The dusk sky above the Rothermere estate turned a bruised lavender, bleeding into gold as the day leaned toward twilight. Elira stood on the terrace outside her chamber, arms resting on the stone balustrade, the breeze tugging gently at the loose strands of her dark hair.
Beneath her, the grounds stirred with quiet urgency—servants moving crates of crystal, florists arguing over arrangements, tailors delivering bolts of fabric. All the chaos of celebration.
And yet, all she could feel was stillness.
Her eyes tracked a hawk cutting through the sky. Free. Unbound.
Then a knock came from her door.
She turned as her maid entered.
"My lady, a missive has arrived. From the north with Hysenberg crest."
A breath caught in Elira's throat.
"…Leave it on the table."
The maid obeyed, curtsied, and left.
Elira walked to the parchment sealed with silver wax and the elegant stag insignia.
She didn't open it right away.
She only stared.
Until her hands moved without thinking.
Inside, Serina's reply was simple. But it felt like a heartbeat resurrected.
°Dear Elira,
I remember everything.
The night of the eclipse. Our 12th birthday.
The horrible Incident. Which forced us to grew appart.
But I never stopped hoping.
And now you've reached across to find me again.
Yes. I will come.
Earlier my debut was delayed for politics. And yours entangled in them.
But perhaps fate—twisted as it is—means for us to stand together again.
Two girls born under a holy doomed sky.
Wait for me.
—Serina
Elira pressed the parchment to her lips.
'Serina still remembered.'
Despite everything—despite the eight years of silence ,maybe more in actuallly, the distance, the political divide that grew between their families after her mother's death—Serina remembered.
'So not everything burned with the fire that swallowed my name last time.'
She exhaled slowly and turned toward her dressing table.
The past had already betrayed her once.
But Serina had not.
Maybe...
'In my last life, serina was no different than me, the highest rank of nobility was just for name sake .'
'They said she was being married to 3rd Princess of southern ''Kingdom of Orban"
She was out casted from the beginning and Lira replaced her not as the daughter of Duke but as long lost child of Baron Griffith. '
'Sure the orders were given by Royalty, if not why would the Great Lady Of Hysenberg would be sent of to Orban Empire just to get married with 3rd princess.'
In the Orban Empire of South. Here the human biological orientation is different. Females have the dominance and male the are recessive along with the ability to produce children.
'And the 3rd Princess already had multiple Lovers. Which eventually lead to dissapperance of the her . Till only, They sent her lifeless body here again. No one knows what actuallly happened there. Only a letter came along "she was found alone with a poison bottle. And with the same poison she died." And without any word, the death of Lady Hysenberg was accepted by empire. '
'I don't want her to die. Not in the way lost miserable. '
Elira clunched her fingers to fist.
'I wanna protect her, prevent the marriage alliance between the Aetherra and Orban Empire.'
'And that meant something. Something worth protecting this time.'
–Later that night…
The chamber was strewn with the detritus of nobility—gem-laced fabrics, silver-threaded veils, delicate gloves that looked like they belonged to someone far gentler than she'd ever be again.
Elira stood barefoot, arms folded, as the dressmaker lifted a moonlight- Emerald gown onto a stand.
"It's charming," Madame Lien offered. "Woven with silver threads from the Moon Moth silk trade, my lady."
'Charming,'
Elira repeated in her mind. As if charm ever saved anyone in the lion's den.
She gave a slight nod but her mind was elsewhere—focusing not on embroidery, but on positioning, politics, and perception.
"And the second gown?" she asked.
"For Lady Serina, just as you requested. Ivory with midnight underskirts. Elegant, youthful. It leans toward the Hysenberg tradition."
"Good. Make sure no one mistakes her for a mere guest."
The Madame lien blinked. "Pardon?"
"It's her debut as well along with me."
Silence queered.
"She's not a footnote," Elira said, voice steeled. "She's entering the stage with me."
'Even if they pushed her debut aside, even if they tried to drown both of us in silk and music to distract from their schemes—we'll cut through the noise.'
The Dressmaker Lady bowed and returned to pinning the hems.
Elira ran her hand down the velvet ribbon of Serina's dress—cool, fine, and strong.
Just like her.
