CHAPTER 14
D’Ardclaire’s estate was already awake when she arrived. Servants moved with quiet efficiency through the courtyard, carrying trays of fresh bread and steaming kettles. The morning sun cast warm light across the stone columns, turning the ivy along the walls a soft gold.
A lady’s maid guided her through the entry hall, her steps light and practiced. “Councilor Simon is waiting in the east garden, Emissary.”
Faelith nodded, keeping her expression calm even as her thoughts drifted back to the conspiracies that surrounded her and Cian.
The maid opened a set of glass doors.
Simon stood at a small table beneath an arch of flowering vines, the early blooms pale and delicate.
He turned at her arrival, offering a smile that was gentle and disarming.
His eyes were warm, the kind that made people feel seen.
His features were handsome in a way that felt effortless, softened by the morning light.
“Emissary Faelith,” he said, inclining his head. “Thank you for accepting my invitation.”
She returned the gesture. “It was kind of you to extend it.”
He motioned for her to sit. The tea service was immaculate, porcelain cups painted with gold filigree, steam curling from the pot in soft ribbons. Simon poured for her first, his movements calm and precise.
“I wanted a moment to speak without the weight of the council chamber,” he said. “Conversations there tend to lose their humanity.”
Faelith studied him. “You wish to discuss my people.”
“I wish to discuss how I can help them,” Simon corrected gently. “Talcana is uneasy. Humans are uneasy. They fear what they do not understand. But fear can be softened with familiarity.”
He offered her a cup.
Faelith accepted it, though her thoughts remained cautious. “And how do you propose we do that?”
Faelith accepted it, though her thoughts remained cautious. “And how do you propose we do that?”
Simon’s smile deepened, warm but thoughtful. “By showing them who you are. Not the myths. Not the rumors. You. Your people. Your history. Your strength. If they see you as allies rather than an unknown threat, good faith will follow. The only way to do that is by hosting a ball.”
Faelith looked down at her tea, watching the surface ripple faintly. “Humans have not always welcomed us.”
“No,” Simon said softly. “But they can learn. And they will, if we guide them.”
His sincerity was disarming. His charm subtle, never forced. She could see why the council trusted him, why people gravitated toward him. He spoke with a calm that soothed, a confidence that invited belief.
But beneath it all, Faelith felt the faint whisper of caution.
Good faith was not easily earned.
Simon leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering. “Let me help you, Faelith. Let me help them. Together, we can change how this city sees you.”
She met his gaze.
His gentle smile and eyes promised her security. For her and her people.
Faelith lifted her cup, steadying her breath before taking a sip. “Then tell me, Councilor. What, exactly, is your plan?”
Simon’s smile widened once again, brightening with a kind of earnest excitement that felt almost out of place in the quiet garden.
“A plan that begins with trust. We hold the ball at the end of the week.”
Faelith’s grip tightened on the cup to stop it shaking from surprise. “That soon?”
“It’s necessary,” Simon replied. “Momentum is everything. If we wait, the council will stall. They will claim caution, or procedure, or tradition. But if we act now, while the city is still watching you, while your presence is fresh in their minds, we can shift the tone before they have time to retreat into old habits.”
He leaned back slightly, hands folded, posture relaxed but intent.
“The councilors will attend. The Highborn families as well. Every influential voice in Talcana will be in that room. And if even a handful of the stalwart councilors begin to see you differently, negotiations will move. They will stop delaying. They will stop hiding behind fear.”
Faelith listened, letting the words settle. The idea was bold. Risky. Public. Her people had not stood in human halls for generations, not in celebration, not in peace. A ball was more than a gesture. It was a statement.
Simon continued, his voice gentle but sure.
“You will not stand alone. I will be at your side. I will introduce you to those who matter most. I will speak for you when needed, and step back when your own voice carries farther.” His eyes softened.
“You have a presence that commands attention, Faelith. Let them see it.”
She looked down at her tea again, watching the faint ripple across the surface. “Humans do not forget easily.”
“No,” Simon said. “But they can be reminded. They can be shown that the world is changing. That you are not a threat, but a bridge.”
A bridge.
A bridge between worlds that could easily burn at each end.
Faelith lifted her gaze. “And if they refuse.”
Simon’s smile did not falter. “Then we try again. And again. Until they cannot ignore you.”
He made the impossible sound manageable. He made danger sound like opportunity.
Still, she inclined her head. “Tell me what must be done.”
Simon’s eyes brightened, hopeful. “We begin with invitations. Carefully chosen. Carefully worded. Then we prepare the hall. Music, decor, seating arrangements. Every detail matters. Every gesture speaks.”
