The Tovar estate did not just host banquets; it staged them. As the sun dipped below the horizon, the limestone manor glowed under the light of a thousand lanterns, reflecting off the polished marble floors like stars trapped in ice. To the commoners of Praeven, this was the pinnacle of the Sacred Flame's blessing—a display of wealth and divine favor. To those inside, it was a battlefield where the weapons were whispered insults and the casualties were reputations.
Princess Marcy Seymour stood at the top of the grand staircase, her hand resting on the sleeve of her husband's velvet doublet. To the onlookers below, they were the portrait of a perfect union: the eldest daughter of the King and the handsome son of the Tsvirkunov line.
But Marcy could feel the bruising grip of Brendon's fingers through her silk sleeve. It was a subtle pressure, one no one else could see, but it reminded her of her place. In the eyes of the court, she was a Princess. In the halls of her own home, she was a Tsvirkunov asset—a prize won by a family that viewed her bloodline as a ladder.
"Smile, Marcy," Brendon whispered, his voice a low, melodic purr that carried no hint of the venom he saved for their private chambers. "You look like you're attending a funeral, not a banquet hosted by our dearest friends."
Marcy forced her lips to curve. "I find it hard to celebrate when I am surrounded by people who whisper about my brother's incompetence the moment I turn my back, Brendon."
"Then turn your back more often," he replied, his eyes scanning the crowd with the predatory hunger shared by all his kin. "The Tides of Ascendancy don't wait for those who mourn their lost relevance."
Marcy's jaw tightened. This was her life: a princess who could not inherit because of the ancient laws of the Flame, married to a man who treated her like a trophy when the world was watching and a monster when it wasn't. Brendon Tsvirkunov played the role of the devoted husband to perfection on the social stage, but at home, he was as cold and transactional as his brother, the Pope.
The soft murmur of the hall was suddenly silenced by the opening chords of a grand piano. All eyes turned to the center of the room, where Mary Anne Braun sat bathed in candlelight.
She played Chopin's Ballade No. 1 with a precision that was almost unnerving. Every note was a testament to her discipline, every flourish a calculated move to remind the court that she was the "Angel of Praeven." As the final note echoed, a hush fell over the room before erupting into polite applause.
Marcy watched her rise, the anger in her chest bubbling toward the surface. She hated Mary Anne's effortless charm and the way the girl moved through a room as if she owned the air people breathed.
"Ah, Mary Anne," Marcy said, stepping forward as the girl approached the royal dais. Her tone was lightly sweet, but it carried the sharp edge of a blade. "How... precise. Truly, a mechanical triumph. Yet I must say, your hands are rather stiff. Perhaps it is the lack of soul in the performance?"
The hall went quiet. Mary Anne's smile did not falter, but Marcy wasn't finished.
"And your etiquette... well, it seems your mother has much to teach you. I heard the Queen has, once again, rejected your application to be a lady-in-waiting. It must be difficult to be so talented, yet so... unwelcome."
The blow was public. Mary Anne felt the heat rise in her neck—a treacherous, burning bloom of shame. She could feel the eyes of the Duchesses on her, the faint, pitying smiles of women who had always waited for her to stumble.
"Princess Marcy," Mary Anne replied, her voice as calm as a frozen lake. "I am honored that you have watched my progress so closely. I shall take your guidance to heart. Perhaps I will learn something from your example of how to manage a... challenging transition of power."
Marcy's lips pressed together so hard they turned white. The "challenging transition" was a direct jab at Marcy's lack of inheritance. Beside her, Brendon's hand tightened on Marcy's arm until she winced. "Marcy, darling, we shouldn't monopolize the girl's time," he said, his public voice radiating warmth as he practically dragged her away.
~
Mary Anne moved through the crowd with the grace of a ghost. She accepted a few more compliments, her laughter light and melodic. But inside, she was screaming. Every polite nod felt like a mocking reminder of Marcy's words. Stiff hands. Unwelcome.
"If you will excuse me, Lady Tovar," Mary Anne said, her voice a perfect imitation of fatigue. "The excitement of the evening has given me a slight headache. I believe I shall seek a moment of quiet."
She stormed out of the ballroom, her green silk gown swaying with each measured, furious step. She slipped into a quieter hallway near the balcony, the sounds of the banquet fading. Leaning against the cool marble, she spoke softly to herself, her voice trembling with a mix of frustration and dark curiosity.
"Gerry... how could a king abandon his own flesh and blood?" she murmured. "Sigh... I suppose the Queen is as vicious as everyone says. No wonder she rejected me. But he must be somewhere. Hidden. Unaware of the chaos his bloodline has caused."
~
Just beyond the balcony doors, William Mahlsberg froze. He had stepped away for the night breeze, but Mary Anne's whispered words—Gerry... King's blood—hit him like a thunderclap.
He remained in the shadows, his body tensing. He didn't recognize the name "Gerry" immediately, but the context was impossible to ignore. He watched Mary Anne through the gap in the curtains as she adjusted her posture, smoothed her gown, and returned to the ballroom with her usual flawless poise.
William did not follow. He needed to verify the name. He moved toward the servant passages, finding an elderly Tovar steward.
"Pardon me," William said smoothly. "I was just recalling a name from my youth. A kitchen servant from the palace—the one who served Queen Opellia. Her name was Waddell, wasn't it?"
The old steward squinted. "Waddell? Oh, aye, Your Highness. Old Martha Waddell. Her daughter, Shalonda, took the Waddell name as her middle when she moved up to be a maid for the late Queen. Shalonda was a beauty, but she vanished from court suddenly years back."
William retreated to the Tovar library, the pieces slamming together with a sickening force. He transported his mind back four years to a windswept mountain pass. He had hired a mercenary band to protect a carriage of Tovar accounts. He remembered the boy clearly now—the one the others called 'Waddell.'
At the time, William had thought the boy's striking red hair was merely a coincidence. He remembered the boy's fierce discipline and the way he had wiped blood from his brow with a gesture so identical to King Charles that it had made William pause mid-sentence.
He's not just a mercenary, William realized, his breath hitching. He's a Seymour born in a kitchen and forged in the mud.
Shalonda hadn't just been dismissed; she had been hidden. And her son, named after his grandmother's line to keep him invisible, was the living proof of Charles's greatest betrayal—to his marriage and the crown.
William looked toward the ballroom. He could see Mary Anne Braun laughing, a glass of champagne in her hand. She knew. She had found the one thing that could dismantle the Tsvirkunovs and the Seymours alike.
"She's going to use him," William whispered to the empty library. "She's going to dress a wolf in silk and let him loose in the palace."
He stood up straight, his resolve hardening. He couldn't go to Charles, and he couldn't stop Mary Anne without tipping his hand. He had to get to the North first. He had to see the boy again—not as a patron, but as an uncle.