Lady Serava was pleased.
No, more than pleased - relieved.
Lavender had followed the subtle cues laid before her like a dutiful lamb, wandering through Kael'Tun as if nothing in the world was amiss. The Mad Collector, for all her eccentricities, had not raised a single alarm since the incident at the slave market. Serava had watched from behind veiled balconies and mirrored hallways, carefully ensuring each whisper and rumor fell exactly where it should.
And now - Lavender would step neatly into the hands of those waiting. Her hands.
Serava sipped from her glass of vinefruit wine, violet lips curving in satisfaction. Her chambers smelled of sweet oils and cold ambition.
Yes, her father's fury would be soothed when she delivered the one responsible for upsetting the fragile power balance. The slaves would be chalked up to a minor loss. The incident forgotten. Her brother, that glorified golden hound, could eat his pride when Father smiled at her for once.
"I am no less," Serava whispered to her reflection in the polished obsidian mirror. "He will see."
But just as she raised her goblet in a toast to her imagined victory, the candlelight behind her flickered.
Not from wind.
But from presence.
-
Elsewhere in the city, Lavender twirled in a moonlit courtyard like a dancer balancing blades instead of ribbons.
"She thinks I'm playing by her rules," Lavender hummed to herself, trailing chalk symbols on the stone with a finger dipped in silver powder. "But my darling Serava... she doesn't understand. I don't play."
Vashir stood nearby, his arms crossed, watching her etch strange patterns that shimmered faintly in the darkness.
"She's clever," he said, not as praise, but a warning.
Lavender looked up, grinning. "So am I. But she's still thinking in boxes. Noble boxes. Politics and honor and proving herself to Daddy Dearest."
She twirled again, chalk dancing across the stone.
"She doesn't understand what it means to be chosen. Not by a family or a tribe or a bloodline. But by fate."
Vashir said nothing. But he watched her more closely now.
-
Back in Serava's villa, something wasn't right.
Her hand trembled as she lifted the wine to her lips again. The shadows felt... heavier.
"She couldn't know. We were careful. No signs," she muttered.
And yet-
On her pillow lay something that hadn't been there before.
A small, black feather.
Smooth. Silken. Drenched in scent of strange herbs and danger.
-
Lavender knelt beside her glowing chalk runes, eyes wide with mischief and focus. She whispered to the totem - now worn as a pendant - as if it were a dear, deadly friend.
"There is a reason you chose me, isn't there? You strange, slippery thing."
The totem pulsed, faintly.
"I am not some damsel to be shuffled in noble games," she whispered. "I am a storm in a collector's gloves. I find beauty in chaos. I adore puzzles. And nothing-"
Her eyes gleamed as the chalk symbols flared bright violet-
"-nothing delights me more than turning a trap... into a showcase."
-
Lady Serava stepped back from the feather, heart thundering. Her plans had been perfect. Perfect.
But now she wasn't sure who was hunting whom.
And somewhere in the city's shadows, a crow watched her through unblinking eyes.