Chapter 140: The St. Aldwyn Symposium
The invitation arrived without ceremony, its quiet presence almost more unnerving than a grand entrance would have been. A slim black box, sat unassumingly on the polished mahogany library table of The Manoir des Ombres. No courier. No signature. No sound. Just the quiet certainty that it was meant for her.
Eva spotted it first, small fingers reaching out as though instinct alone guided her. The velvet inside cradled a thick envelope, pale cream and sealed with the House of Lioré's insignia — a silver crescent moon entwined with golden ivy. The wax shimmered faintly in the light from the tall library windows. She lifted the envelope and read her name written in sloping, elegant script: Evangeline Claire Ainsley.
It was not her real name. Not entirely.
Later that morning, in the quiet warmth of her Papa's study, Eva stood in front of Reginald with the invitation still in hand. "Papa," she asked softly, "why does it say 'Evangeline Claire Ainsley'? Not just Eva, not even Maxwell – Lioré?"
Reginald looked up from his desk. He was a man who rarely paused, but this time he did. His eyes scanned her face before answering. "Because that's the name the world expects right now. And because sometimes, to protect the truth, you must dress it up like a lie."
"But they know who I am, don't they?" Her voice was steady. "They know I'm not just an Ainsley."
"They suspect," he said carefully. "But they don't know everything."
Vivienne's voice interrupted from the doorway. She crossed the room with quiet steps, a shadow of silk trailing her. "The Council believes you're something extraordinary. That you are Maxwell – Lioré reborn from blood of myth. You, my little dove, have drawn their attention."
Eva's fingers curled slightly around the envelope. "What do they want from me?"
Vivienne knelt beside her and smoothed a hand over her hair. "To see what you've become. To confirm their suspicions. The St. Aldwyn Society is not just an aristocratic circle, Eva. They're the watchers, the old - world believers. They still cling to mythology, to the gods that once walked among us."
Eva tilted her chin upward. "Do you believe them?"
Vivienne smiled, but there was sadness in her eyes. "I believe in you."
Reginald's jaw tightened. "And I believe this is dangerous. But we can't stop it."
Vivienne looked to him, then back to Eva. "Which is why I'll be with you every step of the way."
Three days later, their car turned off a cobbled P••••••• road and wound its way through tall iron gates. The mansions ahead was enormous, a hauntingly beautiful property set against a backdrop of manicured gardens and fading daylight. The venue looked like it had once belonged to kings, but the presence of sleek security cameras and electric gates gave it away — it belonged now to the present. Wealth never stayed still.
Inside the car, Eva sat in silence. Her navy - blue coat was buttoned high at the collar, her dark chestnut curls pinned back. She looked more like a diplomat's daughter than a six - year - old girl, except for the way her legs still dangled above the floor. She could feel Vivienne watching her, but neither of them said anything.
When the car stopped, two uniformed guards stepped forward with practiced formality. Vivienne handed over the invitation. The moment they saw the seal, their expressions changed. It wasn't just respect that filled their faces. It was deference. They looked at Eva like she was something sacred.
They bowed.
She stepped out.
The grand entrance of the estate opened like a stage. Golden light spilled through the tall glass doors. The entry hall was a strange blend of ancient architecture and modern luxury — marble floors polished to a mirror shine, portraits in gilded frames that watched silently, and high, arched ceilings with programmable lights casting a soft glow. The air smelled like jasmine and something older.
Count Laurent d'Estienne approached first. He wore a perfectly tailored charcoal suit and had the aura of someone who made governments nervous. His salt - and - pepper hair was swept back with almost theatrical precision, and his cufflinks were engraved with the sigil of the St. Aldwyn Society — an ouroboros looped around an eye.
"Mademoiselle Ainsley," he said, bowing just enough to observe protocol without lowering his pride. "We've awaited your arrival."
Eva tilted her head slightly, her expression pleasant but unreadable. "I hope I wasn't too fashionably late."
The Count smiled thinly, as though unused to being bantered with by someone whose shoes still had little flowers embossed on the soles. "Not at all. Timing is everything. And you arrive precisely at a… significant moment."
"Significant moments seem to follow me around," she replied, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. "It's either fate or very poor scheduling."
"You carry a great weight, young one," he continued, tone softening to something more deliberate. "Many here believe you are the key to… something new. A modern age remembering what it has forgotten."
"Or someone hoping to write their own ending for an old story," Eva said, smile unshaken. "Either way, I seem to be in the right place."
The Count studied her with a sort of academic fascination. "Tell me, Evangeline — what do you think of Athena?"
She blinked once. "As a myth?"
"As a symbol," he amended. "As a force."
Eva folded her hands behind her back, beginning to pace lightly as if she were thinking aloud, but it was all carefully choreographed. "Athena. The goddess of wisdom, war, and strategy. Born fully armed from the skull of Zeus — which, medically speaking, sounds extremely unpleasant." She paused for effect, letting a few listening guests nearby chuckle behind their glasses.
The Count allowed a small grin. "Continue."
