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CHAPTER FOUR

Vionna's Cruelty

A gray autumn rain tapped against leaded glass windows as servants moved through Xalara's chambers like silent wraiths. They gathered silks and velvets worth more than a Veil family might see in a lifetime, folding them with practiced efficiency that spoke of routine. This was not the first time they had packed away the evidence of a lord's passing fancy.

"Mind the blue silk with care," instructed the iron-haired chambermaid who oversaw the proceedings. Her name was Merrith, and the pin at her throat marked her as belonging to House Kress, not House Holt. "Lady Vionna was most specific about preserving certain garments for... repurposing."

The servants exchanged quick glances at that, their eyes darting toward Xalara before returning to their tasks with renewed concentration. Xalara caught the look, understood its meaning. Repurposing. As if costly garments tailored to her form would fit Vionna's taller, more willowy shape. This was ownership, not practicality. A dog marking territory.

Two days since the gala, and already they strip away the trappings. First the status, then the possessions, soon enough the protection. In the Veil, they'd take everything at once and leave you bleeding in an alley. Nobles prefer this slow, methodical humiliation—more satisfying to watch the hope die gradually than to snuff it out in one violent moment.

She stood by the window, one hand resting on the stone sill, weathered smooth by generations of Holt hands before hers. From this vantage, she could see the sculpted gardens below, where the gardeners still tended flowers that would die with the coming frost. Temporary beauty maintained at great expense—not unlike her own brief elevation.

The rain beaded on glass etched with Holt sigils, distorting the view beyond. Like the future itself, Xalara thought—visible but twisted into unrecognizable shapes.

Two servants struggled with a heavy wardrobe of polished bloodwood—another of Cassian's extravagant gifts during her first weeks here. It had arrived with a dozen new gowns, each crafted by House Holt's finest seamstresses. "To properly clothe my fated mate," Cassian had said, amber eyes warm with something she had mistaken for genuine affection.

Now he couldn't even face her. Since the gala, he had sent messengers with terse instructions about her "adjusted accommodations" and "revised role within the household." Verin had tried to visit yesterday, but had been turned away by Vionna's staff, who now seemed to have authority over Xalara's daily life.

The high lord can't spare a moment to look me in the eye while he strips away what he promised. In the Veil, even the cutthroats grant you the dignity of seeing who's ending your dreams. They understand the weight of such things. Here, it's just politics—shifting pieces on a board with no thought to the pain of those moved aside.

The rain grew heavier, pattering against the glass like impatient fingers. Xalara watched a drop trace its way down, absorbing smaller droplets until it grew heavy enough to fall in a crooked path to the bottom. Like ambition in this world of crystal spires and ancient magic—a slow accumulation until gravity claimed what had risen too high.

Merrith supervised the packing with the stern efficiency of someone who had orchestrated similar scenes before. Her gray eyes missed nothing, from the silver hairbrush that a younger servant attempted to slip into her own pocket (swiftly corrected with a sharp slap to the wrist) to the way Xalara's fingers sometimes strayed to the crystal hanging at her throat.

"Is this truly necessary?" Xalara finally asked, addressing the chambermaid directly. Her voice emerged steadier than she felt, trained by years in the Veil where showing weakness invited predators. "I've committed no offense against House Holt or Lord Cassian."

Let them think me naive, confused. The more they underestimate my understanding, the more freely they'll speak around me. In the Veil, information kept you alive when knives couldn't.

Merrith glanced around the chamber, noting which servants might be listening, calculating the risk of honest speech against the value of securing a confidant within the household hierarchy. Her lips pursed into a bloodless line before she moved closer, voice lowered to a whisper that wouldn't carry beyond their immediate space.

"It's not my place to question Lady Vionna's orders, miss." The words emerged clipped, precise, each one weighted with years of careful service in noble houses where walls had ears. "She feels your... proximity to Lord Cassian is inappropriate, given the announcement."

Proximity. Xalara savored the diplomatic choice of word, the delicate sidestep around what Cassian himself had named a fated mate bond. How quickly the sacred becomes inconvenient, how readily destiny bows to political advantage. All those grand speeches about connection beyond understanding, reduced to an 'inappropriate proximity' with the stroke of a quill on a marriage contract.

"And where exactly am I to be moved?" Xalara asked, maintaining her carefully neutral tone. One hand idly traced patterns on the window glass, following raindrops with a finger that trembled only slightly. The movement might seem idle, but she was cataloging the garden paths below, measuring distances between towers, mapping potential routes that might prove useful if circumstances worsened beyond endurance.

