The morning sun broke timidly through the veil of mist, casting a soft golden hue over the rolling hills as the carriage rolled away from the Dankworth estate.
Its wheels hummed along the cobbled road, flanked by two mounted guards sent for formality more than protection. Inside, Saoirse sat upright, draped in a deep sapphire traveling gown embroidered with silver ivy. Her dark gloves rested atop her lap, fingers twitching with quiet anticipation.
Aliya sat opposite her, fussing over Saoirse's hem before giving up entirely and staring out the carriage window with wide eyes. "We'll be seeing the Capital walls soon," she whispered with a kind of reverence. "It's been so long…"
Saoirse didn't respond immediately, her gaze faraway. She had visited the capital countless times as a child, before her family's fall from grace. But now, she returned not as Lady Saoirse of the Raven House—but as Duchess Dankworth, a title that felt more like a borrowed costume than her own skin.
As the carriage passed beneath the towering iron gates that marked the outer edge of the Capital, the world seemed to exhale and swell with life.
The city of Valoria unfolded like a painted dream—bustling, vibrant, and unapologetically grand.
The streets were alive with movement: horse-drawn carriages glided past with the crisp clatter of hooves, while street vendors called out their wares from polished wooden stalls adorned with colorful fabrics. The scent of roasted chestnuts mingled with the sharper tang of ironwork and coal smoke drifting from tall chimneys.
Children darted between gas-lit lampposts, their laughter dancing in the air, and women in corseted gowns and feathered hats bartered over spices, lace, and silk. Gentlemen in tailored coats and pocket watches strolled with canes and cigars, tipping their hats at passing carriages, while urchins peeked around corners with hungry eyes and mischievous grins.
Buildings of limestone and brick rose on either side—five, sometimes six stories tall—embellished with wrought iron balconies and massive stained-glass windows. The city bore the weight of history in its bones: baroque statues stood vigil over fountain squares, while marble staircases led to libraries and opera houses whose entrances were draped in velvet curtains and gilded scrollwork.
"The heart of the kingdom," Aliya murmured, still pressed to the window. "So much noise… so many faces. You could vanish in a city like this."
Saoirse offered a faint smile. "Or rise again."
The carriage made its slow ascent toward the upper ring of the city, where the cobblestone turned smoother and the noise became more refined. The architecture shifted, too—less crowded, more palatial. These were the manors of the titled, the carefully preserved emblems of old blood and royal favor.
And above all, perched like a crown atop the hill, stood the royal palace—Ivoryhall.
A behemoth of pale stone and countless windows, its towers pierced the sky, and banners bearing the Valorian crest—silver sun over crimson—fluttered in the breeze. Guards in navy and gold stood in disciplined lines at the entrance, their polished rifles catching the sun.
The carriage came to a smooth halt at the palace gates. A steward stepped forward with a small bow, eyeing Saoirse's attire and sigil before nodding to his assistant. "The Duchess Dankworth has arrived."
Saoirse stepped down gracefully, her boots tapping the stone path. Aliya followed, quickly brushing off the travel dust from Saoirse's cloak with a cloth.
For a breathless moment, Saoirse just stood there, eyes climbing the gleaming stairs toward the Queen's palace.
This was not the world of her faded childhood.
This was a new stage, gilded and ruthless. And she, no matter how fractured she felt inside, had been summoned to play a role.
She adjusted her gloves, squared her shoulders, and whispered to Aliya, "Let's make sure they remember the Raven name—even if I must wear it behind another."
Aliya smiled tightly. "Then let's begin, my lady. The Queen waits for no one."
The palace hall they were ushered into was not the throne room nor the grand banquet chamber Saoirse had once visited as a girl. No—this was more intimate, more deliberate. A reception hall meant for nobility of rank but not of rule, where women of power gathered to discuss matters behind polished doors and silk-draped windows.
The moment the heavy double doors opened with a soft groan, a hush fell over the room.
The attendant stepped aside, bowing with a gloved hand extended. "Duchess Saoirse of House Dankworth."
Saoirse's steps were steady, measured. Beside her, Aliya walked half a pace behind, careful to keep her head lowered as expected of a lady's maid.
