Third Person POV
In the Reinhardt manor
The four women who had just reunited, are settling in in their respective rooms in the manor.
Diara was about to head to her room when she stumbled upon a servant moving quite suspiciously.
She followed the servant quietly and hid behind one of the columns when she saw the servant stopping on a corner, talking to someone she felt familiar from the voice of the said person.
"Have you found it?", the other person asked the servant.
"I have not, sire.", the servant responded whilst keeping his head low.
"Tsk. Useless.", the person uttered.
Diara kept listening until the figure had left.
She walks back towards her room whilst thinking things through with a serious face, only to find the three women grabbing her pillows and messing her room up.
"Oh for fuck's sake, the three of you! Really? My room?", Diara uttered with an annoyed tone.
Diara scowled as bites of her freshly fluffed pillows splattered the room in a chaotic cascade of feathers, but the sight of her closest friends rolling on the bed, giggling like little girls, made her lips curl into a defeated smile.
"My dearest friends!" she groaned, dropping onto the edge of her bed. "Have mercy—this room looks like the aftermath of a griffin attack."
Eliana or Dill, as they call her, still shimmering with that mischievous glint in her eyes, offered a dramatic bow. "Aw Lady Dia, forgive us. We were overcome with nostalgia—and, well, pillows are just so fluffy."
Ashtine smirked, tossing one pillow fluff into the air. "Maybe a bit of chaos is good for you. You've been so proper lately—training, paperwork, weddings—and look at us: we're lighter, freer."
The future Red witch—the lady Morgana—smoothed her dress with composure. "Although I do think some of us could clean up the mess," she teased, then carefully scooped a stray feather into a napkin. "Let me handle this, at least."
Diara sighed, resigning to their antics. "Fine, but after—no more pillow fights. Not with my spotless knight suit hanging over there."
Later That Evening, Dinner in the Great Hall of the Reinhardt Manor
Candles glowed, reflecting off the polished wooden floor and casting dancing lights across the grand hall. A low fire crackled in the hearth, setting a warm ambiance. Diara presided at the head table, her posture regal, yet her smile soft whenever one of her friends chattered at her side.
Dinner was a lavish spread: roasted pheasant with berry glaze, herbed potatoes, fresh greens, and ends with honey-glazed tarts—each a reminder of happier, simpler times.
Morgana leaned closer, voice hushed. "Dia... do you think there's a spy in the manor?"
Diara took a slow bite of pheasant, choosing her words carefully. "For you to even have such feelings, must mean there really is. I overheard a servant speaking to someone. 'Have you found it?' he asked. That's not standard procedure." She paused, meeting Ashtine's gaze. "I don't know what 'it' is—but I plan to find out."
"As soon as we finish dinner, I vote we launch an investigation team," Ashtine declared, her eyes gleaming with excitement.
Eliana, ever the voice of reason when things get too serious, laid a gentle hand on Diara's. "Be careful, Dia. Don't compromise your engagement duties—or your own safety. We're here to help, but let's do this discreetly."
Diara nodded. "Agreed. We'll be ghosts. But tonight, let's enjoy ourselves. Tomorrow, we begin."
Morgana raised her goblet. "To friendship and subtle espionage!"
They all laughed and clinked glasses under candlelight.
That Night, Secrets Stir
After the others retired, Diara crept down the empty corridor with Eliana at her side, each carrying a small lantern. They paused at the intersection where Diara had seen the servant earlier.
"Do you recognize his footsteps?" The saintess whispered. She paused. "I think we need something more—proof, not just hunches."
They sneaked toward the stable wing, where the servant's footsteps had trailed earlier. The moon cast silver stripes across the walls.
Suddenly, a low voice: "He's getting closer. Did you get the report?"
Diara pressed silently against the cold marble wall. Masks caught in her throat, she tasted adrenaline.
"He'll deliver it tomorrow morning—during breakfast. I want it handled swiftly."
Diara felt her pulse sharpen. This was what she did not want to happen: someone was undermining her parents' trust, her parents' household. She squeezed Eliana's hand.
When footsteps receded, the two slipped back to their chambers, minds whirring.
Morning After
Downstairs, over newly brewed tea, the four women sat in consultation. The servant in question had been quietly ushered away to run errands, but Diara had arranged for discreet watchers.
Morgana spread out a scrap of parchment. "We need to intercept the letter—whatever it is."
Ashtine frowned thoughtfully. "If he's delivering during breakfast, we can swap it. Replace with a forged note."
Eliana added softly, "And during tea, we can bring it up casually. See if he reacts."
Diara nodded, steely determination glowing in her eyes. "Let's do it. But one misstep…" She let the threat hang.
They spent the rest of the morning plotting routes, decoys, guard placements, forging a note that sounded convincingly official but bland—no mention of schedules, but filled with innocuous pleasantries.
Breakfast—The Ambush
The breakfast hall rang with polite chatter as Diara took her seat with the three ladies. Their eyes flicked to the side entrance where the servant appeared, bearing a sealed letter.
Morgana, seated across from him, lifted her teacup leisurely. He paused in the doorway, uncomfortable under her gaze.
Cautious glances were exchanged.
Ashtine casually forked a bit of fruit toward him. "Here, come, sit. Lady Dia invited us to share in her morning meal."
Red-faced, he hovered uncertainly, then placed the letter gently in front of Diara. As eyes followed, Diara slid it across the table—her hand inadvertently brushing her maid's, who then discreetly whisked it away to Eliana.
In that moment, Morgana whispered to Diara: "Swapped."
Eliana examined the envelope quickly under the table. Its seal looked official, but the handwriting was sloppy—Diara nodded.
After breakfast ended, Eliana retired to the garden with the "letter," opening it with Katana-like precision.
In a flourish, she announced: "It's completely blank. They never wrote anything—but the seal was real. Someone wanted us to react."
Diara's jaw clenched. "A warning? A test?"
Ashtine's voice was calm, chilling. "Or an intimidation tactic. A way to remind you that someone watches."
Morgana added, "But if they're testing, they underestimate us—and they've given us the first move."
Diara stared out at the manicured hedges beyond. In that moment, something shifted in her: resolve. She would not be a pawn in this game; she would become the player.
Later that evening, Diara returned to her chambers, eyes catching herself in the mirror.
For the past two weeks, her schedule had been predictable—training, paperwork, wedding prep. But now: intrigue. Spy games. Letting someone threaten her—and not knowing who—shifted everything.
The black knight armor hanging beside her.
The spark in her own eyes.
She will protect her home, her future marriage—and her future friends.
But now… she would sleep. Tomorrow… everything will change.
And somewhere in the shadows, the real game was just beginning.