"The east wing," Merrith replied, her gaze fixed on a point slightly above Xalara's left shoulder, avoiding direct eye contact in the manner of servants delivering unwelcome news. "Near the household staff."

The words hung between them, their meaning clear. Not quite servants' quarters, but near enough to make the message unmistakable. A careful, calculated degradation—not so extreme as to appear vindictive to outside observers, but pointed enough that none within the household would misunderstand Xalara's fallen status.

"I see." Xalara's fingers found the crystal at her throat, drawing comfort from its familiar warmth. It pulsed against her skin like a second heartbeat, steady where her own had quickened. "And what of my lessons? My magical training?"

They can take the silks and jewels, the comforts and position. Those were never truly mine. But knowledge once given can't be reclaimed—the understanding I've gained of my own abilities, that's mine to keep.

Something like regret flickered across Merrith's weathered face—a brief glimpse of genuine emotion quickly masked behind professional detachment. The chambermaid busied herself with folding a length of crimson velvet, smoothing non-existent wrinkles with hands that had served noble houses longer than Xalara had drawn breath.

"I believe those have been discontinued, miss." Her voice remained steady, but her fingers caught on the velvet's edge, a small betrayal of discomfort with her role as messenger. "Lady Vionna feels your natural abilities are best suited to... practical applications."

The words landed like stones, heavy with implication. Practical applications—lighting fires, warming bathwater, performing the menial tasks that made a noble lady's life more comfortable. The message couldn't be clearer if Vionna had written it in blood: Know your place. Serve your purpose. Forget what you might have become.

Rage flared hot in Xalara's veins, a sudden surge of emotion that broke through the careful walls she'd built around her heart since the gala. After weeks of progress, of finally beginning to understand and control her mysterious abilities, Vionna intended to strip away her education, to reduce her to a magical convenience rather than a practitioner in her own right.

The crystal at her throat responded to her anger, flaring briefly with an opalescent light that caused Merrith to step back, her eyes widening in alarm.

"Is that thing safe?" the chambermaid asked, gaze fixed on the pendant with the wary respect of those who live among magic but cannot wield it themselves.

"Perfectly," Xalara replied, allowing a thin smile to curve her lips. "For me, at least."

A reminder that they haven't taken everything yet. This crystal is mine, connected to me in ways they don't understand. Let them wonder, let them worry. In the Veil, fear is often the only currency that matters.

The door to the suite swung open without the courtesy of a knock, the heavy oak panels moving with the deliberate slowness of someone who knew they need not rush. Vionna Kress entered like she already owned House Holt and everyone within its walls.

She wore a morning gown of pale green silk that whispered against the floor with each step, the fabric shot through with silver threads that caught the gray morning light. Her golden hair had been arranged in an intricate style, each curl placed with deliberate artistry to emphasize the jeweled pins holding it in place. Xalara's practiced eye noted that the pins weren't merely decorative—each contained a semi-transparent gem with visible crystalline structures that hummed with stone-earth magic.

Already adorned with the weapons of her house, already reshaping this space to her will. In the Veil, new gang leaders at least wait until their predecessor's blood has dried before claiming their territory. These nobles don't even pretend at decency.

The servants immediately ceased their activities at her entrance, bowing with the synchronicity of those whose livelihoods depended on proper deference. Merrith stepped forward, hands clasped before her in the formal posture of a head servant delivering a report.

"My lady, we're nearly finished with the packing. The east wing room is prepared as requested."

Vionna's gaze swept the chamber, cataloguing its contents with the practiced eye of someone accustomed to inventorying possessions. Her attention lingered briefly on Xalara by the window before returning to Merrith.

"Leave us," she commanded, her tone pleasant but brooking no argument. "I wish to speak with Lady Xalara privately."

And now the game truly begins. No witnesses for whatever comes next. In the Veil, that's when the knives come out. Here, it will be words sharper than steel, wounds that don't bleed but never truly heal.

The servants filed out with practiced efficiency, each bowing as they passed Vionna. Merrith was the last to leave, her gray eyes meeting Xalara's briefly—a look that might have been sympathy, or merely the caution of one who had witnessed similar scenes before and knew better than to intervene. The heavy door closed behind her with a soft click that sounded unnaturally loud in the sudden silence.

