Moonlight poured through the crystal lattice windows of House Valen, casting silver shadows across the marbled floors. The estate once quiet and heavy with the weight of disgrace now pulsed with new life. Lanterns floated in the air, suspended by threads of magic, glowing with soft golds and silvers. Music trickled from the east wing, where minstrels played the harp and viol.
Elira stood atop the grand staircase, her dark crimson gown trailing behind her like a stream of blood. Her hair was twisted into a crown of braids, pinned with obsidian thorns. She wore no jewelry save for one ring an antique signet once belonging to her grandmother. It gleamed faintly with an enchantment long forgotten by most.
Beside her stood Kael, dressed in tailored black, a sword strapped plainly to his hip.
"You're calm," he said under his breath.
She surveyed the glittering crowd below. "I have no reason not to be."
His gaze flicked downward. "Every vulture in the Empire is under this roof."
"Exactly," she said, her lips curling. "I'd rather know where they are."
A steward rang a bell from below. "Her Ladyship, Elira of House Valen, bids welcome to her honored guests."
As if on cue, the entire hall turned toward her. Conversations fell into whispers. Men and women who had once sneered at her now stood frozen in wary awe. Some bowed. Others did not.
Elira descended the steps like a queen descending to judgment.
---
The banquet hall was lavish restored overnight with marble-topped tables, gilded cutlery, and fresh roses arranged in delicate spirals. A feast had been laid out: roasted duck glazed with pomegranate, goldleaf pastries, wild boar with honeyed plum. But Elira's eyes were not on the food.
They were on the players.
Across the room sat Duke Arsen Derond, a man who had once petitioned for her exile. He raised his goblet in mock greeting. To his left, Lady Marcella Wynn, the widowed countess who controlled the eastern trade routes, whispered behind a jeweled fan. By the far wall, Prince Renard, second son of the Emperor and her former betrothed, leaned against a column, surrounded by simpering noblewomen.
Elira's former fiancé.
He had not bowed.
She approached him directly, her footsteps unhurried.
"Prince Renard," she said smoothly, "I hadn't expected you to crawl out from your little palace harem."
The women around him stiffened.
Renard's jaw twitched. "I was invited."
"You were tolerated," she replied. "There's a difference."
Gasps fluttered around them.
"You're still bitter," he said, smiling tightly. "Even dressed like a queen, you can't change what you are."
"No," Elira said. "But I can change what they see."
And she turned her back on him without another word.
---
Throughout the evening, Elira moved with precision—pausing at the right tables, offering the right smiles. She spoke to allies of the Queen Dowager, to merchants who grumbled about trade levies, to noble sons desperate to carve their names in court.
Every word she said was a thread. Every glance, a stitch.
She was weaving her web.
By the second hour, the music had softened, and her guests were deep in their drinks. It was time.
She raised her glass and stood, her voice rising with quiet command.
"My honored guests," she said, and the room fell silent, "I thank you for joining me. I know many of you wondered why I would host such a gathering so soon after my... change in status."
Several nobles smirked. Others looked politely bored.
"But I believe power is not in titles. It is in presence. And tonight, you are not in the presence of a discarded daughter or a scorned woman."
She smiled coldly.
"You are in the presence of the future."
A murmur rolled through the room.
Before anyone could respond, the lights flickered.
Then, with a crack of broken glass, a lantern fell from the ceiling and the music stopped.
For one heartbeat, silence reigned.
Then a scream rang out.
A figure in black dropped from the balcony above, blade gleaming under moonlight.
The assassin lunged straight for Elira.
Kael was fast—his sword already halfway drawn but the assassin was faster.
The room exploded into chaos.
Nobles dove beneath tables, goblets clattered to the floor, and guards scrambled to intervene.
But the blade was already inches from Elira's throat.
And then—
It stopped.
Not by Kael's hand.
Not by any physical force.
But by Elira's.
Her fingers had snapped upward instinctively, her palm glowing with an otherworldly violet light.
The blade hovered midair—frozen.
The assassin choked, his body suspended like a puppet caught in invisible strings.
Elira's eyes had changed. No longer the cool grey of her noble house. Now they shimmered with ancient magic.
"Who sent you?" she asked, voice like thunder on a calm sea.
The assassin's mouth worked uselessly.
"Who sent you?" she repeated.
His body convulsed—then stiffened. Blood poured from his mouth.
He was dead before he hit the floor.
The spell vanished.
Gasps echoed across the room.
Some stared at Elira in horror. Others in awe.
She turned to her guests, her voice cutting through the stunned silence.
"Anyone who thinks I am vulnerable is welcome to try again."
She stepped over the assassin's corpse, unflinching.
"But they will find I am not the woman they remember."
---
Later, after the body had been removed and the guests had been escorted out under heavy guard, Kael stood in the garden beside her.
"You used it," he said quietly.
"I had no choice."
"They saw what you are."
"They saw enough," she said. "And that's what matters."
He glanced at her sidelong. "How long have you had it?"
"Since the day I woke up. The day I returned."
He nodded slowly. "It's not just sorcery. It's ancient. Tied to the bloodline."
"Something more," Elira murmured. "Something older than this Empire."
Kael hesitated. "You should tell the Queen Dowager."
"I will."
"But not tonight."
"No," Elira said. "Tonight, I let the court talk."
---
And talk they did.
By sunrise, every corner of the capital buzzed with rumors.
That Lady Elira had stopped an assassin with a flick of her hand.
That her eyes had glowed with demon-fire.
That she'd been reborn by ancient rites.
That she had killed her attacker with a whisper.
And behind closed doors, nobles who once dismissed her now whispered her name with fear.
---
But in the shadows of a distant crypt, a hooded figure lit a candle before a pool of still water.
The surface rippled, and an image formed: Elira standing amidst her banquet, eyes glowing, hand raised.
The figure watched in silence.
Then they whispered:
"She remembers."
---