Or how she remembered her.
They were girls born under the Holy Eclipse, they used to say. Fated.
Twin shadows of nobility—one from the blazing Rothermere sun, the other from the icy North Hysenberg.
She traced the neckline of the gown absently as her thoughts spiraled.
'Last time, Serina never even got the chance to wear white.'
Only black.
Only silence.
Only the lie that she'd chosen death.
But Elira had seen the truth in her lifeless face. She remembered the marks around Serina's wrists, neck.
The way the body had been too clean, the coffin too quick.
'This time, she will walk beneath Light, not shadows.'
'This time, she will be seen.'
Elira's reflection caught her eye in the mirror—sharp eyes, lips drawn, her skin kissed pale golden by the terrace light that still bled through the windows.
She did not look like a debutante.
She looked like a beautiful ghost returned to complete what was stolen.
She sat before the mirror, fingers brushing over the ivory comb on her vanity—the same one her mother had once used.
The same one they'd taken from the ashes and locked away.
Now, Elira lifted it with steady hands, twisted her hair up, and pinned it with care.
"The Empress wants a show. The nobles want gossip. The envoys want leverage."
"Let them have it."
"We'll give them all that they desire."
Her thoughts flicked briefly to the Second Prince.
The one who smiled with his eyes but stared like a serpent.
The one who, in the last life, kissed her hand and left the marks of teeth on her curse lotus blooming wrist.
Elira's gaze sharpened.
'Let him dare trying again.
Let him dare approaching me like he owns the board.'
'This time I'll show him the forecast of Death.'
"Because this time, I will not play as you wish. And Serina—"
"She won't be sacrificed."
There was a knock.
Not a maid's. A firmer one. Masculine.
"My Lady." came sharp husky voice from behind the door.
She allowed herself a pause before answering. "Come in."
He entered, pausing briefly when he saw her seated before the mirror, half-dressed but not revealing. skin glowing in the candlelight like burning white gold.
"…You look like a portrait," he muttered. "A terrifying one."
She arched a brow. "Is that your version of a compliment?"
"Unfortunately."
He leaned on the doorframe, arms crossed, studying her. "Everything's ready. The Astal Pavilion's being transformed into a floral graveyard, courtesy of the Empress's 'vision.'"
"I trust you burned her dove release plans?"
"Wystan did. With great pleasure."
That made her smirk faintly.
'You never failed me once Sir Lance , no wounder Eldest Brother Trust you so much.'
Sir Lance the 2nd Son of Court Green. Deputy captain of Wastrise Rothermere Soldiers. A dashing young man in his mid 20's
Elira tilted her head. "Did Wystan throw them into the hearth or stab them first?"
Lance's mouth twitched. "Both. In that order."
She huffed a soft laugh. "Good. I hope they screamed."
"They cooed," he said dryly. "Very dramatically."
Elira snorted. "A noble death, then. One for the history books."
Lance stepped closer, picking up a silver hairpin shaped like a thorned lily from the vanity.
"You're not really going to wear this, are you?" he asked, twirling it between his fingers like a dagger.
"It's a message."
"To whom?"
She met his gaze in the mirror. "Everyone."
He set the pin down with exaggerated care. "Remind me not to stand behind you during the toast."
"I make no promises."
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "And what about the embroidered snakes on your gown hem? Another subtle warning?"
"Too subtle?"
Lance gave a deadpan nod. "Only if they don't trip over their own egos trying to look at your ankles."
She lifted a brow. "Are you staring at my ankles, Sir Lance?"
A beat passed. He didn't flinch.
"Strictly for tactical purposes."
Elira laughed—quiet, genuine, the sound like leaves rustling.
"You're lucky Thorne would hang you last. Only after interrogating you about the wine stock."
"And that is why I remain loyal," Lance said playfully. "Not to crown or coin. But to Rothermere's superior wine."
She gave a mock-curtsy from her seat. "Then we are safe. The estate will never fall."
Lance moved toward the window, gazing out at the moonlit grounds where lanterns flickered like captive stars. His tone shifted—calmer now, but still with that dry edge.
"I saw the envoy list. The Orban ambassador will be attending."
Elira's fingers paused on a pearl clasp.
"I know."
