The capital, as usual, was alive with gossip and intrigue. It was easy for me to weave unnoticed through the crowds.

Very little had changed since the few weeks I’d been gone. Apparently, chaos could wait for me. How polite of it.

The nobility still flaunted their wealth on gilded carriages, the merchants still haggled with exaggerated hand gestures, and the common folk still lived beneath the weight of a society that barely acknowledged them.

I didn’t come for idle observation today. I came for something specific.

And then I saw them.

My parents.

I knew they wouldn’t stray far from Eldric, and here they were on the outskirts of town in one of the commoner districts.

My father had once been a brilliant supplier for Penelope’s family business, back when the Inglerad name still meant something.

It was therefore no surprise that, despite being stripped of his title and assets, he found a way to start another business.

A tavern.

Not quite the legacy my father used to boast about over wine, but hey—booze still paid the bills.

Above the entry was a beautiful carved sign, painted in bright white against a dark mahogany backdrop.

Hood covering my face, I quietly entered and tucked myself into a corner table.

The tavern was humble by nobles’ standards, but on closer inspection, it was well-furnished and thoughtfully decorated.

The place was bustling with activity. Clearly, the patrons loved my grandmother's recipes as much as I did. The smell of sausages, savory soup, and yeasty bread filled the air.

It smelled like…home.

Or what home might’ve been, if anyone had actually remembered to raise me.

A memory, uninvited, wandered through my thoughts.

I was five, waiting at the dinner table for my parents. Later that year, Brynda came to live with us, but at this time, I was still alone.

“Miss,” a maid said to me. “Your parents sent word that they won’t be home for dinner. You may start your meal now. Can I get you anything else?”

Even at five, I recognized the maid’s look: pity seasoned with just a dash of “poor little rich girl.”

But even though they had promised that this time, they’d join me for dinner, I wasn’t upset. By then, I’d stopped expecting anything different.

A small, perfectly decorated cake followed my meal, along with several large gift boxes.

I blew out the candle, my wish being the same: I wish I had a sister.

I whispered my own birthday song, too quietly for anyone to hear.

On the bright side, I got to choose the tempo. And the key. And the emotional breakdown in verse two.

“What can I get you, miss?”

The voice startled me out of my memory. A voice I knew too well.

Keeping my face covered, I glanced at a table near me, where steaming platters of meat, bread, and root vegetables sat.

“I’ll have what they’re having,” I murmured, keeping my voice low as I pointed toward the table. “And a mug of your best ale.”

Mother smiled and nodded.

From under my lashes, I watched her move through the room.

Her hands were red and calloused now, but her smile came easier than I remembered.

Did she miss me? Did she even grieve for me when she heard I had died?

I sipped the ale and let the patrons' chatter wash over me.

Two women whispered the latest horror: a viscount’s son engaged to a commoner’s daughter. Scandalous. Tragic. Absolutely delicious.

Gods, commoners gossiped just as viciously as aristocrats—only with cheaper ale and better punchlines.

If I had a coin for every engagement rumor I heard today, I could buy House Norville, raze it to the ground, and build a statue of myself laughing.

This particular piece of gossip wasn’t true. It may have started as truth but it got twisted.

It reminded me that truth held no weight—only perception did. What mattered was who controlled the narrative. 

I had already begun using Voyox’s reach to influence more than just merchants. 

My agents had started seeding rumors through their business dealings—planting careful suggestions that certain noble investments were riskier than they appeared, that certain families were faltering in ways they didn’t want known. 

I didn’t need to strike Brynda down. Just nudge a few dominoes and let the court do what it does best—whisper, question, unravel.

Doubt was the most effective poison.

One whisper, aimed well enough, could topple a throne.

It was time to take my first step.

Not a grand move. Not yet.

Something small and insignificant.

Something that would plant the first real seed of doubt in the minds of those who watched Brynda and Lorran from afar.

With that thought, I rushed home, knowing what I must do.

I picked up a fresh piece of parchment, dipping my quill into the ink.

One rumor.

Planted in the right soil, it would sprout daggers.

And by the time Brynda heard it, it wouldn’t matter if it was true. It would already be too late.

I dipped the quill, poised over the parchment.

And smiled.