(Winter, Capital of Graycastle)
The capital had changed. The snow no longer looked pure under the street lamps—soot and smoke had mixed into the air, painting the world in shades of gray. It was the season of unrest. Merchants rushed to sell what they could, nobles whispered about the south, and soldiers in royal colors marched through the squares with banners fluttering in the cold wind.
Somewhere in the chaos, a new name began to circulate among the back alleys and shadowed taverns: Lady Mirrele.
They said she wore a mask that covered half her face. They said she bought information and sold silence. Some even claimed she was not a woman at all, but a ghost given flesh—a creature of whispers and secrets.
In truth, Lady Mirrele was none other than Morgan Ivory.
It had been weeks since she had finished establishing Ivory Manor and turned her attention back to the underworld. Her elegant front as a manor owner was the perfect veil—wealthy enough to be untouchable, quiet enough to be ignored. Beneath that mask of civility, she began weaving threads of information and control across the capital.
Her first move was subtle.
Inside a small, dimly lit room within the slums—once a warehouse belonging to Big Rat's gang—Morgan stood before a crude table where papers and small metal coins were spread. Around her stood a group of children, each wearing mismatched coats too big for their frames.
They were her little rats, once orphans of Big Rat's downfall. Now, they were runners, eyes, and ears of the capital's unseen corners.
"Remember," Morgan's voice was calm yet firm, "never speak my name outside this room. If someone asks, you don't know who pays you. You only deliver what I tell you to."
The children nodded nervously. One of them, Gerald—the boy she had found cowering in the ruins of Big Rat's den—stood closest to her. He had grown bolder these past few weeks, serving as her messenger and errand boy.
Morgan handed him a small pouch. "This goes to the East Market. Tell the blacksmith there that Lady Mirrele found his missing shipment of iron nails. He'll understand."
Gerald took the pouch and bowed slightly before hurrying out.
The others dispersed, leaving Morgan alone. She reached for her cloak and mask, fitting the half-black, half-silver piece onto her face. In the mirror's reflection, she no longer saw the witch Morgan Ivory. What stared back was a poised, enigmatic woman draped in mystery—the Lady of Masks.
The underworld didn't welcome newcomers easily.
The first few weeks were filled with tests—fake offers, deceitful deals, and attempted ambushes. But each one failed. Her moth constructs and invisible insect scouts allowed her to see betrayal long before it arrived.
One night, in a dim tavern filled with gamblers and smugglers, Lady Mirrele met her first challenge.
Across the table sat a heavyset man with a scar across his nose, known in the slums as Old Darrin, one of the remaining brokers who handled contraband shipments. He had heard of this new masked lady who moved faster than anyone else and wanted to test her nerve.
"So you're the lady everyone's been whispering about," Darrin said, his tone dripping with mockery. "What makes you think you can trade here without my say-so?"
Morgan's lips curved into a faint smile beneath her mask. "Because while you were busy questioning me, I already bought half your delivery routes."
Darrin froze. "What?"
She pushed a document across the table. It bore the signatures of his hired drivers, each one agreeing to a new employer—Lady Mirrele.
"You're getting old, Darrin," she said softly. "Your men want coin and security, not pride."
He reached for his dagger, but before he could draw, a black moth landed on his hand. Its wings shimmered faintly with silver light.
"I wouldn't," she warned.
The moth pulsed once—and then it shifted, turns into a small snake ready to bite anyone it come across. The dagger fall from old Darrin's grasp, its metal clinging like it's the only sound in the room loud enough to be heard. Darrin stared in horror, sweat breaking down his brow.
Morgan stood. "You can keep your pride. I'll take your business."
When she left the tavern, the rumor had already spread: Lady Mirrele had defeated Old Darrin without shedding blood. Some say she used demons power to defeat Darrin. By morning, half of Darrin's contacts had already switched sides.
With control over several trading routes, she began the real operation—the carriage trade.
