The gossips in the high-society rags, the ones bought for a penny and read with a sneer, had taken to calling me Cinderella.
It was a cruel, simple truth. My lover, Alistair Ravenscroft, was the second son of a Marquis, a man whose family name was carved into the very foundations of the Aethelgard Kingdom. His hair was the colour of spun gold, his eyes a sharp, crystalline blue that promised summer skies and cold steel in equal measure. He wore the silver-and-black uniform of his house with an easy grace that made him every inch the fairy-tale prince.
And I, Seraphina Fell, was a noble in name only. A relic from a fallen house with nothing to my name but a crumbling crest and the dregs of a bloodline so thin it was practically water.
The beautiful girl next to the prince. A perfect Cinderella.
I wondered if her story ended like this, too.
"I am sorry it has come to this, Seraphina."
Alistair's face was a placid mask of aristocratic indifference. His sky-blue eyes, usually so full of fire and ambition when they looked at me, held no flicker of guilt. Not a single shadow of the promises he'd whispered in the dark.
The bastard had no shame at all.
"What is this?" I asked, my voice tight.
He gestured with a perfectly manicured finger at the paper lying on the polished mahogany table between us. The Lundenburg Chronicle. I had already seen the headline, scorched into my memory since I'd first glimpsed it on a public posting board that morning.
"Marquis Ravenscroft's Second Son to Form Alliance with Duchy of Beaumont. Engagement to Lady Isolde Finalised." Below it, a scathing little column. "Where does this leave the Cinderella of House Fell?"
You couldn't even say the words yourself, could you?
A wave of cold fury washed through me. I forced it down, running a hand through my dark hair, a gesture of composure I did not feel. "So you're marrying her."
"We are engaged. The union will be consecrated within the year."
"And I?"
"You are not a fool, Seraphina. You understand the implications."
"Say it," I snarled, the sound ripping from my throat. "Say it with your own mouth! Why did I have to read about the end of my life in a gossip rag meant for fishwives and footmen?"
The anger I'd been strangling finally broke free. Until this morning, I knew nothing. I was a woman who believed she was loved, who still felt the ghost of his hands on her skin from the night before. I had no idea that he had not only moved on, but had cemented his future with another.
How could he be so utterly callous?
I had, in my most private, foolish moments, imagined a life with him. But I knew the reality of my station. I was worthless to a man like him. A footnote in the Barony of Fell, a house so diminished we were little more than commoners with a pedigree. The daughter of a woman who didn't even know the name of my father. My own Aetheric potential, the magic that flowed in the blood of the nobility, was a barely-there trickle. No power, no fortune, no connections.
That was me. Seraphina Fell. My pride had been ground to dust long ago. I could have accepted this. I could have swallowed the bitter pill of him leaving me for a better match.
If only he had granted me the smallest courtesy.
"I apologise for the lack of warning," he said, his tone that of a man discussing a poor business decision. "The opportunity was… sudden. There was no time."
"Opportunity?"
"To secure my succession," he said, a faint sigh escaping his lips. He was already framing himself as the victim. "You know how it has been for my mother and me, Seraphina. You know the threat that thing poses. My mother, treated as a hysteric. Me, always looking over my shoulder, waiting for the axe to fall."
"I've heard the story a thousand times," I said, my voice flat. "So what?"
"I need power. Real power. An alliance with the Beaumonts gives me that. Their bloodline will strengthen mine. The Duke will ensure my claim to the Marquisate is unassailable."
Of course. The same old song.
My fists clenched, my nails digging into my palms. It was always about his brother. Cassien Ravenscroft. The firstborn son. A cripple, they said, who could neither walk nor speak, confined to a wheeled chair since birth.
It was common knowledge that Cassien was no heir. He was broken. Yet Alistair and his mother were consumed by a venomous paranoia, convinced the silent, broken boy was a viper in their nest, waiting to strike. They saw conspiracy in his silence, a plot in his stillness.
I never understood it. But I loved Alistair, so I had placated his fears, listening to the endless tirades against a boy I'd only ever seen from a distance. And now that paranoia was the altar upon which I was being sacrificed.
A single, desperate question clawed its way out. "Was it all a lie? That you loved me?"
Alistair actually had the grace to look away, his gaze falling to the intricate pattern of the Isfahan rug. A flicker of something—shame, perhaps—crossed his features. "No. It wasn't a lie, Seraphina. I still care for you, but…"
"But she is more valuable."
"She is not more valuable than my mother," he corrected, his voice hardening again. "I must become the Marquis. I must protect her legacy."
Those words were a physical blow, driving the air from my lungs. Why was I still here? I knew how this would end from the moment I saw the Chronicle. Any hope I'd clung to was the desperate scrabbling of a fool. I hated myself for it, and I hated him more.
My composure shattered. Rational thought fled. There was only the seething, black knot of betrayal in my gut.
I reached across the table, my hand closing around the delicate porcelain coffee cup beside his. Without a word, I flung the hot, dark liquid straight into his face.
"Go to hell, Alistair."
He sputtered my name, a cry of shock and rage, but I was already turning, stalking from the parlour without a backward glance. The heavy oak door slammed shut behind me with a sound like a gunshot.
The hallway was silent, but the eyes of the servants were deafening. Their gazes followed me, a mixture of pity and smug satisfaction. These were the same people who had smirked behind their hands, whispering about the little gutter-noble playing at being a lady. They must be thrilled.
My heart hammered against my ribs. I forced my chin up, my back straight, and walked. It was a miserable, humiliating retreat. My stomach churned, a sick, heavy feeling, as if I'd swallowed a lump of lead. And beneath it all, a profound, crushing sadness.
It was over. To him, I was a thing to be used and discarded.
