Chapter 9
The night returned with clouds veiling the moon, cloaking the sky in shades of iron and ash. The manor's lanterns flickered, burning lower than usual—as if the flames themselves sensed what was coming.
Elira sat quietly in the drawing room, a book in her lap she hadn't turned a page of in the last hour. Her thoughts were spinning around one name, one truth, one fractured identity:
Eliendara.
Not just a name, but a buried life. A truth sharpened like a blade and hidden behind a mask called Elira Vexley.
A soft knock interrupted her spiral.
The maid entered and bowed low. "Your Grace… a guest has arrived. He brings papers from the Eastern alliance. The Duke has requested your presence."
Elira rose immediately. "His name?"
The maid hesitated. "He did not give one… but he wears a silver mask."
A chill wrapped around Elira's spine like a familiar curse. Silver mask. Eastern diplomat. No name.
But she already knew.
The drawing room was replaced by the war salon—a room where Dravencourt received foreign nobles and enemies alike. Kael stood near the fireplace, his usual calm expression replaced with something tighter, more cautious.
The masked man stood by the window, his gloved hands folded neatly, posture flawless.
"Ah," he said without turning, "the Duchess has arrived."
That voice.
Smooth. Suave. Charming.
And seared into her memory like acid.
Thorne Drestin.
The man who had sworn to love her. The one who had sold her name, watched her execution, and held another woman's hand as her blood hit the stone.
She walked forward without flinching, every step measured. Her heart was ice, her face unreadable.
Kael watched her carefully but said nothing.
Thorne finally turned.
His mask covered half his face—only his mouth and jaw exposed. The same mouth that used to whisper lies beneath moonlight.
"I must say, your Grace," he said with mock politeness, "the North suits you."
Elira tilted her head, her smile razor-thin. "You always did prefer the cold, Lord Drestin."
The muscles along his jaw twitched slightly. "You recognize me?"
"You're hard to forget," she said. "Though I try."
Kael's eyes narrowed slightly. "You two have met before?"
Elira didn't answer.
Neither did Thorne.
Instead, the masked man took a parchment from his coat and placed it on the table. "My lords request an alliance. In exchange, we offer land, troops… and information."
Elira leaned closer, her voice barely above a whisper. "What kind of information?"
He smiled again.
"The kind that concerns bloodlines. Death. And resurrection."
Kael stepped forward sharply. "You're walking on dangerous ground, Drestin."
Thorne didn't blink. "I always have, Duke."
His eyes flicked back to Elira. "You've changed."
"You haven't," she replied. "Still a coward behind a mask."
His hand hovered over the table, fingers tracing a second document. "If you want answers about your first death, Duchess, you'll need to speak with me. Alone."
Kael's aura shifted—dark, heavy, dangerous.
"No," he said flatly.
But Elira stepped forward and looked directly at Thorne. Her voice was steady. Cold.
"Tomorrow night. At the Moonspire Tower. Come alone. If I see even one spy on the grounds… I will treat it as an act of war."
Thorne inclined his head. "As the lady commands."
And with that, he turned and walked out, his cloak sweeping behind him like the curtain closing on an old, deadly play.
When the doors shut, Kael spoke lowly.
"You don't have to go."
"I do," Elira whispered. "Because this isn't just about me anymore. It's about why they killed me in the first place. Why they're still watching."
Kael looked at her, voice unreadable. "You might not come back."
She met his gaze. "I didn't the first time, either."
🔮 Next Chapter Preview – Chapter 10: Midnight at Moonspire
Elira enters the abandoned tower alone. Thorne waits—with wine, with smiles, and with venom behind his every word.
But when he begins to speak of the ritual that birthed Eliendara, Elira begins to understand:She wasn't just betrayed in her past life—She was created.
And Thorne wasn't the only one involved.