Weeks before the official declaration of war, Morgan had foreseen the economic tide. She used her hidden funds to purchase old, unused carts and wagons from bankrupt merchants and ruined noble houses. Through intermediaries, she cleaned them up, refitted them, and stored them in secret warehouses.
Now, those carts were worth their weight in gold.
"Three gold royals for each?" said one of her hired traders, disbelief in his voice.
Morgan leaned back in her chair. They were in her hidden workshop, once Big Rat's old base. The faint sound of hammering echoed below where blacksmiths repaired wheels and axles.
"Sell them for five," she replied calmly. "They'll buy no matter the price. Tell them the roads to the south are long, and supply wagons are scarce. Fear will make them desperate."
"But my lady, if we raise the price too high—"
"They'll suspect nothing," she interrupted. "They'll blame the war, not us."
Her trader bowed and left, shaking his head.
Morgan turned to the table where stacks of letters and sealed envelopes were neatly arranged. These were her information packages—reports, rumors, and trade predictions. She sold them to merchants and minor nobles under different aliases, ensuring no one could trace their origin back to her.
Each transaction was another thread woven into her web.
Through her moths and other insect constructs, she spied on guild meetings, watched merchant convoys, and listened to whispers behind locked doors. What she gathered was not mere gossip but control—the flow of truth and lies that dictated the pulse of the capital.
At night, when the manor above slept, she retreated to her workshop. There, she shed her noble façade and moved like a shadow among the crates and candlelight.
On one such night, as snow fell quietly outside, Morgan stood on the second floor of her warehouse, overlooking her workers.
"Shipment to the western district is ready," one of her hired personnel—a young woman named Tess—reported.
"Good," Morgan said. "Make sure the guards are well-paid this time. We don't want curious eyes."
Tess nodded and left.
Morgan lingered, her gaze settling on the faint, shimmering strands that only she could see—thin threads of light that extended from her fingertips and disappeared into the air. Her spatial awareness connected her to every insect and construct she had summoned. Through them, she could see the movements of people miles away, hear distant conversations, and feel disturbances in the air.
It was her greatest weapon and her silent comfort.
One of the threads pulsed suddenly. Morgan focused, and an image formed in her mind—a group of merchants discussing her name.
"Lady Mirrele again," one said nervously. "Who is she? Even the quartermasters deal with her now."
"No one knows. But she's always one step ahead. Every time the price of goods changes, she's already moved her stock."
Morgan smiled faintly.
This was power—the kind she could control without lifting a sword or spilling blood.
Days passed.
Morgan watched from her balcony in Ivory Manor as the soldiers marched through the snow.
The army's officers scrambled for transport—carriages, wagons, anything with wheels. But there were none left. Someone had bought them all weeks ago.
Panic spread.
And when desperation reached its peak, a masked lady appeared once again in the underground markets, offering to sell her "private stock."
At triple the price.
The nobles grumbled, but they paid. The merchants protested, but they paid. The royal quartermasters cursed her name—but they paid too.
Within a week, Morgan had earned a small fortune. Enough to double her influence and buy silence from the guards who patrolled the slums.
By the time the royal banners began leaving the city, her coffers overflowed with gold.
That night, Morgan sat alone on her balcony. Snowflakes drifted through the cold air, melting on her gloved hand. Below, the streets echoed with the thunder of hooves and wheels as the royal army departed for the south.
She leaned against the railing, her mask resting beside her on the table. The faint light of lanterns painted her face in amber hues.
The city looked quieter now, emptier. But she knew that beneath the calm lay opportunity.
"War," she murmured softly. "It consumes, but it also feeds."
Her moths fluttered in the darkness around her, their silver wings glowing faintly. Through her thread of awareness, she felt the heartbeat of the city—the tension, the fear, the greed.
And in that silent symphony of chaos, she smiled.
Lady Mirrele had risen.
Morgan Ivory, the witch who hid behind civility, had found her kingdom—not through crown or blade, but through the art of shadows and whispers.
The south might burn, kings might fall, but the capital would still need its spiders.
And she was already at the center of the web.