A knock at her door came just as Elira finished sealing a note to a minor noble about garden renovations—an excuse to secure a discreet courier for her alias’s steel investment. She called, “Enter,” expecting a maid. Instead, it was Vespera. The younger girl stepped in slowly, her silver-blonde hair plaited back, eyes solemn.

“What an unexpected visit,” Elira said, carefully neutral.

Vespera hesitated near the edge of the room, then closed the door behind her. “I… wanted to speak with you.”

Elira gestured gracefully to a chair by the window. “Of course.”

Vespera sat, but didn’t relax. Her hands fidgeted in her lap. “You’ve been different. Since returning from the estate.”

Elira tilted her head with a light laugh. “Isn’t that what father wanted?”

“That’s not what I mean,” Vespera said quickly, looking away. “You seem… sharper. Like you’re thinking three things at once and only saying one.” A pause. “You’re not angry, are you? At me?” Her voice dipped low. “For not speaking up when they sent you—”

“I’m not angry,” Elira said, tone smooth. Honest enough. She had never been mad about being sent to the estate and she had never blamed Vespera.

“You were always kind,” Vespera said. “But now… it’s like you’ve grown cold where no one can see.” Elira’s lips parted, but she stopped herself. Not yet. She wasn’t sure that Vespera was an enemy, but she wasn’t certain she wasn’t yet either.

“I just want to do what’s expected of me,” Elira replied softly. “To protect the family.” Vespera’s shoulders tensed. She shifted uncomfortably and looked down at her shoes. A tense pause held for several heartbeats before she spoke again.

“I don’t think everyone in this house deserves your protection,” she said, almost too quietly. Elira blinked. Something flickered in Vespera’s gaze. A storm behind calm water. She looked like she wanted to say something else, needed to—but clamped her mouth shut instead. After a breath, Vespera stood. “Just… be careful. Everyone’s watching.” She turned, pausing at the door. “And I’m not the only one dreaming things I don’t understand.” Then she was gone.

Elira stood at the window long after the door clicked shut. Vespera’s words had stirred something deep. A strange flicker of emotion she couldn’t name. She’d forgotten how easily her younger sister wore uncertainty. In her past life, Elira had taken that for passivity. She’d thought Vespera fragile—pleasant but ineffectual. Now she wondered what else she’d missed.

A thought suddenly hit her. She believes in me. That was dangerous. It made Elira’s mask slip a fraction, enough to let the ache of betrayal filter in through the cracks. The ache of knowing someone still saw goodness in her, when she hadn’t decided whether there was any left. Vespera’s words lingered in the air like incense.

“Just… be careful. Everyone’s watching.”

“I’m not the only one dreaming things I don’t understand.”

Elira leaned against the stone frame, arms folded, the view of the garden below lost to the swirl of her thoughts. This hadn’t happened before. In her first life, Vespera had never come to her—not when the accusations fell, not when the estate gates shut behind her, not even in the end. No whispered warnings. No quiet concern. No trembling attempts at connection. So why now? What had changed? Had it always been there, just hidden beneath Elira’s own arrogance? Her assumption that Vespera was too soft to matter, too docile to act?

The girl who had hesitated in her doorway this morning had looked far from useless. Nervous, yes but beneath it there was something deeper. Like a flicker of understanding had finally ignited in the dark.

You were always kind. 
Now… it’s like you’ve grown cold where no one can see.

Elira closed her eyes, heart aching with something sharp and sudden. She had forgotten what it felt like to be seen as kind. She wasn’t even sure it had ever been true. But hearing it again—especially from Vespera—made something long-buried rise, unbidden and unwanted. The ache for something real. For someone real. Not just a tool. Not another piece on the board. A sister is what she wanted. Foolishly. Quietly. Desperately.

In the shadowed corners of her soul where vengeance hadn’t yet taken root, she longed for the bond they should have had. For whispered conversations in the dark. For shared laughter over secrets and stolen fruit from the kitchens. For someone who might love her without needing to be convinced, bought, or broken.

She believes in me. That was the most dangerous thing of all. If Elira let herself believe it too, she might soften. She might reach and reaching meant risk. Reaching meant pain if the hand pulled away. And yet, she didn’t want to walk this entire path alone. She would, if she had to. But gods, was life in this house, in solitude, so lonely. The masks and silences stretched thin enough to suffocate.

