Lady Evelyne Merrow did not believe in fate. Fate was for fools and poets, for desperate women waiting for princes and soldiers praying for glory. No, Evelyne believed in strategy. In information. In power.
And right now, all three whispered the same name: Lila Hart.
She sipped from a glass of spiced wine as the carriage rumbled along the worn cobblestone road, its wheels grinding the frost-slick stones beneath. The capital had grown colder in recent days not just from the turning of the season, but from the shift in the air, the unease settling over the kingdom like a wolf circling its prey.
Whispers of strange magic. Unrest in the eastern provinces. A noble girl catching the eye of the Warborn Duke.
That last one was what caught Evelyne's attention.
She had known Adrian Blackwood since they were children though 'known' was perhaps a generous word. He had always been colder than the winters of the north, and yet... dangerous in a way that had always fascinated her. She had danced with him once, at a royal ball when they were both sixteen. He hadn't spoken a word the entire time, but his eyes had told a story no noble ever dared write.
And now, he was entertaining a girl from a fallen line? A Hart, of all things?
Interesting, Evelyne thought, twirling the stem of her glass. The last of the Hart bloodline had disappeared nearly twenty years ago, and now—suddenly—this Lila appeared at Blackwood Manor, surviving court scrutiny and, by all accounts, even earning Adrian's protection.
Unlikely. Implausible. Dangerous.
Her carriage rolled to a stop before a tall townhouse nestled deep within the Noble Quarter of Arondale. The lamps outside were already lit, casting a golden glow on the freshly fallen snow. She descended with practiced grace, her fur-lined cloak sweeping behind her like smoke.
A young steward greeted her, bowing deeply. "Lady Merrow. Lord Cassien awaits you in the drawing room."
Evelyne inclined her head. "Good. Have him pour two drinks. He'll need one."
She was shown in moments later to a lavish room where Lord Cassien Hawthorne stood by the hearth, wine already in hand. Unlike most nobles, Cassien lacked any of the subtlety or discipline of court life. But he had two valuable traits: a sharp ear for rumors, and a desperate need for Evelyne's approval.
"My lady," he said, smiling like a wolf, "I assume you've heard?"
"I don't make assumptions, Cassien. I confirm things. Now tell me everything."
He didn't need prompting. "Lady Lila Hart has been seen in Blackwood's company multiple times. The staff reports late-night meetings. The manor's western wing has been sealed, but servants whisper of spellwork and ancient books."
"Spellwork?" Evelyne arched a brow. "Adrian has always kept his talents buried. For him to use them now…"
"Exactly. And here's the most curious part: someone from the Arcanum visited the manor last week. Quietly. No announcement. Left without fanfare."
Now that was something Evelyne didn't like.
The Arcanum rarely involved itself unless bloodlines of power were in play. For them to make an unannounced visit to Blackwood's estate meant they believed something or someone there was a threat.
Lila.
Evelyne moved to the fire, letting the warmth kiss her gloved hands. "You know what this means."
Cassien hesitated. "The prophecy?"
Evelyne glanced at him. "No. It means the game has changed. We're no longer dealing with noble politics. This is the old game now. The one we've all tried to forget."
Cassien said nothing, but the wine sloshed slightly in his cup. He knew. Everyone with true blood knew. There were prophecies buried in the vaults beneath the palace, warnings carved into stone and guarded by blade and oath.
And one of them mentioned the return of the Threadbearer.
A girl of fading lineage who would rekindle a bloodline once believed extinct.
One who would unmake the warborn and break the bonds of fate.
It had always been myth. Until now.
Evelyne turned back toward Cassien, her expression sharp. "Send word to the council. Quietly. I want everything we can find on Lila Hart—her family, her origin, the estate she supposedly came from. If there are records, I want them burned. If there are survivors, I want them watched."
Cassien nodded. "And Blackwood?"
Evelyne smiled thinly. "Leave Adrian to me. He'll never see it coming."
Later that evening, when Evelyne returned to her private chamber, she lit a single candle and unlocked the drawer beneath her desk. From it, she drew a small black box etched with silver runes—an old relic, gifted to her by her grandmother.
Inside the box was a letter, yellowed by time.
To Evelyne Merrow, it read, if ever the blood of the Hart line returns, do not hesitate. She is the key. But keys can open or destroy. Choose your loyalty carefully. The warborn's fate may not be to die—but to serve.
She traced the words with one gloved finger.
She had always wondered what this letter meant. Now, it seemed, she was about to find out.