The forest had swallowed the riders hours ago.
From the pavilion, only distant echoes of horns and occasional barking hounds carried back through the trees, faint and dramatic, like the backdrop of someone else's story.
Niana stood near the edge of the clearing, hands folded neatly before her, posture composed. Around her, noble ladies chatted beneath embroidered parasols, discussing wagers, horses, fabrics, and the likelihood of certain men embarrassing themselves.
She nodded when appropriate.
Smiled when required.
But her thoughts were nowhere near them.
They were somewhere else entirely.
Red hair.
The memory had not struck her immediately.
It came slowly, like ink bleeding through parchment.
A scene she had written.
A minor chapter.
Barely significant at the time.
She had titled it something forgettable — something about rivalry during the autumn hunt.
In her original story, the hunting competition had been a background event. A place for male nobles to posture and reveal arrogance before more serious arcs began.
And in that chapter—
A red-haired noble had died.
She remembered the description now.
Not the name first.
The hair.
"Like spilled wine under sunlight."
She had written that line herself.
He had been mocked.
Avoided.
Considered ill-omened.
Red hair was rumored to bring misfortune.
Superstition made men cruel.
He had been shot.
Not by prey.
Not by accident.
But "mistakenly" during the chaos of the hunt.
An arrow through the chest.
Publicly tragic.
Privately convenient.
At the time she had written it as political flavor. A reminder that noble sport was rarely clean.
She hadn't expected to meet him.
Hadn't expected to see him stand there, poised and calm, saving Lucien from unnecessary bloodshed.
Hadn't expected to remember—
That he was connected to something else.
Her breath slowed.
Weapon.
Yes.
That was it.
He had access to something.
A prototype relic.
A sealed holy armament recovered by his house but never revealed publicly because—
Because he died before he could present it.
She could almost see the paragraph in her mind.
> Had he lived, the weapon might have altered the Inquisition's outcome.
She had written that too.
Casually.
As foreshadowing that never mattered in the original timeline.
But now—
The Inquisition was in ten days.
And she remembered how badly it went in the original story.
Losses.
Heavy ones.
Including—
Her.
She swallowed slowly.
Lucien believed she had sent him into the hunt for the artifact.
She had.
But not only for that.
She needed him away.
Because if she walked directly toward the red-haired noble with that sharp look in her eyes, Lucien would notice.
He would question.
He would protect.
He would interfere.
And this—
This required subtlety.
She turned slightly, scanning the pavilion.
There.
Near the far edge of the clearing, mounted but not yet riding deep into the forest.
Red hair catching sunlight like flame behind glass.
He had not rushed when the horn sounded.
He had entered the forest at measured pace.
Strategic.
Careful.
As if he did not trust the enthusiasm of others.
Good.
Very good.
Niana's fingers tightened lightly around the folds of her skirt.
In the original story, his death had been framed as accident.
But now that she stood here—
It felt deliberate.
Too convenient.
Too quiet.
If he died again, the weapon would remain hidden.
Unused.
And the Inquisition—
She remembered enough to know they needed every advantage.
She inhaled slowly.
Exhaled.
"Milady?"
She turned.
Marchioness Elara had reappeared beside her, gaze following Niana's line of sight.
"You seem invested," Elara observed gently.
Niana smiled faintly.
"I dislike waste."
Elara tilted her head. "Waste?"
"Talent," Niana clarified.
The marchioness studied her more closely now.
"You noticed him."
It was not a question.
Niana did not deny it.
"He carries himself differently."
"Yes," Elara agreed softly. "House Ruvain."
Ruvain.
There.
The name clicked into place.
Second son.
Politically inconvenient.
Rumored unstable because of his hair.
Elara continued, voice light but layered.
"They say misfortune follows that bloodline."
Niana's gaze did not waver from the forest.
"Or perhaps misfortune is assigned to them."
Elara's lips curved faintly.
"That is a dangerous distinction to make aloud."
"I did not say it loudly."
Silence stretched between them, companionable but aware.
In the distance, another horn echoed faintly.
Time was passing.
If the original timeline remained intact, the "accident" would happen before the final scoring.
Which meant—
It would happen soon.
Her pulse quickened slightly.
She had not come here to watch.
She had come to interfere.
To change something small enough not to ripple too violently—
But significant enough to matter.
Lucien would not approve.
Prince Kael would question.
But she had written this world once.
And she refused to let one more useful piece fall off the board because of superstition and politics.
She adjusted her gloves.
"Marchioness," she said softly, "would it be terribly improper if I requested a horse?"
Elara's brows lifted.
"You do not hunt."
"No."
A faint smile.
Elara studied her for a long moment.
Then—
"Improper," she said calmly. "Yes."
A pause.
"But interesting."
Niana's lips curved slowly.
Good.
Very good.
Somewhere deeper in the forest, hooves thundered.
And Niana Valeris prepared to rewrite a line she once thought insignificant.
Because the red-haired man—
Was not supposed to die this time.