The Matteo estate sat under a shroud of tension. Thick, heavy tension—like the sky before a thunderstorm.
Guards marched double time across the outer walls. Patrols rotated at all hours, weapons always at the ready. The once quiet grounds buzzed with the energy of preparation—armor being fitted, signal flares being tested, supply carts being inventoried.
They were preparing for war.
And the world outside the gates knew it.
Rumors churned like a whirlpool in Puerto Cuidad. Murmurs spread in taverns and alleyways, whispered between vendors and patrons in the open-air markets:
"The Church took it too far."
"They beat a noblewoman until she lost her baby."
"Matteo will never forgive them."
Whether fact or exaggeration, the stories spread. Every version was worse than the last.
Parliament met daily now—sometimes with the Matteo delegation, sometimes in secret, excluding both the House and the Church.
One thing was certain:
The peace had ended.
And war was coming.
Meanwhile, tucked behind the reinforced walls of her bedchamber, Elena endured her own battle.
Healing was slow.
Excruciating.
It took a full week before Elena could sit upright without fainting. Another before she could take halting steps along the hallway with Cheri's help.
Her body, a mess of lacerations and bruises trailing from her neck all the way down to her thighs,required intricate stitching, poultices, enchanted balm, and time.
So much time.
And through it all, she was not alone.
Cheri barely left her side. The young woman, once more of a distant handmaiden, had become a constant, fierce companion. If Cheri stepped away, it was only because Seamus had arrived to sit with Elena.
When he wasn't at war council.
When he could bear to look at the wounds they gave her.
Lady Aurora, though healing from a head injury herself, returned to Elena's side the moment she was able. A thin scar now trailed near her temple, a pale line against olive skin.
She bore it gracefully.
She sat by the fire and read to Elena when the silence became too loud. Spoke softly when Elena's hands trembled. Brushed her hair gently when Elena wept.
Sometimes, Phineus, Aurora's precocious young son, escaped his tutoring just to visit. He brought with him chocolates (which Elena loathed, but ate anyway), bouquets of garden-picked lilies, and tales he'd memorized just to make her smile.
His joy was genuine, and it hurt all the more.
Because Elena rarely smiled anymore.
She saw Seamus only in fragments.
He was gone most days, overseeing war plans, coordinating nobles, and speaking openly before Parliament. He made no secret of his intentions. He didn't hide the fire in his voice when he spoke of vengeance.
She admired it. Supported it. But… she missed him.
And worse, she was ashamed.
Ashamed to have him see her so broken.
Ashamed to have been so helpless.
Ashamed that despite everything, she had failed to protect their child.
The guilt clung to her ribs like barbed wire. It made her hide her tears until the others left.
It was her fault… wasn't it?
If only she had fought harder. If only she had more power. If only she had the strength she did not yet possess.
So she made herself a promise:
Once she could walk again without pain, she would study magic with a fury unmatched.
No one would ever touch her again.
No one would touch someone she loved.
Never again.
Seamus wore his own grief like iron shackles.
He did not sleep much.
He didn't allow himself the luxury.
Instead, he buried himself in work. Strategy. Movement. Coordination. Letters. Speeches. Whisper campaigns.
He saw the way the people were turning.
The Church had overreached.
They thought they could take what they wanted. Silence who they wished. Even the most devout citizens began to question—began to fear.
If they could do that to a noblewoman, what might they do to me?
Seamus did not silence the rumors.
He fanned them.
And Parliament noticed.
They never outright supported him… but they withdrew support from the Church. Quietly. Suddenly. All delegates from the Church of Saintess Yidali were banned from attending sessions.
Tension rippled through the city.
And then, people began to vanish.
First a merchant's daughter.
Then a street healer.
Then a midwife known for helping unregistered magical births.
They disappeared without a trace.
Crowds gathered, demanding answers. Protesters clashed with robed agents of the Church. Fires flickered in back alleys. Voices rose in outrage and grief.
Puerto Cuidad was no longer calm. It was a kettle on the edge of boiling.
Seamus watched it all unfold from the high balconies of his estate.
Eyes burning.
He knew the moment was coming.
And Elena, wrapped in silks and pain, healing inch by inch, would be ready too.
She would not be a victim again.