For a moment, the two women regarded each other across the chamber. The only sounds were the persistent patter of rain against glass and the soft whisper of Vionna's silk gown as she moved further into the room. Then, like ice cracking on a spring river, Vionna's perfectly composed expression shifted. The courteous mask she wore for servants and lords alike fell away, revealing something harder, colder beneath—the true face only those she considered insignificant were permitted to see.

"Well," she said, walking slowly around the chamber, trailing manicured fingers along surfaces as if checking for dust, "isn't this cozy? Much nicer than what you're accustomed to in the Veil, I imagine."

She picked up a crystal figurine from a side table—a small ember fox that Cassian had gifted Xalara after their third week together. "Such generous accommodations for someone of your... background." She set the fox down with deliberate care, though not quite in its original position. A small assertion of control, a claim on the space and everything within it.

Opening with a reminder of my origins, establishing the hierarchy with her first breath. As if I could forget where I come from—as if the Veil isn't etched into every survival instinct I possess.

"It served its purpose," Xalara replied, her voice neutral despite the calculations running through her mind. The chamber offered three potential weapons within immediate reach. The crystal hairbrush on the dressing table—heavy, with a handle that could shatter with the right application of force. The silver letter opener on the writing desk, ornamental but still pointed enough to penetrate flesh if necessary. The porcelain vase near the door—smash it first, then use the shards. Not that she expected to need such measures, not yet. This initial confrontation was merely the opening move in what promised to be a much longer game.

"Indeed it did." Vionna moved to the dressing table, picking up the crystal hairbrush with an air of casual ownership. She examined it critically, turning it to catch the gray light from the windows. "What a curious game you've been playing, Xalara from nowhere. Insinuating yourself into Cassian's household, enjoying his generosity, perhaps hoping to rise above your station?" She set the brush down with deliberate care, her smile sharp as a blade's edge. "Very ambitious."

She's testing my reactions, probing for weakness, for resentment, for confirmation of her suspicions. Watching for any sign that might justify the steps she's already decided to take. Give her nothing. Let her fill the silence with her own assumptions.

"I was brought here against my will," Xalara reminded her, choosing truth as her shield rather than fabrication. Truth had angles that lies lacked, edges that could cut those who weren't cautious in handling them. "Cassian tracked me down in the Shadowveil, claimed I was his fated mate, and gave me little choice but to accompany him."

Let her try to dispute what happened in front of witnesses, what the whole household knows to be true. Even the most skilled liar struggles against facts carved in stone.

Vionna laughed—a sound like breaking glass, musical yet somehow threatening in its perfection. "Oh, the fated mate nonsense. How convenient for you." She moved closer, and as she did, the air around them changed.

A subtle pressure built in the chamber, the sensation of being slowly encased in crystal. It wasn't obvious magic like Cassian's ember displays, but something more insidious—stone-earth energy that seemed to thicken the air itself, making each breath slightly more difficult than the last. A demonstration of power that left no visible marks, no evidence that might be reported to others.

"Let me explain something, Veil rat," Vionna said, her voice soft but carrying easily in the pressurized air. "Cassian and I have been promised to each other since we were children. Our families' alliance is the cornerstone of both our houses' prosperity. The Holt ember mines power half the Western Territories, but without Kress gems to focus that power, they're just pretty fires. Without Holt protection, our caravans would be picked clean by border raiders within a fortnight."

She adjusted one of the crystalline pins in her hair, the casual gesture belied by the way the pressure in the room intensified. "This is how the world works. Political necessity, mutual advantage, carefully balanced power. Not fairy stories about magical bonds and destined love."

Magic as intimidation rather than open confrontation. Creating discomfort without leaving evidence that might be reported to others. Clever. In the Veil, they'd simply break a finger to make their point. Same message, different delivery.

"Then why did he pursue me at all?" Xalara challenged, planting her feet firmly against the subtle pressure attempting to push her back. "Why bring me here, train me, dress me like this, if you were always his intended?"

Force her to explain, to justify. Every explanation reveals something of value—priorities, insecurities, the mechanisms of her thinking. Information is the only weapon that grows sharper with use.

Vionna's smile was poisonous, a lovely curve of lips that didn't reach her calculating eyes. "Because men, even powerful ones like Cassian, are fundamentally simple creatures." She moved to the window where Xalara stood, her reflection appearing in the rain-streaked glass like a ghost overlaying Xalara's own. "They see something unusual, something forbidden, and they must possess it."

