Evening descended swiftly, dragging with it a cloak of storm. The once-bright skies turned sullen, dark clouds swelling until they burst, releasing a curtain of rain. The rumble of carriage wheels echoed against the cobblestones as it halted before Duke Cedric's grand mansion. From within stepped Rowena Vale, the Duke's first daughter, her return escorted personally by her elder brother, Sebastian.
Cedric's stern features melted the moment he laid eyes on her. "My darling daughter," he greeted warmly, his smile breaking through the storm's gloom. "How was your journey? I trust it went well?"
Rowena dipped her head with grace. "Yes, Father. It went well."
"Good. And your grandmother? Did she trouble you with her sharp tongue?"
Rowena's lips curved faintly. "Not at all, Father. Grandmother adores me, though she can be… strict at times."
"Strictness builds character." Cedric chuckled. "Go now, child. Your mother awaits you upstairs. Rest well."
She courtesied, the movement elegant as falling silk, and excused herself.
Behind closed doors, the warmth of reunion soured. Rowena sat opposite her mother, Lady Elara, their voices hushed yet edged like drawn blades. The subject was Lyanna—the girl whose sudden disappearance hung over the household like a curse.
Rowena's eyes burned with quiet defiance. "Mother, how many times must I beg you to leave Lyanna be? She is harmless—a dove in a world of hawks. She poses no threat to me."
Elara scoffed, her jeweled fingers drumming against the table. "You foolish girl. Do you not see how your father dotes on her? He cherishes her as though she were his only child."
"That's not true," Rowena countered. "Father loves us all. Perhaps he pays Lyanna more attention because she has no mother here to protect her. Would you begrudge her that?"
"Is that what you think?" Elara's tone dripped with venom.
"Yes, Mother. And if you ask me, I would say Father is far stricter with Lyanna than with me. I would never wish such scrutiny for myself."
For a long moment, silence hung heavy between them. Then, with a sly smile, Elara leaned back. "Very well, my daughter. If you insist, I shall do as you say."
But Rowena knew better than to trust the softness in her mother's voice.
The following morning dawned with a restless wind that rattled shutters and kept townsfolk indoors until midday. Yet with the breeze came news that set Velrathis ablaze with excitement: the king was holding a grand ball. Invitations, gilded and sealed with the royal crest, appeared on every doorstep—an event for all, married or unmarried, noble or commoner.
The announcement threw the city into frenzy. Tailors' shops overflowed, needles flashing like swords in battle. And at the center of it all stood Mr. Ravenscar, the most sought-after tailor in Velrathis. His shop brimmed with noble ladies clamoring for his touch, desperate to shine beneath the king's gaze. For to be noticed at the ball was to brush shoulders with power itself.
But within the Duke's estate, Cedric Vale remained still, his brow shadowed with worry. The invitation had arrived two days prior, addressed to Rowena. Yet he had delayed, torn between duty and dread.
He remembered Lyanna's words—of a man who had rescued her in the forest. A man named Alaric. There was but one Alaric in Velrathis: King Alaric Blackthorn himself.
If the ball was indeed his attempt to seek out Lyanna… then the danger was great. Rowena's resemblance to her half-sister, though faint, was undeniable. What if the king noticed? To send her would risk exposure; to withhold her would insult the crown.
Cedric exhaled heavily, decision pressing like iron upon his chest. At last, he resolved. Rowena must attend—but unnoticed.
He summoned his wife. "My lady."
Elara appeared swiftly, her head bowed. "Yes, my lord?"
"Take Rowena to Ravenscar's shop. Commission her gown. But mark my words—nothing flashy. It must speak of her noble station, yet draw no wandering eyes. I will not have her attracting attention."
"As you command, my lord."
"Good. On my study table lies a card. Take it. With it, you will be attended without delay."
Elara's lips curled faintly, though she bowed with obedience. "At once, my lord."
Far from the Duke's estate, beneath a glittering chandelier in a shadowed salon, sat Morgana Silverclaw—the most feared woman in Velrathis. Crimson eyes narrowed over the rim of her teacup, her thoughts circling like vultures.
"Lady Morgana," came a smooth voice. Tobias, ever-smiling, leaned lazily against the doorway. "What weighs on your mind?"
Her gaze flicked to him. "I am trying to unravel Alaric's intentions. What game does he play?"
Tobias laughed softly. "Must it be a game? His Majesty is holding a ball. A bride, perhaps—that is all."
"You know nothing," Morgana snapped. "The king has never cared for such trivial pursuits."
"And yet here you are," Tobias teased, "pining over him like a lovesick maiden. Take my advice: do not run ahead of yourself. Alaric despises those who pry into his thoughts."
"You presume too much." Morgana's tone was ice as she crossed her legs and sipped again.
Tobias only smirked. "If the king takes a wife, perhaps I shall as well. One cannot leave all the noble ladies to him, can we? As for you, my lady, find another prize. Alaric will never be yours." With a mocking bow, he swept from the room.
Morgana's laugh rang hollow in the silence he left behind. "Never mine? Then he will be no one's." The vow curled like poison from her lips.
Meanwhile, within the royal castle, Alaric Blackthorn sat in his private study, shadows flickering against his sharp features. His long frame sprawled, boots resting on the desk, as he drifted deep in thought. A knock broke the quiet.
"Your Majesty," came a familiar voice. "It is Morgana."
"Enter," Alaric replied, lowering his feet to the ground.
She glided in, confidence laced in every step, and without hesitation began to knead his shoulders.
"To what do I owe this… surprise visit, Lady Morgana?"
"It has been too long," she purred. "You bury yourself in affairs of state, and I hardly see you. I wished only to check on your well-being."
"As you can see," he said coolly, though his eyes closed briefly at the massage, "I am well enough. If that is all, you may leave."
But she ignored him, pressing on. "Your Majesty, is Eamon still on errand? He has not returned, and my father grows impatient."
"Yes, I sent him. But he is your brother. Should you not know his whereabouts?"
"He tells me nothing." She pouted, then leaned closer. "And about the ball…"
Alaric arched a brow. "Careful, Morgana. Are you trying to guess at my thoughts?"
She flinched. "No, never. I only wondered… which family you intend to favor."
At that, a rare smile touched his lips. "None. I hunt no alliance. I am searching, Morgana—for something lost."
Her heart skipped. "And what… prey is that?"
"None you should concern yourself with," he said, voice steel beneath velvet.
She bowed, fists clenched where he could not see. "As you wish, Your Majesty. Rest well."
When the doors shut behind her, fury burned through her veins. Whoever threatened to take him from her had signed their own death.
And Morgana Silverclaw never lost a hunt.