The Northern Fortress loomed against the midnight sky, its black spires clawing at the clouds like the talons of a great beast. Snow hissed against the thick windows of Lilian's chambers as she paced, the events of the tea party replaying in her mind. She was the villainess. Not just any villainess—the one who died screaming. Her fingers twitched toward the dagger on her desk. Not this time. This knowledge, still raw and unsettling, was also a gift, a blueprint of the destruction she now had the power to dismantle.
A soft knock, barely audible over the wind, preceded the gentle creak of her door. Lilian turned, her violet eyes hardening. It wasn't a servant, but a young woman, slender as a willow, with eyes that saw everything and said nothing. This was Seraphina, one of Lilian's own burgeoning network of whispers, a quiet shadow Lilian had cultivated herself over the years, carefully, patiently, away from her father's notice.
Seraphina moved like smoke, stepping into the room and silently closing the door. She offered a small, intricate porcelain doll. A message. Lilian took it, her mothscale gloves—now a part of her, a second skin of venomous grace—brushing the delicate ceramic.
The doll's eyes, painted with unsettling realism, seemed to track her. Lilian twisted its head. A tiny, tightly folded scroll was hidden within.
She unrolled the paper. It contained only a single, stark sketch: Prince Cedric, his golden head bent close to Elara's, their fingers intertwined, silhouetted against the familiar arch of the palace gardens. The image was intimate, undeniably tender.
Pathetic. Lilian's lips curved into a thin, cold line. She'd known the truth since her memories returned—the novel had laid it bare. But seeing it rendered so clearly, a betrayal made tangible, was different. It solidified the abstract into a concrete, burning certainty. This wasn't merely a story; it was her life, and they were already moving against her.
A stray white moth, having somehow found its way into the fortress, fluttered clumsily onto her gloved wrist. It beat its wings once, twice, a fragile pulse against the lethal surface. Lilian watched it, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes, a fleeting recognition of its fleeting innocence. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, her fingers closed. The soft body offered no resistance. A faint, almost imperceptible crunch. She opened her palm. Only dust and broken, iridescent scales remained. A small, symbolic act. Innocence, crushed. Hope, extinguished. A premonition for those who now stood in her path.
A sharper, colder memory sliced through the present. Her father's voice, a gravelly whisper, echoed in the chambers of her mind, as clear as if he stood beside her. "The Valtorias survive because we see first," he'd said, his gruff hand pressing the hilt of a small, jeweled dagger into her twelve-year-old hands. Its weight felt surprisingly natural. "Observe. Understand. Anticipate. Strike second, and you're already dead. The world devours the blind." He hadn't taught her to wield a blade in a duel, but how to recognize weakness, how to exploit a flaw, how to remove an obstacle.
Lessons of survival, delivered with the cold precision of a skilled hunter. The memory faded, leaving behind a residue of steel in her veins. Below, though far away within the capital, she could almost hear Elara's distant laughter, thin and high, like shattered glass skittering across cobblestones. It grated on Lilian's newfound resolve. She would not be shattered. She would be the one doing the shattering.
Lilian turned back to Seraphina. "Any other… developments… in the capital?" she asked, her voice low. Seraphina, whose network extended into the more discreet corners of the city, responded with practiced brevity.
"The Prince, My Lady, maintains a discreet residence on the western edge of the Noble Quarter. Meetings are held there, typically Tuesday evenings. Always the same woman." Again, no name was needed. The confirmation was precise, damning. This was not a casual tryst; this was an established pattern, a calculated deception within their very engagement.
Lilian's smile was knife-sharp, cold and utterly without humor. "How… loyal." The sarcasm was a cutting edge. It confirmed Cedric's inherent weakness, his easily swayed heart, his preference for saccharine sweetness over strength, just as the novel had described him. But to hear it confirmed, with such clinical detail, only solidified her contempt. This wasn't just a literary plot anymore; it was a personal affront.
A challenge.
She reached into a hidden pocket of her dressing gown, retrieving a heavy gold coin – a Valtoria sovereign, bearing the formidable profile of her great-grandfather. She pressed it into Seraphina's hand. "Tell the auctioneer I'll be attending tonight's proceedings personally. The one with the peculiar tastes."
Her voice held no room for negotiation. She added the last phrase knowing the black market auctioneer would understand exactly who was coming and what they might seek. Seraphina nodded once, a brief, sharp movement, and melted back into the shadows from which she'd emerged. She was a tool, exquisitely honed, and Lilian would wield her.
After Seraphina's departure, Lilian retreated to her private greenhouse, which was less a place of delicate flowers and more a sanctuary for her peculiar fascination. Here, in carefully climate-controlled gilded cages, her specialized moths thrived.
They were not the common, innocent sort, but creatures bred for specific, unsettling purposes, their mandibles strong, their appetites keen. One, larger than the rest, a mottled grey with surprisingly robust wings, landed on her shoulder, its tiny legs tickling her skin. Its mandibles clicked softly, an unnerving, hungry sound.
"Hungry?" she murmured, a strange affection in her voice. These creatures understood a primal hunger, unburdened by deceit. She sliced the pad of her thumb with a newly sharpened nail, a single bead of crimson welling up. The moth immediately lowered its head, its proboscis extending. It lapped at the blood eagerly, a mesmerizing, disturbing sight. A connection formed, dark and undeniable.
This was a different kind of life, a different kind of loyalty. A soft knock interrupted the unsettling ritual. A servant's voice, hushed and nervous, filtered through the glass door.
"Your father requests your presence, my lady. The prince's men still grow impatient at the gates. They have sent another envoy, demanding your immediate return to the capital." A cold amusement flickered in Lilian's eyes. Let them shiver. Let them demand. They would learn the cost of arrogance, of attempting to command a Valtoria.
"Let them rot," she said, her voice clear and cutting, loud enough to carry through the glass. The moth, sated, fluttered back to its cage.
She found the duke in his study, the same cavernous room where he had given her the Frostbane and her mother's gloves. He sat at his massive desk, bathed in the glow of a single, flickering lamp, reviewing a thick stack of parchments.
A slave manifest, she realized, recognizing the distinctive script of the black market guild. His focus was absolute, even as the distant cries of Cedric's increasingly frustrated guards echoed faintly from the gates. "The auction's at midnight," he said, his voice flat, not bothering to look up from the document.
"You'll take six guards. Armored ones. And Riven." It was a command, not a suggestion. Her safety was paramount, even in their clandestine dealings.
Lilian flexed her gloved hands, the silver threads gleaming in the dim light. The moth scales felt like a silent, deadly promise against her skin. Six guards, Riven, a carefully orchestrated entry into the underbelly of the capital.
All for a single acquisition.
"I only need one beast, Father," she said, her voice soft but firm, a ripple of excitement stirring beneath her calm exterior. She knew exactly which lot she intended to bid on. The stories, the whispers of its ferocity, had reached even the secluded North. It was precisely the kind of loyal, untamed power she needed. A true beast, unlike the gilded ones in the palace.