Her fingers hovered near the crystal at Xalara's throat, not quite touching it but close enough that Xalara could feel the stone-earth magic emanating from Vionna's carefully manicured hand. "He was curious about your... oddities. Your unfamiliar magic, this strange bauble you wear." She withdrew her hand, her smile widening slightly. "But curiosity is fleeting."

So that's her understanding of it—that I was merely novelty, a temporary distraction from duty. Good. Let her underestimate me, underestimate the bond. The less she knows about the crystal's true significance, the better.

"I've known Cassian all my life," Vionna continued, circling Xalara with the measured pace of a predator sizing up potential prey. Her silk gown whispered against the stone floor, a constant reminder of the gulf between them—one clothed in costly fabric spun from noble wealth, the other wearing what had been given, what could be taken away with equal ease. "I understand his little diversions, his occasional fascination with the exotic or the forbidden."

She paused, examining one of the half-packed gowns laid across the bed—crimson silk embroidered with House Holt's emblem in gold thread. Her fingers traced the stitching with proprietary familiarity. "I permit them, because in the end, he always returns to me." Her eyes hardened, chips of green ice in her perfect face. "To his true match."

There have been others before me. Not just political convenience but a pattern. What happened to Cassian's previous "diversions," I wonder? Did they too find themselves suddenly relocated, demoted, forgotten? Or did they suffer worse fates at Lady Vionna's hands?

Something in the way she said "permit" made Xalara wonder just how many others had briefly caught Cassian's eye, only to be dealt with by his patient, calculating betrothed. The thought should have warned her to tread carefully, but instead it fueled a defiance that burned hotter than caution.

"If you're so secure in your position," Xalara said, meeting Vionna's gaze directly, "why relocate me to the east wing? Why end my magical training?" She gestured toward the half-emptied chamber. "Surely a temporary diversion poses no threat to House Kress and its ancient claims."

Push back, but carefully. Just enough to seem innocently confused rather than openly challenging. Let her reveal more of her strategy while believing she's successfully intimidating me.

The stone-earth pressure in the room wavered briefly, Vionna's perfect composure showing the smallest crack at Xalara's unexpected challenge. Her smile tightened, eyes narrowing slightly before the mask slipped back into place.

"Insurance, my dear." She moved to stand directly before Xalara, close enough that the scent of her perfume—winter roses and something sharper, metallic—filled the space between them. "The bond you share, however inconvenient, is unfortunately real. I saw it manifest at the gala—everyone did. Such connections can be... persistent, if not properly managed."

There it is. The admission I needed. She fears the bond, fears what she can't control or fully understand. Which means it has power she recognizes, even if she won't openly acknowledge its significance.

"Managed?" Xalara repeated, filing away this vital piece of information like a blade to be used when the moment was right.

"Contained. Diminished. Eventually severed." Vionna moved away, the pressure in the room easing slightly as she did. She drifted to the dressing table, examining the few personal items Xalara had accumulated during her stay—a comb, a small pot of lip stain, a vial of perfume made from night-blooming flowers that grew along the outer walls of House Holt.

"The bond feeds on proximity and shared power," she continued, uncorking the perfume to sniff delicately before recorking it with a slight grimace of distaste. "Distance and the suppression of your magical development will weaken it over time." She set the vial down precisely where it had been, though her fingers lingered on it as if considering whether to remove even this small comfort. "By the time Cassian and I wed at the winter solstice, it will be little more than an uncomfortable memory."

A comprehensive strategy, not just reactive spite. Isolation from Cassian, removal from magical training, relegation to servant status—all calculated to weaken the bond by denying it the nourishment it needs to flourish. Time and distance as weapons more effective than any blade.

The casual cruelty of it—this systematic plan to strip away not just Xalara's position but her newly discovered connection to magic itself—sent a surge of protective rage through her. The crystal at her throat flared with sudden brilliance, its light briefly illuminating the rain-dark chamber. For a moment, the air seemed to thicken, pressure building like the moments before a lightning strike.

Control it. Don't reveal your full hand. Let her see just enough to make her cautious, but not so much that she becomes truly afraid. Fear makes enemies unpredictable, dangerous beyond calculation.

Vionna took an involuntary step back, her eyes widening slightly as the crystal's light reflected in them, turning their green depths momentarily opalescent. Then her composure returned, the perfect mask slipping back into place, though she maintained the increased distance between them.

