The Galveth estate sparkled like an overflowing jewelry box—gold lanterns on every pillar, silk banners the hue of minted coin, and guests flocking like bees to honeyed authority. It was not a royal gathering, but it carried all the bombast of one. An overture, certainly. Mira had arrived an hour before darkness.
Not as Mira.
She was now Mistress Kess, a silent tapestry seamstress in the employ of House Galveth's master of drapery. Her hair was dyed ash-brown, her eyes dulled to a watery gray with tincture. Her gait was altered—measured, hesitant, submissive.
Perfect. No one paid attention to servants. Especially not ones who did not speak.
A tray of silver lay in her hands as she entered the great gallery. Musicians played to the beat of whispered agreements, polite laughter, and the stray bark of forced friendship. Nobles clinked glasses and leaned in close, all smiles and secrets. Mira cast her gaze downward, but every movement around her was carved into memory.
There—Lord Halvern Vellador. Long and thin, with a haughty bearing out of step with the times. His cloak was too long. His contempt, exquisitely measured. He stood beside Lady Marendia Galveth, a shrewd-eyed matron who had survived three husbands and four revolutions. They stood too close for casual gossip. An agreement was being made.
"She's too young to keep the throne in any grasp," Marendia was saying. "They speak of curses and omens. We would not be alone in questioning her suitability."
"Doubt is a gift," Halvern replied. "It loosens allegiance, shatters trust. When she trips again—" He raised a goblet, smiling, "—we move."
Mira's gut twisted, but she showed nothing.
She moved on, circling the room, listening. A servant at the west table poured wine with a trembling hand—new, or likely bribed. Mira made a mental note. A maid from Iscaryl lingered too long by the Galveth ledger chest. Another thread. The web was forming.
By the window sat a boy, no older than thirteen—Marendia's youngest, sketching the banquet in silence on a vellum pad. He seemed uninterested in politics—or so it appeared. As Mira passed, she glimpsed the drawing over his shoulder. Each figure named in neat, delicate script—including "Lord H — mouthing about 'the noose tightening.'"
She nearly smiled. He was an operative. One she might use.
Slipping into the servants' passage on the pretense of fetching more honeyed pears, Mira found herself alone. She extracted a small, crumpled note from her sleeve cuff and tucked it under a loose cellar stone—For the fox-gloved messenger. Urgent. To be delivered to the Black Hall. The note detailed her findings and named a courier boy with ink-stained hands and fleet feet. Mira's reach extended even here.
She returned to the gallery just in time to witness Lord Vellador pass a velvet pouch to Marendia's steward.
A bribe? A signal?
No. Mira's eyes narrowed.
The pouch bore the seal of a dagger-clutching falcon. And by the weight—not coin.
Powder.
Poison. Again.
Mira wove through the crowd and brushed lightly against the steward. He passed on without noticing, but the pouch was already gone.
Her fingers were water.
She tucked it into her own satchel, the inside lined with warded cloth to contain dangerous things. Then she vanished, as quiet as snow.
Outside, the air was cool. A figure cloaked in black waited by the hedgerow—one of Elias's silent guards. Mira handed him the pouch without a word. Just a nod.
Back at the castle, her hair rinsed clean and her true eyes restored, she made her report directly to Charlotte.
"A second attempt at poisoning. And an alliance brewing," Charlotte murmured, turning the pouch over in her palm.
Mira gave a single, silent nod.
"Thank you," Charlotte whispered. Then added, darkly, "We strike first."