The banquet hall glittered beneath suspended chandeliers, golden light pooling over crystal goblets and jewel-toned gowns. Laughter clinked like silverware—sharp, delicate, rehearsed. Musicians played a soft, haunting tune—elegant, ancient, and hollow.
Clara stood near the edge of the grand marble staircase, her crimson gown flowing around her like fire against ice. But her eyes weren't admiring the opulence.
They were scanning. Calculating.
This wasn't just a ballroom. It was a board.
Every noble present was a piece. Some pawns. A few rooks. Even fewer kings.
And tonight, Clara was done being anyone's pawn. She had a single move in mind—test the board for cracks.
Her gaze locked onto Lord Thorne, who stood in animated conversation with a group of foreign delegates, wine glass in hand. His smile was light, his laughter effortless.
Too effortless.
Why did Cassian name him?
Was it a warning… or misdirection?
She didn't trust Cassian. But she trusted Thorne even less.
"Elise," she murmured, never taking her eyes off the crowd.
Her ever-loyal handmaid leaned in without question.
"Spread word to Lady Fenna that Lord Thorne has been looking into the Western tariffs again," Clara said softly. "Don't say it twice. Just once, loud enough to be overheard."
Elise hesitated, brow furrowing. "But that isn't true—"
"It doesn't have to be," Clara cut in with a faint smile. "I need to know who repeats it."
A trap—quiet and careful. If that rumor reached Cassian… or worse, the Council, she'd know where the leak in her circle lived.
As Elise disappeared into the crowd, Clara took a slow sip from a goblet passed her way, eyes still tracking the field of glittering deception.
Across the hall, Prince Alaric stood in deep midnight blue, the tailored cut of his coat crisp against his lean frame. A nobleman beside him prattled about grain routes in the provinces, but Alaric's gaze flickered—again and again—toward her.
Clara's lips curved faintly. The tension between them buzzed like an unsung note.
When he finally approached, it was with the ease of a man who knew his presence altered the rhythm of a room.
"You're making waves again," he murmured, brushing close enough for only her to hear.
Clara didn't look at him. "I prefer to test the waters before I drown in them."
He took her hand, lifting it in a courtly invitation to dance. She didn't resist.
"You've changed since that night in the council chamber," he said as he led her into a slow waltz near the heart of the room.
"You saw what I was before everyone else did," Clara replied. "But I'm not playing anymore. I'm… rebuilding."
"And who do you trust to help you rebuild?" he asked, his voice low—too low. There was a flicker behind his eyes, something darker than doubt. Something like fear.
Clara held his gaze. "No one completely. Not yet."
He spun her gently, their movements smooth and precise. But the air between them was tight with things unsaid.
"I read the rest of the letter last night," she admitted, voice tight. "My mother knew something. She feared someone within the palace. Someone close to the Crown."
His steps faltered for the briefest moment.
"Do you suspect Thorne?" he asked.
"I suspect anyone who smiles too easily."
Later that night, Clara returned to her chambers. She slipped off her silk slippers with a sigh, then lit a single candle.
On her writing desk, a parchment lay open—her private war map. Council members, their allies, their enemies… and their secrets.
Lord Elric — greedy.
Lady Merra — bitter.
Cassian — calculating.
Thorne — silent.
And silent men were the hardest to read.
Beside the inkpot lay her mother's last letter, the edges worn from rereading. Clara traced the final lines:
I kept a seal for the sake of peace. But if it falls into the wrong hands, war will follow. Trust only the truth—not the voices that carry it.
Something wasn't right.
She felt it like a thorn beneath silk.
The traitor wasn't lurking in the shadows.
They were in plain sight. Wearing a smile. Holding a title. Toasting beside the prince.
Clara dipped her quill and underlined Lord Thorne's name.
Then Cassian's.
Then—hesitantly—another: Lord Cedric.
She had no evidence yet.
But she had instinct.
And instincts, once ignored, had already cost her too much.
The candle guttered low. Clara's eyes burned—not from fatigue, but resolve.
If the Crown wouldn't root out the traitor… she would.
[To be continued…]