"Interesting," she murmured, her tone suggesting scientific curiosity rather than alarm. "There may be more to you than Cassian realized." She moved toward the door, her path a careful arc that kept maximum space between herself and Xalara. "All the more reason to proceed with caution."

She paused at the threshold, turning back with a smile that was almost friendly were it not for the calculated malice in her eyes. "Oh, I nearly forgot. As my betrothed's former ward, you'll naturally be expected to attend to certain duties in preparation for our wedding." Her voice was light, conversational, as if discussing the weather rather than delivering what Xalara recognized as the centerpiece of her revenge. "After all, we must find some use for you."

And here it comes. Not just demotion but specific humiliation designed to grind salt into the wound. Whatever she's planned has been crafted for maximum psychological impact.

"What sort of duties?" Xalara asked, suspicion threading through her voice despite her effort to maintain neutral tones.

"Traditionally, a noble lady has personal attendants from her husband's household—to ease the transition between houses, you understand." Vionna's smile widened as understanding dawned on Xalara's face. "Given your... unique status, neither servant nor noble, you're perfectly suited to serve as my lady's maid."

She took a step back into the room, her voice dropping to a confidential murmur, as if sharing a delightful secret. "Don't look so shocked. It's quite an honor, really. You'll be privy to all the intimate details of my life with Cassian."

The implication hung in the air between them, heavy as the stone-earth magic that still made each breath slightly labored. Xalara would be forced to witness their relationship in all its facets, to serve the woman who had taken what was supposedly hers, to fade into the background as she arranged Vionna's hair for Cassian's pleasure, prepared her bath, laid out her nightclothes.

It was a refined cruelty, sophisticated in its application, far more psychologically devastating than any direct attack Xalara had encountered in the Shadowveil. There, at least, enemies were honest in their hostility.

"And if I refuse?" Xalara asked, though she already knew the answer. In the Veil, knowing all options—even the impossible ones—was often the difference between survival and destruction.

Vionna's laugh was light, musical, utterly at odds with the cold calculation in her eyes. "Then you return to the Veil with nothing. No training, no protection, and the knowledge that you've squandered your one chance to rise above the gutter." She tilted her head, studying Xalara with the clinical interest of a collector examining a curious but flawed specimen. "Besides, Cassian has already approved the arrangement. He thinks it will help you... adjust to reality."

The final betrayal—not just abandoning me to his betrothed's tender mercies, but actively participating in my humiliation under the guise of helping me. In the Veil, enemies at least have the decency to hate openly. This polite cruelty wrapped in concern is a particular noble perversion.

The revelation landed like a physical blow. Cassian knew. He had agreed to this humiliation, this systematic dismantling of whatever place she had begun to carve for herself in this world of crystal spires and ancient magic.

"He may fuck you," Vionna said suddenly, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper that seemed to cut through the chamber's still air, "but I'll be his wife."

She stepped closer, the stone-earth magic surrounding her intensifying until breathing became a conscious effort. "Whatever fleeting pleasure he finds in your exotic novelty, whatever fascination this bond of yours holds, it changes nothing. House Holt needs House Kress, and Cassian knows where his true duty lies."

Her hand shot out suddenly, shoving Xalara hard enough that she stumbled back against the rain-streaked window, the leaded glass cold through the fabric of her gown. "Remember that when he comes to your bed in the dark, seeking what he cannot ask for in the light."

She expects him to continue our relationship in secret, to take what he wants from both of us in different ways. She's warning me, threatening me. Which means she's not entirely confident in her hold over him, not completely certain the bond won't reassert itself despite her careful plans.

Before Xalara could respond, the chamber door opened without announcement. Cassian himself entered, amber eyes taking in the scene before him—Xalara pressed against the window, Vionna standing over her with clear aggression in her posture. Yet his expression revealed nothing of his thoughts, smoothed into the practiced neutrality of one who navigated political waters by instinct.

Perfect timing. Almost choreographed in its convenience. Good hunter, bad hunter—a tactic as old as the Veil itself, just dressed in finer clothing and scented with costly perfumes.

"Vionna, darling," he said smoothly, "I didn't expect to find you here."

Transformation rippled through Vionna like water disturbed by a thrown stone. The venomous aggressor of moments before vanished, replaced by a vision of sweetness and devotion. She glided to Cassian's side, placing a proprietary hand on his arm, her body language shifting from predator to adoring companion between one heartbeat and the next.

