Flashback:

The dungeon smelled of damp stone and iron. Time stretched long and slow between the flickering torchlight and the shuffle of guards. No one came to see her let alone weep for her. No one shouted for mercy outside. No one begged for her release.

Except for them. Her father and brother arrived the night before her execution. Elira sat chained to the wall, bruised and hollow, but her spine straightened when she saw them. She expected protests. She expected tears. She expected—gods help her—love but they stood before her like merchants inspecting damaged goods. Lucien leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a half-sneer curling his lips.

“She looks thinner,” he remarked. “You’d think they’d feed a traitor better. For the spectacle.” Elira stared, disbelief still clinging like frost.

“Why?” she croaked. “Why are you doing this to me?”

Tharian Wyncrest stepped forward. No emotion. No cruelty either. Just that practiced mask of noble composure.

“Because the alternative,” he said softly, “was letting the entire house burn.” Elira blinked, chained hands curling.

“There was no conspiracy,” she whispered.

“There was,” Lucien corrected, almost gently. “You just weren’t part of it.”

Her father gave her a long, measured look, and for a moment… there was something almost like pity in his eyes.

“We began laying the groundwork fifteen years ago. Small steps—smuggling tariffs, regional alliances, silencing dissent within the council. The Crown is rotting from the inside. We’re simply readying for the collapse.”

“We?” Elira asked, her voice trembling. “You mean House Wyncrest?”

Lucien shrugged. “Among others. House Lenaire. The Tressians. Even a few mercantile guilds. It’s all quite elegant, really. No blood—yet. Small steps—smuggling weapons, hording funding, building alliances, silencing dissent within the council. You wouldn’t believe the amount of money a rebellion takes. That’s okay though, with a little creative accounting the funding has never really hit us personally.”

“Then why frame me?”

“Because someone had to bleed,” Tharian said. “And unfortunately… you were the most useful.”

She stared in stunned silence. Her breath came shallow.

“Caius Valeir began digging too soon,” Lucien added, tone brightening like it was a funny anecdote. “If he hadn’t been so busy sniffing around you—always so interested in your honor, your charity balls, your doomed little virtue—he might’ve seen the real threads being pulled. He was so close to unraveling half of it that we needed to divert his attention.”

Lucien chuckled. “Funny, really. If he’d just looked at Father’s ledgers instead of your smile, you’d probably still be playing harp in the garden.”

Elira’s stomach twisted. “You let him think I was guilty.”

“He had to believe it,” Tharian said, voice low. “We needed him convinced. He’s too powerful to silence and too nosy to risk. It was harder than we thought. He seemed to have a particular weakness when it came to you. Specifically, he wanted to find any reason not to blame you. He started asking for private meetings hoping that we would help him uncover your innocence. We used that to plant more doubt. Gave him access to your bedroom while you were away, only to have him accidentally find the forged letter Lucien placed there after you left. Hidden enough to be convincing but not so hard that he’d have a chance to miss it.”

“You ruined me,” she hissed. “You sacrificed me like nothing.”

Lucien crouched beside her, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“No, dear sister,” he said, voice like poisoned silk. “We used you. It’s not the same.”

Then he stood. Tharian gave her one final look.

“You’ve always been brave,” he said, voice flat as a pledge. “Die like it.” The words crystallized in the stale air, devoid of warmth or pride—just a final transactional utterance.

Tharian straightened, speaking as though addressing a student at the end of a long lesson. “Bravery is the only coin we Wyncrests can spend without depleting the treasury,” he stated, his tone detached, clinical. “You’ve served the House well.”

Elira forced her bruised spine upright, meeting his gaze. Not in hope, but in defiance. If she was going to die on their stage, she would refuse to break even under their cold scrutiny.

Their father’s eyes—a mirror of policy and calculation—checked her stance like a commander reviewing a position. “This will be remembered,” he declared, more to himself than to her. “Our House demands stability. You were merely the lightning rod. You should hope for our success in the end, with what little time you have left, as it will ensure your name is never forgotten.”

