Elena's Suite — Late Afternoon
The skies over Windswept turned the color of bruised silk.
Inside the velvet-draped suite, the world felt impossibly still. Rain had not yet come, but the pressure in the air made the crystal chandeliers hum with mana. Elena sat on the low cushioned settee by the window, hands wrapped delicately around a teacup she hadn't asked for.
Across from her, Cheri moved with the easy grace of a woman who had learned the art of both service and survival.
"You know this hymn?" Elena asked softly.
Cheri gave a small smile, pouring another measure of pale lavender tea into Elena's cup.
"From my choir days in the orphanage. The sisters always said this one brought calm before Communion."
"And bloodletting," she added, dryly, with a wink.
Elena nearly smiled. Her fingers still ached—bandaged and raw from her last encounter with her mother—but Cheri's presence softened the edges. She reminded her of no one and nothing Elena had ever known. She reminded her of peace.
But peace here felt dangerous. She was still waiting for the catch.
Cheri's gaze slid toward the gown draped across Elena's frame— a black velvet evening gown, corseted in the low back. Elegant, but simple. Too simple.
"Forgive me, my lady, but… is that truly your choice for dinner?"
Elena blinked. She hadn't thought much about it. She wasn't used to being dressed up except for religious ceremonies or funerals. This house—this life—was some strange blend of both.
"Yes?" she said uncertainly. "Why?"
Cheri gave a low laugh that held no cruelty. She leaned in as if about to whisper a secret.
"Lady Aurora will eat you alive. The Mattea love beauty, yes—but it's more than that. This family thrives on performance. Appear powerful, and you will be."
"Let me dress you. For battle."
Elena hesitated, then touched her Saintess medal. It felt heavier than usual.
"Then pick something for me."
Cheri's eyes glittered with glee.
"With pleasure."
Seamus' Study — Early Evening
Seamus Matteo, Viscount of Puerto Cuidad, stood before a mirror with the focus of a duelist preparing for a fatal strike.
His navy dinner jacket had been steamed and tailored to sculpt his frame; his cufflinks were mana-etched steel, stamped with the rising wolf sigil of House Matteo. He adjusted his collar once more, though it needed no adjusting.
Across the room, Kenneth lounged in a carved leather chair, a report balanced on one knee, spectacles resting low on the bridge of his nose.
"The new mining shaft's stable," Kenneth read, his tone clipped. "Vein's rich with iron, touched with silver. Mana traces minimal. Worker morale's high now that the storms are easing."
Seamus didn't seem to hear.
"Tell me, Kenneth," he said, eyes fixed on his reflection. "Do I look like a rake?"
Kenneth didn't look up.
"Sir, if she doesn't know you're a rake by now, she's either in denial or blind."
Seamus turned his head slightly, expression cool.
Silence stretched.
Kenneth sighed, folding the report with exaggerated care. He set it down and held up both hands.
"You look excellent, sir."
Seamus grunted, satisfied. Back in control. His cufflink caught a flicker of lightning outside the window.
"Draft a letter to the Archbishop. The engagement is to be formalized."
Kenneth's posture straightened.
"Already?"
Seamus didn't answer at first. He stared out at the rising storm—the cliffs below Windswept now kissed by electric mist.
"I'm not giving her back. To the Church. To Lee Rosaria. To anyone."
"Even if it means paying blood for it."
Kenneth said nothing, but something passed across his face—a flicker of concern. He knew the cost of declarations like that. Seamus did not make promises lightly. But when he made them, he kept them. Or he died trying.
And Kenneth had no desire to bury another Matteo. He discreetly began to write a note of his own.