My eyes burned. I fought the tears, knowing the servants' scorn would turn to open amusement if they saw them, but it was a losing battle.
Outside the grand entrance of Ravenscroft Manor, the sky was a brilliant, cloudless blue. A cruel, beautiful blue, the exact shade of Alistair Ravenscroft's eyes.
I squinted against the sudden glare and realised someone was there, just at the edge of the manicured gardens.
"…Ah."
He must have been out for some air. A man sat in a polished, aether-assisted chair, its brass workings gleaming in the sun. His hair was a startling platinum, so pale it was almost white, catching the light like a halo. When he turned his head, his eyes, the colour of molten gold, met mine.
It was Cassien Ravenscroft.
I stood frozen for a moment, stunned by the sheer, ethereal beauty of him. His gaze was strange, fixed on my face, and it was only then that I realised the tears I'd been fighting had won. They were streaming down my cheeks.
I scrubbed at my face with the back of my hand, a frantic, useless gesture that only made more tears fall. Mortified, I was about to turn and flee when the man wheeled his chair a little closer and held out a handkerchief. It was fine linen, embroidered with the Ravenscroft crest: a single black raven with a golden eye.
I didn't take it. A hollow, bitter laugh escaped me.
"Pathetic, isn't it? I read the paper, I knew what he would say, and still I came. Still I let him throw me out like trash. And now this…crying like a child. Like a fool…"
My self-loathing rant trailed off. He simply watched me, his expression unreadable, and shook his head slowly.
"What? Do you pity me?" I whispered, the words thick with emotion.
This time, he didn't even move. He just looked at me with those unnervingly calm, golden eyes, the handkerchief still extended. There was no judgment in his gaze. No malice. No satisfaction. Just a profound, unnerving stillness. In his silence, the frantic beating of my own heart began to slow.
Why are you falling apart over this, Seraphina Fell? You knew this day would come.
I took a shuddering breath, snatched the handkerchief from his hand, and pressed the cool linen to my hot face. "My apologies for the outburst. Thank you for the handkerchief."
It was soaked through in an instant. It felt wrong to give it back. As I hesitated, Cassien gave a short, formal dip of his head and began to turn his chair away, the quiet whirring of its mechanisms the only sound between us. He was letting me keep it.
I watched him go, then turned my own feet toward the city proper, toward home.
This summer was hotter than any I could remember. The air was thick and heavy, pressing in on me. My head swam. Perhaps being discarded by Alistair had finally broken something inside me.
Our house—if you could call it that—was a tiny row home clinging to the dregs of a forgotten Barony, owned by my uncle. There were no servants, no gardens, just weeds choking the yard and a fence that leaned like a drunkard. But inside was my mother, the only person in this world who valued me.
I wanted to see her, but my face was a wreck. Even with the tears gone, my eyes were red and swollen. She would know instantly. I tried to concoct a plausible lie—a sad play I'd seen, a sentimental novel—but as I rounded the corner to my street, the words died in my throat.
The air was wrong. Tense.
Standing before our pathetic little house was a carriage. It was not like the ornate, gilded coaches of the aristocracy. This was a war carriage, built of lacquered black wood, with no windows and no crest I recognized—a coiled, multi-headed hydra stamped in silver on the door. It was hitched to four destriers, each twice the size of a normal horse, their hides the colour of jet, their eyes burning with a faint, unnatural red light. Flanking it stood a dozen men in full, black plate armour, their visors sealed shut. They were utterly still, like statues of death.
Who were these people? What was happening?
A primal fear, cold and sharp, stabbed through me. I wanted to run, to scream, to check on my mother, but I was rooted to the spot. I took a cautious step back into the shadows of an alley, but it was too late. One by one, every helmeted head turned and fixed on me.
I stopped breathing. For a long moment, nobody moved. Then, I saw a flicker of what looked like… surprise? Confusion? The tension lessened by a fraction.
"Who are you?" My voice came out as a trembling squeak.
A man detached himself from the group of knights and walked towards me. He was in his late thirties, perhaps, with close-cropped grey hair and a monocle perched on one eye. His clothes were of a severe, military cut, but impeccably tailored. An official of some kind.
"Incredible… the resemblance is truly…" he murmured to himself, then cleared his throat. "Forgive me. I am Lord Valerius. You are the Lady Seraphina Fell, I presume?"
"How do you know my name? What business do you have here?"
"Please, do not be alarmed. We are here on behalf of—"
A tearing, splintering sound cut him off. My head whipped toward my front door. It had been torn from its hinges. A man was stepping out, a massive figure whose shadow seemed to drink the light. He was holding my mother by the arm.
"Mother!"
The word was a scream. I ran, stumbling, my earlier heartbreak forgotten, replaced by a terror so profound it felt like ice in my veins. My mother's face was chalk-white, her eyes wide with a fear I had never seen before. I forced myself to look at the man holding her. He was tall, with dark hair and a face that looked like it was carved from granite. A cold, brutal authority radiated from him. I had never seen him before, but a chilling, instinctual dread coiled in my stomach.
His gaze shifted from my mother and fell on me.
I felt naked. Stripped bare. It was like standing before a predator that had been hunting you your entire life without you ever knowing it. My lips trembled. It took all my strength just to speak.
"Let her go. Right now. What do you want with her?"
"'Her'?" the man repeated, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. His eyes narrowed, sweeping over me from head to toe, and it felt like a physical violation. "So, the girl truly knows nothing."
"She knows nothing!" my mother cried, her voice cracking. "Take me, but leave her out of this! Please!"
The man ignored her. His cold, dark eyes locked back onto mine. A faint, violet light flickered deep within his pupils.
"That blood…" he said, a slow, terrible smile spreading across his face. "It's unmistakable."