Lady Serava prided herself on many things.
Her posture. Impeccable.
Her wardrobe. Bleeding-edge noble fashion.
Her tongue. Sharper than the best blades from the Kael'Tun forges.
But most of all, she prided herself on control.
So when the feather appeared on her pillow-silent as regret and twice as ominous-something inside her snapped like an overtuned harp string.
"No more shadows," she hissed to her steward. "No more waiting."
The steward, a hunched older beastman with hawk eyes and a nose for danger, bowed stiffly. "Shall we notify your brother?"
Serava's fingers twitched at the name. "No. Not yet. I will fix this myself. The Collector thinks this is her stage, but she forgets who owns the curtains."
---
Meanwhile, Lavender sat cross-legged on a rooftop, nibbling on a candy-coated nut she'd bought from a traveling merchant three streets over.
"She's scrambling," she murmured with delight. "Our little noble fox is losing her grip."
"How do you know?" Vashir asked from where he leaned against a chimney stack, arms crossed as always.
Lavender didn't look at him. She just smiled and flicked the shell of her treat off the rooftop, watching it fall.
"She's the type who wants to correct the narrative, not destroy it. Her movements changed. Tighter, more personal. She's started using her private guards in plain clothes - not city watch. Amateur mistake."
Vashir raised a brow. "You noticed all that from a candy stand?"
"I noticed it from the spice on the coins she paid with." Lavender leaned back, arms stretched behind her. "Tasted like her perfume. Too citrusy. Desperate."
"You're guessing."
"I'm knowing," she grinned.
---
Serava, meanwhile, orchestrated her web like a fevered spider.
She called in debt-favors, summoned whispers, bribed a few loose-tongued market rats. But the more she pulled the strings, the more they curled like vines - stubborn, uncooperative.
No matter how many people she planted, Lavender always seemed two steps ahead, as if she'd already walked this path in a dream and was simply reenacting it with flair.
And then... Serava tried something different.
She paid a scholar from the inner sanctum library. An old one, who spoke rarely and forgot nothing.
"Tell me," she asked, voice sharp and silken, "about the girl called the Mad Collector."
The old man blinked, once. Then leaned back and whispered:
"She knows. She always knows. You show her a grain, she sees the whole harvest. Show her a feather, she finds the bird's tribe, name, and nesting season."
Serava scoffed. "Riddles."
But the words echoed.
---
That evening, Lavender stood in a garden beneath moon-drenched vines. She held out her hand and caught a leaf as it drifted.
"Serava's moving like a queen in a chess match... but the board is melting," she said sweetly. "And I just love puzzles with melting boards."
Vashir stepped closer, studying her.
"You're not what you pretend to be."
Lavender didn't answer.
She didn't have to.
Because at that moment, a small, cloaked boy burst into the garden, panting and pale.
"A lady-Lady Serava-she's demanding to see you. Now. She says it's urgent."
Lavender smiled, soft and slow.
"Oh good," she said brightly. "I love invitations."
And the totem around her neck gave a single, satisfied pulse.