Chapter nineteen – The Poison in Sweet Wine
Elira followed the sweeping velvet corridor, the weight of her gown whispering against the stone floor with each step. The sconces flickered dimly, casting her shadow long and fractured along the walls. Mirelle had long since vanished into the servants' passages—her job was done, and Elira was alone once more.
She stopped before a heavy door trimmed in iron filigree, the sigil of the Duskmoor House carved elegantly into its center: a serpent coiled around a rose, both in bloom and in decay.
A servant opened it before she could knock.
The drawing room within was luxuriously dim. Crimson drapes hung like bloodied theater curtains, and the scent of clove, jasmine, and something darker—burnt amber—lingered in the air. A fire crackled low in the hearth, its flames blue-white.
Lady Ravienne Duskmoor sat alone on a chaise of obsidian velvet, sipping from a glass that glowed faintly. Her skin was pallid perfection, her hair a dark waterfall adorned with silver pins shaped like thorns. Jewels glittered at her throat, but none shone brighter than her eyes—violet and far too amused.
"Elira," she purred, like the name itself pleased her mouth. "Come in, dear. Don't linger at thresholds. Only cowards hover there."
Elira stepped inside with careful grace. "You summoned me."
"I did." Ravienne set the glass down on a table shaped like a coiled bat. "You've been kept too long in Lord Thorne's shadow. Tonight, I thought it time you met the moonlight."
Her smile didn't reach her eyes.
Ravienne tilted her head, considering her. "Why not both? Court life is one endless theatre of tests, my darling. Everyone wants something. Even those who claim otherwise."
Her voice was smooth, indulgent—but there was steel beneath it. Ravienne stood slowly, her gown trailing like spilled ink behind her. She circled Elira with languid steps, inspecting her as if she were a sculpture just barely adequate for display.
"This gown suits you," Ravienne murmured, fingers ghosting the satin at Elira's sleeve. "Modest enough not to offend him. But not so modest that it denies what you are."
Elira resisted the urge to move away. "And what do you think I am?"
"A symbol." Ravienne stopped behind her, voice brushing the back of her neck. "An amusing one, to some. A threat, to others."
"I'm no threat," Elira said, trying to keep her voice even.
"Oh, my dear…" Ravienne chuckled, low and dangerous. "That's what makes you most dangerous of all."
Elira turned then, facing her fully. "Why call me here? To offer compliments laced in venom?"
"No," Ravienne replied, lifting her glass again. "To warn you."
The fire cracked loudly.
"Court is not kind to girls like you. It devours them. Some with a smile. Others with a dagger in the back. Lucien has made a game of parading you before his enemies. But games like his always have consequences."
Elira's jaw tensed. "Then perhaps I should learn the rules."
Ravienne's smile deepened. "Ah. There's that spark. He was always drawn to broken things that pretend to be whole."
"I'm not broken."
"No. Not yet." She sipped slowly, watching her over the rim of her glass. "But let's see how you fare by midnight."
A knock interrupted the room's heavy quiet.
"Lady Vaelric," came a servant's voice, "the guests await."
"Let them," Ravienne murmured, but set her glass aside.
She stepped closer once more, eyes narrowing slightly. "Be careful whose gaze you meet tonight, Elira. Some don't just see. They reach."
With that, she turned, sweeping toward the corridor.
Elira stood still for a moment, blood thudding in her ears. Then she followed.
Music curled through the air like scented smoke, violins and harps weaving a gentle trap of civility around monsters in velvet. Candles burned high in spidery chandeliers, their wax dripping like slow blood onto silver trays carried by silent servants. Guests milled and circled like wolves pretending to be peacocks—polished, dangerous, and endlessly bored.
Lady Ravienne had let her go with a parting smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Mingle, pet. Or don't. But keep your posture straight. They smell fear before they see it."
Elira's steps were careful, quiet, her crimson gown trailing like a shadow. The collar at her throat felt tighter tonight, though it hadn't moved. Perhaps it was simply the way eyes clung to her—hungry, curious, some sharp with recognition, others bristling with contempt.
She had not walked more than a few paces when she was intercepted.
A trio of women stood before her—tall, gleaming, aristocratic. One she recognized from the last Court gathering: Lady Ysella, the daughter of a minor noble house who had once fawned over Lucien in open desperation.
"Elira," Lady Ysella said, her voice dipped in sweetness too thick to swallow. "You look… tamed."
The other women laughed, though their eyes did not move from the collar around Elira's neck.
"I see Lord Thorne enjoys breaking in strays," another murmured.
Elira's lips twitched. "Funny. I didn't know broken women were so interested in another's leash."
