Dawn bled slowly across the sky, pale gold spilling over the spires of the Golden Court. The palace bells tolled in solemn rhythm, each note echoing through the corridors like the drumbeat of an execution. Outside Calista's chamber, the guards shifted uneasily, hands brushing sword hilts as though expecting her to break free at any moment. Perhaps she would.
Inside, Calista Thornheart prepared herself for battle, not of steel but of words, wit, and spectacle. She sat before her vanity, her reflection framed by gilded mirrors that multiplied her image into infinity. Chains had been replaced with ceremonial cuffs of silver. They were more symbolic than binding, but they gleamed like mockery against her pale wrists. Behind her, Lyra bustled, pinning black silk ribbons into Calista's midnight hair.
"You should wear white," Lyra muttered, fussing with the gown's laces. "Innocence, purity, all that drivel. It would make them hesitate."
Calista smirked. "And give them the satisfaction of seeing me beg? No, darling. If they expect a villainess, then a villainess they shall have."
She gestured to the gown spread across her bed: deep violet, edged in silver thorns embroidered by hand. Dramatic. Defiant. Regal. It was a dress meant not for survival but for domination.
Rowan stood awkwardly near the window in his knight's armor. He cleared his throat. "My lady, perhaps discretion would be wiser. A softer touch—"
"Discretion," Calista interrupted, rising to her feet, "is for mice, Sir Rowan. Do I look like a mouse?"
He opened his mouth, then wisely shut it.
Obsidian fluttered down to perch on the vanity, beady eyes gleaming. He pecked at the riddle scrap Calista had pinned to the mirror: When the dove weeps, the serpent bleeds. When the serpent falls, the court will sing. She studied the words one last time, committing them to memory, then tucked the parchment into her sleeve. Evidence or bait—it hardly mattered. She would wield it.
Lyra tied the last ribbon with a flourish and stepped back. "There. You look like sin wrapped in silk."
"Perfect," Calista said, lips curling. She rose, the violet gown sweeping across the floor like spilled wine. "Let us attend my funeral, shall we?"
The march to the Hall of Judgement became a procession of whispers. Nobles lined the balconies, jeweled eyes following her every step. Their fans fluttered like wings, hiding smirks, gasps, and muttered wagers. Some bowed mockingly, others crossed themselves as though warding off a curse. Calista met every gaze with a tilt of her chin, her amethyst eyes glittering like sharpened glass. Let them look. Let them fear.
The hall itself loomed vast, columns rising like the pillars of a temple. At its center stood the tribunal: three high judges in robes of ivory, seated beneath a golden canopy. To the side, her father Malrik Thornheart occupied his ducal throne. Stern. Silent. His jaw carved of stone. His eyes flicked briefly to her, unreadable, then away again. No comfort, no warmth, only calculation. As ever.
And then there was him. Crown Prince Alden, the dove in this bloody riddle, sat upon the royal dais. Pale and fragile, swathed in white silk, his eyes half-lidded, his frame too thin, his lips parted as though every breath cost him strength. Some whispered he was cursed. Others swore he was poisoned. But the story now sung through the court was simple: Calista Thornheart was to blame.
The herald struck his staff. "The accused, Lady Calista of House Thornheart, stands before the tribunal. Charges: treachery, attempted regicide, consorting with shadows."
Murmurs rippled like waves.
Calista lifted her chin, voice clear and commanding. "And guilty, apparently, of breathing too loudly in the presence of thin-skinned nobles."
Gasps. A few stifled laughs. The judges scowled. Malrik's mouth tightened. Calista smiled sweetly, savoring the tension like fine wine.
"Lady Thornheart," the head judge intoned, "your wit will not shield you. Do you deny these charges?"
"I deny boredom," she replied smoothly. "But treachery? Attempted regicide? How unimaginative. If I wished the prince dead, believe me, he would be dead."
The hall erupted. Some laughed nervously, others hissed. Prince Alden stirred weakly on his dais, his glassy eyes flicking toward her with a spark of something—fear, curiosity, amusement? It hardly mattered. She had their attention.
