The tea party—Cornelia’s first and final act as the Duchess of Brant—was a resounding success.
“It was a truly marvelous afternoon, Your Highness,” Gisèle Schulz said, her face flushed with a sudden, genuine admiration. “Thank you so much for the invitation.”
Gisèle was a close friend of Madeleine’s, the daughter of the influential Viscount Schulz. She was exactly the kind of woman Cornelia would have envied in her past life—innocent, loved, and blissfully unaware of the jagged edges of the world. In my twenties, I would have hated her for that innocence. Now, in the cold clarity of my thirties, I only saw her as a useful tool.
“The honor was mine, Gisèle,” I said, offering her a smile that made Madeleine’s jaw tighten. “We must have tea again very soon.”
Gisèle beamed, her shyness melting away. “I would love that!”
I watched them leave, my eyes lingering on Madeleine’s stiff shoulders. She was already feeling the pressure. She’d come here to destroy my reputation, only to find me charming her own allies. But the real blow was still two days away.
*I wonder if they’ll still be smiling when the blood hits the marble,* I mused.
***
Late at night, deep in the forests on the road to the North, Eric stood guard by the campfire. His knights had begged him to rest—even a Transcendent needed sleep—but Eric couldn't close his eyes.
Whenever he slept, the dream returned. He was always chasing them. Cornelia and the golden-haired boy were running through a field of dying flowers, their faces full of a terror that Eric didn't understand. No matter how fast he ran—no matter how many miles his Transcendent speed covered—the gap between them only widened. He always woke up gasping for air, his hands clutching at a phantom emptiness.
*If I don't sleep, I don't have to lose them,* he thought, staring into the flickering orange flames.
A butterfly, attracted by the light, fluttered toward the fire. For a split second, the way its wings caught the light reminded Eric of the way Cornelia’s hair looked in the sun. He lunged forward, caught in a momentary hallucination, and grabbed the air where the butterfly had been.
“Your Highness? Is everything alright?” a sentry asked, startled by the Duke’s sudden movement.
Eric let out a hollow, self-deprecating laugh. “It’s nothing. Just a trick of the light.”
He sat back down, but his senses were now on a hair-trigger. His Transcendent awareness—the "Voice of the World"—suddenly picked up a displacement in the air fifty yards to his left.
“There’s a rat in the camp,” Eric whispered.
Before the sentry could even draw his sword, Eric had disappeared. He was a blur of steel and shadow, moving through the trees with a lethal efficiency. He reappeared behind a man clad in the dark, heavy furs of the Northern tribes.
Eric grabbed the spy by the throat, slamming him into a tree trunk. “You’re a long way from the border, scout.”
The man gasped, his eyes wide with terror as he realized he’d been caught by the Ghost of the Tundra himself. He tried to bite down on a poison capsule hidden in his molar, but Eric was faster. He slammed the hilt of his dagger into the man’s jaw, shattering the teeth and forcing the capsule out.
“You’re going to talk,” Eric hissed. “And then I’m going to kill you.”
A quick search revealed a map—an incomplete topographical sketch of the secret mountain passes leading directly to the capital. They were passages that bypassed every major fortress.
“Zenon!” Eric shouted as his Adjutant arrived.
“Sir? You’ve caught a spy?”
“Look at this,” Eric said, handing him the map. “They aren't raiding the border. They’re infiltrating the heart of the Empire. If these maps are complete, there are already companies of Northern barbarians moving toward the capital.”
Zenon’s face went pale. “I’ll send a messenger to the Garrison—”
“No. A messenger is too slow. It will take three days to reach the city, and the enemy is already ahead of us.” Eric’s eyes burned with a cold, frantic urgency. “You take the main unit and continue to the North. Secure the mines and find out how they got these maps. I’m going back to the capital. Alone.”
***
The morning of the appointment arrived.
I stood before the full-length mirror as Emily finished my hair. I’d chosen a gown of heavy green velvet—a rich, deep color that would be visible even in a crowded marketplace. Over my head, I wore a wide-brimmed hat draped in layers of black lace.
*Good,* I thought, adjusting the veil. *I want them to remember exactly what I was wearing. I want the image of the 'tragic princess' to be burned into their retinas.*
I summoned Sardin into the room. “Is everything ready?”
“Perfectly, my lady,” he said, his voice low and steady. “The carriage is prepared, and the 'accidents' have been scheduled.”
“Good. I’ll see you at the final destination. You can leave now.”
Sardin bowed and disappeared onto the balcony.
Alone in the master bedroom, I took a final look around. This room had been my cage for five years. I’d spent countless nights here waiting for a man who didn't want me, clutching at a wedding ring that felt like a shackle. I’d looked at the expensive furniture and the fine tapestries and thought they were a sign of status, not realizing they were just the padding on my coffin.
I looked at the wedding portrait on the vanity—a painting of a younger, foolish Cornelia in a gown of white lace, looking at her husband with eyes full of a desperate, unrequited love.
*I hate you,* I thought, staring at the girl in the painting. *I hate you for being so weak. I hate you for believing in him.*
I picked up the heavy crystal inkwell from the desk and threw it with every ounce of my strength.
*CRACK.*
The glass shattered against the canvas. A massive, jagged stain of black ink bloomed across the painting, obliterating the face of the smiling bride.
I turned my back on the ruin and walked toward the door. I was done with being a Brant. It was time for the Wicked Wife to finally leave.