The Invitation
The training sword came down in a clean arc—middle slash, just like Knight Ledia taught me. "Better," she said, circling around to check my stance. "But your back foot is drifting. Plant it." I adjusted, sweat stinging my eyes despite the cool morning air. Ledia's polished armor caught the early light as she demonstrated the correction—sharp, efficient movements that made it look effortless.
Behind us, the real chaos unfolded.
Lloyd's voice cut across the training grounds like a whip. "HOLD FORMATION!"
Three hundred seventy-five recruits thundered through drills—boots hitting dirt in uneven rhythm, practice weapons clashing, corrections shouted over the noise. Six female knights wove through the formations like surgeons, adjusting postures, repositioning grips.
One month since recruitment intensified. One month left to reach five hundred.
The numbers haunted everything.
On that first day when Father brought me here, Lloyd had cleared the entire ground—just us, private and focused. We couldn't afford that luxury anymore. Every body counted. Every hour of training mattered.
The noise should have been overwhelming. In my first life, the sound of armored knights approaching meant death—two years running from Sara's accusation, two years hearing boots behind me in every alley. Even after enslavement, that sound meant danger.
But now?
Now it meant something else. Something almost like safety.
"Lady Eledy!" Ledia's voice pulled me back. "Focus. Your mind wandered—I saw it in your grip."
"Sorry."
"Don't apologize. Adjust." She tapped my elbow. "Upper slash now. Control the arc."
I raised the wooden sword overhead and brought it down. The weapon looked harmless—just treated wood, no edge. But I'd seen what blunt force could do. This could break bones. Crack skulls.
"Good!" Ledia's approval was rare enough to feel earned. "Now watch your footwork on the recovery. You're flat-footed. If you can't pivot, you can't chain strikes."
"And breathe," she added, demonstrating. "Inhale on recovery. Exhale on strike. Rhythm matters as much as strength."
I tried again. Better. My arms burned from repetition, and the wooden grip had grown slippery with sweat, but the movement felt cleaner than yesterday. Than last week.
Progress, even if slow.
From the corner of my eye, Father watched—expression neutral, arms crossed. Unreadable.
He'd promised to train me himself. Mornings for swordplay, afternoons for politics. But whenever I got scratched or dizzy, something shifted in his face. He'd said he'd train me like any recruit, but he couldn't. The moment I stumbled, the father replaced the instructor.
"Eledy!" His voice carried across the yard. "Take a break if you need it."
"I'm fine, Father."
I wasn't lying. Ledia's diet recommendations—more protein, better portions, timed meals—were working. My body was adjusting. Getting stronger.
But Father couldn't see it yet. He still saw the fragile twelve-year-old who'd collapsed after one spin.
"Again," Ledia instructed, and I raised my sword.
The routine continued. Strike. Recovery. Adjust. Breathe.
Behind us, Lloyd's formation drills reached a crescendo—synchronized stomping that made the ground vibrate. The rhythm was almost hypnotic.
Father was keeping his promise. Training. Politics. Staying close.
Sometimes I felt like I was taking advantage—using his guilt, his desperate need to protect what he'd almost lost. But I had to. The traps around his neck were tightening every day, and the only way to see them was to stand beside him.
The real Eledy had given me the lead—her diary, documenting Duke Castor's systematic harassment. He was the center. The architect.
But would someone that careful get caught this soon?
I couldn't tell.
All I knew was Father was finally watching for the traps. Finally looking up instead of drowning.
That had to count for something.
My breath grew ragged. Arms trembling with each strike. The sword's weight felt doubled.
"That's enough, Lady Eledy."
I lowered the weapon, chest heaving. The cool air felt sharp against flushed skin.
Father approached—measured steps, calm expression. Always calm now. The desperate, grief-hollowed man from a month ago had been carefully tucked away behind the war hero's discipline.
"How do you feel?"
"Fine, Father. Knight Ledia's recommendations are helping."
