Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, illuminating the stone floor of House Ravencourt in hues of red and gold. But Kaelith felt no warmth. Cloaked in velvet and silence, she sat a world away in the Aviary, lest her presence lend dominion to the manor's despair. She had been waiting—for truth to materialize.
Now, she knew.
It was her cousin.
Thalia Ravencourt.
Her handmaid.
Her betrayer.
The quill in her fingers felt like a blade drilling into stone. Ten minutes had passed without a single word committed to the page. Only one word circled in her mind:
Justice.
She stood. Her gown of black silk billowed behind her like a tidal wave. She had no more tears left to shed. Fire heeds no sadness.
Descending the staircase, her face wore a mask blank as winter frost, save for the gentlest touch of rose on her lips. Servants bustled through the halls like headless chickens, eyes lowered. And amidst all the whispered gossip…
She mourned in silence.
For they let underestimation tremble while bickering their eyes off the true reality.
Thalia was in the rose courtyard, seated by the fountain, placing freshly cut flowers into a crystal vase. Dew mingled with the scent of betrayal in the air.
"Good morning, my lady," Thalia chirped without turning. "I picked the deep red roses today. Thought you'd like something bold."
Kaelith's boots whispered against the cobblestones as she approached. "You always did know what I liked."
"Memories kept me," she said, lifting a rose and twirling it in gloved fingers. "Memories can be funny. Some tend to come back sharper than the thorns they hide."
Thalia chuckled softly. "Well, I suppose so."
Kaelith leaned in, voice like a blade's edge.
"Some thorns hide poison. Did you know that?"
"I—I… no?"
A ghost of a smile touched Kaelith's lips. "No. I suppose you wouldn't."
As the wind stirred the petals, Kaelith turned and left Thalia blinking, uncertain, cold.
Even now, the Aviary in the east wing smelled of ink, aged parchment, and feathers. Theron sat on a high stool, surrounded by scattered scrolls and fragmented letters. He looked up as Kaelith entered.
"You rattled her," he said, amused. "She smiled like a snake with a shattered fang."
"She's afraid. Good. She ought to be." Kaelith sipped from a cup. "Have her monitored. Every move. Every whisper."
Theron nodded. "Already done. I've got eyes in the kitchen, ears in the stables. The moment she sneezes, I'll know."
Kaelith's gaze shifted toward a wall lined with ancient cabinets. "What about the list of names?"
"Here." Theron handed her a scroll. "Your name still circulates in whispers. They speak of you as if you were a ghost."
"Let them." She broke the seal.
Inside were notes from the palace—political shifts, noble marriages, estate transfers. But one message made her pause.
"Prince Corven plans a public announcement," she read aloud. "Possibly regarding a new consort."
Theron watched her. "He's moving quickly. Either to bury the past… or to secure the future."
Kaelith rolled the scroll back up. "Then it's time I return to the capital."
That day, she summoned her steward.
"I require the Ravencourt carriage prepared," she said. "With the embroidered crest and black velvet interior. See to the silver fittings."
"Yes, my lady." He bowed.
"And send a message to the palace," she added, voice lowering. "Inform them that Duchess Kaelith Ravencourt shall be present at the next court assembly."
The steward paused, blanching. "By what claim, my lady?"
Kaelith stared at him—unblinking, calm, ice in her eyes.
"By the claim of a presumption… that I am not dead."
That night, Kaelith lit a single candle and placed it by the window. The flame danced quietly in the stillness. She reached for a treasured object—a pin shaped like a raven.
She turned it over in her fingers, remembering. Aldric had given it to her, back when she believed love wasn't a façade and betrayal was only the stuff of stories.
But reality always arrives.
A raven cawed in the shadows. It perched on the windowsill, feathers shimmering under moonlight. Their eyes met.
Kaelith murmured to the bird, "I will return—not to plead, nor to beg."
The raven tilted its head. She nodded slowly.
"They will witness as I ascend. And they will never forget the lengths they went to silence me."
Outside, the wind stirred—cool, electric, charged with promise.
She let the candle burn low.