"I was just explaining to Xalara her new duties," she said, her voice warm honey where moments before it had been sharpened steel. "As your ward, she's so eager to contribute to our household." She smiled up at him with perfect adoration, as if the hateful creature who had spat threats and shoved Xalara against glass had never existed. "I thought she might serve as my attendant until more suitable arrangements can be made."

Watch her change, study the perfection of her disguise. The mask slides into place so seamlessly you'd never know what lies beneath if you hadn't seen it with your own eyes. Remember this—her public face is complete fabrication, a performance crafted and refined through years of practice.

Cassian's gaze shifted to Xalara, something unreadable passing through his amber eyes. "Is that so?"

The bond between them pulsed painfully, a silent communication that bypassed words entirely. In that moment of connection, Xalara felt his uncertainty, his conflict, and beneath those, a current of desire that had nothing to do with political alliances or family duty. Yet alongside these emotions ran his resolve to honor his house's commitment, his unwillingness to choose her over Vionna and all she represented—stability, alliance, the continuation of a prosperous order he had been raised to preserve.

Weak. Torn between what he wants and what he thinks he should want. Between desire and duty. In the Veil, such weakness gets you killed with a blade between the ribs. Here, it merely destroys those foolish enough to depend upon your strength.

"Of course," Xalara replied, her voice steadier than she felt, the words emerging with dignity she had not known she possessed. "Lady Vionna has been most... instructive about my place in House Holt."

A flicker of discomfort crossed Cassian's face, quickly masked but not before Xalara caught it—a brief acknowledgment of the lie that lived beneath his careful words. "Your place is not what's being questioned, Xalara. Only your role."

"A distinction without difference, my lord," she replied coolly, watching his eyes as the barb found its mark. Feel the lie in your own words. Know what you're doing, even if you never admit it aloud.

Vionna laughed, a perfect, musical sound that held no trace of her earlier malice. It was as if the woman who had hissed threats and invoked humiliation had been replaced by a completely different person—a charming, gracious lady who found gentle amusement in life's small misunderstandings.

"She's so refreshingly direct, isn't she, darling?" She squeezed Cassian's arm affectionately, leaning into him with practiced intimacy. "No wonder you found her intriguing." Her smile encompassed them both, though the warmth in it touched only Cassian. "Now, we really must discuss the guest list for the engagement dinner. Your father insists on inviting the eastern trade delegation, but I'm concerned about seating arrangements with House Sereth..."

Her voice continued, a gentle flow of domestic concerns and social logistics that created an impenetrable barrier between Cassian and Xalara more effectively than any physical wall could have done. With each new topic—seating arrangements, menu selections, the color of tablecloths—she steered him further from whatever moment of recognition the bond might have created.

Watch how skillfully she redirects him, how she creates distance with mundane details that demand immediate attention. This is practiced art, not chance strategy. How many others has she eliminated from his life this way? How many threats neutralized with nothing more deadly than dinner plans and guest lists?

She led him toward the door, her chatter a continuous shield against any possibility of private communication between Cassian and Xalara. At the threshold, she paused, looking back at Xalara with a smile that held victory secure in the knowledge it could not be challenged.

"Do finish packing, dear. I'll expect you in my chambers this evening to help with my toilette." Her eyes glittered like the gems in her hair pins. "Cassian and I have a private dinner with the Zoryn emissary."

Her emphasis on "private" was subtle but unmistakable—another reminder of her claim on him, of boundaries being redrawn with Xalara firmly on the outside.

Every word measured, every inflection calibrated for maximum effect. She enjoys this—derives pleasure not just from securing her position, but from the artistry of the cruelty itself. Remember that. It's both weakness and strength.

The door closed behind them with a soft click that somehow sounded like the final turn of a key in a lock. Xalara remained motionless by the window, the rain still tapping against glass in counterpoint to her racing thoughts. The crystal at her throat was warm against her skin, its heat neither comfortable nor painful but simply present, like the bond that still ached in her chest.

That pain had changed now, transformed from the shock of betrayal to a deeper awareness of her vulnerability in this world of ancestral magic and ancient houses. In the Shadowveil, enemies attacked with knives or clubs, threatened openly, stole what they wanted without pretense. Here, among the crystal spires and enchanted halls, cruelty dressed in silks and spoke with honey-sweet voice, wielding power with an elegance that made its application no less devastating.

Vionna doesn't need to physically harm me to destroy what I might become. She simply needs to isolate me, diminish me, remind me daily of my powerlessness in the face of her perfect victory.

