The morning sun painted gold across the Wyncrest estate as Elira sat at her vanity, the window’s light slanting across polished wood and glinting off silver. Behind her, a maid moved in smooth, practiced rhythm, brushing out her hair in long, even strokes. Each movement was deliberate. Controlled. Performed with the same precision Elira herself had cultivated since childhood. The brush whispered through sunlit strands, separating each lock with reverence and distance. The reflection in the mirror stared back—poised, serene, a portrait of gentle grace wrapped in pale silk. Not the girl who died. The woman who came back. A soft knock at the chamber door interrupted the quiet hum of morning.

“Enter,” Elira said calmly.

The door creaked open, and a second maid stepped in with a curtsy, eyes respectfully lowered. “Duke Wyncrest requests your presence in his study, my lady.”

There was a pause, brief but practiced. Elira tilted her chin, just slightly. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll go at once.”

The maid curtsied again and withdrew as quietly as she’d come. Behind her, the brushing slowed.

“Finish it,” Elira murmured.

“Yes, my lady.”

The final strokes were smooth and silent. Then the maid set the brush aside, selected a soft blue ribbon from the tray, and gathered Elira’s hair into a low, elegant tie. The knot was careful. Respectful. As though it mattered.

“There,” the maid said, stepping back.

Elira stood slowly, letting the morning gown fall back into place around her. The silk shimmered faintly with every movement. She smoothed her hands over the fabric and took a quiet breath, eyes on her reflection one last time. Then she turned and stepped into the hall—its velvet hush, its expectations, its watching walls. She walked toward her father’s study with grace stitched into her spine. Just as she had, once before but this time, her hands weren’t trembling.

The heavy doors swung shut behind her as she entered the Duke’s study. Tharian Wyncrest did not look up from his ledger, quill scratching as if the world were made only of numbers. He gestured absently to the chair opposite his desk.

“Elira.” She sat without speaking, hands folded neatly in her lap. After a pause, he finally looked up. “You’ve grown quiet since your return from our estate. I was beginning to wonder if I needed to remind you of your purpose within this house.”

Elira tilted her head slightly, the picture of demure attentiveness. “You need not worry, father. I’m ready to fulfill whatever role you see fit.”

His eyes narrowed briefly, then he continued. “Good. I’ve arranged for your attendance at the Marquess of Halbridge’s masquerade. You’ll represent House Wyncrest. Engage with the right people. Show them our standing remains strong.” The same words. The same tone. Just like before. “You are of marriageable age and though I’ve not yet chosen, you’ll begin laying the groundwork. Speak with sons, daughters, courtiers. You will be charming, gracious—useful.”

Elira inclined her head again. “As you say, father.”

He paused, studying her. “I expect you to comport yourself with the dignity of our bloodline. Do not embarrass us.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she replied with a soft smile. “I only wish to serve the house as best I can.”

He nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Then go. I’ll expect a report afterward.”

She stood, bowed with perfect grace, and left the study. Returning to her own room, she closed the door behind her and leaned against it, the smile sliding off her face like a mask unhooked. He wanted her to return to court. To play the pretty pawn again. This time, she’d rewrite the board. At her desk, she fished out parchment from the hidden compartment and unrolled a fresh piece. She began to write out a hurried plan. She wanted to get her ideas down, but she also couldn’t be late for breakfast two days in a row.

Masquerade Strategy – Halbridge Estate

1. Lord Caius Valeir
• Reclusive, sharp-witted noble of high rank.
• Attended the masquerade in the previous life. Suspected my family.
• Do not approach him directly. Not yet. Just let him see me. Let him wonder. Let him approach.
2. Form Strategic Connections:
• Mirielle Thorndale – bookish daughter of Baron Thorndale. Future political analyst and economic writer.
• Initiate subtle conversations. Plant intellectual seeds. Gain her curiosity.
• Tomas Etton – commoner apprentice to a cobbler. Later, a revolutionary designer for nobility.
• Commission a garment. Compliment his craftsmanship. Encourage growth. Plant seeds of cooperation. Through me, your dreams can come true.
• Annaliese Verrin – overlooked apprentice apothecary. Discovers Ashvine’s curative properties.
• Offer to fund a new tonic in exchange for future collaboration.

