Chapter 4 — "The Snake in Silk"
The palace dressed itself in silk and candlelight that night; laughter spilled from the banquet hall like spilled wine, bright and false. Selene moved through the crowd like a wren among hawks — small, watchful, and far more dangerous than anyone afforded her. The crescent on her chest throbbed under her gown, a steady, private drumbeat that reminded her of the bargain she had made in the garden: a memory traded for a truth.
She tasted that bargain in the back of her throat — the missing fragments of her childhood, the cold bite where a name should have fit. Lucien's warning still echoed: Lose enough… and there will be nothing left of Selene Viora. The thought should have terrified her. Instead, it sharpened her.
On the raised dais, tapestries depicted Draven triumphs in threads of gold. Their needlework glittered like accusation. Selene's jaw tightened. Eira had dealt in pen and promise; the Draven crest had been carried in the vision like a dagger. The palace smelled faintly of lemon oil and jasmine — the latter tugging at a place behind her eyes she could not reach.
Then she saw her.
She emerged from the crowd as if she had been braided from moonlight and poison. The silk of her gown slid over her like water; its pattern suggested scales. She moved with an animal grace — slow, deliberate, and perfectly unreadable. Around her throat lay a necklace of tiny onyx beads that caught the candlelight and swallowed it. When her eyes met Selene's, they were cool and sharp, as if she had been carved from winter.
They called her many things behind closed doors: the Serpent of the Court, the Lady of Quiet Daggers. Selene would come to learn how rumors could wrap around a person until the rumor itself held more shape than truth — but tonight, rumor and person merged.
"Lady Selene," the woman said, voice silk over steel. "You are… luminous." Her smile folded inwards like a knife being sheathed. "Not the sort of bride the Moon often chooses."
Selene felt the words like a test. She answered with a slow, level bow she did not feel. "If my choosing displeases you, you may take it up with the Moon."
The Serpent's laugh was soft; it did not reach her eyes. "Oh, my lady, I do not quarrel with heaven. I deal with outcomes." She stepped closer, and Selene's fingertips brushed the seam of her gown. For a breath, Selene thought she smelled something achingly familiar — jasmine, yes, and then wet stone and ink. The scent hit a place that slid away before she could place it.
"You know me," Selene said.
"As one knows a map's legend," the Serpent replied. "You have been marked, and the marked attract… attention." She inclined her head. "You see truth at a cost. A brave trade. Or a foolish one."
Selene's mouth went dry. Lucien's garden had been private; he had pressed his fingers to her forehead and left her with visions she could not unsee. How had this woman learned of that touch? The corner of the Serpent's mouth lifted. "The Moon's gifts do not remain secrets long in a court that feeds on secrets."
Selene let the anger rise — immediate, luminous, weaponized. "Then you also know my sister's name." The word tasted like glass.
The Serpent's face did not change. "Eira?" she asked with a tilt as if offering an unwrapped thing. "Ah. Yes. That name has legs in these halls."
A cold, hard laugh slipped out of Selene. "She sold us. She signed our ruin with ink and an emblem."
The Serpent's hands folded at her waist. "Betrayal is rarely as simple as ink and greed, my lady. It is habit, fear, bargaining." She reached into the folds of her sleeve and produced a small thing wrapped in cloth — a token, rescued from pockets where courtiers hide their sins. Selene expected a dagger. Instead, the Serpent laid a slip of parchment between them and unfolded it with the reverence one affords poison.
Selene saw the crest first — Draven, stamped in dark wax. Then the handwriting: slanted, quick, the same looping flourish that had visited her garden-vision. Something tightened beneath Selene's ribs. She recognized the stroke — or perhaps she wanted to. Her fingers trembled as she took the parchment.
On it were words that could have been a bargain or a threat: Keep watch at the west fountain. Midnight. Alone. — E.
Selene's throat closed. The letter hooked at the place in her memory that had been carved out. Eira's signature, sudden and certain, felt like a stolen key. A memory wanted to surface — a sound, a laugh threaded through jasmine — but the image vanished like breath on glass.
"You gave this to me," Selene said, looking up. "You deliver Eira's errands."
The Serpent shrugged, as graceful as a curtain: "I deliver what must move. Sometimes I open doors, sometimes I close them." She stepped back. "I am not your sister, Selene." Her smile became a blade. "Nor your funeral. But I can be useful."
Selene's fingers tightened around the parchment until the paper creased. She thought of Lucien's visions — Kael's reflection whispering before a dark mirror — and of the price she had paid: memories leaking away like sand. If Eira had been the one to hand Draven's letter to a cloaked man — as the fountain-vision had shown — then Eira was closer than Selene had hoped.
"Why give this to me?" Selene asked. "Why not to the prince? To your masters?"
"To test you," the Serpent said. "To hear what you do when you know. You will come to the fountain, will you not? Pride and vengeance are excellent bait." She stepped aside; in the moonlight, her silver-hemmed sleeve hinted at a small tattoo curling like a serpent. "Or perhaps you will burn the letter and sleep. Either way, the water answers for some."
Selene felt the Moon's mark beat against her ribs like a second heart. The choice was a blade laid at her feet: step into the trap and gain truth — and lose more of herself — or walk away and leave the rot to spread.
She thought of her father's arrest, of the line of fires that had consumed her world, of Lucien's quiet touch and his warning not to unweave herself entirely for knowledge. She thought, too, of the sight in her head — Kael at a dark mirror — and of the way a prince's reflection could whisper orders that bent men and crowns.
Selene folded the letter and slipped it into the hidden pocket beneath her gown. "I will come," she said. Her voice surprised her with how steady it was. "But know this: if you are Eira's shadow, if you lead me into ruin for sport—"
The Serpent's smile widened. "Then you will learn how a snake bites its own tail."
She melted into the throng before Selene could catch another clue, and the scent of jasmine lingered like a promise or a warning.
Selene watched her go until the silk disappeared. The crescent at her breast felt suddenly hot, as if the Goddess herself leaned in to listen.
She tightened her fingers around the paper and whispered to the night, to Lucien's warning, to the memory that had been traded away: "Then let the Moon watch. I will come to the fountain at midnight. I will see who speaks there. And if Eira stands before me — sister or traitor — I will make her fall."
The palace hummed on, indifferent and hungry. Selene turned away, every step measured. Fate had offered her bait; she had taken it. The night, like a serpent, coiled.