The morning sun was too kind for such venomous tongues.
In the west courtyard of the royal garden, where the roses bloomed unnaturally well all year round, sat three noblewomen draped in lace and suspicion. They had gathered there, as they did every week, under the guise of tea and civility - but no tea had been touched, and no civility spared.
"I heard," began Lady Renalda, her fan fluttering in front of her mouth like a veil for her sin, "that Lady Sarah struck Lady Miren of East Wythermere across the face. In public."
Lady Celeste gasped. "That's a bold move, even for her. Was it over a man?"
"No," muttered the third, Lady Anette, "over a necklace, apparently. Lady Miren wore the same piece Sarah had worn at last spring's masquerade. She called it... 'a cheap imitation.'"
All three women laughed, the cruel kind of laughter that belonged to drawing rooms and dark wine.
"She has no shame," Renalda went on. "I saw her at Duke Edmont's gala-drunk, I swear it. Laughing with men thrice her age and dressed like-like an actress from the Velvet Stage. Not a single sleeve on her gown. And those earrings? You could hang lanterns from them."
"Disgraceful," Celeste sneered. "And her father-don't even get me started. Everyone knows his business dealings aren't clean. Smuggling, bribes, and God knows what else. The only reason she's untouchable is because half the court owes him something."
"Tell me," said Anette, her voice smooth, "why does a woman like that get to float through the ballroom like she owns it, while the rest of us-"
"Because she does own it," said a fourth voice, sharp and lazy as a blade drawn too slowly.
Silence. Cold. Heavy. The air changed.
All three women turned their heads in unison, stiff and horrified, to find her standing behind them.
Lady Sarah.
No one had heard her approach. No heel-clicks. No rustling gown. Just suddenly-there.
And she was everything the rumors whispered, and more.
Dressed in blood red silk that hugged her figure like a sin she never planned to confess, Lady Sarah looked less like a noblewoman and more like a secret made flesh. Her black hair was tied up in a loose twist, allowing two enormous ruby earrings to catch the light with every subtle move. She didn't look angry. She looked... entertained.
"My, my," she drawled, circling the table slowly. "So this is where all the real politics happen. Three little birds chirping their fears into each other's cups."
Renalda tried to speak. "Lady-Lady Sarah, we were just-"
"Gossiping?" Sarah offered helpfully, tilting her head. "Lying? Fantasizing? It's hard to tell with you, Renalda. Your voice always sounds so hungry when it's wrapped around my name."
Celeste stood, ever the nervous one. "You misunderstand-"
"I never misunderstand," Sarah said softly. Then, her smile bloomed, wicked and slow. "It's you who misunderstand me."
She leaned forward just enough to make Celeste flinch, her perfume-jasmine and danger-filling the space between them.
"You think I dress to seduce," she said. "But I dress to remind people that I'm not like you. You think I drink to forget-but I drink because it's the only thing in this place that doesn't lie. And you think I slapped Lady Miren because I was jealous?" She laughed-a single, silver note. "I'd do it again."
There was silence. Stunned. Wide-eyed.
Sarah straightened, smoothing a hand down her crimson skirt. "Now tell me, which of you will run to the duke and say you were threatened by me? Hmm? Go on. Say it. I'd love to see how he responds-considering it was his hand that wrote my father's last business deal."
Anette shrank back into her seat.
Sarah's eyes gleamed. "Oh? No brave tongues left?"
She turned to leave, then paused and glanced back. "I'll leave you with this. When people stop talking about you, that's when you should worry."
And with a final flick of her earrings, she strode away-like a storm that had chosen not to break.
Behind her, not one of the women breathed. Not one dared speak.
They could only stare, shaken and quiet, as Lady Sarah disappeared behind the garden arch, the air still heavy with her presence.
--
The clang of steel echoed across the northern practice ground as Alaric swung his sword with sharp precision, sweat dripping from his brow. The morning air bit against his skin, but he didn't slow down. This was where he felt most at ease-away from politics, away from the expectations. Just him, the cold wind, and the blade in his hand.
"Lord Alaric!" a voice called out, panting. One of the house guards approached in a rush, bowing as he neared. "Your father has summoned you. He asks for your immediate presence in the council chamber."
Alaric narrowed his eyes, breath uneven from the intense training. "Now?" he asked, lowering his sword. "Is it urgent?"
"He said it's not up for discussion, my lord."
With a sharp sigh, Alaric sheathed his blade and wiped his sweat-streaked face. He didn't like being dragged away mid-practice, especially not for his father's cold political games.