Initial Funding Strategy – Operate via Alias: “Wren Blackthorne”

• Steel Imports: A northern conflict will erupt within the year, tripling steel prices. Invest now under alias.
• Investments: Merchant House Rayder’s accounts will soar then show instability—sell early. Not illegal. Just timely.
• Future Patent: Submit Annaliese’s tonic formula early under a dual-rights agreement. Let her shine. Take a silent stake.

Elira tapped her pen twice against the desk, thoughtful. Her father had taught her to smile at enemies. To wear civility like armor. Now, she would use it as a knife. They wanted her demure, pretty, silent. She would give them everything they asked for and make it their ruin. She just needed the money to start earning her own. She’d need investors but who would want to invest in her and for what? Then a thought struck her and she froze. Rushing to her satchel, she pulled out the newspaper she’d tucked away beside her books. The page crackled as she unfolded it, her eyes scanning quickly until they caught the headline just below the fold:

LOTTERY PRIZE REACHES RECORD HIGH — TEN DAYS UNTIL MONTHLY DRAW

Her breath hitched. She remembered this. This drawing. This one. Lucien had been obsessed with it—smirking over his ticket at breakfast that morning, announcing his imminent fortune like it had already been handed to him. When the numbers were drawn, he had missed the prize by just two. He complained about it for weeks.

“Thirty-two, forty-one, twenty-six, eight, nineteen, fifty-four,” he had grumbled, again and again—until the numbers were burned into her mind by sheer repetition.

And now? Ten days from now, those would be the winning numbers. She didn’t think she would ever be grateful for one of Lucien’s tantrums but now it was paying off. Those numbers would win this drawing. Someone else had won the lottery just two months later. Not Lucien. Someone forgettable. Lucien’s pride hadn’t recovered for months. She was sure that it would crush him to have the winnings stolen from the same drawing he was expecting to win but she would endure his tantrum for the financial gain.

She would have Sorrel buy the ticket. Quietly. Under the name Wren Blackthorne—a harmless shadow with no connection to the Wyncrest name. No one would look twice at her. Still, a thread of tension tugged at the edge of her certainty. Sorrel was still in training. Grell would not like her being pulled away—not without reason. If the staff noticed, and they would, that the new girl was being treated differently, rumors would start. Loyalties would harden.

Ten days. It might be enough, but it might not. Grell wouldn’t release Sorrel until she was absolutely sure she was ready to serve. She would be more critical than usual on Sorrel as well. Elira could tell from their meeting that Grell was not pleased with Sorrel being a personal maid to anyone, especially not a Wyncrest.

Elira sat again, smoothing the edge of the parchment she’d already been writing on earlier. The money would do her good if she wanted to make herself financially independent and she would need that independence if her plan worked out the way she was hoping. She flipped it over and, near the bottom corner, wrote the six numbers in her smallest, cleanest script:

32 – 41 – 26 – 8 – 19 – 54

She folded the parchment, slipped it into the hidden compartment in the false-bottomed drawer of her desk, and, after ensuring that everything was put away again, closed it gently. The wood clicked shut beneath her fingers. Her secret was safe for now. She would wait. Let Sorrel finish training. The plan would not be rushed or she risked killing a knight for a pawn. The prize was hers, she just needed to be patient. Lucien had lost by inches. She would win by design.

She stared down at the blank parchment left out and knew she had other plans to get underway. She dipped her pen again, slower this time, and began to write.

Not one letter, but several—each addressed to a different minor noble. Figures with little public standing, but in her past life, she'd seen the true weight of small names and overlooked positions. A baroness whose estate controlled a modest grain route. A viscount’s youngest son who had once co-owned a failing ironworks before the northern conflict turned it profitable. A reclusive cousin of the Dellen family, known for his obsession with fine glass and even finer gossip.

