A sharp knock reverberated against the doorframe.
"Your Grace, the maid Lira has been brought as you commanded."
The doors opened with a low groan. Wystan stepped inside first, his frame rigid with formality, the head maid gliding in his shadow. Behind them followed Lira—quiet, composed, her steps measured as though rehearsed.
The room's taut silence fractured. The weight of the chamber shifting in an instant.
"Oh—my daughter!" Baron Griffith's voice broke the stillness as his gaze fell upon her.
Lira's eyes flicked upward, her face pale, hollow—an expression carved from stone as she met the stares of those assembled.
The Baron lurched forward, cane striking against the floor in a deliberate rhythm, yet beneath the restraint trembled something raw—the fragile, aching joy of a father beholding a child returned from shadows.
But Elira caught it—a faint tremor in the Holy Maiden's eyes.
'Did she sense it too? Something ominous?'
Her gaze followed the Maiden's line of sight… only to find a pair of eyes already fixed upon her.
For the briefest instant, Elira's breath faltered.
Lira.
Those eyes—unblinking, deliberate—held no meekness now. They gleamed with a message unspoken, as though whispering: Everything is unfolding just as she intended.
The chamber thickened.
The Duke's voice cut through, low and firm.
"Baron Griffith. Hold yourself."
The words were measured, yet a storm churned beneath them.
Baron's hand tightened around the silver head of his cane, knuckles paling, but he did not retreat. His gaze clung to Lira, as though afraid she would vanish should he blink.
"She bears her mother's face… and yet—"
His words faltered, emotion strangling them.
Elira's own lips pressed into a fine line.
' No, not her mother's. Another's. Someone the Baron could never dare name here.'
The Holy Maiden's fingers brushed the edge of her satchel, pale knuckles trembling ever so slightly. When she spoke, her voice was a whisper edged in dread.
"The vision… the curse that walks clothed in flesh…" Her eyes flicked again to Lira, though she bowed her head as if in prayer.
The Duke's gaze sharpened.
"Speak plainly, Holy Maiden."
But she did not. Instead, she pressed her lips together, refusing to meet his eye.
Elira, however, needed no clearer sign. She felt the shift in the room, the invisible thread binding each player. Her father's authority. The Baron's desperate claim. The Maiden's unease. And at the center of it all—Lira.
Still as stone, silent as the grave, yet holding the room in her grasp with nothing more than a look.
Elira forced her gaze to hold steady against Lira's, refusing to yield an inch.
'You want me to see the game. I do. But know this, Lira—pieces move both ways across the board.'
The moment broke only when the Duke's voice thundered once more, each word a demand.
"Enough riddles. This house has no patience for shadows. Wystan, take the girl aside. She will be questioned—thoroughly."
Lira bowed her head in meek obedience, yet her eyes lingered a heartbeat longer on Elira. A glimmer. A promise. A threat.
And Elira knew—whatever mask the maid wore for the others, that look was meant for her alone.
This questioning will take time. Better to set other pieces in motion. I'll need eyes, ears—a discreet team to gather what I cannot reach. Work done in shadow, behind the curtains.
Elira lowered her gaze, her voice calm but measured.
"Father, if I may take my leave. I gave Serina my word to accompany her into the city before she returns to the Hysenberg estate."
The Duke regarded her a moment, then inclined his head.
"Go. I shall speak with the Duke of Hysenberg myself before their departure."
Together, they withdrew, pausing only to offer a courteous bow to the Holy Maiden. The chamber, with its weight of secrets, was left in Wystan's care, the head maid close at his side.
—.—>>>>●●●●<<<<—.—
The corridor beyond was cooler, its tall windows spilling dawnlight across the stone. Elira's steps echoed softly, yet her mind moved swifter than her feet.
'Lira's mask won't slip so easily. But there are ways to pry at the seams. And the Maiden's tremor… she saw something, I know it. If the Temple carries warnings, then I must gather proof before their whispers become weapons.'
"Elira!"
The call was light, familiar. Serina waited at the far end of the hall, a cloak draped over her arm, her smile bright despite the uneasy air lingering from the morning's summons.
"You kept me waiting," she teased gently. "Shall we go before the market wakes completely?"
Elira's lips curved faintly, though her thoughts remained elsewhere. She drew nearer, linking her arm through Serina's with an ease that masked her vigilance.
"Yes. Let's not waste the morning."
