I watched Randon as he practically fled from my room, his shoulders hunched and his steps frantic. He was clearly hiding something—a secret that was eating him alive from the inside out.
*He’s terrified,* I thought. *And in this house, there’s only one person who can inspire that kind of dread.*
***
Meanwhile, in the gardens, Sardin was a shadow among the trees, his eyes fixed on Zenon Reiner.
The Adjutant was acting strange. Usually, Zenon moved with a military precision that was almost robotic. But today, he seemed relaxed, almost cheerful. He’d spent the morning preparing a traveling cloak and checking the tack on his horse.
*He’s getting ready to leave,* Sardin noted. *But Eric hasn't given an order for a departure.*
Sardin moved to descend from his perch, intending to follow Zenon to whatever secret meeting he had planned, when a familiar voice hissed from below.
“Sardin! There you are!”
Sardin dropped from the branch, landing silently in front of Randon. He looked at the former head butler with a mix of irritation and suspicion. Randon had been a thorn in Cornelia’s side for years, and Sardin wasn't inclined to trust his sudden change of heart.
“I’m busy, Randon. Go bother someone else.”
“Wait!” Randon grabbed Sardin by the scruff of his tunic, his face pale and slick with sweat. “The Duchess... she’s in danger!”
Sardin’s eyes went cold. He grabbed Randon’s wrist, his grip tight enough to make the older man wince. “What do you mean by 'danger'?”
***
I listened to Sardin’s report later that evening, a small, dark smile touching my lips.
“So, Randon overheard the Dowager talking to the head maid?” I asked.
“Yes, my lady. He didn't get all the details, but he heard enough. She’s planning a 'gift' for you. Something to ensure the baby doesn't... survive.”
Sardin’s voice was thick with a suppressed, murderous rage. He’d been my shadow for a decade, and the thought of someone touching me or the child I carried was clearly driving him to the edge.
“Don't be so upset, Sardin,” I said, patting his hand. “I knew she would resort to this. Bianca isn't the type to let a 'filthy' bloodline take root in her house.”
“But to target a child... it’s monstrous.”
“It’s Bianca,” I corrected. “She targets anything that threatens her control.”
Sardin lowered his head, his voice a whisper. “I lost Zenon, my lady. He spotted the tail and disappeared into the merchant district. I’ve failed you.”
“It’s fine,” I said, waving it off. “Zenon is a professional. I expected as much. Besides, we have more pressing matters than tracking an adjutant.”
I sat at my desk and pulled out a sheet of heavy, royal stationery. I wrote a single page, my handwriting elegant and precise, then sealed it with a drop of black wax. I didn't use the Brant seal. I used the personal signet of a Princess of the Schwanherd Empire.
“Deliver this to the Emperor,” I said, handing the letter to Sardin. “Personally. Do not let it pass through any intermediaries.”
Sardin’s expression went grim as he took the letter. “My lady... if you’re asking for what I think you’re asking for... it could be incredibly dangerous for you. If the Dowager finds out...”
“She won't find out until it’s too late,” I said, my voice cold and absolute. “I’ve spent five years being the victim, Sardin. It’s time I started acting like the hunter. Go. Now.”
***
A few days later, the capital was buzzing with news from the North.
The barbarian tribes of the tundra had begun raiding the border villages again, their incursions bolder and more frequent than they had been in a decade. The peace that had held since the end of the Great War was fraying at the edges.
“Is it true?” a countess asked at a tea party. “Are they coming south?”
“Don't be ridiculous,” another woman replied. “We have the Duke of Brant. He’s the Empire’s greatest Sword Master. If those savages cross the river, he’ll have their heads on pikes before they can reach the capital.”
The sentiment was universal. Eric Lennon Brant was the shield of the Empire. But while his reputation as a warrior was intact, the rumors about his household were starting to take on a darker tone.
“I heard the Dowager is furious,” a young lady whispered. “The Princess is pregnant, and instead of a celebration, the Dowager has been seen throwing vases in the annex. They say she loathes the idea of a child from the 'weak' royal line taking the title.”
“And Madeleine Arguin?”
“Oh, she’s even worse. She sent a letter to the Dowager begging her to lie to the public—to say she loves rubies just to save Madeleine’s reputation. Can you imagine? Trying to use her aunt as a shield for her own petty sabotage?”
The Dowager, isolated in her annex, was indeed in a state of mounting, homicidal fury. She’d torn Madeleine’s letter into a thousand pieces, her disgust for her niece’s selfishness almost as great as her hatred for me.
“It’s all because of her,” Bianca hissed, staring at the pile of torn paper. “That cunning, royal viper. She invited Rune Felton here on purpose. She set the trap and let me walk right into it.”
She looked at her head maid, her eyes burning with a dark, unhinged light. “Is the preparation complete? The gift for my 'dear' daughter-in-law?”
“It is, madam. But... you were going to wait until she was further along. You said the impact would be greater in the fifth month.”
“I’ve changed my mind,” Bianca said, her fingers curling into claws. “I want her gone. I want that child dead. And I want it done while Eric is away.”
News had reached the palace that the Emperor was officially ordering the Duke of Brant to the Northern front to lead the defense. It was a duty Eric couldn't refuse.
“He leaves in two days,” Bianca whispered. “As soon as he crosses the border, we deliver the gift. I’ll be the one to 'console' her when she loses the baby. Who would ever suspect a grieving mother-in-law of being anything but a comfort in such a tragic time?”