The moon hung low and orange—bloated like a harvest curse—as Elara lit the incense in the Sunken Library.
Not for worship.
For war.
"When the drums change rhythm, the dancers must change their steps."
The room smelled of dust, burnt clove, and blood memory. Around her, the Court of Shadows waited. No fanfare. No pledges. Just sharpened eyes and quiet breath.
Lady Morenji leaned forward. "We have a window. Tomorrow, Myra hosts a blessing for the harvest moon—public, blessed by the High Temple. She'll be exposed."
Zela added, "And surrounded."
Elara didn't blink. "Then we make it a stage."
She rolled out a map. Marked it with oil paint. The courtyard. The holy dais. The priest walkways. Escape tunnels.
Ebele laid a single gold coin in the center of the map.
"House Basari," she said. "They fund the ritual this year. The high priestess is on Myra's payroll. If she sings your name in the wrong way, the people will believe you carry the goddess's curse."
"Then we cut the song," Elara said flatly.
Zela stiffened. "You want to silence the high priestess? That's… blasphemy."
"The child who refuses to swallow truth will one day choke on lies."
Elara looked up.
"She's already turned the holy against me. This is no longer about piety. This is survival."
Silence.
Then N'kobi smirked. "We can silence. Or we can rewrite."
Elara raised a brow.
He held up a small clay vial.
"Throatbind oil. A drop on her vocal cords, and she won't speak for a mooncycle. Not pain. Not poison. Just silence."
"Will it work?" Morenji asked.
N'kobi grinned. "It worked on a prince once. He still writes his threats on napkins."
Elara nodded. "Do it."
At dusk, the blessing began.
Elara took her place among the nobles, dressed in moon-gold robes, expression serene. To the court, she was a wife. To the crowd, she was a curiosity.
To the loyal few, she was rising.
The priestess stepped forward—High Mother Sarela of Basari. Her voice opened the chant.
But the second verse faltered.
She gasped.
Clutched her throat.
And choked.
The temple guards rushed forward.
Panic stirred the crowd.
And in that crack of confusion, a ripple of movement passed through the elite.
Whispers.
Who is she?
Why now?
Did Elara curse the High Mother?
"The whisper of the bat frightens the dove more than the roar of the lion."
Elara said nothing.
She merely turned toward the temple with slow grace.
The moon caught her face just right.
And in that moment, the people saw not a wife.
Not a heretic.
They saw power.
That night, the streets buzzed.
Rumors bloomed like wildfire.
The prince's bride silenced the priestess with her eyes.
She carries the ghost of Lycaena in her bones.
She's cursed—but the kind of cursed that bends the wind to her will.
In her chambers, Elara bathed in silence, candlelight flickering against the water. The pendant Myra had given her lay on the table—still soaked in its invisible malice.
She looked at her reflection.
Strong.
Composed.
But behind the glass—something moved.
Lycaena.
Or something worse.
The voice came soft, slithering like steam.
"You silence priests. You gather outcasts. You turn blood into oath.
Tell me, Elara—are you sure you're not me?"
"The shadow does not ask permission to grow—it simply waits for the sun to rise."
Elara stood.
Dried her skin with velvet cloth.
And answered the mirror without fear.
"I'm not you."
Pause.
"But I'm learning from you."
The voice laughed.
Not mockery.
Approval.