Maybe—just maybe—there was room for one truth in the middle of all the lies. Vespera had seen the cracks. She’d looked past them and still offered her trust. Elira pressed her fingers gently to her chest, where the tightness bloomed like an old bruise, never quite healed. She couldn't let that trust go unanswered. Not yet. Not fully.

She also couldn’t afford to cling to it like a drowning girl to driftwood. Vespera could be a sister but until Elira knew for certain where her loyalties lay, she had to be something else too—a variable. A possibility. A maybe. Control, Elira reminded herself. Not detachment.

She would guard her heart carefully but not seal it shut. Maybe, one day, when the danger had passed and the house of lies had burned down behind her, she could reach out to Vespera without fear of being pulled under. For now, she would hope quietly and plan. She could not change the past. But maybe—just maybe—she could shape something better out of what was left. Elira took a steadying breath and turned from the window.

There was work to do and she couldn’t spend all day staring out the window. She called for a maid, instructing them to send the letters she had completed and to call for a carriage. She’d switch carriages in town but she needed to take one of the family’s to start.

The day had cooled, and she wore a deep hooded cloak, simple but well-fitted, as the unmarked coach slowed beside a narrow lane of shops and rain-darkened cobbles. She stepped out and entered the small storefront tucked between a dying bookbinder and a bakery that smelled of burnt sugar. Etton & Sons, the hand-painted sign read. The ‘Sons’ was wishful thinking—Tomas was very much alone.

Inside, dust motes drifted through sunlight. Shoes hung from ceiling hooks. Fabric scraps were pinned to walls. The place had the chaotic energy of someone chasing perfection with inadequate space. Tomas looked up from where he was pinning cloth to a mannequin. His sleeves were rolled up. There was a smudge of charcoal on his cheek.

“Help you?” he asked, tone cautious. Almost defensive.

“You’re Tomas Etton, yes?”

His eyes narrowed. “That depends who’s asking.”

She smiled faintly. “Let’s say someone who prefers to notice potential before the rest of the world ruins it.” He blinked. “I’m in need of a ballgown. One that turns heads—without relying on a family crest to do the talking.”

“…I don’t do gowns,” he said slowly. “Shoes, maybe a coat if it’s not too frilled—”

“But you could, if you tried. I've seen your stitching work.” She let the name drop lightly. “Lady Harwen wears your ankle boots, doesn’t she? They’re exquisite. Strong detailing. Balanced curve.” He stared at her, stunned. “You made her look elegant when she has the grace of a goat,” Elira added lightly. “That takes true talent.”

He snorted despite himself, then quickly looked away. “I don’t have the fabric for something like that.”

“I’ll provide it. And payment. More than fair. If it’s what I want… I’ll tell the right people.”

A long pause. “…And if it’s not what you want?”

“I’ll disappear like I was never here,” she said simply. “And you’ll still keep the gold.”

He folded his arms. “You don’t act like the nobles I’ve met.”

She smiled again—just a little darker this time. “That’s because I’m not the girl I used to be.”

Tomas didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked to her gloved hands, to the quiet confidence with which she stood amidst the chaos of his shop. He didn’t trust her but something about her presence demanded attention.

He sighed, muttered something under his breath, and gestured to a stool near the worktable. “Sit. If I’m going to agree to this, I need to know what I’m designing for.”

Elira obeyed with grace, drawing back her hood to reveal her neatly braided hair. “It’s a masquerade hosted by the House of Argent,” she began. “The kind where masks hide truths but intentions bleed through the lace.”

Tomas raised an eyebrow. “Poetic.”

“Intentional.” Elira laughed softly.

He picked up a bit of chalk and snapped it clean in half, eyes narrowing in thought. “Theme?”

“Gold and dusk. No black, no red. Those are overdone.”

“And you want something dramatic.”

“I want something memorable, not scandalous. Eyes drawn for the right reasons, not the wrong ones.”

“Right reasons like…?” He questioned.

She met his gaze evenly. “Presence. Precision. Something that makes people wonder who I am, rather than what I’m selling.”

Tomas blinked at that, then glanced away, already sketching faint lines on scrap paper. “No corset cage?”

“No. I’d like to be able to breathe.”

He smirked. “That might be a first.”

“Breathe and dance,” she added, arching a brow. “I’m not asking for miracles.”

Tomas chuckled—quiet and begrudging. “Why me?” he finally asked without glancing up.

“You’re talented,” she replied, too quickly.

He stopped sketching. “Flatter a man if you like, but I’ve lived in this district long enough to know when I’m being used.”

