Marcella sat at her writing desk, a fresh sheet of parchnt laid before her. She stared down at the page. She had rewritten this letter three tis already.
To Sister Evelyne,
Marcella’s pen scratched the na across the top. She dipped the pen again and began to write.
I hope this ssage reaches you through the northern watchpost in ti. There is no way for to delay the events that have already been set into motion here.
Marcella paused, pressing her wrist to her lips. Her fingers slled of dried ink and lavender powder from the parchnt drawer. Then, she continued.
I sealed the Ashen Fla alone. You had warned once that the Fla does not recognize half-rites. I ignored that warning. I thought I could control it, bend the Fla to my intention. I was wrong.
We have not consummated the Rite. The Duke knows what I did, but we haven’t spoken of it in depth. I believe he suspects more than he says, but he’s given space.
Yesterday, the Imperial Steward from the Empire arrived without warning, informing us about the situation in Cardania. As a result, the sanctity verification will take place tomorrow.
Her jaw tensed. Marcella set the pen down to let the ink dry and pulled in a slow breath through her nose. I’m still doing this for , she thought.
She reached for a second parchnt and continued writing.
There are three options before :
Seal the bond properly, complete the Rite with Berith.
Forge a symbolic seal — a false ritual strong enough to deceive the Church and buy ti.
Destroy the Fla entirely and burn with it.
You can guess which path I am leaning toward. I’ve always chosen survival. So I’m choosing Option Two.
A pause.
Then, more honestly, she wrote...
I believe the false rite can work, but I need materials to execute my plan.
I require: Silver-burned blood ink (Cardenian script compatible), Binding circle diagrams from the 3rd-cycle manuscripts, Purified emberroot, A vessel thread from an actual sealed Rite (or replica for resonance mimicry).
I need your help.
Her breath hitched a little at the admission. Marcella didn’t like asking for help.
If you can co to Ashenholt, please do co. If not, please send Anthony with the materials I asked for. Ti is short. Whatever I do next, it will have consequences.
She stopped writing. Her hand hovered above the last line.
I owe you this one.
Marcella signed it:
—M.
She folded the letter twice, sealed it with black wax, and pressed her signet ring into the center.
Crossing to the open window, Marcella knelt to tie the parchnt to the leg of the kestrel perched on the sill. The bird shifted impatiently, its talons tapping against the stone ledge. It was a grey-feathered bird trained to fly ssages to Cardenia’s northern watchpost.
A sharp gust of cold air swept in from the window, slicing through her robe and biting at her skin.
The bird gave a restless chirp.
"I know," Marcella muttered, like the words were more for herself than the bird. "Too late to turn back now."
She released it. The kestrel launched from the sill in a clean, elegant arc — wings slicing through the air. It soared into the dawn sky.
Marcella stood there a mont longer, the chill still clinging to her skin.
Gone. ssage sent. Now, she could only wait.
******
Marcella was walking through the glass corridor that led to the Montclair Conservatory, a structure tucked behind the eastern wing of the estate.
This was Lady Elyria’s domain — half-garden, half-political chessboard. The forr duchess kept her rarest specins here, and hosted only those she wished to examine closely.
Marcella understood why she was summoned here. She adjusted the fall of her sleeves as she entered the main do.
Lady Elyria stood by a raised table covered in velvet moss and glass jars. In her hands, she held pruning shears.
Not taphorical ones.
She was actually tending a thorned blossom with long red spines and blue-veined petals. The kind that blood once every ten years and bit back if touched incorrectly.
"Mother," Marcella greeted, offering a slight bow.
Lady Elyria didn’t look up. "You’re late."
"Forgive . I thought I’d be summoned to your solar,"
That earned the arch of Elyria’s brow. "Sit."
Marcella obeyed, perching on the stone bench across the table. The conservatory was quiet except for the rustle of leaves and the soft snip of Elyria’s shears.
Marcella waited. She knew better than to speak first in a room like this.