"And?"
Her voice was low. "I'd rather dance with a ghost."
"You might get the chance. Half of them look like reanimated corpses in powdered wigs."
She smiled grimly.
But her eyes—those didn't smile.
"Lady Elira."
She looked up.
"If anything happens tomorrow…" Lance began, but she held up a hand.
"Don't. I'm not a porcelain girl in a tower."
A pause.
Then she said, "If something happens, aim for the throat. Not the heart. That's too kind."
He gave a rare, brief smile. "Yes, my lady."
Then turned and left—quiet as a shadow, but dependable as stone.
Elira turned back to the mirror. The flickering light caught the silver embroidery at her collar—coiled serpents blooming into roses.
She smiled.
Let them come.
She was no longer the pawn that was in control.
—.—>>>>●●●●<<<<—.—
In Capital City,
The royal observatory was high above the palace. Higher than the courtiers could whisper. Higher than the Empress's spies dared to linger.
It was here that the First Prince often retreated—where stained glass bathed the room in indigo light and the scent of old tomes mixed with star-ink.
He stood near the arched window, arms clasped behind his back, cloak cascading like shadowed water. His midnight Black hair caught the waning moonlight like frost.
The door creaked open behind him.
"I knocked," said a voice, casual.
"Twice. Even gave it a royal pause."
"I heard," Prince Caelan replied without turning. "You still entered before permission."
"Wouldn't be the first law I've danced over."
Elion Rothermere, The 2nd Son of Duke Rothermere. Strolled in, black gloves tucked under one arm, posture as relaxed as a wolf Relaxing. His golden hair was tousled from wind, and his cravat was loosely tied, as if formalwear personally offended him.
But his eyes—steel blue, sharp, never missing—were the same as the Duke's.
"Report," the Prince said.
"Well," Elion sighed, "you know how the Empress wanted to make the banquet all about the Second Prince? That's still happening."
A pause.
"But now it's also the debut of two girls who were born under a holy eclipse, both daughters of dukes. One of whom might stab someone if given the wrong dessert fork."
At that, Caelan turned. "She agreed to it?"
"It seems she'd been expecting it."
He paused. Then added, more seriously, "Little Leech is planning something. She's quiet—but not passive as she used to be. You know the difference."
"I do," Caelan murmured.
He walked to the chessboard by the telescope—its ivory pieces locked mid-battle. His fingers rested lightly on the queen.
"And Lady Hysenberg?"
"On her way to Rothermere estate. Elira sent the invitation herself." He gave a lopsided smile. "Didn't even run it by Father. I think Thorne nearly bit a wine glass in half."
"Good," Prince Caelan said, quiet approval laced in the word.
"She intends for their debut to be shared. Full stage. Full attention. Even if the Empress tries to hide them behind the Luinor envoys and the Second Prince's smiling ass."
Prince Caelan let out a breath, nearly a laugh.
"Poetic as always."
"I'm nothing if not eloquent."
They stood in silence for a moment—two predators wrapped in velvet civility.
Then Elion asked, more serious now, "You're going to attend?"
Caelan didn't answer immediately.
Then—
"They're trying to drown her in silk and noise. Again. But she's playing along because it's the only way to flip the board."
He tapped the queen.
"She's not the pawn in control anymore."
The Elion crossed his arms. "And the Second Prince?"
"If he lays a hand on her, I'll make it look like an accident."
"You are concerned in this regards?"
Elion asked with a hint of suspiciousness
"That's unlike you..."
Caelan's gaze didn't waver from the chessboard.
He moved a black knight.
"Because this time," he said softly, "I remember."
The White Queen was dead from chessboard .
Elion's brow furrowed faintly. "…You said that once before. But you never explained."
Caelan didn't move for a moment. Then, with slow deliberation, he picked up the white queen from the board. Turned it between his fingers.
"She died right before." He said looking deep at Queen's piece as if it was a person.
He moved his and reset all the chesspieces in order again leaving only the white queen in his clunched up fingers.
Elion waited
"Seriously Caelan, you are still eager to play things in middle rather than explaining it to me. "
He ignored his words and on brief pause.
"So I reset the play again. "
And he placed the white queen saying this .Ready to start again.