The morning did not look any different…
Yet something in the air of Carlton Palace felt heavier than usual.
News spread through the newspapers and among the servants the way an infection spreads. The headlines were not explicit. Neris's name was never clearly mentioned, no direct accusation was printed—yet the words were sharp enough to be understood without being spoken.
"A Disturbed Balance in the Court of Carlton."
"Does Status Require Authorization… or Lineage?"
No one read aloud.
They read with lowered eyes… then slowly lifted their gazes and whispered.
Neris felt it the moment she stepped out of her wing.
No one stared at her directly—yet everything was watching her.
A maid bowed too deeply.
Another delayed her bow longer than necessary.
Someone smiled—not out of kindness, but curiosity.
Others exchanged quick glances, as though her presence forced them to take a stance they were not prepared for.
The division was clear.
Some servants felt the palace had regained its balance because of her.
Others saw her as a disruption that could not be ignored.
Ostracism here was never blatant…
It was quiet—wrapping around the chest slowly, suffocating without leaving a mark.
Neris entered the main hall with steady steps.
She did not lift her chin in defiance, nor lower her head in apology.
She walked as she always had among them.
At the far end of the hall, Adrian had arrived.
His entrance was not announced.
It did not need to be—his mere presence was enough to reorder the sounds around him.
Whispers faded. Movements slowed. Even the air itself seemed to straighten the moment he appeared.
His black suit was formal as always, sharpening his elegance. His eyes did not search for Neris—yet he knew exactly where she was.
As he crossed the hall, his ear caught a sentence spoken very low, barely audible, yet uttered with the confidence of someone who believed themselves safe amid the noise.
Adrian stopped.
The stillness of his pause was simple… and terrifying at the same time.
He turned slowly and looked at the nearest row of servants. He did not ask who had spoken. He did not raise his voice. He merely said, in a tone devoid of emotion:
"Those who cannot distinguish between curiosity and duty… do not belong here."
He pointed at no one.
He issued no direct order.
Yet everyone understood.
He resumed walking as if nothing had happened, leaving behind a hall tight with nerves—and a warning fully received.
Neris watched him as he exited the palace. When she turned her gaze back to the servants, she found them working in complete silence.
She whispered to herself, bleakly:
"His gaze is truly terrifying. They have every right to fear it… I know that look."
Later that afternoon, Neris retreated to a quiet corner of the library and read the newspapers. Mary had stayed with her all morning—along with Martha. Both had told her about the rumors spreading among people and servants alike, and how opinions had split into two camps: those who supported her, and those who supported Helen.
Now she sat among the towering shelves, where whispers could not easily reach—where thoughts could be harsher than people.
She set the newspaper aside.
She no longer needed to read it.
The question she had avoided all morning finally surfaced with cold clarity:
Am I walking a path that will ensure my survival…
or am I leading myself toward a death whose shape I already know too well?
The emptiness hurt the most.
She did not hear his footsteps—but she felt someone's presence.
Adrian always appeared this way. Without prelude.
He stopped at the table opposite her, bracing one hand against its surface. He stood close enough for his presence to press against her—heavy, unavoidable.
He did not look at her.
He looked at the rows of books, as though the conversation did not warrant direct confrontation.
"People don't gossip about the weak," he said.
He paused.
"They gossip about those they fear they might lose to."
Neris lifted her eyes to him. Their gazes met. He leaned slightly—not to come closer, but to make his presence unmistakable.
"If you try to interpret every whisper," he added, "you'll have no time left to secure your position."
He selected a book and placed it in her hands.
Then he turned and left.
He did not wait for a response.
He did not allow explanation.
He left her with the sentence…
and with a complete redefinition of what she had thought was weakness.
She looked down at the book.
It was an adventure novel.
Cecile entered Neris's room as if stepping into an exhibition she knew she would leave victorious.
She carried a long box wrapped in luxurious paper, tied with an ivory silk ribbon. Her smile was not wide—only precise, calculated, like someone savoring a moment carefully prepared.
"Neris."
She spoke her name with artificial sweetness.
"This just arrived… from Eaton."
Neris raised her gaze slowly. She did not move.
She looked at the box, then at Cecile, then back to her book for a brief moment before closing it calmly.
"From Helen, of course," Cecile added, as though finishing an unfinished thought.
"I thought I should deliver it myself, once I heard it arrived."
She placed the box on the table and nudged it slightly toward Neris.
"Go on. Open it. Let's see what Duchess Helen sent."
Neris finally extended her hand—not with tension, but with cool curiosity. She opened the box slowly, as if opening an official letter with no surprises expected.
Inside was a dress.
It looked… old.
Far too old.
A conservative design—yet unmistakably outdated.
She understood immediately.
Helen meant to humiliate her.
This was a dress for a woman meant to be a refined shadow—not a presence.
