Riven's POV
The blood on Lady Celeste's floor isn't mine this time, but it might as well be.
I scrub harder, my knees burning against cold marble, watching red water swirl in my bucket. Another servant got caught stealing bread yesterday. They dragged her through these halls, and now I'm cleaning up what's left of the lesson Lady Celeste wanted us all to learn.
Stay invisible. Never take what isn't yours. Remember your place.
I've been remembering my place for eighteen years.
"You missed a spot."
I flinch before I can stop myself. Stupid. Never show fear—it only makes them enjoy it more.
Lady Celeste's head maid, Marta, towers over me, her smile sharp as broken glass. "The Lady wants these floors perfect before her guests arrive. Unless you'd like to join poor Sarah in the stocks?"
"No, ma'am." I duck my head, make myself smaller. It's an art I've perfected—how to take up less space, how to breathe quieter, how to exist without anyone noticing.
Marta's shoes click away, and I exhale slowly. My hands shake as I dip the rag back into the bucket.
That's when I feel it.
The thing I've feared my whole life, the secret that could get me killed—it stirs beneath my skin like something waking up. Heat blooms in my chest, spreading down my arms. No. Not now. Not here.
I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms. Go away. Please go away.
The candle on the hallway table flickers.
My heart stops.
I didn't touch it. I'm ten feet away. But the flame jumps and dances like someone just breathed on it, even though the air is perfectly still.
No, no, no.
I scrub faster, keeping my head down, praying no one noticed. In Ashenvale, magic belongs to nobles—it flows through their blood like birthright. For someone like me, a servant, to have magic? That's not just forbidden. That's treason. That's burning at the stake while crowds cheer.
I learned to hide it when I was six years old. That morning, I'd woken up to find frost covering my blanket in the middle of summer. The shadows in my corner had moved wrong, stretching toward me like living things. I'd been so scared I'd screamed, and Cook had burst in, and I'd somehow—impossibly—made it all disappear.
She'd stared at me with wide eyes. Then she'd grabbed my shoulders, shaken me hard enough to rattle my teeth.
"You never do that again," she'd hissed. "Whatever that was, you bury it so deep it can't ever come back up. You understand? They'll burn you, child. They'll make your death slow."
I understood.
For twelve years, I've kept the secret locked inside, so tight I sometimes forget it's there. But lately, it's been getting harder. The magic pushes against my ribs, wanting out. And I'm so, so tired of pushing back.
The candle flickers again.
This time, the flame goes out completely.
I freeze, my wet rag dripping onto clean marble. In the sudden darkness of the hallway, I can feel the magic humming under my skin, pleased with itself.
"What's going on?" Marta's voice echoes from the next room. "Why are the lights going out?"
I need to run. I need to hide. But my legs won't work.
Footsteps. Coming closer.
I grab the candle, my hands shaking so badly I almost drop it. I fumble with the matches in my apron pocket—servants always carry matches—and relight it. The flame catches just as Marta rounds the corner.
"Must've been a draft," I mumble, not meeting her eyes.
She studies me for a long moment. My heart pounds so loud I'm sure she can hear it.
"Get back to work," she finally says. "And stop wasting matches."
The second she's gone, I collapse against the wall, gasping. That was too close. Way too close.
I need to get out of here. I need to find somewhere safe to calm down, to push the magic back into its cage before—
"Riven."
Lady Celeste's voice turns my blood to ice.
She's standing at the top of the grand staircase, beautiful and terrible in her silk dress. Everything about her is perfect—perfect hair, perfect smile, perfect cruelty.
"Come with me, dear," she says sweetly. "I need to discuss something with you in my study."
No one gets called to the Lady's study for anything good.
But I can't refuse. Servants don't refuse.
I follow her up the stairs, my mind racing. Did she see the candle? Does she know? Maybe this is about something else. Maybe I forgot to clean her room properly, or I looked at one of her guests wrong, or—
She opens the door to her study, and my thoughts scatter.
There are men inside. Men I don't recognize, wearing expensive clothes and hard expressions. And on Lady Celeste's desk, scattered like accusations, are papers with numbers and official seals.
Royal seals.
"Gentlemen," Lady Celeste says smoothly, "this is the servant I told you about. The one who's been stealing from me."
The world tilts.
"What?" The word rips out of me before I can stop it. "I never—"
"Evidence doesn't lie." She gestures to the papers. "You've been taking gold from my accounts. Selling my jewelry. The proof is all here, signed with your name."
But I can't write. Servants aren't taught to write.
That's when I understand. She's framing me. These men aren't random visitors—they're the King's auditors. And somehow, Lady Celeste has made it look like I committed her crimes.
"The penalty for stealing from nobility is death," one of the men says, bored. "We'll take her to the capital prison tonight."
"No." My voice cracks. "I didn't do anything. Please—"
Lady Celeste's perfect smile never wavers. "Of course you didn't, dear. But who will believe a servant over a Lady?"
She's right. She's always right.
The men move toward me, and I back up until I hit the wall. My magic surges, hot and desperate, begging to be released.
If I let it out, they'll know what I am.
If I don't, I'm dead anyway.
Lady Celeste leans close, her voice dropping to a whisper only I can hear.
"You should have stayed invisible, little mouse."
And that's when I feel it—the magic I've suppressed for eighteen years finally breaking free.