The council chamber was dim and lined with books, fire crackling low in the hearth. Duke Thorne Duskbane stood tall at the head of the room, clad in black and silver robes, his presence as heavy as ever.
"You asked for me," Alaric said, stepping in, keeping his voice flat.
"Close the door," his father said without looking at him. "We have business to discuss."
Something in his tone made Alaric pause. He shut the door quietly, eyes scanning the room. No one else. Just the two of them.
"There's been a shift in the southern court," the Duke began, turning to face his son. "And now is the time for us to repair what's been long broken."
Alaric frowned. "You're not talking about trade, are you?"
"No," the Duke said, folding his hands behind his back. "You will be going to the South, Alaric. As a representative of the North. There are... relationships that must be mended."
Alaric's blood ran cold. "You're sending me to them?" His voice rose with disbelief. "After everything you've said about that cursed land-about him?"
His father's jaw tightened. "You will go. This is not a request."
"So that's it?" Alaric scoffed. "You expect me to smile and shake hands with the very people you swore were our enemies?"
"I expect you to do your duty," his father snapped. "You are not a child anymore."
Alaric clenched his fists. "Why now? Why me?"
Before the Duke could answer, the chamber door creaked open.
"Let him speak, Thorne," came a softer voice.
His mother entered, her presence gentle but firm. Lady Elowen's eyes settled on her son with warmth and sadness.
"Alaric, I know this is not what you wanted," she said softly. "But perhaps this is what our family needs. The North has been in darkness for too long. Maybe... peace is worth reaching for."
Alaric looked away, jaw tense. "Peace at what cost?"
"At the cost of swallowing your pride, just for a while," she replied. "Show them that we are not savages. Show him that you are not just your father's weapon."
His eyes dropped to the floor. He felt a war rising in his chest-a part of him wanted to scream, to refuse outright. And yet... his mother's eyes held that pleading light he couldn't resist. The same light that had always softened the cold walls of their home.
He finally spoke, low and bitter. "Fine. I'll go."
The Duke gave a curt nod, satisfied.
"But I won't play nice," Alaric added, eyes burning. "I'll go to see them, but I won't trust them. I won't smile and pretend they're saints."
His father turned his back to him. "Do what you must. Just don't fail."
Alaric stood in the hallway after, fists still clenched. The decision had been made.
The South.
The heart of false wealth, gold-tipped lies, and silk-covered daggers.
He wasn't going as a friend. He was going to watch. To learn. And if needed... to strike.
--
The study was dim, smelling of old cigars and iron ink.
Lord Hestian Valemont sat behind a mahogany desk carved with gold filigree, the candlelight flickering across his face. His jaw was set, a vein pulsing near his temple. The room was silent save for the soft shuffle of his guard's boots on the marble floor.
"Rumors," he growled at last, voice low, sharp. "Whispers in every corridor. In every ballroom. That she slapped a noble. That she drinks. That she-dances. In front of men."
He slammed his fist onto the desk, sending parchment fluttering.
"I built this house with blood and secrets," he hissed. "Years of trade, negotiations, threats. And now, every time I walk into court, they smile like I'm a joke. Because of her."
The guard, silent and stiff in his polished breastplate, didn't speak. He knew better than to offer comfort to Lord Valemont.
"She was supposed to be useful," Hestian muttered, pacing now, hands behind his back. "A daughter who'd marry well. Earn allies. Not-" he spat the word, "-entertain them."
He stopped, breathed in through his nose."Bring her," he said flatly. A moment later, the door creaked open, and she walked in.
Lady Sarah.
She didn't bow. She didn't greet him. She entered like she owned the damn room-again. Dressed in a midnight-blue corset dress that shimmered with silver threads and revealed too much of her collarbones, too much of everything. Her earrings swung like little swords when she turned her head.
"Father," she said simply.
Lord Valemont's eyes narrowed. "Is this how you dress to see your blood?"
She gave a little mock bow, her voice velvet. "Apologies, next time I'll wear the sackcloth you buried Mother in."
His nostrils flared. "Watch your tongue."
"I would, if someone raised me with manners," she replied coolly.
He stepped toward her, slow, dangerous. "You think your name gives you power. That dress. Those words. But all you've done is make yourself a target. And you drag my name down with you."
"Is that what bothers you?" she tilted her head. "Not that your daughter drinks, flirts, dances. But that people know?"
