Episode 4

I died four times before I learned to smile.

The trick wasn’t in avoiding death — no. That seemed inevitable, like the sun rising or Caelan's betrayal. But if I was to outplay the ones orchestrating my downfall, I couldn’t afford to keep reacting.

I had to act.

And to act, I needed to become someone else.

The fourth time I opened my eyes to Leira’s gentle voice and the morning light streaming through the curtains, I didn’t scream or sob or stare into space. I simply sat up, combed my fingers through my hair, and said, “Bring the green gown. The one with the high collar.”

Leira blinked. “Not the bridal one?”

“Not today.”

Not ever again.

I would play the bride, yes. But not as their puppet.

By midmorning, I was seated in the drawing room with a stack of old estate ledgers, a teacup steaming by my elbow, and a faint, unreadable smile on my lips. I greeted each servant by name. I gave the steward a list of improvements for the eastern wing. I even summoned my father, which shocked the entire household.

“Elyria?” he said, entering cautiously. “I thought you’d be preparing for the ceremony.”

“I am preparing,” I said, offering him a cup. “Just not the way you expect.”

His eyes narrowed. “Is something wrong?”

Plenty, Father. But I smiled sweetly and said, “Not at all.”

I watched him. Carefully.

The way he flinched when I mentioned Caelan’s name. How he averted his eyes when I asked how the alliance between House Valenne and House Dravik came to be.

And when I leaned in, lowering my voice, and said, “Would you kill me to keep this alliance intact?” — he laughed.

Not nervously. Not fearfully.

He laughed the way powerful men do, when they think they’re too far above the question to take it seriously.

“Of course not,” he said.

That answer told me everything I needed.

Because it meant he’d already decided someone else could do it for him.

The sun dipped low as I made my way to the library, passing nobles arriving for the evening rehearsal feast. I waved to the Duchess of Renwyck. I even smiled at Caelan’s sister, Lady Mirelle, who once told me I wasn’t “royal enough to wear velvet properly.”

I didn’t care anymore. I was done playing the meek, tragic bride.

Now I was playing the fox.

Inside the library, I lit no lamps. Instead, I moved by memory — straight to the false panel behind the third bookshelf, where I had once found childhood letters from my late brother. I pulled it open.

This time, there were no letters.

But there was a vial.

A small one, nearly invisible. Sealed with black wax.

Poison.

Of course.

I held it up to the window. It shimmered violet in the moonlight — deadly and beautiful. Bellshade. Silent. Untraceable. Fatal within the hour.

Who was it meant for?

Me?

Caelan?

Or was it a test — a gift — a warning?

I didn’t know. But I took it with me.

At the rehearsal feast, the music was bright, the food lavish, the nobles delightfully drunk. My hand rested lightly on Caelan’s arm as he introduced me to diplomats and generals and priests who would no doubt bless a marriage soaked in blood.

He was perfect tonight. Coldly charming, dangerously refined. His smile touched his lips, never his eyes.

“I heard you skipped your dress fitting this morning,” he said, voice low and amused.

“I had a headache,” I replied smoothly. “It passed.”

“Pity. I quite like seeing you in white.”

I leaned in, just close enough for him to feel the heat of my breath. “You’ll see me in it soon enough.”

I smiled like a queen. Like a woman who knew she was being led to slaughter and had already memorized the path.

And Caelan… blinked. Just once. But it was the first crack in his perfect facade I’d ever seen.

I danced with him that night. I laughed when appropriate. I toasted with honeyed wine.

And then, I left the ballroom early, faking fatigue.

I waited until the halls were empty, then crept back into the west wing. I knew the guards’ patterns now — I knew everything they thought I shouldn’t.

In a quiet hallway between the study and the chapel, I stopped at Caelan’s private door.

It wasn’t locked.

Inside, I found order. Precision. Every book aligned. Every map folded. Weapons polished, daggers sheathed. A man of discipline. Control.

But one drawer, beneath his desk, was ajar.

And in it — a file stamped with the royal seal.

I pulled it out.

Inside were notes. Testimonies. Records. Pages detailing my life: my tutors, my friends, my private conversations. A record of my behavior.

At the bottom, a single phrase burned into my vision:

“Subject considered unstable. Manipulative tendencies noted. Unfit for Crown support.”

Signed by… no one.

No official.

Just an initial.