The march through the palace corridors was silent except for the scrape of steel boots and the faint rustle of Calista's gown. The guards at her side avoided her gaze, as if meeting the eyes of a disgraced Thornheart might bring them misfortune. She smiled faintly at their superstition. Good. Fear was still a weapon, even in chains.
They deposited her in a small antechamber with high windows latticed in gold filigree. A table waited with ink and parchment, an invitation to confess. The guards left her there, chains clinking, before the heavy door shut with finality. Alone now, she sank gracefully into a chair. Her wrists were bound, but her posture remained regal. If they thought this would break her, they had gravely miscalculated.
A flutter of wings brushed the air. Obsidian slipped through the window and perched on the sill, glossy feathers gleaming in the dim light. Calista arched a brow. "You're late," she murmured. The raven cawed and dropped something shiny onto the table: a jeweled hairpin, broken at the clasp. Calista picked it up, frowning. She recognized the design. It belonged to Lady Bellatrix Crowmere, the red-haired gossip-monger who thrived on scandal like a moth to flame.
"Interesting," she whispered, turning the trinket between her fingers. "And how did you come by this, Sid?" The bird only blinked, unhelpful as ever. Still, it was a thread—and threads were all she needed.
The door creaked open. Lyra slipped in, disguised as a servant balancing a tray of wine. Her hazel eyes darted nervously, but her grin spread the moment she saw Calista. "Well, my lady, you've truly outdone yourself this time. Half the court is convinced you'll be beheaded by dawn. The other half is too busy making bets on what color gown Lady Serene will wear to your funeral."
Calista smirked and set the hairpin down. "Then we shall disappoint them both, shan't we?" She leaned forward, chains clinking softly. "Tell me, Lyra. What did you hear?"
The maid's grin widened. "Plenty. None of it flattering. But more importantly, someone's been whispering with Duke Malrik in the shadows. Your father doesn't look pleased, but he's not rushing to your defense either."
Of course not. Malrik Thornheart had never wasted affection on his only daughter. To him, she was a piece on the board to be sacrificed if necessary. Calista's lips curved into a cold smile. If he thought she would roll over quietly, he had forgotten what Thornheart blood was made of.
Before she could answer, the door opened again. This time, the guards escorted in Lord Darius Evernight. His tall frame filled the doorway, his dark coat trailing like smoke behind him. The guards announced him stiffly and withdrew, leaving the three of them alone. Lyra's brows shot up. Darius never came without reason.
Calista tilted her head. "Lord Evernight. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
His storm-grey eyes ignored the chains on her wrists and locked on her face. "You handled yourself well in the hall," he said simply, voice low and unreadable. "But words will not save you tomorrow."
Calista's fan snapped open in her bound hands, a gesture of defiance. "Then perhaps evidence will."
He studied her for a long moment, then reached into his coat and placed a folded scrap of parchment on the table. "This was slipped beneath my door last night. I think it belongs to you."
She unfolded it carefully. Elegant handwriting sprawled across the page, ink faintly scented with roses. A riddle stared back at her: When the dove weeps, the serpent bleeds. When the serpent falls, the court will sing.
There was no signature. The paper itself was fine, delicate—far too delicate for any common hand. Calista's eyes narrowed. Whoever wrote it wanted her to know that her downfall was already staged.
"Why give this to me?" she asked, glancing up. "You could have stayed silent and let the drama unfold."
Darius's mouth curved in a humorless smile. "Because I prefer my enemies alive long enough to expose themselves. And because you, Lady Thornheart, are far too interesting a piece to remove from the board so soon."
Lyra snorted. "Translation: he doesn't want to be bored when you're gone."
Calista laughed, chains rattling. "Then let us not bore him, shall we?" She tapped the riddle with a fingertip. "Someone wants me framed, and they want it neat. But neat stories leave fingerprints. And I intend to find them."
Obsidian croaked in agreement. Darius's gaze flicked briefly to the raven, then back to her. "You have until tomorrow's trial. After that, not even your wit will keep your head from the block."
"Then I shall be quick," she murmured. Her amethyst eyes gleamed with fire. "After all, what is a villainess if not resourceful?"
By dawn, the palace buzzed like a hive. Rumors spread like wildfire. Calista Thornheart had cursed the prince. Calista had bribed assassins. Calista had poisoned a rival's wine glass. Each story grew wilder than the last. Servants carried tales like offerings, nobles whispered behind fans, and somewhere amid the chaos, the real culprit must have smiled.
Calista, however, sat at her writing desk, chains removed and replaced with a perfunctory guard outside her chamber. Lyra fussed with the ink while Calista scribbled furiously into her "Detective Diary," complete with sketches of suspects and doodles of crowns above their heads.
Sir Rowan Greaves, her bumbling knight, peeked over her shoulder and squinted. "Is that supposed to be Lady Bellatrix? Why does she have devil horns?"
"Because she deserves them," Calista said without looking up.
Rowan frowned. "I thought I was on your suspect list too?"
"You are," she replied sweetly. "I simply ran out of ink for your horns."
Lyra choked on her laughter. Rowan looked personally wounded, which only amused Calista more. "Cheer up, Sir Rowan," she said. "If you were clever enough to frame me, I'd almost be impressed."
Obsidian swooped down from the wardrobe and deposited another shiny object onto the desk. A ring, plain but heavy, stamped with the crest of House Crowmere. Calista's lips curved. Two pieces from the same hand? Either coincidence or deliberate planting of evidence. And in the Golden Court, coincidences were as rare as honest men.
"Bellatrix," she murmured. "Always so dramatic. But too dramatic. Which means someone wants me to think it's her."
Darius's warning echoed in her mind. You have until tomorrow. Her pulse quickened, not with fear but with exhilaration. This was a puzzle, and puzzles were meant to be solved. Let them call her villainess, let them set the stage for her downfall—Calista Thornheart would not play their game meekly. She would rewrite it, piece by piece, until the truth stood naked and her enemies quaked in the ruins of their schemes.
She dipped her quill again and wrote with a flourish: Suspect: Bellatrix Crowmere. Motive: jealousy, influence. Evidence: hairpin, ring. But too obvious. Conclusion: smokescreen. She underlined the word twice, hard enough that the ink bled.
"Tomorrow," she whispered, eyes alight. "Tomorrow they think I fall. But tomorrow, the Golden Court will learn what it means to corner a Thornheart."
High above the palace, the raven circled and screamed, as though heralding a storm yet to come.