The sheets smelled of roses.
Visna lay still beneath them, letting the weight of the silk press her into the mattress. The sun slipped through the curtains like honey—warm, slow, golden. She blinked once, twice. Her body ached slightly, the kind of ache that came from sleeping too deeply in a bed that wasn't truly hers.
It was hers now. Legally. Socially. Publicly.
But not naturally.
She was still learning how to wake up like a noblewoman. Gracefully. Without flinching. Without checking for mud beneath her nails.
Once, mornings had meant cold floors, coarse blankets, goats bleating outside.
Now, it meant imported perfume, polished silver, and servants who never looked her in the eyes.
And him.
Her husband's voice murmured on the balcony—measured, deep, and certain. He was speaking to someone, maybe a guard, maybe a steward. It didn't matter. He always sounded like someone who would never be ignored.
Visna sat up. Her nightgown slid down one shoulder. She adjusted it slowly, deliberately. Everything she did now had to be deliberate.
Because nothing about her place here was guaranteed.
She had married him out of love. That much was real. She still woke up grateful for that. But love didn't erase bloodlines. Or titles. Or the sharp way the other noblewomen smiled.
A knock.
"My lady?" A female servant said as she knocked against the door. Lina.
Always Lina.
Soft voice. Loyal heart. Disposable soul.
Visna didn't answer right away. She watched the ceiling for another second, breathing in the fake sweetness of rose oil and powdered linen. Then:
"Enter."
The door creaked open, quiet as breath.
Lina stepped in carrying a tray with perfect posture and not a single original thought in her head. Tea, a folded napkin, two golden biscuits.
She set it all down with the same ritual grace as always.
Visna watched her in the mirror.
Lina was a blur of obedience.
A moving shadow made of cotton and fear.
The kind of girl who would die for her without needing to be asked—and that was her only value.
"Your gown is ready," Lina said, eyes down.
Lavender, hanging near the window. Visna liked the color. It made her look like someone who belonged.
She stood slowly, walked to the table, and looked out toward the gardens.
Somewhere out there, the nobles were already beginning their day of smiling and slicing each other open with words.
Visna sipped her tea.
And pretended she didn't hear the wolves in silk.
She dressed without help.
Lina stood nearby like an obedient statue, hands clasped, head slightly bowed. Visna liked it that way. She didn't need chatter. She didn't need opinions. She needed silence and clean lines and a girl who knew her place.
As the gown slipped over her skin, cool and smooth, Visna caught her own reflection in the tall mirror.
She studied it like a stranger might.
High cheekbones now. Her skin was dark, kissed by the sun. Hair tamed into soft waves. The girl who once trudged barefoot through cabbage fields had vanished.
Her body wore nobility better than she thought it would.
But the eyes — they still knew. They remembered.
She turned from the mirror and picked up her gloves from the table. Thin satin, the color of cream. Another layer between her and the world.
Lina stepped forward, holding a small brush. "Your hair, my lady?"
Visna didn't respond at first.
She just looked at her.
At the girl's thin wrists, who was one as fat as rich noblemen. The slightly crooked nose. The faint mark on her neck — a burn, maybe, from a kitchen pan.
Lina wasn't ugly. Just ordinary. Perfectly easy to overlook.
The kind of girl no man would ever fight a duel over.
The kind of girl you could lose in a crowd and forget by supper.
The kind of girl who lived quietly and died conveniently.
Visna sat.
Lina began to brush.
Each stroke was gentle, careful, almost reverent.
Outside, birds chirped in the trees. The manor breathed softly around them — candle smoke, polished stone, soft echoing steps.
It was peaceful.
Almost too peaceful.
Visna closed her eyes for a moment and let Lina work. She tried to enjoy it. She tried not to think.
Of anything.
Of anyone.
Just the morning. Just the light.
Just now.
She walked slowly down the corridor, each step muffled by velvet runners imported from somewhere too far away to matter. The paintings along the walls stared as they always did—stern ancestors with sharp noses and colder eyes, judging her in oil and gold leaf.
She kept her chin high.
She had learned that from watching the other women. The way they floated through halls like ghosts that knew they belonged. No hesitation. No looking back.
There were rules here, unspoken ones. Which fork to use. How loud to laugh. When silence was stronger than speech.
She had broken all of them once. She tried not to do that anymore.
Behind her, Lina followed at a respectful distance, hands folded in front of her, eyes low.
The dining hall was already sunlit when she entered. Morning poured through the arched windows, washing the table in gold and warmth. The silverware glinted. The napkins were folded with crisp corners. Everything was prepared.
A single white rose sat in a crystal vase at her place.
She paused when she saw it.
That wasn't usual.
Her husband did little things sometimes, yes. Small gestures. A touch on the back. A glance held half a second too long. But flowers were rare. Especially at breakfast.
She smiled.
He was trying.
And she loved him for that.
She took her seat at the long table. The chair curved to fit her perfectly, carved with the Caerlin crest: a falcon piercing a serpent mid-flight.
She reached out and touched the petals of the rose. Soft. Cool. Real.
Lina moved to her side and placed the teacup down without a word.
Steam curled up into the morning air.
The scent was familiar—bergamot and a hint of something deeper, like vanilla clinging to shadows.
Visna lifted the cup and held it without drinking. The heat of it seeped into her skin.
