Elana hovered in the hallway outside of her father’s study with a snuffed-out lantern in her hand, waiting for confirmation of what she already suspected: that something was amiss. Her mother had been behaving oddly since noon, distant in a way that had struck Elana as more distracted than cold.

That alone was a surefire sign that things were happening behind Elana’s back that she wasn’t allowed to know about, a cue she’d learned to track like a bloodhound.

She’d also learned that the only way to glean any insight into her parents’ odd shifts was to eavesdrop. Because her parents never told her anything—no one did.

Elana had learned to find her own ways around that. She’d had to because ever since the Academy had claimed the first of her siblings, her parents and the estate staff alike had retreated into themselves, hiding behind a shroud of secrecy. Eavesdropping was a small price to pay to peek behind the veil.

Elana closed her eyes, trying to focus on the muffled conversation coming through the door.

She could make out only pieces of her parents’ conversation. Was it an argument? That hardly made sense—her parents rarely fought. And she could think of no reason for them to fight, which only confirmed her hypothesis: something was amiss.

The question of what it might be nagged at her until she recognized the sound of her own name.

Her head jerked up, eyes going wide. Her name. Why her name? Had she done something? No, that didn’t make any sense.

She was always so careful not to cross any lines. And her mother had been perfectly fine even through the midday lessons. Midday. Of course—that was when the butler delivered the post. Something must have come. But something about her?

Elana’s knee bounced as she thought. Was there any way for her to get to those letters?

She’d be able to hear when her parents retreated to their connecting chambers. She could wait them out and sneak in—wait, no. She stifled a groan. The magical wards on her father’s study would alert him the instant anyone tried to set foot inside.

That plan was out, and she didn’t have a better one. It wasn’t as if there was anyone in the estate who was on her side. 

And even if there was, no one could get around her father’s magic.

There would be no getting her hands on those letters. But whatever had come had made her mother’s mood notably more sour—and turned their earlier dinner into an even more bleak and uncomfortable affair than usual.

Although, to an outsider, it probably wouldn’t have looked much different. Even on the best of days, the manor was a silent, solemn place. The estate hadn’t always felt that way. 

In her earliest memories, the manor had been a much livelier place, a home brimming with warmth and good cheer. Back then, it had been a place that had never once known despair. But those times were long gone. 

Even the memories of them had grown faint, reduced to shadows.

Gone were the echoes of children’s laughter and footsteps running down the corridors, of warm banter over the dining table. Gone were the days of having her hair braided by her older sisters, or being roped into the pranks and antics of her brothers.

Death was the unspoken eighth member and constant companion of their family. It had been since the first time Elana dressed in funeral black at six years old—and there hadn’t been a reprieve from a mourning period since.

Of the six siblings she’d grown up with, not one remained. Each, with the exception of the eldest, had lost their lives at the Academy.

Now, there was one unspoken rule the estate followed: the dead were not to be spoken of.

Well, the dead and Antoine, who, as far as Elana was concerned, was more than dead. He was the oldest, the firstborn heir, a bona fide prodigy, and no one was allowed to even whisper his name. 

Not her mother, not the staff, not even her father, whose implacable silence on the matter was an ever-fixed thing.

Antoine had become a living ghost, a legend whose face had been removed from every family portrait and whose name had been stricken from every book. 

He’d left for the Academy so early in her life that Elana didn’t have any memories of him. 

The only proof left that he had ever been there at all was an eternally locked room and a single portrait that lay face-down, in her mother’s dressing room. Elana only knew that because she’d snuck in once, when she was younger, and seen it by chance—all because she’d had a childish impulse to play with her mother’s jewelry. 

Marlena had appeared to confiscate the portrait before she could get more than a glimpse at it. Elana couldn’t remember what the punishment for that particular transgression had been, only that she’d never attempted it again. 

With Antoine and the rest of her siblings gone, all that lingered in the hallways was cold, oppressive silence—terribly uncomfortable, but convenient for eavesdropping.

Elana closed her eyes, leaning as close as she could to the door without making contact. Her father’s wards would react if she did. The magic would make him immediately aware of her presence, and her opportunity would vanish.

She had to make do at a distance, even though all she could make out were the edges of their conversation, fragments that didn’t make any sense.

Just her name, again, and then—

Her mother’s heavily muffled voice trickled through the door. “Coward.”

Elana inhaled sharply, recoiling. The sting in her chest caught her so off guard that she nearly stumbled as she stepped back—no, she caught herself. She couldn’t back away. She had to know what they were saying. 

They were talking about her, or at least her future. 

She could do this. 

She held her breath, trying to make out more of their muffled words, but ‘coward’ was still ringing in her ears. If they really thought that—her hands clenched, jaw tightening. She couldn’t get lost in self-pity. 

Elana strained to listen as her parents’ voices grew quieter, lowering to hushed whispers.

She tried to string the pieces together. Were they talking about her education?

She’d been asking them to modify her lesson plans, to finally add in at least enough combat training to develop some middling self-defense skills. Any amount would increase her odds of survival when the inevitable Academy summons came.

But ever since her mana affinity had been measured and found lacking as a child, her father had been paranoid and absolute about keeping her away from physical combat. Her lessons had revolved around everything but that: history, court etiquette, geopolitics, military tactics, supply chain economics, and alchemy. 

That was why Elana knew twenty different ways to poison a man, but only one way to use a knife. And, yes, she was working on a way around that, but—

Her breath caught.

There was a faint but unmistakable wooden creak in the distance. Someone had just reached the top of the stairs. But she should have heard their footsteps long before that, so why hadn’t she? They were too close now. If she ran, they’d hear her. 

The glow of an approaching lantern slid across the dark wooden floors, illuminating the far end of the corridor.

Elana backed away from the study doors and hastily shoved herself into a nearby alcove. She took shelter behind a marble bust of some long-dead ancestor whose name she couldn’t be bothered to recall just then. It didn’t matter—it was large enough to hide her.

She heard the quiet rattle and creak of a lantern swaying on its chain.

Her pulse thudded in her ears.

She’d hidden in time, hadn’t she? Surely, she wasn’t about to be caught red-handed, eavesdropping on her parents. There would be no explaining that away. They would look at her like she was some kind of disappointment—

Ugh, thinking about it was only making her panic more. Elana closed her eyes instead, focusing on trying to calculate how far away the lantern-bearer was. Hopefully they weren’t coming her way. 

There were other branching halls. It was more likely that they’d head towards the kitchens than come deeper into her parents’ wing of the manor.

Elana held her breath, waiting for the creaking to abate and for the glow of the lantern to fade.

Eventually, it did.

She peered around the lip of the alcove. She couldn’t see anyone or hear any footsteps, either approaching or retreating. Her shoulders sagged in relief and she released the breath she’d been holding. 

A deep, whisper-soft voice spoke over her shoulder. “My lady.”

Elana inhaled sharply, jolting back into the alcove.

A gloved hand clamped firmly over her mouth before she could so much as think about screaming. The hand was stained with the scent of fresh grass, oiled leather, and sweat.

“Pardon my intrusion,” the voice murmured, all too familiar once she’d had another second to process it.

She spun, colliding with a wall of solid muscle. Elana closed her eyes, swallowing a frustrated sound. She should have known it was him.