Dinner at the Wyncrest estate was a performance—lavish, rehearsed, and suffocating.

The chandelier overhead spilled flickering light across the long table, illuminating dishes too delicate to truly enjoy and a family too perfect to truly trust.

Elira sat quietly in her assigned seat, flanked by her sister Vespera. Her spoon stirred her soup in absent circles. Lucien reclined slightly, swirling his wine like a man confident in his place—and everyone else’s.

Duke Tharian sat at the head, posture as crisp as his pressed cuffs. His gaze swept the table like a hawk assessing prey. “You’ll attend Lady Avenelle’s garden affair next week,” he said without looking up. “She’s been whispering favor for her husband’s bid on the council. Your presence will serve as our answer. It could also serve as a soft entrance before the ball next month.”

Elira inclined her head. “As you wish, father.”

The Duchess, seated beside him in a gown of pearl-gray silk, didn’t glance Elira’s way. “You’ve been absent from society too long. If you’re to be useful, now’s the time.”

Elira offered the faintest smile. “I’ll be sure to reflect the family’s elegance.”

Lucien made a soft scoffing sound into his cup. “Just don’t reflect too brightly, little sister. Some stains don’t polish out.”

Vespera glanced at Elira, her brows briefly knitting. The concern flickered, then vanished behind the same mask of silence they’d all worn for years. Elira wondered just how much Vespera thought about and didn’t say. She yearned to know what unspoken whispers were floating behind her eyes.

“I trust your mind is clear?” Tharian asked, fixing her with a level stare.

Clearer than yours, she thought. “Crystal.” She replied, shifting her gaze from Vespera to the table where it was expected to be.

He gave a satisfied nod and turned his attention back to his plate. They ate in silence for a while before Duke Tharian spoke again, his voice deep and deliberate. “The southern tenant contracts have come back. Higher losses than expected.”

Lucien glanced up from his soup. “Crop blight?”

“More likely mismanagement. House Breyn is too focused on their border dispute to mind their own accounts.”

“Then we press,” Lucien said, with a shrug and a bite of bread. “Offer aid, for a price.”

“A generous one,” Tharian agreed. “But I want the revised figures first. I won’t waste coin without leverage. It must benefit the house in some way if we go that route. Write up a proposal to give me. If I like it, I may hand this job to you.”

“Of course, father.” Lucien’s eyes gleamed with excitement.

Elira quietly took a sip of her juice, eyes cast down, listening. This was where she belonged—for now—on the edge of the discussion, not the center of it. Not yet. It would seem that House Breyn was the next prey her father had his eye on. She wouldn’t doubt that he initiated the border dispute just to tip things in his favor. She would need to gain information on that and fast if she would have a chance to steal them from under his nose.

“Did we get confirmation on the estate taxes?” Seraphina asked lightly, adjusting the cuff of her gown.

Tharian gave a short nod. “Increased. The Crown’s bleeding every house for coin.”

Lucien leaned back slightly, eyes sharp. “Because of the inheritance debates?”

Elira caught the faint tightness in her father’s jaw. She had forgotten about the inheritance debates that had occurred. Her family was set against them and continually fought to have them turned down. They were successful in the end, but it took them another three years to squash it completely. Personally, she thought it was a great tactic. For families that only had daughters, their name would no longer have to be passed to a distant relative or marriage partner.

“Because the Crown is weak,” Tharian said flatly. “And a weak Crown listens to fools who think daughters should be sons.”

Seraphina’s lip curled faintly in disdain. “As if giving land to girls will secure the realm. We as women should stand up and say no. How are we to be expected to protect it?”

Lucien laughed under his breath. “I suppose we’re all meant to pretend daughters are just sons in silk now. Maybe we should take Elira and Vespera out back and show them how to wield a gun.”

Beside Elira, Vespera flushed and shifted her gaze down toward her plate. Oh, Elira thought, Vespera may actually have higher ambitions than just a daughter to be marketed to the best suitor available. It was still too soon to really know but she decided that after a while of watching Vespera and once her people were in place, she may actually have to spare Vespera from her schemes. It would be possible to save her, and without father blocking the initiative, have her be the first daughter to inherit a House. A dangerous thought, but not an impossible one. Not if she played the long game.