A slow, controlled breath escaped her. “You intend to use me until the end.”

He inclined his head minutely, no hint of remorse. “Standing tall under fire ensures the crowd believes in the cause. It wouldn’t be right to not play a card at hand.”

Lucien’s impatient exhale—half contempt, half boredom—echoed through the cell. Father stepped closer, cloak whispering over cold stone. His fingers hovered above her cuff, not in tenderness, but as though ready to flip a switch. “Let them tell stories of your resolve. Let your execution be the moment your sacrifice solidifies what we started so long ago.”

His hand dropped away. No gesture of affection—only the echo of authority. “We’ll go now,” he said. “Make sure to perform your part.”

The two of them turned, cloak and boots muffling on the damp floor, leaving Elira alone in the shifting torchlight. Alone in the dark, shackled by love turned to ash, Elira cried herself into a sleep she hoped she wouldn’t wake from. Her heart warring with the fact that her family had never truly cared for her.

Present Day – Elira’s Chambers

Elira opened her eyes. The memory clung to her skin like frostbite. Elira sucked in a breath, every inhale a defiance. She willed the images to recoil into its memory, to loosen its claws. Her teeth ground together. This cell, this scene, this moment—it would not claim her. Not again.

She stood at her desk, breath uneven, and looked down at the paper map she’d begun. Her family, her betrayers, arranged like chess pieces across the page. She wrote a new name, her own name. Next to it she inscribed:

Once the pawn.
Now the player.

She sighed and tried to reorganize her thoughts. She was strong enough to change fate. She would never be there again. She rolled the map and tucked it into the false bottom of her desk drawer. She replaced the ink and pen back inside as well, double checking to ensure everything was back out of sight. They thought their secrets had died with her. They were wrong. She would now use everything they had given her to create a new plan. One that leads to their downfall and not hers.

Elira walked to the polished bell cord hanging by her bed, tugging it once. Within moments, a maid appeared in the doorway, her expression expectant.

“Yes, my lady?” the maid asked.

“Summon Elston,” Elria smiled softly. “Tell him I’m headed into town to organize a volunteer schedule at the orphanage. Prepare some food and fresh water for me to bring as an offering as well.”

“Very well, my lady.” The maid slipped back out of the room, leaving Elira to plan a route from the orphanage to the bookstore that was really her outing’s goal.

Thirty minutes later the carriage rolled to a stop before the orphanage’s iron gate. Elira stepped down, cloak drawn tight, and walked through the courtyard where small, tired faces looked up as she passed. She exchanged a few polite words with the matron’s assistant before settling at a plain wooden desk to wait for the matron herself. She had let the assistant know about the food and water that she had brought and now she watched through the grimy window as the assistant and a young boy, probably in his early teens, worked with the carriage driver to unload the haul and bring it inside.

She hadn’t started here at this time in her last life and couldn’t place the boy helping. She wasn’t too surprised by this though. Before she started volunteering at the orphanage, and providing extra supplies, they had started moving the kids out by the age of fifteen. Over time she learned that the matron had made the hard decision in an attempt to stretch what little they had further. This was especially hard to do after the well for the orphanage ran dry and funds were declined to dig a new one. The older kids understood why she made the choice, but heavy hearts were left on both sides of the parting.

It was a hard day for her when she had walked in on the matron crying over the news that one of the children, just 17 at the time, had been killed while sleeping on the street. Apparently, they had lost the job that was set up for them and could no longer afford to pay the rent. It was that incident that made the matron check on the others who had left, only to find that many of the businesses that agreed to hire the children had fired them within a week. They all provided excuses for the firing but couldn’t explain where the small amount of money occasionally sent to the child they employed went. It was never much but when money was donated for the children, the matron couldn’t bring herself to keep the portion that was intended for children no longer in her care.

Once the unloading process was no longer in her sight, Elira let her eyes roam, taking in every detail of the office that had once been so familiar: the worn rug underfoot, the rows of neat tin cups on the sideboard, the faded embroidery sampler framed on the far wall—'Love is shelter, not a cage’ stitched in careful thread. The door creaked open just as she considered getting a closer look.

