Dawn light crept through the blinds in thin golden strips, painting the dark wood floor in pieces. Emily sat by the window, perfectly still, eyes fixed on the distant horizon where the city melted into clouds. She hadn't slept. The house held its breath around her, wrapped in a silence so thick it felt almost solid.
Below, the household woke in its usual rhythm servants murmuring, dishes clinking, Grace's voice drifting up through the floorboards like a song she'd rehearsed a thousand times. Emily stayed where she was, listening. Every sound told a story. Every silence hid something worth knowing.
Her body still felt wrong. Wrists too delicate, reflexes half a second too slow, lungs that burned when she pushed them. But every morning, she forced herself through it anyway. Pain was just feedback. Today was the same as yesterday stretches that pulled at muscles unused to work, slow lunges that made her thighs shake, shadow strikes that traced patterns she'd once performed with real steel in her hands.
When she finished, she dropped to the floor, breathing steady despite the fire in her chest. You can't take back a throne with weakness, she thought. And you can't kill a ghost if you don't know its name.
She pulled her laptop closer, opening a secure browser window. Her fingers found their rhythm in the code a language she'd once used to build empires in the dark. It didn't take long to find what she was looking for, buried beneath layers of political noise: a news report most people would have scrolled past.
"Unrest continues in the Kingdom of Norvale following the death of Crown Princess Emily. Military restructuring is underway under the authority of Duke Raen Norvale, brother to the late King. Sources claim the Duke's control over national security has tightened significantly since the tragedy…"
Emily's hand stopped moving. Duke Raen Norvale.
Her uncle.
The name sat on the screen like an open wound. She read it twice, letting each word sink in. The article didn't say traitor. It didn't say murderer. But the truth was written between the lines the restructuring, the iron grip on security, the convenient silence about what really happened on that battlefield. It all fit too perfectly.
"Her Uncle?"
She closed the laptop with careful control, though her pulse had picked up speed. Rage was a luxury she couldn't afford. Not yet.
A soft knock at the door. She didn't answer. After a pause, it came again, more hesitant. Mira, the youngest maid. The girl had been assigned to her after the fall and still looked terrified every time she entered the room.
"Y-Your tea, Miss Emily," she stammered through the wood.
"Leave it there," Emily said quietly.
Footsteps retreated down the hall. Emily waited until the sound faded completely before crossing to the door and picking up the tray. A small folded note lay tucked beneath the cup, barely visible. She unfolded it slowly.
'They're watching your window. Be careful who you trust.'
Her jaw tightened, but her expression stayed calm. She glanced toward the garden outside. From here, it looked peaceful just sunlight and perfectly trimmed roses. But when she looked closer, between the hedges, she caught it: the faint glint of glass. A camera lens.
Her lips curved slightly. Not fear. Recognition.
"Always watching," she murmured. "Always whispering."
She moved to the curtains and pulled them shut, dropping the room into shadow. Then she sat down with her tea and began to think.
If they wanted to watch, she'd give them something worth losing sleep over.
Tomorrow, she'd start digging deeper. She'd reach back into Norvale's underbelly, back into the networks she'd once built the digital empire the world believed belonged to some faceless genius. That mask was still hers. Time to put it back on.
Emily leaned back in her chair, the bitter taste of tea still on her tongue.
Somewhere in Norvale, her uncle was drinking fine wine beneath her father's stolen crest.
His assistant stood beside him, tablet in hand, silently managing the news feeds and suppressing the protests people demanding answers about Princess Emily's death.
Duke Raen slammed his walking stick against the table. The sound cracked through the room like a gunshot.
"Peasants!"
His assistant flinched.
"I'm already working on it, sir," he said quickly.
Raen's gaze cut toward him, sharp and disgusted. "You'd better wrap it up quickly. And make sure there are no loose ends. Nothing traces back to me. Are we clear?"
"Yes, sir. Perfectly clear."
The assistant bowed and left the room, hands trembling slightly as he closed the door behind him.
Raen turned back to his wine, swirling it slowly in the glass. A faint smile touched his lips.
Everything was going according to plan.