Dinner ended with polite farewells and the rustle of silk as they each retreated to their corners of the estate. Elira returned to her chambers with a serene smile, let her maids undo her gown, and performed the evening ritual of brushing her hair and offering practiced pleasantries but her mind was already elsewhere.

“Enter.” Elira called to the quiet knock that came just as the other maids where finishing up.

The door opened and three young maids stepped inside, each giving a deep curtsy as they entered. The second of them carried a familiar linen sack and Elira was inwardly glad that Madam Grell could be relied upon. She had let her mind lose track of the mending that needed to be done before returning to the orphanage in two days.

“My lady,” the foremost said. She had dark eyes and darker hair, coiled tightly into a bun. “I’m Lysa. This is Mara.” She gestured to the tall one. “And that’s Jeralyn.” She pointed to the last maid to enter. “Madam Grell sent us to assist with the mending. She said you requested assistance with the mending?”

“I did,” Elira said gently, offering a warm smile that didn’t quite touch her eyes. “Thank you. Please, come in.”

They obeyed quickly but without chatter, slipping into the room like shadows. The maids who assisted with Elira’s bath and night routine swiftly left, allowing them the room to themselves. The sack was opened and its contents arranged in quiet order—children’s tunics, aprons, socks, and a few winter cloaks worn soft at the edges.

The tallest maid, Mara, moved with well-practiced ease, laying out a few garments across the low bench near the firelight. Her fingers were precise, her posture textbook. “Shall we begin with the coats, my lady? They’re in the worst shape.”

“That’s wise,” Elira agreed, taking a seat with her own needlework basket and drawing a patch across her lap.

The work began in silence but for the soft crackle of fire and the occasional snip of thread. Elira studied them carefully as they worked—three young women around her age or a little younger. Their uniforms were crisp, collars neat, shoes polished despite the long day. Their movements were disciplined. Not once did they speak to each other. Not that Elira expected them to. In this house, careless words could travel faster than footsteps. The duchess had long instilled that lesson. Still, it didn’t stop Elira from testing the waters.

“This one has good stitchwork,” she said softly, holding up a tunic nearly perfect. “Who did it?”

The maids paused. Lysa cleared her throat. “That was me, my lady.”

Elira offered a nod—not too familiar, but enough to reward honesty. “You’ve a careful hand.”

“Thank you,” Lysa murmured, eyes back on her needle.

Elira said nothing more for a while. Let the rhythm return. Let them feel her watching—but not intrusively. When they relaxed again, she began to notice things. Jeralyn stitched methodically but cast glances toward the corners of the room. She was probably on an information gathering mission from her mother. Mara kept her jaw tight, like she was forcing her silence but planning her speech. Elira sighed quietly to herself, Mara would also be deep in her mother’s pockets. But Lysa… Lysa’s eyes flicked toward Elira more than once. Not fearfully, more like she was still deciding who she was dealing with.

Elira folded a cloak and set it aside. “Do let Madam Grell know I appreciated her promptness,” she said lightly. “This will help the children stay warm, and that matters.”

Lysa’s fingers paused for half a second. The smallest hitch. Then resumed. “Yes, my lady,” she said.

The mending lasted the better part of two hours. When it was done, Elira dismissed them with calm thanks and a smile that invited nothing but safe obedience. The sack was repacked with the finished garments and placed neatly near the door. The maids curtsied in tandem and left with the same silence they’d entered. Only after the door clicked shut did Elira rise again, smoothing her hands down the front of her robe. She moved toward the hearth and stoked the fire, watching embers glow brighter with the added breath of air. Lysa. The name lingered in her mind like a thread she hadn’t meant to pull, but now couldn’t stop unraveling.

There was something in the girl’s silence—not the fearful, dutiful quiet of a servant watching for missteps, but a more deliberate kind. Lysa didn’t flinch under scrutiny. Nor did she seek it. She simply endured it, absorbed it, as though weighing her surroundings with every passing breath. That made her interesting. Dangerous, maybe. But then again, so was Elira.

She leaned against the hearth, arms crossed lightly. In her last life, she might have overlooked Lysa entirely—another name in a sea of bowed heads. But this time, she was watching. Looking deeper. Lysa wasn’t safe but she wasn’t lost either which made her useful. Elira stepped to her desk and sat slowly down. Staring blankly at the desktop, she planned how to tell Madam Grell she’d like Lysa to return.

