Rumors spread faster than fire in noble society.
By the third day after Amelia Valencrest's debut, whispers had already crept from salons to tearooms, from maid corridors to council chambers. No one spoke openly, yet everyone spoke all the same.
The Count's daughter had drawn the eyes of a duke, a prince, and the pope.
Amelia felt it the moment she stepped into the breakfast hall.
Her parents sat as usual at the long table, but the servants were quieter than normal, their gazes darting toward her before quickly lowering. Even the air itself seemed tense, as though the walls had begun listening.
Countess Marianne set down her teacup. "Amelia," she said gently, "you will accompany me to the capital tomorrow."
Amelia paused. "The capital?"
"Yes," her father answered. "The Queen has extended an invitation. Officially, it is for a seasonal gathering. Unofficially…" His expression darkened. "They want to see you."
Amelia understood immediately.
The palace did not summon people without reason.
"I will go," she said calmly.
Her parents exchanged a glance—pride laced with worry.
That afternoon, Amelia walked through the inner gardens to clear her thoughts. The roses were in full bloom, their fragrance heavy in the warm air. Normally, this was where she felt safest.
Today, even here, she felt watched.
"You hide it well."
Amelia froze.
Duke Lucien Blackthorn stood beneath the archway, clad in dark attire rather than armor. Without the weight of war upon him, he looked younger—yet no less dangerous.
"Your Grace," Amelia said, bowing.
He studied her carefully. "You are being pulled into deep waters."
She straightened. "I did not ask for attention."
"No one ever does." His gaze sharpened. "But you carry something others want."
Amelia hesitated before speaking. "Why are you telling me this?"
Lucien's jaw tightened. "Because I recognize danger."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "The Church will not let you remain neutral."
Her heart thudded. "And the crown?"
A brief, humorless smile touched his lips. "Neither will the crown."
Before she could respond, hurried footsteps approached.
"Lady Amelia!"
Prince Adrian emerged from the garden path, his expression bright—until he noticed Lucien.
"Oh," he said lightly. "I see I'm late."
Lucien straightened. "We were finished."
Adrian's smile widened, but his eyes sharpened. "Funny. I was hoping for a private word as well."
Amelia felt trapped between them.
"I will excuse myself," she said quickly.
As she left, she felt their gazes follow her—one guarded, one warm, both unyielding.
That evening, Lady Celestine Ravenshade hosted a gathering.
It was invitation-only.
And Amelia's name was deliberately excluded.
Celestine reclined elegantly among her guests, wine glass poised delicately in her hand. Her silver hair shimmered beneath chandelier light, her smile flawless.
"Have you heard?" a marquis whispered. "The pope himself visited Valencrest."
Celestine laughed softly. "How excessive. Surely His Holiness has better matters than indulging a count's daughter."
"Still," another lady murmured, "the duke—"
Celestine's eyes darkened for just a heartbeat.
"Infatuation fades," she said smoothly. "But reputation endures."
She turned to her maid. "Release the rumors."
The maid bowed.
By morning, the capital would hum with poison.
Night fell.
Amelia lay awake, staring at the ceiling of her chamber. Her magic stirred restlessly beneath her ribs, reacting to unseen currents.
A knock came—soft, hesitant.
"Elara?" Amelia asked.
"No."
The door opened.
White robes brushed the threshold.
Amelia sat upright. "Your Holiness?"
Pope Seraphiel stood alone in the dim candlelight.
"I hope you will forgive the intrusion," he said quietly. "Time is… unkind."
Her pulse raced. "If my parents knew—"
"They sleep," he said gently. "I ensured it."
She stiffened. "Why are you here?"
He stepped closer, golden eyes reflecting the candle flame. "Because tomorrow, you enter the capital."
"Yes."
"And tomorrow," he continued, "the Church will begin testing you."
Amelia's breath caught. "Testing me how?"
"Through scrutiny. Through provocation. Through temptation." His voice softened. "And through fear."
She clenched her hands. "I do not belong to the Church."
"Not yet," he said.
Silence stretched between them.
"You have a choice," Seraphiel said at last. "Submit your gift to the Church's protection… or walk a path far more dangerous."
"And if I refuse both?"
His gaze flickered—just slightly. "Then the world will choose for you."
Amelia met his eyes, steady despite her fear. "I will not be owned."
For the first time, something like admiration crossed his face.
"Good," he said softly. "Neither will you be broken."
He turned to leave, pausing at the door.
"Be careful, Amelia Valencrest," he added quietly. "Not all devotion is holy."
Then he was gone.
The next morning, as the Valencrest carriage rolled toward the capital, Amelia looked out at the rising sun.
Behind her lay childhood and safety.
Ahead of her waited a palace of smiles, a cathedral of secrets, and three men whose fates were now entangled with hers.
Unseen by all—
Her magic pulsed, answering a destiny long awake.