"She was brilliant. Calculated. She knew the art of war, not just the violence of it. She fought with foresight. She was… decisive."
"And admired by many," he added. "Even feared."
Eva stopped and turned back to him. "She also turned Arachne into a spider because the girl was too good at weaving. So perhaps we should be cautious about overly competitive hobbies."
A ripple of amusement passed through the listeners again. But Eva didn't smile this time. Her voice softened, grew more thoughtful.
"But I do admire her. Deeply. She built, protected, commanded. She carved A••••• out of chaos and gave it intellect. Strength with restraint. She wasn't adored because she was kind, but because she was… just."
Count d'Estienne tilted his head. "You see her as a role model, then?"
Eva's lashes lowered just slightly. "I see her as a lesson."
"A lesson?"
"That strength without compassion becomes tyranny," Eva replied. "And that even myths must be measured."
The Count's eyes gleamed. "So you think Athena was merely a myth?"
Eva gave a tiny shrug, that practiced blend of innocence and calculation. "At the end of the day, sir, a myth is just a story someone chose to write down. What makes it matter is whether we choose to live by it… or outgrow it."
"Spoken like a philosopher."
"Or a child with a library card," she said with a faint smirk.
He leaned in slightly, clearly enjoying himself now. "And if Athena stood before you now, in this room, what would you say to her?"
Eva looked up at him steadily, voice smooth as silk. "I'd thank her for her example… and then offer her a cup of tea. She's earned it."
The Count let out a genuine laugh — short, rich, surprised. "You are quite unlike what I expected."
"I've been told that a lot," Eva said. "Usually before something explodes."
A few feet away, Vivienne stifled a chuckle behind her champagne flute.
The Count bowed once more, more deeply this time. "I shall be watching your ascent, Mademoiselle Ainsley."
Eva nodded, her expression kind but laced with steel. "Do let me know if it becomes hard to keep up."
Vivienne's hand brushed her arm. A silent signal: stay sharp.
Eva said nothing at first. Then she smiled. "Well, I suppose we'll see."
The ballroom beyond the hall was full of glittering people — aristocrats, foreign diplomats, designers, and heirs who carried old names like titles. The conversations sounded like gentle ripples on a lake, but Eva could feel the current beneath them. She was the youngest person there, but every gaze followed her.
One woman approached wearing a breathtaking emerald gown and a smile like a knife's edge. Her heels clicked like threats against the polished floor, and the diamonds in her ears sparkled too deliberately.
"My dear Evangeline," she purred, voice as sweet as syrup and just as sticky. "Do you feel the power within you growing each day?"
Eva tilted her head with a practiced calm, her gaze steady. "Power is a choice," she replied. "And I choose kindness."
The woman laughed, though the sound was more brittle than amused. "Kindness is a luxury among the powerful."
"Then it must be the most powerful choice of all," Eva said sweetly, folding her hands behind her back. "Only the strongest can afford to be kind without fear."
The woman's eyes narrowed ever so slightly, her interest piqued. "Is that what you believe, darling? That the world can be shaped with a gentle hand?"
"With the right architecture, yes," Eva answered. "A gentle hand builds things people want to protect. A harsh one only teaches people how to rebel."
The woman's lips parted, a half - formed retort dying in her throat. She gave a slow, admiring blink. "You're sharper than they warned."
Eva smiled, disarming. "They do that a lot."
By the fireplace, a few members of the Council watched with open intrigue, standing half - hidden behind columns, sipping rare brandy with unreadable faces. One murmured to another in low F•••••, "Elle est charmante… elle pourrait être notre plus belle arme.""She is charming... she could be our most beautiful weapon."
Eva, of course, heard them. She always did. But her expression remained serene, her mind turning, filing away voices and intentions.
As the emerald-clad woman stepped away, a new figure approached. She was older than the others — perhaps in her seventies — but regal in a way that demanded attention without trying. She wore matte navy silk, no jewelry, no insignia — only her eyes gave her away. Amber and ancient, like sunlit yellow.
"You're not what I expected," the woman said softly.
Eva turned. "Most people say that."
"I watched you all night," the woman went on. "You never give too much. Always just enough. That's not child's play. That's strategy."
"I've had… mentors," Eva said politely.
The woman offered no name, no title. "Tell me, child — what do you think of Kronos?"
Eva paused, a flicker of thought crossing her face. Her tone was careful, but deliberate. "He devoured his own children, didn't he?"
The woman's eyes glinted.
"I suppose that makes him memorable. But I don't find hunger admirable. He feared being replaced so deeply that he destroyed what he helped create. That isn't strength. It's cowardice in armor."
The woman chuckled softly. "Most call him inevitable. Time. Fate. The unavoidable."
Eva nodded thoughtfully. "Time moves forward. Not in circles. It teaches, or it traps you. Kronos seemed very… trapped."
The room around them had gone quieter. Eva had drawn attention again, but not by raising her voice. Simply by existing as she was — serene, sharp, untouchable.
The amber - eyed woman leaned in just slightly. "So you admire Athena more, then?"