Elira didn’t flinch. “Because you haven’t been bought yet,” she said softly. “Because you have ideas that haven’t been drowned by what nobles expect of you. And because if you do impress them, it will be on your own terms.” She leaned forward slightly. “Do you want to be a cobbler’s son who made decent shoes for drunk courtiers… or a name whispered in salons and scandals alike?”

His fingers tightened around the chalk. She could see it—the flicker of something stubborn, something starved and waiting to be fed.

“What do you want?” he asked after a long moment.

“I want to wear the first masterpiece of someone who will one day rival the royal tailor. And I want you to remember who believed in you before your name meant anything.”

Tomas stared at her. Then, finally, he exhaled. “You’re dangerous.”

Elira smiled. “Only if you’re trying to lie to me.”

He gave her a sharp look, then tilted his head. “You’ve told me a lot about what you want… but not who you are.”

She paused, then extended her gloved hand across the worktable with quiet poise. “Elira Wyncrest.”

His brows lifted slightly—recognition flickering in his gaze, though he masked it well. “Elira Wyncrest,” he repeated. “One of those Wyncrests.”

She didn’t react. “I’ll understand if that makes you reconsider.”

Tomas snorted. “It’s just more reason for me to get this right. If your family’s half as vicious as they are rich, I’ll need the reputation boost and the hazard pay.”

She grinned. “Then I suppose we understand each other.” She let her hand fall back to the tabletop.

He pushed the rough sketch toward her. Even unfinished, it hinted at elegance: a layered skirt that moved like water, structured shoulders softened by sheer accents, a bodice that flattered without confinement. Regal. Intimidating. Unforgettable.

“Fabric?” He asked.

“I’ve already sent money to the supplier on Broad Street,” she replied, rising. “They’ll expect a visit from you tomorrow morning. Tell them you’re working under the name Erielle Soren. That should be enough to get what you need.”

He gave her a flat look. “You’ve done this before.”

“No,” she said, lips curling faintly. “This time I’m doing it right.”

She reached the door, pausing with one hand on the handle. She pulled two gold coins from her purse and dropped them on the table just inside the door, “don’t make me regret choosing you, Tomas.”

And with that, she vanished into the chilled afternoon light, leaving behind the faint scent of rosewater and strategy. The door shut behind her with a muted click, and for a moment, the narrow street felt like a different world. Elira stood still under her hood, letting the noise of the district swell and then fade into the background. Rain had begun to fall—a soft, misting drizzle that dampened the air but did nothing to cool the fire in her blood.

The unmarked carriage awaited where she’d left it, its driver silent and sharp-eyed. No insignia. No questions. Just shadows and motion. Elira climbed in without a word.

As the carriage pulled away, she peeled off her gloves and stared at her reflection in the fogged window. Her pulse was steady now—measured. Tomas would begin his work. The next piece of her plan was in motion. Fifteen minutes later, the carriage rolled to a stop in the narrow gap between two tall buildings near a nondescript stable on Greystone Lane.

She stepped out into the soft hush of drizzle, the scent of rain and stone curling around her. Her cloak remained dry, her gloves smooth, and the neat braid beneath her hood was exactly as it had been when she’d left the estate. Everything was still in place.

Elira moved with purpose through the narrow alleys behind the main street, slipping between shuttered stalls and damp stone until she reached the quieter edge of the merchant quarter. Waiting at the curb, precisely where instructed, stood the Wyncrest carriage.

The driver saw her and straightened. “Milady.”

She inclined her head, a polite smile curving her lips. “Thank you for your patience.”

“Of course, milady.” He opened the door without question.

She stepped in with practiced grace, her boots dry, her cloak unrumpled. From the outside, nothing about her had changed. The driver could only assume she'd visited the tailor her family used to order her masquerade gown. Expected and nothing worth remembering. She settled into her seat, let the door shut behind her, and exhaled as the carriage began its slow roll through the city. To the house, to the name, to the role she was expected to play.

Beneath her gloves, her fingers still tingled from the push and pull of a conversation that had planted something bold in a dusty corner of the city. Tomas would sketch. He would shape. And in a few weeks, Elira Wyncrest would walk into a masquerade cloaked in dusk and gold—and no one would know what they were looking at until it was far too late. She turned her face toward the fogged glass, watching rain trace lazy paths down the windowpane. Her father would be appalled at first, but as long as she garnered a good reputation he would be satisfied that his will was upheld.