"Good." He nodded to Ledia. She returned it and strode back toward Lloyd's formations, already barking corrections before she reached them.
Father and I turned toward the manor.
"That's it for today then—"
"Sir."
Gerson appeared from the manor path, his usual composed pace just slightly too quick. Something in his posture set off alarm bells.
"An invitation has arrived." He paused. "For Lady Eledy. A tea party."
The walk to the study felt endless despite being short.
My training clothes clung uncomfortably to my back, sticky with cooling sweat. I was suddenly aware of how disheveled I must look—hair escaping its tie, face flushed, hardly appropriate for reading formal invitations.
But Father's expression said this couldn't wait.
The diary pattern rose in my mind unbidden: social gatherings used as execution grounds. Public humiliation disguised as hospitality. Eledy invited only to be torn apart in front of witnesses.
Is this one of those?
The study door clicked shut with finality. My stomach tightened.
The familiar scent of old books and leather did nothing to calm my nerves this time.
Father took his usual seat—the heavy chair behind the desk. I sat to his left, the worn leather creaking beneath me. Gerson stood before us, the cream-colored envelope pristine against his white gloves.
Father didn't dismiss him.
According to the diary, Gerson was Eleanor's childhood teacher and advisor—had followed her from the royal palace when she married, stayed after her death. The real Eledy had trusted him completely.
So far, I had no reason not to.
Father examined the wax seal, fingers tracing the emblem with careful attention. His expression shifted—something tightening around his eyes.
"Duchess Harmontt." He broke the seal. "Her daughter Sheera is hosting."
Paper rustled as he unfolded the invitation. His gaze dropped to the bottom—the guest list, probably—and his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"Here." He handed it to me, the parchment still warm. "If you don't want to attend, you don't have to."
The careful emphasis on the last part told me everything.
I took the invitation. Expensive parchment, smooth and heavy between my fingers. Elegant calligraphy flowed across the page in practiced loops—each letter perfectly formed, beautiful.
A social execution dressed in expensive paper and ink.
That was what the diary had taught me. These weren't invitations. They were summons. Public humiliation disguised as hospitality. Witnesses in silk. Cruelty served with tea.
My eyes scanned the elegant script—
Kiera Castor.
First name on the guest list.
My heart dropped.
Duke Castor's daughter. The architect of Eledy's social destruction. Every whispered insult, every orchestrated exclusion, every smile that preceded mockery—hers.
The trap wasn't just confirmed.
It was signed, sealed, and beautifully written.
---
I took a slow breath, keeping my expression neutral as I continued reading.
The invitation was masterfully crafted—every word dripping with false warmth. Lady Sheera Harmontt requested the honor of my presence at an afternoon tea gathering to celebrate the season's first blooms. How lovely. How innocent.
The guest list told the real story:
Lady Kiera CastorLady Amara VellondLady Seraphine MarloweLady Eledy Rovaan
Four names. Three predators and their prey.
According to the diary, this was textbook. Kiera never hunted alone—she cultivated an audience, turned witnesses into accomplices. Amara and Seraphine were her chorus, echoing every barb, amplifying every humiliation.
And Sheera Harmontt, the host, played the role of innocent bystander. Oh, I had no idea they would be so cruel. How terrible. But what could I do?
The real Eledy had attended these gatherings again and again, each time hoping it would be different. Each time leaving in tears.
I set the invitation down carefully on Father's desk.
"When is it?"
"Three days from now." Father's voice was measured, but I caught the edge beneath it. "You don't have to go, Eledy. We can send regrets."
Gerson remained silent, but his posture suggested he agreed with Father.
Three days. That gave me time to prepare—or time to dread.
The smart choice was obvious: decline. Avoid the trap entirely. Why walk into a room designed for my humiliation?
But something nagged at me.
Duke Castor was the architect, yes. But Kiera was his instrument. His weapon. If I wanted to understand how he operated, how he'd woven this web around Father and our house, I needed to see his daughter work.