Yet even as she stepped into the day's pale light, her mind traced invisible threads—the network she would weave before nightfall.
Because while the Temple brought warnings and Lira played at riddles, Elira had no intention of waiting idly.
The carriages rattled over cobblestones before slowing at the heart of the city. Market stalls unfurled their colors like banners, the air rich with the scent of spiced bread and roasted chestnuts.
Serina tugged Elira eagerly through the winding streets, laughter softening the shadows that had clung to the morning. They sampled sugared pastries first, sharing them over silver spoons and quiet smiles, before wandering among jewelers and silken stalls.
Serina's eyes caught on a pendant of warm amber—its hue glowing like trapped sunlight. She clasped it around Elira's neck herself, her expression proud, almost tender.
"This suits you," she murmured.
Elira, in turn, pressed into her friend's palm a small velvet box. Within lay a blue diamond, cut to brilliance.
"Shape it as you will," Elira said. "A ring, a brooch, whatever your heart desires. But let it remain yours alone."
Serina's lips parted in surprise, her fingers trembling faintly over the gem. Then she smiled, though her lashes dipped low, as though hiding something unspoken.
By the time the sun tilted toward its descent, their carriages turned back toward Rothermere. The Duke was waiting at the gates, his voice steady as he gave instruction.
"Serina, you will rest in the Spire Tower after your shopping. Tomorrow, you depart for Hysenberg."
Serina curtsied, her smile polite, though her hand clung to Elira's sleeve a heartbeat longer before releasing it.
A second carriage rolled to a halt before the spire tower, its crest gleaming under the late morning sun. From it descended Duke Hysenberg, tall and severe, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow. His sharp gaze softened only when it fell upon his daughter.
"Serina," he called, his voice firm yet touched with fatherly warmth, "it is time we return."
"Yes, Father." Serina gathered her skirts and gave Elira's hand a quick squeeze, her eyes reluctant to part.
Elira dipped into a graceful curtsy. "My lord Duke," she greeted, her tone polite, though her lips curved faintly in reassurance toward Serina.
The Duke inclined his head in acknowledgment, sparing her a brief glance before extending his hand to Serina. She climbed into the carriage, turning at the last moment to wave back at Elira.
Elira lifted her hand in return, her smile calm though her thoughts lingered.
"Until next time, Serina,"
She said softly, her words nearly lost beneath the creak of wheels as the carriage pulled away.
The Duke's retinue followed, and soon the road was quiet again, leaving Elira standing before the spire tower, the faint scent of crushed street drifting through the noon air.
'It's time I begin my search for an information broker… Elira mused, her steps measured and deliberate. Among all the sources I know, there is only one that can aid me to the fullest—and one I can trust not to betray me.'
Her thoughts sharpened as she turned a corner. Before her stood a boutique, its façade elegant yet imposing, the tall arched windows glinting like watchful eyes. The structure rose higher than its neighbors, refined in detail yet commanding in stature, as though it guarded secrets within its silken walls.
Elira paused at the threshold, her lips curving faintly.
"How fitting,"
She murmured, before pushing the door open.
The bell chimed softly as Elira stepped inside. At once, the attendants turned, their bows seamless, voices smooth in unison.
"Welcome, my lady," they chorused.
One of them—a man wearing a golden brooch shaped like a stylized quill—stepped forward. His eyes were calm, practiced, yet just sharp enough to take measure of her at a glance.
"May I inquire," he asked with impeccable courtesy, "what sort of fabric milady desires today? We have silks from the eastern provinces, velvets from the northern looms, or perhaps something rarer, more difficult to acquire?"
Elira's gaze lingered on him, unblinking. She knew well enough that 'fabric' was no more than a cipher, a mask worn for the shop's true purpose. Here, bolts of cloth were not measured in inches but in secrets, and the rarer the weave, the deeper the information it veiled.
'Yes… this is how Duchess Estmere spoke of it in my last life, ' Elira recalled, her mind sifting through memory. ' The "velvets" are rumors of court. "Silks" are noble scandals. And the rarest fabrics… those belong only to the owner himself.'
"I believe," Elira said at last, her tone calm, almost casual, "I would like to see something… unusual. Perhaps the sort of fabric one would never display openly, but only offer to those who ask properly."
The man's lips twitched at the edges, not quite a smile, but acknowledgment. He inclined his head.
"Then this way, my lady. We shall fetch a catalog of our most exclusive patterns. Few request such things, but I suspect you will find them to your taste."