They called it Aether Requiem — the Gift of Light.
A blessing said to come from the divine weave that binds soul and consequence. Aether Requiem did not simply heal or purify — it measured.
It saw through the thin veils of good and evil, weighed one's virtues against their sins, and passed judgment accordingly. For the innocent, its touch brought warmth, clarity, even life. But for the corrupt… it was a mirror that burned.
The judgment it delivered was final — swift and absolute. A man guilty of deceit might lose his voice. A murderer, his pulse. The greater the sin, the harsher the requiem.
That was why, through history, such a Gift was feared more than revered.
Those who possessed it became both saint and executioner — and their existence, a threat to kings and priests alike.
And Zelene… had never asked for it.
She didn't even understand it — not completely. But that night, when Kael's curse had flared so violently that his skin burned and his breath came ragged, she had acted on instinct.
Her hands had found him — trembling, desperate — and when she touched him, the curse recoiled like something seen.
The darkness inside Kael was not ordinary; it was sin given shape — born of blood spilled in wars and vows broken in vengeance. But Zelene's light didn't destroy it.
It recognized it.
For a moment, the Aether within her weighed his soul. It found remorse, pain, and buried guilt — but not malice. That moment of balance was enough to quiet the curse's unrest, to soothe it into stillness.
It wasn't true healing.
It was mercy.
Temporary. Dangerous.
If anyone — knew what she was capable of, she'd be hunted. Not by one kingdom, but by many.
Because Aether Requiem didn't just reveal the soul's truth… it could be used to expose and destroy anyone.
And men with power loved nothing more than the ability to condemn others without question.
That was why Zelene and her family swore to keep it hidden.
Now, days later, as she walked the dim corridors of the Dravenhart estate, that secret pulsed quietly within her.
She had other things to worry about.
Miren.
Zelene's suspicions had hardened into certainty — but certainty alone wasn't enough. If she confronted the Head Maid without proof, she'd be painted as the hysterical outsider, the unwanted guest pretending to be a Duchess.
So she planned.
Every step, every conversation, every polite smile was deliberate.
To catch a serpent, one had to look harmless.
She started playing the fool. The kind of sheltered noblewoman who asked meaningless questions, who smiled too easily, who seemed to mistake cruelty for etiquette. Miren relaxed around her, believing her naïve.
Good.
Zelene needed her to.
Each day, she lingered near the servant's quarters, feigning curiosity. She praised Miren's "leadership," watched how the woman's lips curved into false humility. She followed the trail of quiet bribes, of missing rations and unrecorded deliveries.
It was exhausting — this theater of deception — but Zelene endured it, even as her conscience ached.
Because beneath the fragile mask of gentleness, the Aether inside her stirred, restless and aware.
It felt Miren's rot. The weight of her deceit.
And though Zelene could never allow that light to surface again — not unless she wanted death or worship — it whispered at the edges of her mind, begging to be used.
To reveal.
To cleanse.
To judge.
But no. Not yet.
Zelene's grip tightened on her gloves as she stepped out into the courtyard, the cool wind brushing her cheek.
She couldn't afford another slip. Not like with Kael.
Not until she had proof.
Not until she could bring down Miren with truth — not divine wrath.
For now, she would play her part.
The fool, the guest, the pretender.
Until the serpent believed itself safe.
Then, and only then, would she let the light speak.