The manor was alive with motion long before dawn. Servants hurried through the halls, arms full of folded silks, food sacks, weapons, and travel supplies. The air smelled of cedar chests opened for the first time in years, of leather saddles being oiled, and of beeswax candles burning low in the dim corridors.
The Duskbane household had always been quiet, almost oppressively so, but now the silence was broken by hurried steps and whispered orders.
In the center of it all stood Elara.
Her pale hair, longer than her height and alive with its own restless movements, shimmered faintly under the torches as she oversaw the loading of trunks.
She wore a fitted dark gown, practical enough for movement but still stitched with her own hand in the sharp, tailored style that defied the kingdom's fashion. A belt at her waist carried a dagger and a pouch heavy with coins; the silent pistol she had smuggled from her world was hidden under her skirts, snug against her thigh.
At the heart of the commotion, three young women stood like anchors: Liora, Brenna, and Aveline—Elara's chosen maids.
"Not that one," Liora snapped at a servant attempting to carry a chest of silk slippers. Her dark hair was tied neatly at the nape of her neck, her tone brisk and sharp. "Do you think she'll need slippers on the road? She needs boots, cloaks, blades, not trinkets."
The servant paled and obeyed.
Brenna, broader of shoulder and sharper of tongue, crossed her arms. "Boots won't do much if she intends to drag half the manor with her. There's enough fabric packed to clothe a court."
From where she stood near the window, Elara lifted her head. "I decide what goes."
Brenna met her eyes without flinching, though she inclined her head slightly. "Then decide fast. The road won't wait for lace."
Aveline, quieter, but with a piercing intelligence in her pale eyes, busied herself with organizing weaponry: swords, bows, even the concealed pistols Elara had brought from her old world. "We must balance," she murmured, laying a gun across folded cloaks. "Beauty and blood. Both are part of you, my lady."
Elara studied them for a moment—three women bound to her not by chains, but by choice and contract. She had demanded their loyalty, and they had given it. But they were not afraid to speak their minds, and that made them useful.
"I will bring what I need," Elara said at last. Her voice was steady, cool. "Not one scrap more, not one scrap less. Liora, count the food supplies. Brenna, oversee the weapons. Aveline, make sure my gowns are folded. I don't care if you don't like lace; if I say it comes, it comes."
For a heartbeat, silence. Then Liora bowed her head slightly. "As you say."
Brenna clicked her tongue but turned toward the weapons. Aveline gave a faint smile, her hands moving with graceful precision.
It was then that Lord Duskbane entered the chamber, his presence filling the doorway. His dark eyes swept the room, lingering on his daughter.
"Elara." His voice was low, weighted. "Once you leave this house, there will be no return to safety. Every step you take will be on a knife's edge. Do you understand?"
Elara held his gaze, her long white hair stirring faintly as though restless with hunger. "I was never safe here, Father. The court has already marked me. Better to step into the storm than wait for it to reach the door."
For a long moment, father and daughter simply stared at each other. At last, he gave a single nod. "Then may the gods you've bound guide you."
The training yard behind the manor smelled of damp earth and iron. The stones of the wall were dark with moss, the air heavy with the scent of the coming rain. Elara stood in the center, her hair spilling around her like a pale cloak.
Her sisters—Selene, Diana, and Maris—stood nearby, whispering to each other as they watched. Between them, tethered with a rope, a wolf snapped and snarled, its yellow eyes wild.
"We caught it in the woods," Selene said, her voice tight. "Are you certain you wish to… feed it to your hair?"
Elara's fingers flexed at her sides. She could feel the hunger stirring already, a pull deep in her chest that made her mouth dry. "Yes. Bring it closer."
The wolf lunged, teeth bared. In the same instant, Elara's hair surged forward. Strands as sharp as blades coiled around the beast, binding its limbs. It howled, twisting, but the hair tightened, wrapping it like a cocoon.
Then the feeding began.
The wolf's thrashing slowed as its flesh shriveled. Blood vanished into the hair's pale strands, which shimmered faintly, pulsing with new strength. The creature's body collapsed inward, until all that remained was a skeleton—bleached white, bones clean and gleaming on the dirt.
The sisters gasped.
Elara swayed slightly, then straightened. Strength surged through her, burning in her veins. She could feel her muscles tighten, her senses sharpen. Even the gods' whispers were louder, clearer, as if fed by the blood.
Her sisters stared at the bones. Selene whispered, "Gods preserve us."
Brenna crossed her arms from where she leaned against the wall. "That's not power—it's hunger. How long before it asks for more than wolves?"
Elara turned her gaze on her maid, calm and cold. "Then I will feed it. And I will master it. Do not mistake my control for weakness."
Liora tilted her head. "And if the hunger masters you?"
Elara's hair curled at her feet, twitching as though answering the question. "Then you will do as I command. Not before. Not after."
The maids exchanged looks but said nothing more.
Evening settled over the manor like a heavy cloak. The dining hall was lit with candles, the long table set with silver and crystal. Yet the air was thick, the silence between courses more telling than any words.
Lord and Lady Duskbane sat at the head, their faces solemn. The siblings clustered close to Elara, their eyes betraying the emotions their mouths did not speak.
Maris leaned against her, whispering, "Promise you'll come back."
Elara placed her hand over her sister's, her voice low. "If fate allows."
Caelum's jaw worked before he continued. "The lost prince was not only hidden away. Fragments suggest he was not a son at all, but a daughter raised under a veil. If that's true, then the secret Lysandra carries will not remain secret for long. Sooner or later, someone will piece it together."
They all turned to Lysanda, seated further down, who gave no sign she had heard, but her eyes flickered briefly toward them.
The meal ended with no toasts, no laughter—only the weight of what was to come. As Elara rose, her family rose with her, standing in silence.
They knew, as she did, that this was the last supper of its kind. Tomorrow, the storm would begin.