The Rothermere estate awoke under a pale gold sky.
Mist still curled along the grass like ghostly ribbon, and dew clung to the petals of the vast floral arrangements spread across the eastern lawn. Somewhere in the distance, bells rang—soft, slow, ceremonial. As if the estate itself were holding its breath.
Elira was already awake.
She sat alone in the solarium, wrapped in a robe of pale ivory silk, her hair braided loosely down her back. Before her, a tea tray sat untouched, the steam long gone cold. A raven perched on the windowsill, cocking its head at her before flying off toward the spires of the outer gardens.
She didn't move.
She rung the bell.
Maren her personal maid came in with gentle knock.
"My lady?"
Maren's voice was soft as always, but she stepped in a little slower than usual, as if sensing the peculiar stillness hanging in the solarium.
Elira didn't look up at first. She was busy… humming. Low, tuneless. A single note held and twisted like a thread between her teeth.
'From now let's try change.'
She finally blinked and turned her head.
"Maren," she said, voice light. "Tell me—what does it mean when the raven comes before breakfast?"
Maren blinked. "I… don't know, my lady."
Elira tilted her head like the bird had done earlier, eyes wide and half-amused. "Neither do I. That's what makes it fun." She chuckled a little.
She leaned forward, plucked a sugar cube from the untouched tray, and held it up between her fingers. "Do you think he came for this? Or was he here to warn me?"
Maren swallowed.
"I wouldn't know, my lady… but I don't think it came for sugar."
Her eyes glaced over the morning tea she brought.
"Should I send for tea again, my lady? A warmer blend this time?"
Elira set the cube on her tongue, smiling faintly as it dissolved.
"No," she hummed. "Let it stay cold. It fits the mood."
"You seem… brighter today, my lady. Livelier, even. It's good to see a spark in your eyes again."
"Am I?"
Elira's voice was almost amused—but behind it, something darker stirred.
She reached for the white comb her mother had gifted and ran her fingers along the edge as if it were a blade, not bone.
Maren stepped closer, hesitating.
"…Did you not sleep last night, my lady?"
Elira tilted her head again, smile tightening.
"Oh, I did. Just not in the way of normal measure."
Sure Last night I was busy planning stuff.
Last Night
The moon had hung over the estate like a witness—white and waning, watching.
Elira stood in front of her vanity, not dressed for bed but draped in a sheer black shift, her bare feet cold against the stone floor. Her eyes in the mirror were hollow-lit, calculating.
She opened her wardrobe and entered
The room she was in strewn with ledgers, maps, and torn parchment. One document had been circled over and over in red ink—the Empress's decree merging her debut with the Second Prince's banquet.
A whisper of paper fluttered as she turned to the chessboard on the table beside her.
Each piece had been painted.
The White Queen was gone.
She'd removed it hours ago.
Only the black pieces remained—each with a name inked beneath.
«The Second Prince.»
«The Empress.»
«The Orban Grand Duke .»
«The Church.»
«The Lira.»
«The Black Mage Troupe »
At the center of the board, she'd placed a coin. An old one. The only token left from her mother's dowry chest, charred at the edge. A symbol.
Her fate.
Last time, she had played by the rules. Worn the gowns. Smiled. Bowed. Agreed.
And they'd burned her anyway.
She bent over the board now, voice a whisper against the silence:
"I must make them believe I'm still the pawn. Until I'm not."
Her fingers touched the knight piece labeled "Sir Lance" and slid it forward.
"Not all knights serve the crown."
And placed her index on another knight piece. Unnamed.
"These will serve me."
She moved "Elion" next—sideways, diagonal, chaotic.
'The Rothermere wolf couldn't be predictable. He never had been. But if guided, he could rip throats.'
She paused, then reached for a black bishop marked only with a symbol—a tower.
'The Black Mage.'
The memory stung.
In her last life, he had helped her. Too late. Too broken.
"This time," she whispered, "I'll draw him out first."
The soul vessel. The cursed seal. The fire that had eaten her alive.
'All of it tied to Lira.
Sweet, quiet Lira who didn't bleed like a maid should.'