Finally, after trimming a final thorn and setting the shears aside, Elyria turned. Her gaze was piercing. "I won’t waste your ti," she said. "I assu you already know why you’re here."
Marcella t her gaze. "You want the truth."
"I want to know," Elyria hovered, "if you and my son have fulfilled the pact or not. The last ti I asked, you lied to , that’s why the officials from Cardenia were here yesterday, informing about the situation."
Marcella didn’t answer imdiately. She was calculating which version of the truth would survive this room.
Elyria continued, "Ysolde won’t give a second chance. Neither will the Crown. If the sanctity verification fails, the Empire will revoke its blessing, the Church will demand penance, and Ashenholt will beco a cursed house... all because two clever children thought they could outplay a sacred fla."
A startled laugh rose in her throat. "So that’s what you think happened, mother?"
"I don’t think," Elyria responded with a sly smile. "I know the scent of a half-bonded Fla when I feel it pulse through my walls."
She stepped around the table, eyes locked on Marcella’s. "I also know that Berith has changed. That usually ans he’s bleeding sowhere you can’t see."
"You think I hurt him?"
"I think you left him exposed," Elyria’s drawl returned.
Marcella drew a sharp breath, replying nonchalantly. "He could’ve claid it on our wedding night. But he didn’t."
"No," Elyria agreed, a vein pulsed in her forehead. "He wouldn’t, which is why he’s dying slowly instead of living wrongly."
Marcella turned her gaze away, toward the frostfruit tree in the far corner. "I had reasons," her voice held not an ounce of apology.
Elyria’s mouth pinched but she conceded with a reluctant, "I’m sure you did. You always do. You’re clever, I know that.," she chuckled. "And strategic. But strategy without foresight is just vanity in better clothing."
Marcella’s throat tightened. Her pulse beat high in her chest. She didn’t want to be told she was wrong. She wanted soone to admit the system was flawed, that the Pact was cruel, that the Fla had no right to demand her body as currency.
But what she got instead was the brutal reality:
You chose control. Now you have to hold the weight of it.
Elyria folded her hands in front of her, watching Marcella with unblinking calm. "Have you consummated the bond?"
Marcella hesitated but eventually replied, "No." Thud Thud Thud. Her heart sounded abnormally loud to her ears.
Elyria didn’t sigh. She only nodded. "Then you need to understand what happens next." She rubbed her temple.
"If the Fla rejects your union," Elyria continued, "you won’t just be stripped of your title. The Montclairs will lose their place in the succession line. Our bloodline will be deed unfit to hold a Gate and the Gate Berith carries will collapse."
"He’ll die?" Marcella bit out the words, each one tasted bitter.
"He’ll lose himself," Elyria corrected. "And what’s left will tear through this house before the Crown sends an execution order."
Elyria knelt slightly, placing her gloved hand on the edge of the bench beside Marcella. "I don’t care if you love him," she said. "I care if you let the rest of us burn because you didn’t like the rules."
Marcella let out a half-resigned, half-relieved laugh. She hated this. Then she looked up, eting her eyes. "Did you choose your bond, mother?"
Elyria’s mouth pressed into a line. "No," she replied. "So of us learn to choose what binds us, instead of pretending we can walk free forever."
She straightened, smoothing her gloves as if wiping the conversation off her skin. "You have one day. Either finish what you started or be ready...."
Marcella didn’t rise from her seat. She looked up at the forr duchess, "Then go ahead," she encouraged her. "Do your best. I’ll be watching... to see how far you’re willing to go to keep your na clean, mother."
It wasn’t a threat, not exactly. It was more like a mirror turned back on Elyria.
The older woman didn’t flinch. But the muscle near her temple twitched before going still again.
That was all. No anger. No words.
But Marcella knew the barb had landed. She knew the Montclairs would do anything to protect their na first, and sacrifice whatever or whoever it took to keep their bloodline untainted.
Let them move their pieces. She had her own ga to finish.
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