Eva's eyes brightened. "Yes. Athena understood that knowledge was a weapon. But she chose when to wield it. She built cities. Advised kings. She knew when to fight, but more importantly, when not to."
"You see her as a model?"
"I see her as someone who understood legacy," Eva said softly. "You can win every war and still lose the future if you leave only ashes behind."
"And Aphrodite?" the woman asked, testing.
Eva smiled again, smaller this time. "Ah, the misunderstood one."
"Oh?"
"Aphrodite's power is in influence. Desire. She doesn't storm cities — she makes cities tear themselves apart for her. People think that makes her weak. I think that makes her terrifying."
The woman tilted her head. "You're fond of strategy, aren't you?"
Eva didn't answer immediately. "I'm fond of stories. And who gets to write them."
The amber- eyed woman gave a soft, satisfied sigh. "You're very dangerous."
"Not today," Eva said. "Today, I'm just someone's guest."
The woman touched her gloved fingers to her heart, then nodded and moved away. But the Council was paying very close attention now.
As Eva turned back toward the crowd, she passed a group of foreign diplomats murmuring in code, a cluster of heiresses whispering behind silk fans, and a figure with silver hair leaning against the banister near the mezzanine — A goddess who's reborn, watching with flinty eyes, arms crossed.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Vivienne at the bar accepting a glass of something pale and sharp, speaking in low, pleasant tones with a man who looked like he ran shadow economies. Yet Vivienne's posture was always tilted toward Eva, protective even when elegant.
Eva's shoes made no sound as she crossed the marble, her small frame absorbed by the enormity of the room — but everyone noticed her.
She paused beside a tall column, taking in a bronze bust of Athena perched high in the alcove.
"Too many people want to become gods," she murmured under her breath. "Not enough remember what happened to the ones who tried."
The Council's oldest members watched. A few whispered. A few smiled.
They had seen countless heirs, countless talents. But Eva — Evangeline Claire Maxwell — Lioré — was something else. Precise. Controlled. Charismatic without trying. Born to power, yes, but not blinded by it.
She was still just a child.
But they were already imagining the weapon she might become.
And she already knew it.
Reginald watched from a distance, stationed like a statue near one of the arched windows. His eyes never left his daughter. He didn't trust any of them. He didn't trust the Council. And he certainly didn't trust this charade.
Vivienne joined him, murmuring beneath the swell of music. "She's doing beautifully brother."
"She's a child," Reginald replied, his tone colder than the champagne chilling nearby. "And they'll try to own her."
"She won't let them."
"She shouldn't have to."
Elsewhere, a dignitary in dark glasses leaned close to Eva during a formal introduction. "And the prophecies, young lady? Do you think you're what they predicted?"
Eva gave him a cool, unfazed glance. "I think prophecies are stories. And stories are made by those who act."
He chuckled, caught off guard. "You're clever."
"I try," she said, sipping water from a crystal flute, entirely unfazed.
As the night unfolded, she was tested again and again — subtle questions masked as compliments, casual banter designed to expose her. And every time, she answered with charm and precision. She knew exactly how much to reveal, and more importantly, what not to.
One older man, robed in a velvet cloak and wearing a medallion engraved with ancient runes, approached slowly. His voice was thin but strong. "Do you not feel history on your shoulders, child?"
Eva lifted her gaze to meet his. "History doesn't belong to the past. It belongs to those who write the next line."
His smile was slight, but real.
The party moved on. Performers came and went — violinists from V•••••, holographic installations of ancient myths, a speech or two so dense with euphemisms they may as well have been written in code. But none of it mattered. Every attendee knew why they were there: to see her.
Later, Eva was escorted into a private lounge with warm lighting and soft walls. There, she met the matriarch. The woman's eyes were gold — unnaturally gold — and she studied Eva with something between reverence and suspicion.
"You are not just a child," she said softly. "You are a choice."
Eva sat down across from her, small legs swinging just once. "Then I choose to be myself."
The matriarch didn't smile, but her head dipped in approval. "We'll be watching."
"I know," Eva said calmly. "I'm watching too."
The ride home was silent. Eva stared out the window, watching P•••• slide by in glimmers and shadows. Vivienne sat beside her, and after a while reached out to hold her hand.
"You were brilliant," she whispered.
"They'll think I'm soft."
"They'll be wrong."
Back at the estate, Reginald stood alone beneath the stars, his coat draped over one arm. The night air was cool, crisp, and quiet. He didn't tell them everything he knew. He hadn't told Vivienne what he'd done behind their backs — every lab technician who'd seen Eva's true DNA strand had disappeared without a trace. Every loose end had been eliminated.
They were too soft. Vivienne, Evelyn — they still played at pretending, still thought decency would shield Eva. But Reginald had made sure. There was no third strand on the falsified DNA now. Only Maxwell and Lioré. Clean. Safe. Masked.
He looked up at the sky, jaw set. His lovely niece was nothing like them. She was fire wrapped in silk, cunning beneath curls. Not too kind. Not too good. Just right.
And she would survive.