Cecile watched Neris's face with hungry focus.
She was waiting for a crack.
Confusion.
Anger.
But Neris showed nothing.
She closed the box calmly, then pushed it aside without care, as though its contents lost all value the moment she saw them.
"A generous gift," she said at last.
"I'll be sure to appreciate the Duchess's taste."
Cecile's smile froze for a fraction of a second.
Then Neris added, in a practical, emotionless tone:
"Mary, ask the maid to contact the tailor immediately."
Cecile raised an eyebrow.
"The tailor?"
"Yes."
Neris finally turned to her. Her eyes were clear—no visible hostility.
"I want this dress transformed. A complete rewrite. The cut, the embroidery… everything."
She paused, then said:
"It will be interesting for the Duchess to see how a single piece can be born twice… with an entirely different story."
The words fell like a stone into Cecile's chest.
"I think…" Cecile attempted a light laugh,
"that Helen won't be pleased by this."
Neris smiled—a small, calm smile that never reached her eyes.
"I don't believe her pleasure is my responsibility."
"Is there anything else?"
There wasn't.
But Cecile stood there two seconds longer, as if trying to regain a balance she had just lost.
Then she turned and left—her steps steady… but faster than when she entered.
Cecile found Adrian in the hall shortly afterward.
He stood near the tall window, speaking with an official. The moment he noticed her, he ended the conversation with a brief nod.
She approached with measured confidence.
"Adrian… I was looking for you."
He turned slowly. His gaze was neutral—neither welcoming nor dismissive.
"I was worried," she continued, softening her tone.
"The situation in the palace… the rumors. Neris may not be accustomed to this kind of pressure."
He did not comment.
She continued, taking one step closer:
"I fear her presence in this position might—"
She stopped.
Because his gaze changed.
It wasn't angry.
It was cold… decisive.
Cecile stepped back without realizing it.
"It's always difficult to pinpoint the source of rumors," Adrian said at last.
"But when I am the owner of Carlton… everything reaches my desk before any council adjourns."
He did not raise his voice.
He did not say her name or accuse her directly.
But he left the sentence hanging—sharp as a blade.
She understood.
She tried to steady herself, to smile—but her lips betrayed her.
"I only wanted—"
He cut her off with a single look.
It wasn't cruel—but it was enough to kill the words in her throat.
"Advice," he added in a lethally calm tone.
"Choose your battles carefully."
Then he turned away, ending the conversation as though it deserved no more than that.
Cecile remained where she was, realizing her game was no longer hidden—and that it would inevitably affect her. She would have to prove her goodwill to the Duke.
The library was nearly empty when Henry entered.
Neris did not hear his footsteps at first. She stood before one of the tall shelves, fingers gliding over book titles without real focus—searching for something nameless.
When she turned, she found him standing at an uncomfortably close distance.
Her body stiffened instantly.
"Henry?"
Her voice was low, but her surprise unmistakable.
"What are you doing here?"
He didn't answer immediately. He looked around first—at the doors, the corners—as if even the walls might have ears.
Then he finally spoke, his voice low but tense:
"The letter… it must have reached the capital."
Something cold slid into Neris's chest.
"What letter?"
He stepped closer.
"It doesn't matter. What matters is—I won't leave you here."
There was urgency in his tone, unlike him. The Henry she knew was always calculated, cautious. This man looked like he was speaking before his restraint collapsed.
"I'll find a way to get you out of this place."
"Carlton isn't as safe as you think. He's deceiving you, using you, Neris."
She clenched her fingers against the table behind her.
"Henry… what are you planning?" she whispered.
"Don't trust anyone in this palace," he continued, as if she hadn't spoken.
He paused, then said it clearly:
"Not even Adrian."
Her head snapped up.
"Henry, tell me what's happening."
He stepped closer again, eyes steady. He took a deep breath, as if restraining himself.
"I won't leave you here," he said.
Then added, more softly—but with stubborn resolve:
"Not after everything that happened."
Her lips trembled for a moment—but she steadied herself.
"If you interfere… you'll make things worse."
"This place isn't confronted with recklessness, Henry. You know that."
She extended her hand—not to touch him, but to stop him at a calculated distance.
"Please… don't do anything."
He had already made his decision before entering the library.
He left once he finished speaking—without waiting for her opinion.
"Henry!"
She called after him, her voice breaking free of her control.
He didn't turn back.
His footsteps vanished, leaving behind a silence heavier than his presence.
Neris remained standing, her heart beating at an unnaturally slow pace.
She did not feel reassured—quite the opposite.
It was a clear, undeniable feeling:
The real danger wasn't the rumors.
Not Cecile.
Not even the palace's heavy stares.
It was the doors that opened without permission—
and the decisions made suddenly, without her knowledge.
She closed her eyes briefly.
And whispered softly:
"What are you planning to do, Henry…?"