Yet even as these thoughts circled like carrion birds, Xalara recognized the critical error in Vionna's otherwise flawless strategy. In her need to demonstrate power, to ensure Xalara understood the completeness of her defeat, Vionna had revealed her fears. The bond threatened her, Xalara's magic concerned her. Which meant both were more significant than they had appeared, more powerful than Xalara herself had realized.

She touched the crystal at her throat, feeling its reassuring pulse against her fingertips. Whatever Vionna believed, whatever Cassian had agreed to, this connection to her own magic—to the mystery of her origins—could not be so easily managed, contained, or severed.

They can take the silks and velvets, the comfortable chambers, the position as ward. But they cannot take what is truly mine—this crystal, my growing power, the knowledge I've gained. In the Veil, survival means hiding your true resources, appearing more broken than you are, letting enemies believe they've won even as you gather strength for the moment of reckoning.

Moving with deliberate calm, she gathered the few items that truly mattered—the book on magical theory she'd hidden beneath her mattress where Cassian never thought to look, a small knife with a bone handle she'd kept concealed in her boot since her first day in the spires, and a scrap of parchment where she'd been recording her observations about the crystal and its responses to her emotions.

Focus on what matters. Survival first, vengeance in its time. Gather resources, build strength, wait for the moment when opportunity and preparation meet. The principles that kept me alive in the Veil will serve me equally well in these gilded halls.

The rest—the gowns of silk and velvet, the jewels that had adorned her hair and throat, the trappings of a life that had never truly been offered to her—she would leave behind without regret. If she was to be Vionna's maid, watching from the shadows as Cassian fulfilled his duty to House Holt, then she would use that position to learn, to observe, to gather the knowledge and strength she would need when the time for action finally came.

Every position offers advantages, even those designed to break the spirit. Servants hear what nobles forget to hide when they believe themselves unobserved. Maids see what happens behind closed doors, learn secrets never spoken in council chambers. Vionna thinks she's punishing me, but she's actually giving me access to House Holt's inner workings, to her own private moments. Information is power—often more deadly than a blade in the hands of one who knows how to use it.

The bond might bind her to Cassian, but it did not define her. Vionna might believe she had won this round, but the game was far from over.

I survived the Veil with nothing but wit and will and the knife in my boot. I'll survive this too, and emerge stronger for having endured it. They think they know what I am—a temporary distraction, a convenient servant, a broken doll to be played with and discarded. Let them believe that. The miscalculation will prove fatal to their carefully laid plans.

As Xalara carefully sorted the few possessions she would take to her new quarters, a flicker of movement caught her attention from the corner of one eye. A minor ember crystal—one of many that provided light throughout the chamber—had begun to sputter, its glow faltering as its enchantment weakened.

Without conscious thought, she reached toward it, her magic responding instinctively to coax the failing light back to steady brightness. It was such a small thing, this unconscious use of her abilities—warming a sputtering ember until it glowed with proper strength again. No grand display of power, no remarkable feat that would impress a noble practitioner. Just one of the many small ways her magic manifested in daily life, so basic she barely noticed doing it anymore.

And no one else noticed either.

They don't see because they aren't looking. They don't recognize what I can do because it doesn't fit their categories, their expectations of what magic should look like. Vionna fears what she doesn't understand, but she doesn't truly see me. None of them do.

A slight smile curved Xalara's lips as she finished gathering her belongings, tying them in a small bundle with a scarf left behind by the hasty servants. Let Vionna believe she was breaking her spirit with this demotion. Let Cassian think he was helping her "adjust to reality" by allowing this systematic degradation. Let them all underestimate what was growing within her, what was becoming stronger with each slight, each humiliation, each glimpse of knowledge they thought she shouldn't possess.

In the Veil, we learned that revenge, like justice, is best served cold—and winter is coming to House Holt sooner than they realize.

The rain continued to fall outside, washing the gardens clean, feeding the roots of plants that would endure long after the showy blossoms had faded. Xalara watched a final droplet trace its crooked path down the windowpane, following the invisible channels left by those that had gone before.

Patience. Observation. Survival. Then, when the moment is right, action that leaves no possibility of recovery.

She turned away from the window and toward the door that would lead her to her new life as Vionna's maid. The crystal at her throat pulsed once more, a reassurance and a promise wrapped in opalescent light.

Let the game begin in earnest.