There was something wrong with the quiet.
It was too smooth, too seamless—like silk stretched tight over a blade.
Aveline stood on the upper terrace, the morning breeze playing with the hem of her silver-trimmed gown. From this height, the palace looked peaceful. Controlled. But she had learned long ago that appearances in court were the most dangerous form of camouflage.
"Elise," she said without turning. "Has there been any word from the Dowager's circle?"
The maid, ever poised, bowed her head. "Not a whisper, my lady. Which is… unusual."
Exactly.
The silence was not peace—it was positioning.
"They're waiting for something," Aveline murmured. "No rumors. No insults. Not even a glance my way at breakfast."
Lucien appeared in the doorway, his cloak draped lazily over one shoulder. "That's when you know the dagger's already drawn."
Aveline nodded. "The question is—where will they strike?"
Lucien crossed the terrace, his voice low. "I've had Caden trailing Auren. He's visited three noble estates in the last two days. Quiet meetings. Closed doors."
"And Calista?"
"Planning something. Her lady's maid has been delivering notes to a court scribe known for leaking just enough truth to ruin reputations."
Aveline's jaw tightened slightly. "They want a scandal. One they can weaponize."
Lucien studied her. "Are you ready?"
She turned toward him fully, her expression unreadable. But in her eyes, the storm had already begun.
"I was born ready," she said. "Let them come. But this time, I won't be the one on trial."
Later that day, a hush settled over the hallways of the eastern wing. Whispers moved faster than servants.
By the time Aveline entered the sunlit corridor outside the royal library, three noble ladies had already passed her—two avoiding eye contact, one smirking too widely.
She caught it immediately.
"Elise," she said softly. "Find out what they think they know."
It didn't take long.
A folded parchment, carelessly "dropped" near a lounge cushion, held her name in bold ink—Aveline Everwind, Mistress of Magic and Men.
It was a fake journal entry. Written in first person. Stylized like a confession.
Filled with insinuations of affairs, manipulations, and spells used to seduce key members of the court—including Prince Lucien.
Aveline read it in silence, her face like carved stone.
Elise hovered nervously. "My lady… do you want me to burn it?"
"No," Aveline said. "I want it delivered."
Elise blinked. "Delivered? To whom?"
"To Calista." A smile touched her lips, slow and deliberate. "With my compliments—and a note that says, next time, use my real voice."
Later that evening, a quiet note made its way through the servants' corridors—sealed with Aveline's crest, but unmarked.
It reached the desk of a particular palace scribe—one known for his silver tongue and quicker pen.
Inside: a different kind of journal entry.
Not crude. Not false. But truth, sharpened.
A list of every favor Calista had purchased over the past two years—gifted silks, secret payments, dinners with already-married lords.
A veiled reference to a certain affair.
A detailed account of how a court seamstress went missing the day after delivering a torn gown to Calista's estate.
The scribe swallowed hard. This was no confession.
This was a warning.
⸻
By morning, Calista was the subject of hushed laughter in every corridor she walked.
Whispers of debts unpaid.
Of lords too generous.
Of a missing girl whose name had suddenly reappeared on the palace records.
In the rose garden, Aveline sipped her tea as a maid relayed the latest gossip.
"Do they believe it?" Aveline asked, not bothering to hide her amusement.
"They don't know what to believe," the maid replied. "But they're listening."
"Good," Aveline said. She turned her gaze toward the glass palace dome, where sunlight caught the edge of a crimson banner.
"Let them drown in doubt… while I stay dry."
Elsewhere, in Calista's private drawing room…
The papers trembled in her grip.
She read the list once, twice—three times—until the words blurred into crimson rage.
"How dare she," Calista whispered. "How dare she turn it around—on me."
The broken tea cup at her feet was the least of the damage. Drapes had been torn. A mirror cracked. A servant had fled in silence.
Auren, calm as ever, leaned against the fireplace, his fingers tapping a steady rhythm on the marble mantel. "She warned you. That note wasn't arrogance—it was dominance."
"She's winning," Calista spat. "That wasn't a message. It was a declaration."
"She knows how to weaponize whispers better than you gave her credit for."
Calista paced, fuming. "Then it's time we stop playing in the shadows. If poison won't kill her reputation, then perhaps something stronger will."
Auren looked up sharply. "Careful. You're talking about open war."
Calista's voice turned cold. "So be it."
⸻
Meanwhile, in the western wing…
Lucien stepped into Aveline's study without knocking.
She didn't look up. "You heard."
"I heard," he confirmed. "And I came to say one thing."
She finally glanced up, arching a brow. "Oh?"
Lucien folded his arms. "Whatever happens next… you don't face it alone."
There was silence.
Then, Aveline smiled—soft, but distant.
"I never did," she said quietly. "That was the mistake they made the first time."