Ysella's smile cracked. "You little—"
"Careful," Elira said, stepping close enough that only Ysella could hear her next words. "You might cut yourself on your own bitterness."
Ysella's eyes narrowed, but she stepped aside.
The confrontation dissolved like frost under heat as Elira moved on, pulse thrumming, chest tight. She didn't enjoy it—this sparring of tongues—but neither would she allow herself to be carved apart in silence. Not anymore.
She found a quiet alcove near the great obsidian wolf statues flanking the ballroom stairs—guardians of this cruel palace—and lingered there.
A sudden, familiar laugh turned her blood cold.
Viole.
She swept into view like a snake shedding skin, her dress sheer and black as soot, hair piled high with bone pins glinting between coils.
Elira kept her back straight.
"Well," Viole purred, "the pet still breathes. Pity."
"I breathe just fine," Elira said coolly, "though I suspect your venom wishes otherwise."
The corners of Viole's mouth twitched. "How quick your tongue has grown. Does Lucien reward you for it?"
"Do you always sound so desperate when he's not around?"
The air tensed around them like a drawn blade.
Then—of course—Lord Alric emerged from the side corridor, his grin wolfish and eyes glowing faintly in the candlelight. One would think he had been waiting in the shadow's.
"You shouldn't waste your sharp words on women beneath your station, Elira," he said, coming to stand far too close. "Try them on someone with real appetite."
"I don't perform tricks on command," she answered.
"Oh, but you are trained for it now, aren't you?"
Ravienne watched from afar. She did not interfere.
Alric leaned in, close enough that Elira could smell the iron tang beneath his cologne. "It's such a waste," he said softly. "To leash something so… tempting. Lucien always was selfish."
Elira tried to step back, but Viole blocked her retreat, her smile barbed with glee.
"She looks flushed," Viole said lightly. "I wonder if it's from fear… or anticipation."
"Shall we find out?" Alric asked. He turned to Ravienne, lifting a wine glass in a mock salute.
I'd like a taste," he murmured.
The words hung heavy, vile.
Elira's brows furrowed. "You—what?"
"A taste," he repeated, louder now. "Of the blood that so captured Lord Thorne's interest. What is it about you, little bird? Did he break your wings already, or are they just well-hidden?"
A few nobles nearby laughed. Others turned away, uncomfortable.
"That is not yours to request," Elira said icily, voice strained but steady.
Ravienne's voice rang clear from across the room, detached and glacial. "You may taste, but just a little."
Elira's breath caught. She took a step back. "Don't."
But Alric's fingers were already on her jaw, tilting her chin with the mockery of gentleness. "Lucien isn't here," he whispered. "Who will stop me?"
Before she could twist away, his mouth was at her neck.
The bite was shallow—ceremonial, almost. But it sent pain lancing down her spine, her body locked between disgust and helplessness.
He drew back with a satisfied hum, licking the crimson from his lip.
"She's fire and cinnamon," he said to Viole. "Almost worth the leash."
Viole leaned in once more, lips near her ear. "Remember this," she whispered. "Lucien isn't here to fetch your leash."
And then they were gone.
Elira staggered slightly, a wave of nausea rolling through her—not from blood loss, but from something fouler. Shame. Rage. And the unmistakable crack of something breaking inside her.
A hand appeared beside her—elegant, gloved in black silk.
Seliora.
Her beauty was unsettlingly serene tonight, her hair curled and pinned with black roses. The smile she wore was that of a doll—hollow in the center.
"That was cruel," she said softly, pressing a glass into Elira's hand. "He shouldn't have done that to you. You look pale. Drink this, dear."
Elira hesitated, eyes flicking to the goblet. It shimmered faintly—rose gold laced with something floral. Not wine. Not quite.
"What is it?" she asked, already dizzy.
"Something to calm your nerves," Seliora replied sweetly. "You've been so brave tonight. Lord Thorne would be proud."
At the mention of his name, Elira's grip tightened around the stem.
She didn't trust her. She didn't trust any of them.
But her throat burned, her head spun, and her knees trembled beneath the weight of her pride.
So she drank.
One sip. Two.
A Mistake.
The bitterness was soft, almost herbal. Then it bloomed—slow and wrong.
Seliora's eyes flickered with amusement. "Better?"
Elira blinked, and the room lurched sideways.
Her heartbeat stuttered.
"I—"
Oh dear," she whispered as Elira's knees buckled, "I hope you're not too fragile."
The flute fell from her fingers, shattering.
Gasps erupted, but they sounded distant. Muffled.
Elira's vision splintered at the edges, her body swaying. The collar pulsed like a heartbeat of its own, dragging tight as if sensing danger.
The last thing she saw was Seliora's serene face, lips curling as if she were watching a candle gutter out.
And then—
Darkness.