The prosecutor stepped forward, a weasel-faced lord with ink-stained fingers. "Your honors, we have evidence—clear and damning. Objects tied directly to Lady Calista were found in suspicious circumstances."
A servant approached with a tray. Upon it gleamed the jeweled hairpin and the ring Obsidian had so graciously delivered.
Calista's smile widened. "Oh dear. My trinkets have been on quite the adventure, haven't they?"
"Do you deny ownership?" the prosecutor pressed.
"I deny idiocy," she shot back. "If I were plotting against the crown, do you truly think I would scatter breadcrumbs in the corridors for every gossip-monger to find? Whoever planted these has a flair for melodrama but little talent for subtlety."
The prosecutor sputtered. Laughter bubbled in the crowd, quickly hushed by glares.
"Enough," the head judge thundered. "You will answer directly."
Calista inclined her head mockingly. "Very well. I am innocent."
The hall buzzed with disbelief. Malrik's gaze sharpened, but he said nothing.
Then a voice cut through the noise, low and steady. "She speaks true."
All eyes turned. Lord Darius Evernight stepped forward, his presence like a storm cloud darkening the chamber. His grey eyes locked on hers, unreadable, before sweeping the judges. "The so-called evidence is a smokescreen. I can attest that Lady Thornheart was elsewhere on the night in question."
Gasps again. The implication was scandalous. Darius offering her an alibi? Whispers spread like wildfire.
Calista arched a brow, fanning herself lazily. "My lord, how gallant. Careful, or they'll think we're conspiring in candlelit corners."
"Let them think what they will," Darius replied evenly.
The judges frowned, conferring in low voices. The prosecutor hissed, "He lies to shield her!"
Calista chose that moment to strike. She drew the riddle scrap from her sleeve and held it high. "If you want true evidence, then behold. This was delivered before my arrest. A riddle, taunting, predicting the prince's fall. The handwriting is delicate, perfumed, and entirely too fond of theatrics. I submit that someone else is orchestrating this tragedy, and they are very much enjoying themselves."
The parchment was passed to the judges, then to Prince Alden himself. He studied it weakly, fingers trembling. The hall buzzed with unease. A conspiracy? A hidden hand?
Bellatrix Crowmere, seated among the noble ladies, turned pale beneath her rouge. Calista's eyes found her across the hall, and she smiled. Slow. Sharp. Wolfish. Bellatrix's jeweled fan trembled.
The prosecutor tried to rally. "This is hearsay, trickery—"
"And your evidence," Calista cut in, "is a hairpin and a ring so conveniently placed that even a blind man could find them. Forgive me, your honors, but if this court cannot distinguish between a Thornheart's cunning and a Crowmere's clumsy sabotage, perhaps we should all pack our wigs and go home."
Laughter, louder this time. The crowd was turning, restless, intrigued. The judges banged their staffs for silence. Malrik's hands tightened on his throne, but still he said nothing.
Prince Alden's weak voice broke the tension. "Enough. I will hear no more." His words carried fragile authority, yet they silenced the room. He leaned forward, eyes on Calista. "Lady Thornheart. If you are guilty, the gods will know. If you are innocent, the gods will reveal it. Until then, the tribunal will delay judgment."
Outrage exploded among the nobles. Delay? Mercy? Scandalous! But the prince raised a trembling hand. "So it is decreed."
The gavel struck. The trial adjourned.
As the hall emptied, Calista stood alone in the center, chains glinting, smile triumphant. She had bought herself time. Not freedom, not victory, but a sliver of space in which to turn the board.
Darius approached, his shadow falling across hers. "You played well."
"I always do," she murmured, eyes bright. "But the game is not over. Whoever hides behind riddles and planted trinkets thinks they've cornered me. Let us see how they fare when the villainess bites back."
Obsidian croaked overhead, wings slicing the air like black knives. The storm was coming. And Calista Thornheart would be its lightning.