The carriage awaited in the courtyard, black lacquer gleaming in the gray light of morning. Two liveried footmen stood at attention, and beyond them, the gates of Everthorn Manor loomed like the bars of a cage. The horses stamped their hooves, tossing their heads as if impatient to be free.
Inside, the air smelled of leather and cedar polish, cloying in its perfection. I settled onto the velvet seat, my skirt arranged just so by one of the maids before she withdrew. The door shut with a heavy click, and suddenly the carriage became another prison—mobile, yes, but still enclosing.
As the wheels jolted into motion, I pressed my palm against the window. The stone walls of the manor receded, replaced by the forested slopes of Theros beyond. A pale light filtered through the trees, cool and clean, and for the briefest moment, I imagined what it would be like to walk among them with no escort, no expectation, no chains.
The Moonbrand flared faintly, a soft heat beneath my skin, as if the very idea of open air stirred something restless inside me.
But the thought dissolved when the carriage rounded a bend, and the banners of another noble house came into view. Waiting at the roadside was a rider astride a bay horse, his posture easy, his smile already in place. Dorian Halewyne.
He was dressed impeccably, as always, in deep green trimmed with gold, the colors of his house. The sight of him made the carriage feel smaller still. His smile reached his mouth, but not his eyes. And though he looked like any charming young lord come to escort a lady into town, I felt the sharpness of the truth beneath it.
The horses slowed, the carriage wheels crunching against gravel.
The moment Dorian swung open the carriage door, sunlight spilled in—bright, golden, almost too kind for the weight pressing behind my ribs. He greeted me with a flourish, his tone smooth and easy, as if we were dear friends reunited.
“Lady Alora,” he said, bowing low with theatrical grace. “It is an honor to finally see you beyond the manor walls. I was beginning to think your father kept you hidden like some rare gemstone.”
His charm was effortless—too effortless. I managed a polite smile, the one my mother had trained into me, and placed my gloved hand in his. His fingers were warm, steady, his grip neither too tight nor too gentle. But there was calculation there, a sense of ownership behind the courtesy.
The streets of Theros were alive that morning. Market stalls lined the cobblestones, their awnings fluttering in the breeze. Children darted between vendors, their laughter echoing like songbirds. The air was rich with the scent of bread and smoke and wildflowers carried down from the hills.
It had been years since I’d seen this part of the capital—since I’d been allowed beyond the high gates of Everthorn at all. The last time, I was little more than a child. The world had felt enormous then, every sound brighter, every face less guarded. Now it felt foreign. The people bowed politely as we passed, but their eyes lingered, curious and murmuring.
“There she is,” I heard one whisper. “The duke’s daughter—the sickly one.”
I kept my chin high, though the words burned. Dorian leaned slightly toward me as we walked. “They speak kindly,” he said with an easy smile. “They mean no harm. You were absent for so long; the people simply forgot you were real.”
Forgot I was real. The words stung, even though he said them lightly.
He guided me toward one of the terrace cafés that overlooked the square—a place with linen-draped tables and silver teapots gleaming in the sun. A footman hurried ahead to pull out my chair, and soon we were seated beneath a trailing vine of wisteria, the air fragrant with its bloom.
For a moment, it almost felt normal. Dorian kept up a pleasant stream of conversation—stories of his travels, small jokes about court politics. His laughter was warm, practiced; his gestures precise. He asked after my health, my studies, my views on music. He made me feel seen, as though the conversation were truly mine.
But even kindness can be a performance.
I caught him watching me once, when he thought I wasn’t looking. His smile lingered too long, and his gaze held something almost possessive. When the server brought wine and fruit tarts, he reached across the table, brushing his thumb against my knuckles as if by accident.
“You’re quieter than I expected,” he said softly. “Your mother warned me you were delicate, but I think she undersells you. You’ve a certain… glow.”
I forced a faint smile. “Perhaps that’s the reflection of your flattery, my lord.”
He laughed—a little too loud, a little too pleased—and leaned back, swirling his wine. “Ah, there it is. Wit. I told your father there was more to you than they let the court believe.”
My heart faltered. “My father?”
Dorian tilted his head, studying me like a hawk might study a small bird. “Didn’t he tell you? He practically begged me to take you. Said it would do you good to be seen with someone respectable.”
The words landed like a slap. For a moment, the din of the cafe blurred, the laughter and music melting into a dull roar. Dorian’s voice kept going, smooth as ever. “You know how fathers are—so protective, so proud. He wants you well, of course. And what better way to ease public nerves than to have the Everthorn daughter seen in good company?”
Good company. The phrase tasted bitter.
I drew back slightly, my hands folding tightly in my lap. “Then I am to be your duty today, not your guest?”
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Duty, pleasure—sometimes the lines blur.”
The silence that followed was heavy, but Dorian didn’t seem to notice. He reached again for his cup, unconcerned, as though he hadn’t just stripped the veneer off every word he’d spoken.
Across the square, the sound of bells carried faintly through the air, and the breeze shifted, lifting a curl of my hair across my cheek. I turned toward it, toward the open expanse of the marketplace beyond the café. Somewhere in that sea of faces, I thought I saw movement—someone watching, still as stone amid the crowd.
And though I could not name it then, I felt the faintest pulse beneath my skin, a warning—or perhaps a promise—echoing from the Moonbrand.
The air beneath the wisteria canopy had grown heavy, thick with the mingling scents of honeyed wine and fresh bread. The laughter of nearby patrons washed over me like distant music—pleasant but hollow. Dorian had fallen into a rhythm of idle conversation again, speaking of trade agreements and court rumors as though nothing sharp had passed his lips moments before.
He smiled often. Too often. Each curve of his mouth felt like a test I was meant to pass.
I nodded when he spoke, murmured polite responses, but inside, something had gone still. His earlier words—“Your father practically begged me to take you”—echoed louder than the clinking of silverware, louder than the chatter of nobles around us. It wasn’t cruelty in the obvious sense that wounded me; it was how easily he’d said it, how naturally it had fallen from his tongue, as though my father’s desperation was common knowledge.
I looked down at the table. The fruit tarts sat half-eaten on golden plates, the scarlet filling glistening in the light. My reflection trembled faintly in the polished silver knife beside them. I wondered what the court saw when they looked at me—an heiress? A liability? A relic of something they preferred to forget?
“Still quiet,” Dorian observed, leaning forward slightly. His tone was light, but there was an edge beneath it, a subtle mockery. “You were always the quiet one, weren’t you? Even as a child, I heard you were kept from lessons because of your health.”
The lie hung between us—because of your health. That was what everyone said. That I had been frail, sickly, hidden from sight for my own protection. The truth was simpler, crueler. I had been hidden because my father feared me.
“I was unwell for some time,” I replied, the practiced answer rolling off my tongue. “But I am better now.”
He smiled, tracing the rim of his cup with one gloved finger. “I’m glad to hear it. The court adores redemption stories.”
I looked away, my throat tightening.
From the terrace, I could see the market stretching below: a tapestry of motion and color. The wind carried laughter, snippets of song, and the calls of merchants. The world felt alive there—imperfect, messy, free. I longed to be among them, even just to feel the cobblestones beneath my feet instead of polished marble.
“Would you like to walk a bit before we return?” Dorian asked suddenly, his tone bright again, as if we were merely exchanging pleasantries.
“Yes,” I said before I could stop myself. The word escaped like breath I’d been holding too long.
He looked amused by my eagerness but rose gracefully, offering his hand. “Then let’s not keep the people waiting. They’ll want to see the duke’s daughter after all these years.”
The words made me flinch, though I hid it behind a polite smile.