The room was painted in tones of wine and ash—burgundy velvet couches arranged in a wide arc beneath a chandelier of black iron and pale crystal. A fire crackled behind a gold-inlaid hearth, and above it hung a massive oil painting of Queen Leona herself—stoic, regal, forever watching.
Seated upon the couches were twelve women. Twelve duchesses. Twelve masks.
They all turned to look at Saoirse in unison, and the air grew colder.
None spoke. Not a single word of greeting.
Saoirse did not falter. She curtsied deeply, the edges of her skirt fluttering like wings. "I thank Her Majesty for the summons," she said politely, before straightening.
Her eyes met theirs.
And then she saw them—each one of them—and the sense of being weighed and judged settled on her like a cloak of iron.
Duchess Adaline Greystone, seated nearest the hearth, had lips permanently twisted into a disapproving pout. Her silvery-blonde hair was twisted into a towering braid crowned with black pearls. She was the eldest, rumored to be close to the Queen, and her gaze was sharp enough to draw blood.
Duchess Rowena Hale, next to her, wore emerald silk and an expression like someone perpetually bored of everything. Her fingers toyed with a cigarette holder, although it remained unlit. Her eyes flitted lazily over Saoirse, dismissive.
Duchess Vivienne Talbot, with deep burgundy hair and an angular face, watched Saoirse with interest—though not warmth. Vivienne had the look of someone who enjoyed power plays and did not believe in friendships among women.
Duchess Marianne Lovell—soft-spoken, they said. Too soft. Dressed in muted greys, her gaze held neither welcome nor hostility. She simply observed, fingers laced in her lap, quiet as a shadow.
Duchess Elsbeth Cray, cloaked in violet and jet, had the look of someone who kept secrets in locked drawers. Her eyes narrowed as if Saoirse's very presence offended her sensibilities.
Duchess Fenella Wren, a woman in her thirties with striking copper curls and a mouth perpetually pursed. She turned her head slightly, not fully facing Saoirse, in a pointed snub.
Duchess Brielle Norwick, tall and bony with sunken cheeks, looked as though she were carved from marble. Cold. Statuesque. Her stare did not blink.
Duchess Selene Valemont, dressed in sapphire silks, crossed her legs languidly. She was known to be calculating, with a husband deep in the Queen's treasury. Her gaze lingered a moment longer on Saoirse—assessing.
Duchess Mireille Dorne, thin as a reed with a long, freckled neck, gave a dry smile—not out of kindness, but amusement. The sort of smile that never quite reached the eyes. As though she found Saoirse quaint.
Duchess Ophelia Yates, garbed in raven-black, wore a veil pinned to her temple like a mourning widow, despite being very much married. Her lips were darkened with plum rouge, and she did not look up at all.
Duchess Lydia Thornfield, beautiful in a haunting sort of way, regarded Saoirse with a blank, almost ethereal expression. Pale skin, near-white hair, and eyes the color of frost. One could not tell what she thought.
And then, there was Duchess Ilyana Corven.
Younger than most—perhaps twenty or twenty-one—dressed in soft golds and creams, with dark curly hair pinned loosely and wide hazel eyes that crinkled when she smiled. And she smiled. Genuinely. Warmly.
Saoirse felt the weight lift slightly. She nodded to Ilyana, and Ilyana gave a tiny wave in return, uncaring of the way the others subtly turned their eyes in disapproval.
Aliya leaned close and whispered, "That one might be your only friend here, my lady."
"I'll take that over none," Saoirse murmured back, before stepping forward with quiet grace to take her place on the lone empty couch at the edge of the circle.
The doors closed behind them with a soft click.
The silence continued—oppressive, suffocating—until the rustle of silk and the clipped sound of heels signaled the arrival of a palace steward.
He cleared his throat.
"Ladies. Her Majesty the Queen shall be with you shortly. In the meantime, you may discuss amongst yourselves the initial preparations for the Jubilee Week."
None of them moved.
And in that stillness, Saoirse realized the battlefield had simply changed shape. No swords. No blood.
Only smiles sharp as glass, and conversations heavy with meaning.
Let the games begin.