The night wind was cool as it swept through the open terrace, stirring the sheer curtains like ghostly fingers. Evelyne stood at the edge, her hands resting lightly upon the marble rail, but her gaze was fixed far beyond the city lights.
Far beyond Leonhart's tower.
Far beyond the gilded lies and velvet daggers of tonight's dinner.
Her crimson eyes reflected only the darkness between the stars.
She had watched him.
Across the glittering table, behind her porcelain smile, she had watched Leonhart Varlock carefully. Every word he spoke, every flicker of emotion he allowed to show — and those he hid.
The boy she remembered from their shared youth — reckless, temperamental, quick to draw steel — was gone.
In his place stood something else.
Sharper. Colder. Dangerous in a way that made even her pulse stir.
She didn't like it.
And yet… she couldn't look away.
As the bells tolled midnight, Evelyne turned from the balcony and strode back into her chambers.
Gone was the noble lady draped in sapphire silks. With each step, she shed the layers of artifice — the earrings first, then the jeweled necklace, until only the thin linen shift remained. She crossed to the tall mirror standing at the far wall and met her own reflection.
Silver hair, loose now, spilled around her shoulders like liquid moonlight.
Crimson eyes, too bright, too sharp — a cursed gift from her mother's bloodline, whispered about in courtly circles.
The face of the empire's future duchess, they said.
The face of a villainess, others whispered.
She let out a breath, long and slow.
"Fools," she muttered. "All of them."
A knock at the door.
Soft. Patterned. Their code.
She turned, voice clipped. "Enter."
The door creaked open, and her maid — no mere servant but her oldest confidante — slipped inside. Maren, small and sharp-eyed, closed the door quietly behind her and bowed.
"They took the bait, my lady," Maren murmured. "The Count of Merrow has already sent a runner east. The rumors you planted will spread by dawn."
Evelyne's lips curled upward — but there was no warmth in the smile.
"Good. Let them gnaw at each other like starving dogs."
Maren hesitated. "But… there's another thing. About Lord Leonhart."
Evelyne's eyes narrowed. "What about him?"
The maid shifted, uncomfortable. "He… he sowed his own seeds tonight. Whispered poison about the royal court. Turned eyes against each other. Some of the lords left the dinner speaking highly of him."
A slow, heavy silence settled over the chamber.
Evelyne turned back toward the mirror, fingers curling against the cool glass.
So. He moved faster than she expected.
She had thought to use him — the disgraced heir, the villain marked by fate — as her pawn. A useful distraction while she laid the foundation of her own rise.
But now… it seemed Leonhart had ideas of his own.
Ambitions.
Dangerous ones.
And worst of all, he was clever about it.
"You are not the only player at the table, Leonhart," Evelyne murmured, watching her own reflection as if seeing a stranger. "And I will not be outplayed by a man the world already cast aside."
She turned sharply toward Maren. "Send word to our allies in the western reaches. I want their loyalty secured before Varlock moves to claim them."
Maren bowed low. "At once, my lady."
"And double our spies within House Varlock itself. I want to know everything about Leonhart's plans. Every meeting, every whisper. No detail is too small."
"Understood."
The maid vanished back into the shadows, leaving Evelyne alone once more.
The fire crackled softly in the hearth as Evelyne moved to the heavy desk in the corner. Maps were already spread across its surface, ink dots marking the key noble holdings around the capital. She added a fresh mark near House Merrow's estate.
Pieces on a board.
Pawns and knights.
And somewhere across this board, Leonhart was moving his own.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she dipped the quill into ink. She clenched them into a fist.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
He wasn't supposed to rise.
If Leonhart became too powerful… if he turned from a discarded heir into a force of chaos…
He could unravel everything.
Her plans. Her carefully constructed path to power.
She could not allow that.
But…
A flicker of doubt wormed its way into her mind.
She had seen it in his eyes tonight — not just ambition, but something else. A darkness deeper than the simple hunger for power.
Pain.
Hatred.
Resolve tempered in tragedy.
It mirrored too closely the storm she carried in her own heart — the storm no one else saw beneath her perfect, noble mask.
Are we… the same?
The thought chilled her more than the night air.
She shook it off.
"No," she whispered fiercely. "He is a threat. And threats are to be neutralized."
Her gaze lifted once more to the mirror.
But even now, she could not shake the image — Leonhart, smiling faintly as the lords laughed, already turning their blades toward each other without knowing who had guided their hands.
It was…
Impressive.
And dangerous.
The clock struck one.
Evelyne straightened, spine stiffening with renewed resolve.
Let Leonhart gather his broken soldiers and forgotten servants. Let him build his throne of bones in the shadows.
She would build hers in the light — gilded and legitimate, crowned by the empire's favor.
And when the time came… when his claws reached too close…
She would be the one to cut them off.
But until then, they would dance.
Enemies by fate.
Allies by necessity.
And beneath it all, a storm of crimson eyes and silver tongues, waiting to erupt.
Far below, in his own tower, Leonhart's candle still burned.
And in her heart, Evelyne whispered the same silent vow he had spoken hours earlier.
"Soon…"