The bells of the palace rang before dawn.
A sharp, cold sound that echoed across the marble halls and drifted into the chamber where the royal family gathered. Whispers had reached them already—carried by merchants, servants, even the envoy who had returned from our manor with eyes wide and lips pressed tight.
By the time the king entered the council chamber, robes sweeping, his face thunderous, every noble in his confidence was already seated. The queen sat at his side, her back straight, her lips unreadable. Princess Aurelia leaned forward in her chair, eager fire in her eyes, while Princess Isolde kept her hands folded, her expression calmer but no less intent.
And Crown Prince Alaric stood at the far end, arms crossed, silent. His eyes, cold and watchful, betrayed nothing.
"Speak," the king commanded, slamming his staff against the marble floor. The echo silenced even the faintest whisper.
A gray-haired councilor cleared his throat. "Your Majesty, the rumours multiply faster than we can contain them. They say the girl—Lady Elara Duskbane—has changed. That her body bears marks of gods, that her hair has turned white as snow, her eyes black and white as if split by the heavens themselves."
Another leaned forward. "And more, my lord. They say the Crown Prince danced with her—and only her. The hall froze to watch. No one else dared step forward until you gave the signal."
The queen's eyes flicked toward her son. "Alaric?"
He inclined his head. "It is true. I danced with her. She has… presence. The court noticed it."
"And after?" Aurelia pressed, leaning forward, voice sharp. "What of the garden? I heard she disappeared into the dark. With someone."
A murmur rippled through the chamber. Isolde's calm voice cut through it. "They say she kissed a woman. A tall one. A stranger no one could place."
The king's fist slammed down. "Silence."
The chamber quieted, though the whispers still burned behind every set of eyes.
The queen spoke next, her tone smooth, deliberate. "This is no ordinary matter. The Duskbane girl was nothing—manless, ignored. And now she bears the gods' marks? She dances with my son, kisses a stranger, and walks away with the court whispering her name louder than Evelyne's? This is dangerous."
Evelyne. The chosen bride of the gods. Her name hung heavy in the chamber, though she herself was absent. The king's jaw clenched. "And the stranger she kissed?"
One of the councillors hesitated, then spoke in a low voice. "Some whisper… she resembles the late king's daughter. The lost one." The chamber erupted.
Back at the manor, I was unaware of the storm unraveling within the palace.
I stood before my mother in her solar, the morning sun streaming through the windows, catching the white of my hair and making it gleam. My sisters lingered nearby, quiet, watching as servants passed by, while making my hair.
"I want personal maids," I said plainly.
My mother arched an elegant brow. "Personal maids? Elara, you have never asked for such a thing before."
"I never needed them before," I said evenly. "But now—everything has changed. I cannot afford whispers of neglect. I want them young, clever, and loyal. Post a call in the market square. Let them come and apply."
The silence stretched. My sisters exchanged glances, half-amused, half-curious. Finally, my mother smiled faintly, almost dangerously. "Very well. We will see who comes."
Her voice was smooth, but I could feel her measuring me. Testing me. And I met her gaze without flinching.
Later, in the training yard, Caelum pressed a wooden sword into my hands.
"Grip it tighter," he said flatly. "You hold it like it's a quill, not a blade."
I tightened my fingers, the wood rough against my palms. He circled me, tall and steady, his expression blank as stone.
"Again," he ordered.
I swung. Clumsy. Off balance. The wood cracked against the practice post but slid too far, nearly pulling me off my feet.
Caelum sighed. "You will be eaten alive if you move like that."
Heat rose to my cheeks, but I set my jaw. "Then show me again."
I did. Again and again, until sweat clung to my brow and my arms trembled. When I finally dropped the sword, gasping, my hair stirred faintly, rising around me as though it too resented the strain.
Caelum watched, his eyes softening just slightly. "Better," he admitted. "You'll need strength. For what you're planning."
I froze. "You know?"
He gave me a thin smile. "I'm not blind, Elara. You and Lysandra whisper like conspirators. Whatever land she hides, whatever kingdom you dream of—you'll need more than gods' power. You'll need this." He tapped the hilt of his own sword.
My pulse quickened. "And you'll help me?"
His gaze held mine. "I already am."
That night, Lysandra and I sat together in the library, the fire crackling low, maps spread across the table. "This land," she said, tapping a finger against the parchment. "It was my mother's. Untouched, hidden by wards. Fertile enough to feed thousands, and mountains at its back to protect from invasion."
Her eyes burned. "We could build there. Our own kingdom. A place not bound by their laws, their crowns."
My breath caught. The thought seemed impossible—and yet, with her, it felt certain. "What if the court finds us?, We need to be fast," I whispered.
She leaned closer, her voice low. "Then we make them wish they hadn't." The fire snapped, and in its glow, her face was sharp and beautiful, like a blade tempered in flame.
I believed her.
But even as our plans deepened, unease threaded the air of the manor. Her subordinates prowled the halls like restless wolves, their loyalty fierce but their presence a reminder of danger. Servants whispered, their eyes darting.
And at night, when I lay in my bed, Lysandra's warmth beside me, I dreamed of doors again. Doors that opened to gods whispering, to crowns breaking, to blood spilling across white snow. The future pressed closer, heavier, with every breath.
And somewhere beyond the walls of our manor, the court sharpened their blades—not of steel, but of whispers, alliances, and power.