The sun had not yet breached the jagged peaks of the Westerlands, but Caelion Spire was already awake. Servants whispered through stone corridors, their footsteps muffled by lion-embroidered rugs. In the high chamber overlooking the Gilded Vale, Aurenne Lyscera stood barefoot on cold marble, her crimson gown half-laced, her thoughts sharper than the wind that rattled the stained glass.

She read the letter again.

The wax seal was broken. The ink smudged. Her brother’s name was missing.

“Ambushed,” it said. “Fog. No survivors.”

But she knew better. Fog didn’t lie. Men did.

Aurenne folded the parchment with surgical care and slid it beneath a stack of court reports. Her maid entered, eyes lowered, hands trembling as she offered a tray of honeyed bread and black tea.

“Leave it,” Aurenne said, voice smooth as polished steel.

She crossed to the mirror, studying the woman reflected there — nineteen, unwed, third daughter of the Lion Throne. Her hair was braided in the style of mourning, though no funeral had been declared. Her father hadn’t summoned her. He never did when it mattered.

Outside, the bells began to toll. Court would convene soon. Nobles would posture. Alliances would shift. And someone would smile too easily when her brother’s name was mentioned.

Aurenne turned from the mirror, her gown whispering against the floor.

She would find the truth.
She would make them speak.
And if necessary, she would make them bleed.

Let the court play its games.
She had already chosen her weapon.