To each, she wrote with the carefully balanced charm of a noble daughter doing exactly what was expected of her—pleasant, curious, lightly deferential. One inquired about heritage roses that might suit the eastern garden. Another requested insight on commissioning metalwork gates. A third asked for a recipe for plum cordial that she claimed to have tasted at a ball she never actually attended.

She kept each letter simple, harmless. Thin veils of genuine interest laid over opportunities. Each one opened a door without knocking too loudly. Would they all respond? Of course not. She didn’t need all of them to. It would be helpful to get responses but it wasn’t strictly necessary. She would be expanding her connections while fulfilling her father’s request a little earlier than he expected. He would simply think she was trying to please him with the extra effort and having him in a good mood always served her well. The bell above the main stair struck the hour, and Elira rose.

She straightened the fall of her gown, ensuring the drape was perfect before leaving her room. Her steps through the hall were calm, measured, exactly what was expected of a noble daughter entering the public theater of her own home. As she neared the breakfast room, she slowed just slightly—then stepped inside.

The entire family was already seated, but none had touched a bite.

Duke Tharian sat at the head of the table, a folded letter untouched beside his place setting, his coffee cooling slowly in its cup. He glanced up at her arrival and gave a single nod, not of welcome—but permission.

“On time,” he said simply.

Elira inclined her head with practiced poise. “Of course, Father.”

Only then did the servants begin moving again, quietly lifting lids from silver trays and filling glasses. The clink of porcelain and silverware resumed. It was all silent choreography, rehearsed and bloodless.

Lucien lounged as though the formality bored him deeply, arms draped over either side of his chair. “You must’ve run here, Elira,” he said with a slow grin. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so eager for breakfast.”

“I’m eager to start the day,” she replied mildly as she took her seat.

Her mother offered a faint smile and a slightly longer glance than usual. “I heard you came home in quite the sight. Outside of meals, you’ve been locked in your room for days as well. Are you suffering from some alignment? Perhaps you aren’t getting enough sleep?”

Elira lifted her napkin with delicate fingers. “Merely focused, Mother. I slept fine.”

Vespera stirred her tea beside her, the spoon tapping against the rim in rhythmic little circles. She didn’t look up, but her shoulder brushed Elira’s just slightly when she sat beside her—a quiet, unnoticed gesture of shared space in a house full of distance.

The food was lovely, as always—precise, seasonal, expensive, and completely tasteless to Elira. Tharian eventually asked if she’d thought any more about what he had said earlier. Elira smiled and shared that she was already writing letters, most to the less notable names for now but they were a great stepping stone to the ones in power. 

“Efficient,” he said, without warmth. “Just be sure you’re not wasting your time.”

“I never do,” Elira replied softly, and sipped her tea.

Lucien made a noise of mock admiration. “She’s going to charm the entire court before the season even begins.”

“If you think charm is the only currency that matters, brother,” Elira said, not looking at him, “you haven’t been paying attention.” The words were light. The edge beneath them, sharper.

Lucien smirked and buttered a roll with unnecessary flair. “Still got that bite. It’s adorable.”

Seraphina gave no reaction. Neither did Tharian. Breakfast moved on in shallow pleasantries and deeper silences. When it finally ended, the family rose, each departing in separate directions as if the performance had simply ended.

Elira stood with the rest, offered a polite nod to her father, a gentle “thank you” to her mother, and the barest glance to Lucien. To Vespera, she gave a whisper of a smile. Then she turned and left the room with quiet steps.

Her room welcomed her back like a held breath released. She shut the door gently, crossed to her desk, and slipped back into the chair as though she had never left. The light had shifted—brighter now, warm along the edge of her parchment. She picked up her pen and returned to her letters. The family had given her no true trouble that morning but they would eventually and when the time came, she'd be ready.