Besides—the real Eledy had run from these gatherings, or attended and crumbled. What if I did neither?
"I want to go."
Father's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes. Concern. Maybe fear.
"Eledy—"
"I know what this is." I met his gaze steadily. "I've read enough to understand. But running won't stop them, Father. It never has."
"You're twelve years old."
"And they're fifteen or sixteen." I gestured to the invitation. "Old enough to be cruel. Young enough to think they're invincible."
Gerson shifted slightly—the first movement he'd made since entering. "My lady, if I may... Lady Kiera Castor has a particular reputation among the noble circles. She is... skilled at finding vulnerabilities."
"I know." The diary had documented that skill in painful detail. Every insecurity exploited. Every weakness weaponized.
Father leaned back in his chair, studying me with that careful intensity he'd developed over the past month. Looking for cracks. Watching for signs of the fragile girl who'd collapsed after one sword drill.
"If you attend," he said slowly, "you'll be walking into hostile territory. Alone."
"Not completely alone." I glanced at Gerson. "I assume there will be attendants? Chaperones?"
"Duchess Harmontt will be present, nominally," Gerson confirmed. "Though she rarely intervenes in her daughter's... social dynamics."
Of course not. That would require a spine.
I turned back to Father. "What would you do? If this were a military situation—an obvious trap—would you avoid it or use it?"
His expression shifted. The instructor replacing the father, just for a moment.
"Depends on the objective. If I needed intelligence, I'd spring the trap under controlled conditions. If I could afford to wait, I'd find another approach."
"Can we afford to wait?"
That was the real question. Duke Castor was tightening his noose. Every day Father spent drowning in grief and paranoia was another day the trap closed. We needed information. Needed to understand how Castor operated, how his network functioned.
And Kiera was part of that network.
Father was quiet for a long moment. Behind him, morning light filtered through the study windows.
"If you go," he finally said, "we prepare. Properly."
I felt something unknot in my chest. "What do you suggest?"
"First—understand the battlefield." He tapped the invitation. "Gerson, what do we know about the Harmontt estate?"
"The duchess prefers her garden hall for social gatherings. Open sides, good sightlines, difficult to corner someone without witnesses. However..." Gerson paused. "The estate has an attached greenhouse. More private. Lady Kiera has used it before for... extended conversations."
Translation: isolated humiliation.
"Second—know your enemy." Father's general voice was fully engaged now. "Kiera Castor. What are her tactics?"
I had the diary for that. "She probes for weakness first. Compliments hiding barbs. If you react, she knows where to strike. If you don't, she escalates until you break."
Father nodded. "And her weaknesses?"
That stopped me. The diary had catalogued Kiera's cruelty in excruciating detail, but vulnerabilities? The real Eledy had never thought to look for them.
"I... don't know."
"Then that's your homework." Father's expression was steady. "Before you walk into that estate, I want you to know everything about Kiera Castor. Her interests. Her insecurities. Her pressure points."
He stood, moving to the bookshelf with purpose. "We have three days. That's enough time to turn a trap into an opportunity—if you're willing to do the work."
"I am."
"Good." He pulled down a slim volume—a peerage directory, probably. "Start here. Background research. Then we'll discuss strategy."
Gerson cleared his throat gently. "If I may suggest, Sir... perhaps Lady Eledy should also speak with Knight Ledia. Social combat has its own... footwork."
Father actually smiled at that. Small, but genuine.
"Good point. Ledia spent years navigating court before joining the knights. She'll have insights."
He set the directory on the desk between us, then met my eyes with that searching intensity again.
"Last chance, Eledy. Say the word and we send regrets. No judgment."
The offer was genuine. I could feel it.
But I thought of the diary. The real Eledy running, hiding, breaking. And I thought of Father—drowning in guilt and grief while Duke Castor's net tightened.
Someone had to start cutting threads.
"I'm going, Father."
He held my gaze for another moment, then nodded once. Decisive.
"Then we make sure you're ready."
***