The moon hung low, veiled by restless clouds, as Elira moved through the east wing garden. The air was damp, heavy with the perfume of late-blooming roses, their scent almost cloying beneath the storm's approach. Few ventured here—fewer still knew that the ivy-choked hedge concealed a hidden passage that bled into the outer courts.
Elira's slippers made no sound as she walked deeper, her fingers grazing the damp stone of the hedge wall. This is where she slips away. The path none but I know. A crack in the labyrinth itself.
Her heart thudded—steady, purposeful. She paused before the hedge, watching. And then—
A rustle.
The leaves stirred, parting as though by unseen hands. Out from the green maw emerged a figure, pale and quiet as a phantom. Lira. Her head bowed, her posture meek, her coarse servant's gown brushed with briars. Yet the moonlight kissed her face, and in it shone that unearthly beauty—too refined, too haunting for a common maid.
Elira did not move. She stood squarely in the path, her presence calm but immovable.
Lira froze. Her eyes widened a fraction, then lowered quickly, lashes sweeping down like a curtain. She dipped into a servant's bow, voice hushed.
"M-my lady… forgive me. I did not expect to find you here at this hour."
Elira's lips curved faintly, her gaze a razor cloaked in velvet.
"Nor did I expect you to emerge from a hedge, Lira. Tell me—do all the maids of Rothermere keep their comings and goings through garden walls, or is this privilege yours alone?"
The maid's fingers tightened against her skirts. "I—I strayed in search of herbs, my lady. The kitchen was short of sage for the broth, and I thought the garden might—"
"—offer passage?" Elira finished softly, her smile deepening though her eyes did not waver. "Curious, then, that Baron Griffith swears he saw you near the Pavilion. Quite a long way from the kitchens, don't you think?"
The silence was thick, a net cast over the moonlit garden.
Lira's breath faltered, but she bowed lower, her voice faint, trembling.
"The Baron… must have mistaken me. I am but a lowly servant. Nothing more."
Elira tilted her head, studying her—the pale skin, the calm mask stretched too perfectly, the tremor beneath.
'Ah, how well she plays her part. But I know the truth stitched beneath that face.'
Her voice came quiet, almost kind, yet barbed with hidden iron.
"And yet, how strange that he would call you daughter. Stranger still that fate allows a maid's face to so perfectly mirror the dead."
The hedge stirred behind Lira, as though shadows themselves recoiled from the weight of Elira's words.
For a heartbeat, their eyes met—Elira's unflinching, Lira's downcast yet glimmering with something unspoken. Recognition.
Elira let the moment hang, then stepped closer, her voice a whisper sharp enough to cut.
"Keep your mask, if you wish. But know this—secrets do not stay buried in this house. Midnight may cloak you, Lira, but morning will strip you bare."
Lira's lips parted, as if to reply—but she closed them again, bowing once more, vanishing into meekness.
But as Elira turned away, her pulse steady, she felt it: that gaze, following her. Not the gaze of a servant. Not submission. A predator waiting for her guard to falter.
'The game begins in riddles,' Elira thought, her lips curving.' And I have always loved a puzzle.'
—.—>>>>●●●●<<<<—.—
The first pale threads of dawn had just begun to unravel across the horizon when the stillness of the Rothermere gates was disturbed. The guard keeper, stiff-backed despite the lingering chill of night, bowed low before relaying the report: a carriage bearing the insignia of the Holy Temple, followed closely by one marked with the crest of House Griffith, had crossed the outer bridge and was now approaching the estate.
The message did not linger in the Duke's study alone. Whispers, quick and quiet as moth wings, traveled through the servants' halls. By the time the lamps in the eastern wing guttered against the rising sun, the news had already reached Elira—delivered in the careful, hushed tones of her maids.
"Summon the maid who bore this report,"
The Duke's voice cut through the still air, directed toward Wystan with quiet authority.
When the sitting chamber doors opened, the scene within carried its own weight.
The chamber held a silence that did not feel empty, but heavy—woven from expectation and the unspoken ties binding church, crown, and nobility.
The Second Holy Maiden's posture was immaculate, hands folded lightly over her lap, her pale eyes lowered in serenity. Yet serenity was never so flawless without discipline. To Elira, watching from the edge of the room, it seemed instead like a veil too carefully drawn.
'It's only my second time being in same room as second holy maiden ' thought ran through Elira as she gazed once more over her.
Her attendants stood at her side, their linen veils untouched by the restless draft that slipped through the tall windows. One held a satchel embroidered with golden thread—the seal of the High Priest glimmering faintly against the leather.
Baron Griffith, by contrast, was a shadow of stone and silence. His presence seemed less like a guest and more like a fixture—an extension of the King's unseen reach. He sat upright, broad hands resting over his cane, gaze steady yet unreadable. His silence was not passivity, but power. When Griffith chose to speak, his words often weighed more than a hall full of courtiers.
The Duke of Rothermere broke the stillness first, his tone measured.
"You arrive with the dawn, Holy Maiden. The road from the Temple is long, yet you waste no hours in rest. What summons drives you to my estate so swiftly?"
The maiden's eyes lifted—clear, pale, luminous as though reflecting light not of this world. Her voice was soft, reverent, yet with a cadence that compelled attention.
"My lord Duke, the Temple does not stir lightly. We are called by the will of the Divine. And this dawn… we come not only with blessings, but with warnings."
The words brushed the chamber like a chill. One of her maids shifted slightly, the faint clink of beads against her wrist breaking the hush.
Baron Griffith's eyes flickered, sharp despite his stillness, before he spoke at last.
"The King has already been informed. It was His Majesty's wish that I remain to receive your tidings here."
Elira's gaze lingered on the maiden. Warnings, she had said. And yet—what danger would the Temple deliver in whispers to her father's house before the court itself? What threat was grave enough to arrive cloaked in secrecy, on the cusp of her debut and the banquet prepared for the Second Prince?
The Second Holy Maiden drew the satchel closer, her fingers brushing the seal.
"The Divine granted me a vision beneath the eclipse's shadow," she said quietly. "A house draped in roses, walls laced with ivy… and fire. Fire that devoured without mercy. A curse woven from blood, reaching from servant's halls to noble chambers alike."
Elira felt the words tighten around her throat like unseen hands. The ivy, the roses—the garden she had just walked.
And fire. Always fire.
The Duke's expression did not shift, but his hand pressed firmly against the desk before him.
"Speak plain, Holy Maiden. Do you accuse House Rothermere of harboring this curse?"
The maiden's lips parted, and for a moment, the chamber seemed to wait on her breath.