He poured her another cup of tea, the steam rising between them like a soft veil.
“And by week’s end,” he said, “you will stand before Talcana not as an emissary they fear, but as a leader they admire.”
Faelith let the words sink in. They were bold, exactly the kind of strategy humans respected.
She lifted her gaze. “Is this how Lady Vaelcourt gained favor?”
Simon’s expression shifted, just slightly. A softening. A flicker of something personal beneath the polished calm.
“Melisandre,” he said.
Her curiosity was piqued.
She had never heard her first name being used before. Not the Council. Not in passing. Not even in private conversation except for her mother’s letters. Hearing it now felt deliberate, intimate, as though he were revealing a thread of connection she had not known existed.
Simon continued, voice solemn. “She understood the council better than anyone. She knew that hearts change long before laws do. On occasions, she would host gatherings. She built alliances. She made people feel safe in her presence.” He paused, studying Faelith with those warm, steady eyes. “You remind me of her.”
Faelith’s fingers tightened slightly around her cup.
Melisandre. He had said it with familiarity, with loss.
“Would she have planned a ball?” Faelith asked quietly.
Simon nodded. “More than once. She believed in the power of shared space. Music. Conversation. The simple act of standing together on common ground.” His smile returned, gentle and hopeful. “She would have done the same for you.”
Faelith looked down at her tea, watching the surface ripple faintly. “And you think this will sway the council.”
“I know it will,” Simon said. He leaned forward, elbows resting lightly on the table. “This is how we begin to mend what was broken.”
Faelith met his gaze again.
Warm, kind eyes stared back.
Vaelcourt had feared someone.
Someone that could have been close to her, someone she trusted.
And Simon had known her well enough to speak her name with fondness.
???
The guard rooms were quiet at this hour. Faelith’s men had gone with her to D’Ardclaire’s manor. The scent of oiled leather and steel lingered in the air, familiar and grounding.
Cian sat on a narrow cot near the window, the journal open in his hands. Sunlight spilled across the floor in long, warm bands, catching the edges of the scorched leather cover.
The earlier pages were filled with absent scribbles, neat margin notes, and careful accounts of council meetings, most likely in the hidden code Faelith mentioned Melisandre and Rena would write each other in.
Vaelcourt had documented alliances, political shifts, and the subtle tensions between councilors.
Her handwriting was tidy, measured, almost soothing in its consistency.
Nothing felt frantic. Nothing felt fearful.
Until he reached the last page.
The change was immediate.
Gone was the hidden cipher. The handwriting pressed deep into the parchment, letters uneven, ink pooled where her quill had trembled. The margins were gone. The structure had collapsed. Every line felt like a gasp.
They are watching me.
The amulet is no longer safe in my care.
I cannot move it. Serpents wait in the grass. They strike when the hand hesitates.
Cian stared at the words, feeling the weight of them settle like cold iron in his chest. On their own, the warnings were fragmented. Paranoid. But he had already made the connection.
He knew who had set the fire at the manor. He had known from the scorch patterns alone. He had known from the way the flames had been guided, not spread.
And he had not told Faelith.
He turned the page, though the writing only grew more frantic.
If I fall, she must not. She must not.
His fingers tightened around the bound journal.
He had seen the vision. At the House of Amber Veils. Lysandra’s warning still echoed in his mind, sharp and cold.
You walk beside a storm, Cian. And you will have to choose whether you stand with her or against her.
He had not told Faelith that either.
Instead he had watched her head towards a man who should not be trusted.
To someone who might already know her lineage.
The prophecy made her the target. And Cian had placed her directly in the path of someone who could use that knowledge.
He had watched her fight the Changelings and in the Archives. He had watched her stand in the ruins of Vaelcourt Manor. He had almost kissed her at the waterfall and wiped soot from her forehead with his thumb, unable to stop himself.
And still he had kept the truth from her.
Cian closed the journal, the leather warm beneath his palm.
She deserved honesty. She deserved every truth he carried.
And he had given her none of them.
Fear had kept him silent. Fear of what the truth would demand of him. Fear of what it would demand of her. Fear of what his own order had done that night.
He rose from the cot, the journal held firmly in his hand. If she knew the truth, it would break her trust. It would drag her back into a past she had barely survived.
Telling her now would not protect her.
It would only make her vulnerable.
He exhaled slowly, his decision set in stone.
He would not tell her. Not yet. Not until he knew how to keep her safe from the truth itself.
Cian set the journal aside; he would carry his secrets a little longer.