“Do you think it would please her, that your estimation of her abilities is so little that you expect her to fail?" Marlena asked. "If we don’t believe in our daughter, who will?”

“Dearest, you have such a sharp tongue,” Gerard sighed and extended a hand to her. “Come. I can feel your anxiety from here.”

Marlena went to him without hesitation, putting on no affectation that he was wrong. She leaned into his embrace as his arm wrapped around her waist and her eyes fluttered shut. His wife softened as he pulled her into his lap, nestling her cheek against his shoulder. 

“I have to believe she can do it,” she said, burying her face in the crook of his neck as he plucked the letter out of her hand. “I must.”

“I know, darling,” Gerard said, dropping the envelope onto the desk in favor of stroking Marlena’s hair. “I know.”

“If we lose her, the duchy dies with us,” Marlena said. “Further, I refuse to hamstring her confidence by denying her the opportunity to try,” Marlena continued. “She is unbearably clever. She has all the makings of a great tactician.”

“That’s your doing.” Gerard cracked a half smile. “You’ve tutored her so diligently.”

“She is fully capable of inheriting our title,” Marlena said, firmly. “And she deserves it. She’ll have a successful career at Court. Don’t you dare rob her of that opportunity by subjecting her to a life of futility, constantly on the run. She can do it.”

Gerard didn’t voice his doubts, instead kissing his wife’s hair. “I know, my dear,” he said. “I won’t force her into it. But if she voices any desire to get out of this, I must support her.” 

“You’re going to ruin any chance she has of a future,” Marlena muttered darkly.

“My love…” Gerard sighed heavily, leaning back in his chair. “Sometimes I forget how terribly frightening your pragmatism is.”

Elana hovered silently outside the closed doors of the duke’s study, the lantern in her hand snuffed out. She could make out only pieces of her parents’ conversation. The duchess had been behaving oddly since the afternoon. Whenever this happened, the only way to glean any insight into either of her parent’s mental state was to listen in on them. 

It was Elana’s means of staying informed. Her parents never told her anything. No one did. Ever since the Academy had claimed the first of her siblings, her parents and the staff alike had retreated into themselves, hiding behind a shroud of secrecy. If she had to stoop to eavesdropping, then so be it. 

She closed her eyes, trying to focus on the muffled conversation coming through the door. It sounded like… some kind of argument? And, even muffled, she could clearly recognize the sound of her own name. 

Elana frowned. Had she done something? No, that didn’t make any sense. The duchess had been perfectly fine even through the midday lessons, it was only afterwards that her mood notably soured. It had made dinner an even more bleak and uncomfortable affair than usual.

Not that it was notably out of the ordinary. 

Or at least, not to outsiders. 

Even on the best of days, the manor was a silent, solemn place. And so were its inhabitants. But it hadn’t always been like this. In Elana’s earliest memories, the manor had been a much livelier place. A home brimming with warmth and good cheer. A place that had never once known despair. But those days were long gone. Even the memories of those better days had grown faint, mere shadows of the moments they’d encapsulated. 

Gone were the echoes of children’s laughter and footsteps running down the corridors, of warm banter over the dining table. Gone were the days of having her hair braided by her older sisters, or being roped into the pranks and antics of her brothers. 

Death was the unspoken eighth member and constant companion of the Vanquise family. It had been since the first time she’d been dressed in funeral black. 

Elana had begun wearing mourning black when she was six years old, and had not changed out of them since. Of the six siblings she’d grown up with, not a single one remained. Each, with the exception of the eldest, had lost their lives within two years of entering the Academy. 

Notably, Elana had yet to receive her summons—but it was only a matter of time until the same institution that had claimed them came for her too. 

The only one of her siblings who had managed to survive and thrive at the Academy was Antoine, her oldest brother and a bonafide prodigy—but he had been exiled from the family so long ago that he was no better than a stranger now. She didn’t even remember what he looked like anymore. 

He had been removed from all of the family portraits. The other indication that he had ever been there at all was a single portrait that lay, eternally face-down, in the Duchess’ dressing room. With him, and now the rest of her siblings, gone, all that lingered in the hallways was cold, oppressive silence. 

Which was convenient for eavesdropping. 

Elana closed her eyes, leaning her ear against the door. She couldn't make out what her parents were saying, but she was certain that they were talking about her—or at least her future. 

She held her breath, trying to make out their muffled words from behind the door. Were they talking about her education? She had been asking for modified lesson plans recently. Up until now, meeting the rigorous standards that the Academy set for all of its students had been the sole focus of her education. 

Ever since her mana affinity had been measured and found lacking as a child—and every year since—her lessons had revolved around history, court etiquette, geopolitics, military tactics, supply chain economics, potions. Everything but combat instruction, which everyone knew was critical for surviving the Academy. 

Even if no one said it to her outright, she knew the reason. 

She could all but she could feel it in her parents' chilling distance and the sympathetic whispers of the seniormost staff. She was on borrowed time. The least she could do to prepare herself was advocate for enough combat instruction to develop middling self-defense skills, in hopes of increasing her chances even the slightest bit. But her mother was loathe to permit it. Elana knew twenty different ways to poison a man, but only one to hold a knife—and even that was just dining etiquette. 

The glow of an approaching lantern illuminating the hallway jolted her from her efforts.

Elana hastily backed away from the duke’s study, instinctively tucking herself against behind one of the alcoves lining the hallway, hiding behind the decorative statue it was designed to show off. She held her breath.

Had she hidden in time? Surely, she wasn’t about to be caught red handed, eavesdropping on them? The glow of the lantern dimmed. She couldn’t hear any approaching footsteps. Cautiously, she peered out from the lip of the alcove—

A low, whisper-soft voice jolted her from her thoughts. “My lady.” 

Elana jumped. 

A gloved hand clapped itself firmly over her mouth, before any sound could escape. “Pardon my intrusion,” the familiar voice murmured. 

Damn it. She should have known who it was. 

Even before she could make out his face in the shadows, she recognized the low, familiar bass of his voice.  The one other permanent fixture of the Vanquise estate, every bit as frequent a presence as the shadow of death—Soren. 

Of course it was him. The boy, a little under two years her senior, that her parents had taken in before Elana was even capable of forming memories. Antoine’s former page, and the squire that her father favored most. 

The one the duke had poured all of his resources into to guarantee him the finest combat education—the same education that he staunchly refused to provide for her. When he came of age in the winter, Soren would officially join the duchy’s Knightage—no doubt in a highly favored position, like Vice Commander. 

It was a small wonder that her father hadn’t made an exception and allowed him to join the Knightage early, for all the resources he'd poured into him. Soren’s combat skills were second only to the Captain’s, even though he’d been taken in from the streets. Even at a young age, he’d had an uncanny affinity for the sword, coupled with the latent potential to wield mid-tier magic. The latter was a level of ability rarely seen among commoners. 

Elana batted his hand away. Soren was the last person she wanted to see in this situation. Especially when they were in earshot of her father’s study and any commotion would invite the duke and duchess to come out and compare them for the thousandth time. 

Most of the Kingdom’s citizens were born with at least some mana and affinity for magic, but stronger talents were largely reserved for the nobility. It was one of the many byproducts of the Academy system; talented mages were sought after and either adopted or married into existing powerful bloodlines. 

Soren was a rare talent. They parents might have called him a servant, but Elana was certain that he'd had more conversations with her parents than she ever would. 

He was her opposite in every way. 

Common-born. Talented. Well-liked by his peers.