The morning after the ball began with whispers. Not the soft, floating kind that courtiers traded like feathers, but the heavier, sharper ones that clung to corridors and echoed through gilded halls like tolling bells. Every servant carried them. Every noble sharpened them. And every single one circled back to the same name—Calista Thornheart.
"Did you see her gown? Scarlet, as though she meant to draw blood.""She dared to dance opposite the prince's waltz. A challenge, I swear it.""Or perhaps a desperate plea for attention.""A plea? Oh no, my dear. That woman does not plead. She demands."
The Golden Court thrived on scandal the way vines thrived on ruins—creeping, twisting, gripping until nothing else could breathe. Calista walked through it all as if the gossip were perfume crafted for her alone. Her chin lifted, skirts sweeping the marble floors like bold brushstrokes across a canvas. Every glance was another feather added to her wings. Every murmur, another spark to her fire.
It was not vanity. It was strategy. The more they watched her, the less they noticed others.
And yet, beneath her polished smile, something gnawed at her thoughts. That cloaked figure in the garden—the one who had slipped away from the glow of chandeliers and moved with purpose, so unlike the nobles who only played at intrigue. That shadow lingered in her mind like a thorn beneath silk.
Her maid, timid little Briony, appeared at her side carrying a tray of silver. "Your tea, my lady."
Steam curled upward as the porcelain cup was set before her, scented faintly with rose petals and orange peel. Calista gave a gracious smile, waving Briony away. Her hands lifted the cup with practiced elegance, but her thoughts had already drifted back into the night.
Rowan entered without knocking, as he always did. Bodyguards, she often reminded herself, had no respect for manners. He leaned against the doorframe, lazy grin firmly in place, his hair untidy and his shirt half-tucked in that infuriatingly careless fashion that made half the palace maids blush and the other half mutter curses.
"You didn't sleep," he said flatly.
"Do stop trying to read me, Rowan. You'll strain that poor brain of yours."
His grin widened. "The bags under your eyes read themselves."
She took a delicate sip of her tea, refusing to rise to the bait. "The figure in the garden," she said at last, her tone soft but certain.
Rowan's brow arched. "I thought you'd bring that up." He sauntered across the chamber and dropped a folded scrap of parchment onto her desk. "Found this. Near the hedge."
Calista set her teacup aside and unfolded the scrap. Her brows lifted. The sketch was a map—narrow corridors, servants' passages, hidden arteries of the Golden Court known only to the oldest staff or the most persistent spies. A red X had been drawn near the western wing, just below the gallery of portraits.
"Curious," she murmured.
"Suspicious," Rowan corrected. "Want me to burn it?"
Her lips curved faintly, silver eyes glinting. "On the contrary. I want to follow it."
Rowan groaned, dragging a hand through his hair. "Of course you do."
That evening, when the court gathered beneath crystal chandeliers to feast and toast their own reflections in goblets of honeyed wine, Calista slipped away. Her gown tonight was deep navy, embroidered with constellations in silver thread, a queenly midnight come to walk among mortals. Rowan shadowed her as always, muttering under his breath about villainesses who treated danger as entertainment.
The western wing was colder, quieter. Torches burned here with weak, reluctant flames. Portraits lined the walls, their painted eyes gleaming as though they had secrets to tell. The Thornheart ancestors stared with grim resolve. The royal line, in contrast, smiled serenely, as though they had never known betrayal.
At the end of the corridor lay the marked spot. To the untrained eye, the wall seemed ordinary. Rowan's fingers, however, traced a subtle indentation shaped like a half-moon. With a practiced push, the panel shifted and swung inward, revealing a spiral staircase curling down into shadow.
"Well," Rowan muttered, eyeing the dark descent, "this doesn't scream 'bad idea' at all."
Calista placed her gloved hand on the rail and began her descent without hesitation. The air grew damp as they went down, heavy with the scent of earth and dust. Cobwebs clung to her gloves, though she ignored them. The stairs ended in a chamber lit by a single lantern. Its flame flickered against stone, throwing long shadows across crates and papers.
And there, hunched over one such crate, was the cloaked figure.
He froze when the door creaked open.
Calista stepped into the room, her voice cool and amused. "It is terribly rude, you know, to sneak into a palace without introducing yourself."
The man spun, dagger flashing in the lantern's glow. Rowan moved instantly, steel singing as he drew his sword and placed himself between them.
The intruder's hood fell back. His face was young, but hardened—sharply cut jaw, dark hair, eyes like flint. Not a noble's softness. Not a servant's meekness. A soldier's face. A survivor's.
"Who are you?" Rowan demanded.
The man's gaze flicked to Calista, and for a heartbeat, something like recognition sparked there. He lowered the dagger slightly but kept his voice taut. "Some call me Ash. And if you've any sense, you'll forget you ever saw me."
Calista's lips curved in interest. "Ash. How poetic. And what exactly are you doing with maps of my palace?"
"Your palace?" he sneered. "It belongs to none of you. The Golden Court is a gilded prison, rotting at its core. I dig at its foundations."
Rowan bristled, ready to cut him down, but Calista raised her hand and silenced him. Her silver eyes gleamed. "A revolutionary, then. How quaint."
Ash's jaw tightened. "Mock me if you will, Lady Thornheart. But soon, this court will crumble. When it does, villains and heroes alike will be buried in the same dust."
Calista studied him carefully, the lantern flame painting her features in shifting light. His conviction rang true. And conviction, she knew, could be dangerous… or useful.
"What foundation are you digging at tonight?" she asked softly.
Ash hesitated. Trust warred with necessity in his eyes. At last he spoke. "There is a ledger. Hidden records. Proof of treachery in the highest seats. If I can find it—"
Rowan cut him off with a scoff. "And then what? Topple the throne, free the people, sing in the streets?"
But Calista silenced him again, her mind already racing. A ledger. Proof of treachery. If real, it could ignite the court from within. If false, Ash was either a fool or a pawn. Either way, he could be useful.
"You intrigue me, Ash," she murmured, stepping closer. Her smile was sweet, her voice edged with steel. "But understand this. If you endanger me, I will end you first. Do we have an accord?"
Ash's eyes burned, but at last, he nodded sharply. "Accord."
Rowan groaned. "You've officially lost your mind."
"On the contrary," Calista replied, her smile faint but sharp as glass. "I've just found a new game."
The night that followed was heavy with silence, but her thoughts were aflame. As dawn spilled over the palace, Calista Thornheart sat awake, her silver eyes reflecting firelight.
For years she had played the villainess the court demanded. But now, with shadows whispering of treachery and a soldier called Ash slipping into her orbit, something in her shifted.
Perhaps she would not remain a villainess in their story.Perhaps she would become something greater.Not a pawn. Not even a queen.
But the author of her own tale.