh paint, the chandelier above her glittered like a constellation, and laughter echoed from unseen rooms.

She turned in awe, her heart pounding. This was the house as it had been in its prime. Servants bustled through the halls, their faces unfamiliar yet strangely comforting. Music drifted from the ballroom, a hauntingly beautiful melody played on a grand piano.

Aileen followed the sound, drawn like a moth to a flame. In the ballroom, she saw her—the woman from the mirror. Eleanor sat at the piano, her fingers dancing over the keys, her expression a mix of sorrow and determination.

Before Aileen could approach, a man entered the room. He was tall and striking, with dark hair and an air of authority. Eleanor looked up at him, her hands faltering on the keys.

“Damien,” she said, her voice trembling.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he replied, his tone sharp. “You know what this house demands.”

Eleanor rose, defiant. “I won’t let it take him. He’s my son, Damien. Ours.”

Aileen’s breath caught. A son? The conversation continued, but the words grew faint, drowned out by the sound of the wind howling through the room. The scene began to blur, and before she could process what she had heard, she was pulled back into the present.

Aileen gasped as she stumbled back, the journal slipping from her grasp. She was back in the locked room, the mirror still shimmering faintly. Her reflection stared back at her, but it felt like something—or someone—else was looking through her.

The journal lay open on the floor, its pages fluttering as though turned by an invisible hand. It stopped on an entry dated several months after the last.

“May 10, 1925.
I can no longer fight it. The house has claimed him, just as it claimed the others. Damien was right—we were foolish to believe we could outwit it. But I will not surrender. If there is a way to break this curse, I will find it, even if it costs me everything.”

The air in the room grew colder, and the lantern flickered violently. Aileen felt a presence behind her, and every instinct screamed at her to run. But she didn’t. Instead, she turned slowly, her heart hammering in her chest.

No one was there, but the door to the room was now wide open.

Aileen swallowed hard and stepped into the hallway. The house felt alive in a way it hadn’t before, as though it were aware of her presence. She clutched the journal tightly as she descended the stairs, determined to uncover more.

In the library, she found what she was looking for—a collection of ledgers and personal letters, all covered in a thick layer of dust. She began sorting through them, piecing together fragments of the Rothschild family’s history.

The more she read, the more she realized the curse Eleanor had written about wasn’t just a metaphor. It was tied to the manor itself, its origins shrouded in mystery. There were references to a Rite of Union, a ritual conducted by the original owners to bind their fates to the house in exchange for power and wealth. But the ledger also hinted at a terrible price—a bloodline cursed to suffer loss and betrayal for generations.

Aileen’s blood ran cold. If what she suspected was true, the curse didn’t end with the Rothschilds. Her grandmother’s insistence that she was the only one who could uncover the house’s truth now seemed less like a request and more like a responsibility she couldn’t escape.

As she sat back, exhausted but resolute, the lantern flickered again. The mirror in the corner of the library caught her eye, its surface rippling once more.

This time, she didn’t hesitate. She rose and approached it, ready to face whatever truth awaited her on the other side.

Mindfulness for everyday life

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Get your copy today at a special price from my private website: theleap.co/creator/Inkbyzee

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Tides of Destiny Chapter 7

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