'And Serina—gods, Serina. How had she not seen it sooner? The soft exile. The silence. The white coffin.'
She gripped the edges of the table so hard her knuckles ached.
This time, she would keep Serina beside her. In plain sight. On the stage. No matter what games are wove, or what mask the Second Prince wore when he extended his hand.
' But she was still very much alive, on last saw.'
Cool air breezed in embracing her beautiful ghostly pale face. Fluttering her silk dark hair.
Elira blinked slowly, still tasting ash and memory on her tongue. Her smile deepened into something uncanny—pretty and sharp, like glass in the sun.
"Tell the seamstresses I want the hem redone," she murmured suddenly.
Maren, startled, asked, "Which hem, my lady?"
"All of them," Elira said breezily, rising from her chair. "Too clean. Too easy. I want the threads to snare anyone who steps too close. Like spider silk."
Maren hesitated. "Yes, my lady…"
"And send word to Sir Lance. I'll need him at the stables before noon. We're testing horses."
"Horses?"
"I have to know which ones will run when the world burns."
Maren looked her with confused expression.
She smiled brightly. And whispered in cheerful voice. "Can't have another carriage 'accident,' can we?"
Maren bowed quickly and turned to leave.
"Oh—and one more thing," Elira added.
"Yes, my lady?"
"Bring me the map of the Astal Pavilion's underground passages. The old one. The one from locked study of mother."
Maren froze. "…Do you suspect danger?"
Elira walked toward the window again, where the raven had perched before. Her hands rested lightly on the glass, eyes scanning the fog-drenched horizon.
"No," she whispered.
"Yes my lady. " maren bowed and left.
Elira's gaze drifted across the garden as Maren's footsteps faded behind her.
The mist was thinning now—burned away slowly by the late morning rising sun—but it clung stubbornly to the shadowed corners of the hedgerows. Like memory.
Her reflection shimmered faintly in the windowglass, twin to the girl she used to be. The one who had died.
'You were so eager to trust, weren't you?'
The thought rang bitter in her skull.
She remembered the first time the carriage wheel "snapped" on a dry road.
She remembered the guard who had "fallen ill" on duty—just before.
She remembered the taste of the smoke, how it had forced its way down her throat while she screamed and no one came.
"And still, you smiled through it. You bowed. You believed them when they said it was fate."
Words came came for her own reflection.
Her lips parted in a soundless laugh.
'Fate.'
'They loved that word. The Empress most of all. Draping tragedy in prophecy like velvet over a dagger.'
But Elira remembered the truth: fate was just a script for those too powerful to be punished.
She touched the windowpane lightly with her fingertips.
"I was naive."
"Not stupid. But stupid enough to believe they wouldn't dare cross the Duke's daughter outright. That the crown still had lines it wouldn't cross. That the Second Prince wouldn't—"
Her breath hitched, but only slightly.
The cursed seal hadn't bloomed immediately. No, it had festered—like rot under porcelain skin. And when it finally revealed itself, the Church was already waiting. Accusations. Trials. Fire.
'All of it choreographed.'
"And I was so grateful when they said I would be spared if I confessed."
"As if I hadn't been burning already."
Elira pressed her palm flat to the glass.
"Not again."
She could still feel the weight of the manacles they'd locked around her wrists. The smell of pitch. The jeers. The priest's voice echoing as he read out false charges, while the Second Prince watched—expression unreadable.
And Lira… Lira had stood at the edge of the crowd.
Still. Too still.
Not blinking.
Just breathing.
"You smiled then, didn't you? Just once. When the fire touched me."
She whispered imagining Lira over window glass.
She blinked, shaking herself free from the echo.
This time, the pieces would move to her rhythm.
She would not just survive. She would unravel them all—thread by gilded thread.
Her secret enemy. The Second Prince. The Tower's silent bishop. The church hounds.
"I remember the fire."
"I'll Show what this memory look like."
She turned from the window, her robe trailing behind her like a whisper of mourning.
Elira moved through her chamber, stopping before the mirror once more.
The ivory comb still sat on the table, delicate and polished.
Her mother had given it to her years ago—before her death. Before all.
Elira ran a thumb along the back of the comb.
She went to her wardrobe, flinging it open.
