By sunrise, Clara's rumor had grown fangs.
In the great halls, gossip slithered behind every silk curtain. Nobles whispered about bribes, forged ledgers, and a certain Council lord whose fingers were too deep in royal funds. They didn't name him aloud—yet. But the message had landed.
And it landed hard.
Clara moved through the corridors like a blade hidden in velvet. Her steps were measured. Calm. But her mind was racing.
If they take the bait, they'll start turning on each other. And when they do… the real traitor will flinch.
Elise met her near the eastern garden, eyes wide with news. "Lady Fenna skipped the committee breakfast. Lord Elric arrived late—red-faced and swearing about 'baseless accusations.' And get this—Lord Thorne asked if you'd share tea later."
Clara arched a brow. "Lord Thorne doesn't drink tea. He drinks control."
"Exactly," Elise said, grinning. "You've shaken the hornet's nest."
Clara didn't grin back.
"I didn't stir chaos for fun, Elise. There's someone feeding poison through this court—and they're close to the seal."
She didn't have proof. Not yet. But the cracks were starting to bleed.
Later that morning, in the council chamber, the air was heavy with silence. Alaric sat at the head, fingers steepled, his gaze cold and unreadable. Beside him, Cassian Vale was unusually still, watching the room with that quiet, surgical precision of his.
Clara felt the tension before a word was spoken.
Lord Cedric, one of the younger lords and a rising military strategist, cleared his throat. "There's been… unrest. Among the border provinces. Some say it's due to trade route taxes. Others say it's the Crown losing its grip."
"No," Clara cut in, voice sharp. "It's the Council losing its grip."
Gasps. A few jaws tightened.
"Someone in this very room has been profiting off instability. Siphoning funds under the guise of rebuilding. I've seen the ledgers." Her eyes scanned the room. "I won't name names… not yet. But I will be watching."
Cassian met her gaze across the table. His expression didn't change. But there was something in his eyes now—respect, maybe. Or a warning.
When the meeting ended, nobles peeled off like leaves in a storm.
Cassian stayed behind.
"You've started a fire," he said quietly, approaching her near the stained-glass alcove.
Clara turned. "Fires show who's fireproof."
Cassian's lips twitched—half a smile, half a threat. "And if the blaze turns on you?"
"I burn brighter."
Their eyes locked. For the first time, Clara wasn't sure if they were allies… or playing the same game from opposite sides.
"I'll send you something," Cassian said at last. "A record. Something sealed years ago… Your mother's signature is on it."
Clara's breath caught.
Before she could speak, he was gone—melted into the shadows like he always did.
That night, Clara stood by her window, watching the palace flicker with candlelight and secrets. Her hands were clenched at her sides.
You started this, she told herself. Now finish it.
From somewhere deep in the palace, bells chimed midnight.
And on her desk, a sealed envelope waited—marked with the royal crest and a name that hadn't been spoken in years.
Lady Evelyn Whitmore.
Her mother's closest ally. Or her deepest betrayal.
Clara swallowed, her throat tight with old ghosts.
The game had never been just political.
It had always been personal.
She just hadn't let herself see it—until now.
[ To be continued... ]