Episode 5

I held a secret against my skin, close to my heart.

A folded letter stained with deception. A single signature — M — that shattered every last illusion I had left about my future.

And my enemy was no longer an unknown conspirator.

It was Mirelle Dravik.

The Duke’s sister.

My soon-to-be sister-in-law.

And I had to play this carefully. I could not let her suspect I knew.

Not yet.

By morning, I was radiant.

Leira brushed my hair while humming softly, and I sat still as a statue. My reflection in the mirror showed someone lovely, calm, unbothered — the very picture of an aristocratic bride preparing for her wedding day.

“I don’t know what’s different today,” Leira said, “but you look…”

“Alive?” I offered, with a small smile.

She giggled. “No, not just alive. Powerful.”

Good. That’s what I wanted.

“Do you remember Lady Mirelle?” I asked her, adjusting my earring.

“The Duke’s sister?” Leira blinked. “Of course. Why?”

I turned slightly. “What do you know about her?”

Leira hesitated. “Only gossip, my lady. She’s... feared. They say she runs House Dravik behind closed doors. That even the Duke listens to her.”

I nodded. “He does.”

And if Mirelle thought I was just a pawn in this game — disposable, obedient, foolish — then I had to show her just how wrong she was.

Later that morning, I requested a visit to the greenhouse — a secluded estate garden lined with rare glass windows and exotic flora. It was usually Mirelle’s sanctuary.

Today, it would become her battlefield.

I found her seated on a marble bench, surrounded by crimson nightshade blossoms. Her gown shimmered like obsidian under the sunlight, and her hair was twisted into a crown of thorns — as if she meant to look untouchable.

I smiled. “Lady Mirelle.”

She raised one brow. “Eira Valenne. What a surprise.”

“Is it?” I sat across from her, ignoring the servant who hesitated beside her with a tray of teas. “I thought we should talk. Before the wedding.”

“Of course,” she said smoothly. “I always enjoy watching lambs before the slaughter.”

Ah. So she wasn’t pretending.

Good.

I glanced at the tray. “Which one is poisoned?”

She blinked, just once. Then she laughed. “What a wicked sense of humor you have.”

“I find humor keeps me alive.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly.

We stared at each other, unblinking.

Then she said, “You know, you were never the first choice. Caelan was meant to marry Lady Ysolde of Bellmere. Royal blood. But she refused.”

“And now he gets me. Poor Caelan.”

Mirelle’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Do you even love him, Elyria?”

“I did,” I said softly. “Once. Before I died.”

Her fingers froze on her cup.

“I’m sorry?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly, rising to my feet. “It was lovely seeing you.”

I let the words settle like dust around her — confusing, unsettling, out of place. Let her wonder if I was mad.

Let her guess if I knew.

Because if she wanted a game of masks and poison, I would give her one she wouldn’t forget.

That night, I returned to my chambers and unlocked the small case beneath my wardrobe. Inside, I placed two items:

The forged report bearing Mirelle’s seal.

The vial of Bellshade I found in the library.

Two weapons.

One truth.

One lie.

I didn’t know when I would use them, but I knew I would.

The rehearsal for the wedding continued the next day, lavish and extravagant. Nobles gathered, banners hung, harps played.

I walked down the aisle once more — for the fifth time in my endless loop — and looked Caelan directly in the eye.

“Cold hands,” he murmured, when he took mine.

“Better cold hands than a cold heart,” I whispered back, smiling sweetly.

He flinched.

Good.

That evening, I made my move.

Not against Mirelle. Not yet.

But against one of her pawns.

Lord Darrien Velk.

He was Caelan’s closest friend — and, from what I’d pieced together in each loop, Mirelle’s eyes and ears. A drinker. A gambler. A man who liked to talk too much when plied with wine and flattery.

I found him in the wine cellar just past midnight, three cups deep and already slurring.

“Ohh, the bride!” he laughed when he saw me. “What brings you to the den of thieves and drunks?”

“Looking for a real man,” I said smoothly, “since I’m not sure I’m marrying one.”

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

I stepped closer. “Tell me, Lord Darrien. If someone wanted a bride gone — permanently — how would they do it without making it look like murder?”

He stilled.

Then he laughed again, nervous now. “Why would you ask such a thing?”

“Curiosity,” I whispered. “Unless you know something I don’t.”

Silence.

Then he reached for his wine.

“Let’s just say,” he said slowly, “some noble families have… traditions. Old ones. When power shifts hands. Not all deaths are crimes, you know.”

“Only the ones with witnesses,” I replied.