The maid, Lysa, showed excellent precision and skill during last evening’s mending session. Please assign her to assist with future sessions, as available.”

There was nothing unusual in the request. It would simply look like preference—she had the authority to choose which staff she liked working beside. Seeing people with skill was a trait that had always been favored in the Wyncrest household so it was even possible her mother would approve of her request. Elira stood, smoothed the front of her robe and turned once more to the fire, lips pursed in quiet thought.

Sorrel’s training would be done soon. Just a few more days. When she returned—with a lottery ticket and, if the gods were still smiling, a fortune tucked behind the name Wren Blackthorne—Elira would give her the next task. She needed Sorrel to make Lysa her friend. Not immediately. Not too forcefully. Just enough kindness to see what she did with it. If she responded? Then Elira would know where to begin. It would all depend on how Lysa moved once she thought no one was watching. Kindling had to be tested before it was trusted with a spark. Elira smiled, why not push her luck just a little further tonight?

She waited until the halls dimmed and the low murmur of staff faded to silence. The estate breathed in the hush of midnight, unaware of what moved through its bones. Elira slipped from her chambers with the quiet ease of someone who knew which boards creaked and which hinges stuck. Her slippers whispered over the thick carpets, her cloak wrapped tight against the lingering chill of the stone halls. Tonight was not for theater. Tonight was for truths. She moved like a shadow down the corridor and disappeared into the dark, her path set not by duty, but by design. When she reached the heavy doors of the library, she paused only long enough to let her heartbeat settle. Then she slipped inside and went straight for the door leading off to the right. She glanced around before slipping inside that room too.

She’d never dared enter this place in her first life—not Lucien’s personal study. But in the days before her death, when she'd learned the truth, she also learned that secrets weren’t always kept behind guards or gates. Sometimes, they were hidden in plain sight.

Lockpicking was a skill she’d picked up in the last days before imprisonment in her previous life. Desperation and betrayal had stripped her of gentility, and in its place, she’d found utility. A maid named Sora had shown her, in exchange for silence about a forbidden love affair. It had seemed trivial at the time, something more to pass the time than a skill she’d put to use. Now, it was invaluable. She approached the drawer beneath the eastern window, one she remembered Lucien favoring. A few careful motions, a breath held—and it clicked open.

Inside were ledgers, letters, and one slim black journal. She drew out the journal slowly. The pages were filled with his meticulous handwriting. Names, schedules, idle notes. Mentions of influence. Debts. Nobles who owed favors. And then, one entry near the back:

“K has been sniffing again. We need to distract him from the ledger. Without him, we’d have the council in our pocket by now. Maybe use her. He’s cast a glance more than once.”

Her hand froze on the page. K. It had to be Caius. And her—they’d used her to draw attention away. To stall for time. She exhaled slowly. The confirmation twisted in her gut like iron. They had known. They had chosen her. Early on at that. That’s why they wanted to get her back into society now.

As helpful as it would be, she couldn’t take the book. Lucien would notice its absence and Elira couldn’t risk drawing suspicion before her plans and people were placed. She carefully placed the journal back into the drawer, aligning it precisely as it had been. Then she locked it again. Patience. She left the study as silently as she’d come and headed straight back to her room.

The moonlight painted silver lines across her floor as she sat at her vanity, brushing her hair with slow, even strokes. Her reflection looked back—colder, stronger. In her first life, she’d believed affection could be earned. That silence could protect her. That loyalty would mean something.

Now, the thing she thought she understood since she came back hit home like a sledgehammer. Her family didn’t see her as a daughter. She was a tool. A mask. A name to polish or discard as needed. She was no longer naive. She had returned with knowledge, with weapons forged in memory. She thought of Lucien’s journal. Of the Duchess’s scrutiny. Of her father’s cold and stiff attitude. She gave pause on Vespa’s wary and searching eyes. At fourteen it was likely Vespa was as much in the dark on this plan as she was. She hadn’t seen her name in the journal which could mean two things. Either they hadn’t decided what use she would have yet, or she was entangled in this plot just as much as they were. The first was most likely, but Elira could never be too careful. With steady hands, Elira braided her hair and planned the ruin of a house that had built its defense on her silence.