He raised his hand, trembling with fury. Years ago, when she was smaller, weaker, afraid-he'd hit her without hesitation. Back then, she wore long dresses, sleeves, innocence.
Now... now she stood tall, glowing like a weapon. Her skin bare, daring him. She was no longer something to bend. She was a mirror of everything he hated. He hesitated.
Her lips curved into a knowing smirk. "What's the matter? Finding it hard to strike what you can't shame anymore?"
The punch came fast-slammed into her stomach. She staggered but did not fall. The air left her lungs, but she laughed. Laughed.
"Ah," she gasped through the pain, "There he is. The great Lord Valemont. Beating his daughter while whining about reputation."
"Ungrateful wretch-"
"You should thank me," she snapped. "I'm the only one in this family people remember."
He struck her again-but this time only verbally. "You'll ruin us."
She wiped blood from the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, then straightened, eyes blazing. "I am what you made, Father. You wanted someone to play the game, to lie and smile and survive. So I did. I do. And better than you ever could."
He stared at her, chest heaving. She didn't break eye contact once.
And though a silent, sharp ache carved deep in her chest... she refused to show it. Refused to let it spill. "Is that all?" she asked, voice smooth but quieter now.
He said nothing.
She turned without being dismissed, walking away slowly, back straight, chin high.
And behind her, Lord Valemont stood shaking-not in victory, but in fear. Because she was beyond control now. Beyond fear. And nothing was more dangerous than a woman he couldn't break.
--
The sun outside burned bright, but inside the stone walls of Lady Sarah's private mansion, the air felt heavy, thick with something unsaid. In the quiet drawing room, Lady Sarah sat by the window, absentmindedly watching the gardens sway in the breeze.
"Bring the tea," she ordered sharply, not looking back.
"Yes, My Lady."
Miora's voice was soft, almost trembling with eagerness. She moved swiftly, placing the silver tray down before Lady Sarah with practiced hands.
Sarah glanced at her. "You're too slow."
The words cut deep even though they were barely more than a whisper.
Miora only smiled faintly. "Forgive me, My Lady."
A heavy silence fell between them. Sarah's hand hovered over the delicate teacup but never touched it. Her violet eyes flickered toward Miora-hesitant, conflicted.
"You're still here?" Sarah said coldly, almost daring her to leave.
"If you wish me gone, I shall leave." Miora bowed her head, though her heart ached.
Sarah sighed, her shoulders stiff. "No. Stay."
It sounded more like a confession than a command.
Miora stood quietly by her side, like she always had since childhood, the constant shadow behind the lonely heiress. She watched Sarah's trembling hands, the slight falter in her breath, and her heart twisted painfully.
Sarah spoke again, bitterly this time. "It's pathetic, isn't it? A Lady reduced to seeking company from her maid."
Miora knelt slightly, just enough to be eye-level with her. "You are never pathetic, My Lady. Never in my eyes."
Sarah laughed humorlessly, a cruel sound. "You're a fool."
"If being a fool means staying by your side, then I am proud to be one."
Her words were too tender, too real, and for a brief second, Sarah's mask slipped. Vulnerability flashed across her face before she buried it deep beneath layers of disdain.
"You speak as if you know me," Sarah said, voice tight.
"I do." Miora's voice broke slightly. "I have always known you. I saw every wound they gave you, every lie they forced you to swallow."
Sarah's gaze hardened, but her hands tightened into fists in her lap.
"Don't act like you're any different," she whispered harshly. "You're just another servant, waiting for your reward."
Miora shook her head slowly. "I don't want anything from you. I never have."
The tension in the room crackled like a storm ready to break. Lady Sarah looked at her, truly looked at her for the first time in a long while, and the silence stretched unbearably between them.
"I don't trust you," Sarah said finally, though her voice faltered.
"You don't have to." Miora's voice softened. "Let me carry the burden with you... even if you never look at me as anything more than a servant."
Sarah closed her eyes for a moment, as if the weight of the years pressed down all at once.
When she opened them again, the coldness returned.
"Fine. Sit." She gestured stiffly to the chair across from her. "Since you're so desperate to waste your time on me."
Miora obeyed without hesitation, hiding the trembling in her hands under her skirts.
Sarah sipped her tea finally, turning her face toward the window. "Say something. Entertain me."
Miora smiled softly, heartbreakingly.
"As you wish, My Lady."
But in her heart, she wasn't here to entertain. She was here because she knew her true feelings towards Lady Sarah. Even if Lady Sarah never knew. Even if she never cared.