"Will Lord Caerlin be joining me?" she asked.
Lina answered softly, "He is speaking with Commander Allard. He said he will come soon."
Visna nodded.
It was always something—soldiers, guests, affairs of land or coin or law. Still, he always returned. Always kissed her cheek. Always told her she looked too regal for someone born with dirt on her hands.
He meant it kindly.
She never reminded him that dirt doesn't wash out of memory.
She took a sip.
Warm, smooth, slightly sweet. It calmed something in her chest she hadn't realized was tight.
Breakfast was already laid out—small plates with baked figs, a soft white cheese wrapped in grape leaves, toasted bread cut into perfect squares.
She selected one fig, placed it on her plate, and ate it slowly.
The sweetness burst across her tongue.
Somewhere, a bell rang in the west wing—probably a servant shift. The sound echoed gently, like the house breathing.
She liked mornings like this. Before the other nobles stirred. Before the gossip began. Before the real day arrived, with its arrangements and barbed smiles.
Here, in the quiet, it almost felt like this life had always been hers.
Almost.
She remained seated, letting the tea cool between her fingers.
The nobles had not spoken in minutes. They stood now, every one of them, gathered at the edges of the room as if the space around her were sacred—or cursed. Their silence was not respectful. It was waiting.
She placed her cup down gently. No sound. No clink.
Meriel took one step forward, her smile porcelain-thin. "You've done well to survive this long, Visna."
"I wasn't aware I was trying," Visna said, voice steady.
Lord Tharyn twirled the tip of his cane against the floor. It made a faint tapping, rhythmic and slow. The guards remained still, but their hands drifted—fingertips brushing weapon hilts like an afterthought.
"You don't belong here." Lady Isara whispered.
"I do," Visna replied. "You just don't like the manner in which I arrived."
Edric snorted. "Marriage is not a ladder."
"No," she said. "But blood spills the same at every height."
They didn't laugh. But their mouths twisted—tight little smiles stretched too wide, too smooth.
All of them. At once.
Something about their faces changed. Not just smugness. Not superiority.
Something colder.
Her spine stiffened.
She looked to the left—Lady Meriel's fingers curled unnaturally tight around the blade's hilt.
To the right—Lord Tharyn's smile didn't touch his eyes.
Even Edric's young face had hardened.
They were waiting.
And smiling.
Smiling too much.
Too still.
Too perfect.
Visna didn't move. Didn't speak. A pressure crept along the back of her neck, as though the air itself had thickened. She'd felt tension before—at banquets, in court, in quiet hallways filled with sharp glances—but this was different. This felt rehearsed.
She glanced at the guards. Neither blinked. Their posture was too straight. Their swords too quiet. And all of them—every one of them—stood in just the right place. Blocking exits. Framing her like a painting.
She was the centerpiece.
The only one seated.
She straightened her back, folded her hands in her lap.
"I'm sure there's an explanation," she said lightly, trying to feel her way through their silence. "Some sort of… joke? Tradition I've missed?"
"Not a joke," Meriel said.
"Not a tradition," said Isara.
Edric only smiled. There was something too wide about it. His teeth looked sharper than they were.
The chandelier above her creaked.
She didn't notice at first. It was faint, a sound buried beneath heartbeat and breath. But then it came again—longer, deeper. A metallic moan.
She didn't look up. Not yet.
Instead, she looked at their hands.
Each noble's hand rested on a weapon. Not in aggression. Not openly.
But close.
Too close.
Behind her, she imagined Lina had stepped back into the shadows. Not gone. Just absent.
Typical.
Visna had always known her place among these people was temporary. A gift, maybe. A mistake, more likely. But she had begun to believe in it. She had begun to think the marble belonged beneath her feet, that the lavender dress meant she had been chosen, not tolerated.
That illusion ended now.
The creak returned—louder this time, followed by a faint shiver in the air, like dust shifting above a door left ajar.
She looked up.
The chandelier above her was massive. Iron arms curved outward, holding dozens of crystal pendants that swayed ever so slightly in the sunlight.
And one chain—one vital link in that heavy, hanging heart of the room—was tearing.
She stared.
Her body knew before her mind did.
The nobles' smiles widened.
A crack shot through the air.
The chain snapped.
It didn't fall as one clean piece.
It shattered the moment gravity claimed it—iron twisting, glass bursting outward in a storm of sharpened shards. The scream of metal filled the hall, and time slowed to pain.
Visna had just enough time to lift her arms, not to protect herself—she didn't believe in protection anymore—but to understand.
One crystal shard struck her cheek. Another sliced her throat open.
She gasped.
Then the chandelier hit.
The full weight of wrought iron and jagged glass crashed into her with a force that erased her breath, crushed her ribs flat, and drove her body into the marble like a nail into wood. Bone cracked. Her back folded. Her limbs twisted beneath the frame.
The blood sprayed upward like a fountain, hot and bright, splashing across velvet chairs and white tablecloths.
Her body didn't even thrash.
The final sounds were wet, soft—ribbons of flesh parting under pressure, teeth breaking, lungs collapsing, the last vibrations of a life snuffed out beneath elegance and hate.
And then—
"Ah!" Visna screamed and sat up. Her spine straight and her eyes wide open.
She was—
sitting in her bed?