Evelyne Merrow did not throw things. She did not pace. She did not scream. She did not allow herself the indulgence of fury—at least not in front of servants, mirrors, or marble.
But when the report came in that Adrian Blackwood, of all people, had not only left Arondale without warning but had arrived at the Hart estate under the guise of "a personal stay"—Evelyne broke her own rule.
The porcelain teacup in her hand shattered against the hearth, a spray of delicate shards and scalding liquid staining the edge of her emerald-green skirts. She didn't even flinch.
"Say that again," she said, her voice cold and precise, though her pulse thundered like war drums in her ears.
Her steward, the ever-timid Fallon, swallowed hard. "T-the Blackwood carriage was seen entering the Hart estate two days ago. No escort. The Duke himself. He's... he's still there, my lady."
Still there. Still. There. She thought as she fummed in anger, she wanted to destroy anything in her sight.
Evelyne turned away from the fire, walking slowly to the tall arched window that overlooked her gardens. Snow blanketed the hedgerows, a perfect, pristine white.
Just like the lie she had painted over Lila Hart's past.
For months now—years, if she counted the groundwork—Evelyne had been weaving her web. She'd nearly succeeded in erasing the Hart name altogether. Buried debts under the right titles. Redirected attention from their old alliances. Ensured their appeals to the crown were lost in the shuffle.
And then Lila reappeared. Not timid. Not bowed by ruin. But sharpened. And worse—favored.
Adrian Blackwood had never aligned himself with anyone. Not even the King could lay claim to his loyalty without questioning what Adrian was angling for in return. That kind of independence was dangerous. It made him untouchable.
Evelyne had long planned to court Adrian's influence. To bring him into her circle. To use his coldness and strategic mind as an edge until she could find his weakness.
But now it seemed his weakness had found her.
"Fallon," she said, not turning. "Send another invitation to Lady Lila Hart. Reinforce the gracious tone. Add that the King may be attending."
"Yes, my lady."
"And then," she continued, her voice hardening like cooling steel, "dispatch a letter to the Arcanum. Ask if their last report on the Hart lineage is still accurate. Suggest, subtly, that a new magical signature has been detected."
Fallon hesitated. "You want the Arcanum to investigate her?"
"I want them to watch her," Evelyne snapped. "And if she becomes a threat…"
She didn't finish. She didn't need to. She already knew what they'd do.
That evening, Evelyne locked herself in the northern library—the oldest part of her estate, where the air still smelled of old spell-ink and pine. She lit no candles. She didn't need them.
She knew the room by memory.
On the far wall, hidden behind a false panel of books, was a relic few in the capital would dare claim ownership of: a mirror not meant for reflection, but observation.
The Mirror of Veyran.
A cursed object, some said. A tool of ancient spies, others claimed. Evelyne had inherited it through blood—Merrow blood, thick with old magic and older secrets.
She approached the frame and spoke softly, "Show me the Hart estate."
The surface of the mirror rippled like water. For a moment, there was nothing.
Then— The great hall of the Hart manor came into view. Faded banners. Crumbling stonework. A fire burning low.
And there, seated in the chair once reserved for Hart lords of old, was Adrian.
His cloak hung from one arm. His expression unreadable.
Lila entered the room, holding a stack of parchment. Evelyne watched as Adrian stood—watched how his eyes softened when he looked at her. Not with affection, exactly, but with something more dangerous.
Regard.
She moved closer.
There was a small smile—genuine, if uncertain on Lila's lips. She said something. Adrian responded. And when she turned to leave, his gaze lingered on her longer than necessary.
Evelyne's jaw clenched.
"This isn't a bond," she whispered. "It's a weakness."
And she would exploit it.
But even as she whispered that promise, a seed of unease settled in her stomach.
Because Lila Hart—this Lila—was not the same girl Evelyne had watched from a distance years ago. She had changed.
She carried herself with purpose. Fire. And most troubling of all… the mirror couldn't quite follow her.
When Lila left the room, the vision blurred. When she returned, it refocused. As if some unknown force distorted the image when she moved too far.
That only happened with marked blood.
"Impossible," Evelyne whispered.
She stepped away from the mirror and grabbed a worn leather-bound tome from the shelf. The sigils on its spine glowed faintly as she opened it. She flipped through the pages until she found the Hart family tree—barely legible now, obscured by deliberate ink smears and scrawled annotations from a time when it had been dangerous to know too much.
There it was. Lila's name, scribbled beside her mother's. And next to that: a faded symbol.
A glyph for Seer.
Evelyne stared at it. No one had borne that mark in generations. It was considered lost—eradicated. And yet… Her fingers curled into the page.
"I see now," she murmured.
This wasn't a simple inheritance case. This was a sleeping bloodline waking. And Adrian had put himself right at the heart of it.