Row upon row of gowns hung like ghosts—opulence lined in silk and embroidered lies.
She ignored them all, reaching for a dress in midnight blue—simple, severe, but laced with tiny black diamonds across the hem.
She smiled.
'They think they're hunting a lamb.'
'But I've walked through fire.'
'And I came out a wolf.'
Maren entered,
"My lady, let me help you prepare. "
Elira glanced once over her shoulder, the faintest curve to her lips.
"Yes, Maren," she said.
Elira turned, her midnight gown catching the light like polished obsidian. The diamonds along the hem sparkled like stars scattered across a moonless sky.
Maren stood quietly, holding out the delicate leather gloves Elira never wore—not in her old life. But this time, every detail mattered. Every illusion had a purpose.
Elira slid the gloves on without a word.
—.—>>>>●●●●<<<<—.—
"My Lady ,Sir Lance , The honored Lady Of Hysenberg has arrived at Duchy. "
Wystan called, breathless as he reined in his horse beside the training ground.
It was almost midday. The sun hovered high, its light soaking into the stones and stirring dust from the beaten path where the horses had just finished their last sprint.
Elira almost froze mid-step, one hand still on the reins of a sleek black mare.
For a heartbeat, she didn't speak. Just turned slightly toward the distant hilltop path beyond the orchard—where, sure enough, the Hysenberg crest shimmered on the approaching carriage like a silver whisper.
'You are here, how much have you changed?"
A smile—not cruel, not cold, but haunting— Curious touched her lips.
"She's early," she murmured.
Sir Lance raised an eyebrow. "That's... Wasn't Lady Hysenberg Supposed to come by evening?"
"No," Elira replied. "It's exactly like her."
At The Front Courtyard Moments Later.
The carriage door opened with a soft creak and—
A blur of motion.
Serina Hysenberg, nearly tripped on her own gown in her rush to step down from the ornate silver carriage. A footman scrambled to catch the hem, but she was already waving him off, breathless with excitement.
"Elira!" she called, laughing, her voice like wind chimes in spring.
She didn't wait for protocol.
Didn't pause for ceremony.
She lifted her skirts and practically just ran across the pebbled drive, her heels clicking against stone.
Elira had barely reached the landing of the grand stair when Serina launched forward and embraced her.
"I missed you!" Serina said with a gasp, burying her face in Elira's shoulder. "God, Elira, you look like a ghost and a queen. All Beautiful."
Elira blinked.
'Ha~sure you haven't changed a bit Serina '
A sweet smile curled on her lips.
The scent of lavender and crushed lemons clung to Serina's hair. Her arms were warm. Real. No illusion. No trick.
And so much brighter than memory had painted her.
"I thought you'd still be unpacking in the carriage," Elira said wryly, recovering.
"I threw the trunks at the servants and told them to chase after me. I had more important things to do." She leaned back and grinned. "Like tackle my dearest friend in front of the entire estate."
Elira, for once, laughed—soft and genuine. "You haven't changed."
"Lie again and I'll cry," Serina said dramatically with a cute pout, pressing a gloved hand to her chest. "I'm far more fashionable now. And wise. And well-read. And late to our debut."
"You're early."
"I know. But I couldn't stay away. Not today."
She turned her attention to the estate behind Elira and inhaled deeply.
"It smells like lilacs. And memory. And maybe burnt sugar. Did you make the kitchens prepare those almond rose pastries we used to steal?"
Elira gave her a smirked look. "You remember?"
"I remember everything, Elira," Serina whispered with sudden softness, her smile slipping into something deeper, more tender.
Elira looked away quickly—toward the garden, the banners, the staff lined in rows to greet the noble lady.
"Then come," she said, voice gentler. "Let's walk together."
Serina looped her arm through Elira's without hesitation.
'Sure look at you, it don't feel like we have been apart for 8 long years, maybe more '
"I'll try not to get us exiled in the first hour," she whispered, grinning. "But no promises. I've been cooped up too long. And you need someone to say all the things you can't."
Elira's fingers tightened around hers—just for a moment.
And then they walked.
One shadow, one light.
Side by side.
Like they were always meant to.