"Ah—pardon me, Lady Wyncrest." The voice that followed was warm and unhurried, rich with a country accent softened over years of gentle correction. "I didn’t mean to keep you waiting."

The matron entered with a basket tucked in one arm and her spectacles perched low on her nose. A smell of soap and dry herbs wafted in with her and Elira smiled at the scent. She was a round woman in her late fifties, with sturdy hands and shoulders that bore the invisible weight of many small lives. Her apron was patched in places, but clean, and a wisp of gray-brown hair had escaped her neat braid to cling to her damp forehead. Her smile was sincere and creasing at the eyes.

“I’m Matron Cindrel. I understand we’ve you to thank for the food delivery and that blessed cask of water.” She set the basket on the desk and offered Elira a handshake. “The timing was nothing short of divine. The well’s been coughing up more sand than water these last few days. I can’t tell you what a relief it is, knowing the children will have enough to drink this week.”

“I’m glad I could help,” Elira said with soft grace, standing to return the handshake. She inclined her head with a practiced deference that disguised the ache in her chest. She doesn’t remember me but oh, how I’ve missed her.

Cindrel sat, smoothing her apron as she lowered herself into the chair behind the desk. “So then, what brings you to our little corner of the world today? Were you hoping to meet the children?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Elira said. “I came to offer my time. I was hoping to volunteer. If you’ll have me.”

The matron blinked, clearly touched. “Well now, that would be lovely. Did you have a type of volunteering in mind?”

“I don’t rightly know, to be honest. I’ve never ran or worked in an orphanage before so would you be able to tell me what tasks weigh heaviest on you and your staff? We can work forward from there.”

“Oh! That’s rare and lovely. Most volunteers come in wanting to entertain the younglings—a bit of music, or stories. Not that I’m ungrateful, mind, the children love those visits.” Cindrel’s smile grew. “I’m not sure that the work we need most would suit a fine lady as yourself but let me tell you what we need most, and you can let me know what you’d like to do from there. Does that work?”

“In the past, I might have done the same,” Elira replied, her voice measured. “But I’d like to make the most of my life and my time. Even here.”

Cindrel’s brow rose slowly, then her entire expression melted into something warm and approving. “That's a fine way to spend your time, Lady Wyncrest. A rare one.” She leaned back slightly, thoughtful. “There’s always mending—little elbows tear through fabric like they’re racing toward freedom. Laundry, certainly. We’ve just the one set of hands most days, and drying takes time. The babies need rocking, sometimes more than we’ve arms to give. There’s cleaning too, if you’re not above it.”

“I’m not,” Elira said with quiet certainty. “I’ll help however I can. As for the mending, if you have a spare bag, I’d be happy to bring some home with me and bring it back as I complete it. I was thinking I’d volunteer about twice a week, if that suits you, so I can return the mending at those times.”

“It does,” the matron nodded firmly. “More than suits, it blesses.”

A comfortable silence settled between them for a breath. It seemed Cindrel was waiting for Elira to change her mind or say something more but when she didn’t, Cindrel continued. “I’ll have a schedule drawn up for you,” Cindrel said, her fingers already twitching toward a drawer. “Though I suppose you’ll be wanting to meet the little ones before long.”

“In just a bit,” Elira said with an apologetic smile. “I was hoping you might allow me an hour’s absence, now that we’ve spoken. I’ll return before the midday meal and begin helping straight away. Would you be willing to cover for me during that time? It’s nothing dangerous but I need to do it discreetly.”

“Of course, dear. Consider it done. You’ve already done more good than most do in a lifetime.” Cindrel smiled a knowing smile.

Elira’s smile faltered for just a heartbeat—if only you knew—but she dipped her head in thanks, rose, and slipped quietly out the back door. The latch clicked shut behind her, and her heels struck the alley stones with purpose. Her destination: the narrow shop tucked between the cobbler’s and the herbalist’s. A bookstore with no sign and too many secrets.