Cassandra's mornings blurred into tutors, recitations, etiquette drills; afternoons into fittings, tastings, consultations. And always, Lunick.
His sessions slid into her days without announcement, his voice smooth as silk, his questions circling like hawks. He pressed her on histories she had half-forgotten, philosophies she hadn't asked to study, hypotheticals about the Empire that sounded less like lessons and more like tests. Sometimes his gaze lingered too long on her answers—as though measuring her, weighing something unseen.
The estate hummed—servants rushed past with bolts of fabric and polished silver, musicians tested acoustics in the west wing, gardeners shaped hedges into birds and sea-creatures. Every hour, another decision. Every corner, another demand.
And yet her days felt painted over—bright but flat. When Lunick's questions droned or a tailor's pins brushed her skin, her thoughts drifted where she didn't want them to: toward him.
She told herself it was annoyance. Leoleta's disappearance was inconvenient, a disruption to an already crowded schedule. Her brothers insisted it was his annual leave—nothing unusual. But the truth gnawed: had she only noticed he was gone because the absence finally hurt?
The estate grew louder and more colorful by the day, and that only sharpened what was missing—the one presence that never fit the glittering frame.
Liaerin, fastening the final row of delicate buttons, broke the hush. "He returns tonight," she said matter-of-factly. "Leave ends before sunset."
The words settled like stones.
"So he'll be here?" Cassandra asked, too carefully neutral.
Liaerin nodded. "Your brothers commissioned a new uniform for him. Said he looked too much like a mercenary."
A breath of laughter escaped Cassandra, mostly air. "Half the reason people stared."
"And the other half?" Liaerin asked, dry.
Cassandra didn't answer. Her hands smoothed the silk at her hips, then stilled. "Where does he go?"
"On leave?"
"Yes. A week, every year. Where?"
"I don't know," Liaerin admitted after a beat. "No one does. Not even your brothers, I think. He vanishes. And then he returns."
Cassandra's fingers tightened. How could someone so constant simply vanish, year after year, without question?
She turned to the mirror. The glass gave back a woman she wasn't sure she recognized—older somehow, and yet edged by the same old truths: no title, no claim, no place in the Heir's Game. Bastard. Half-blood. Placeholder. Even wrapped like a jewel of Delmar, the court would see her as less. A sister to parade, not an heir.
And once her brothers stepped into the arena, what would remain for her?
She studied the gown. Ivory touched with a breath of rose, like sunlight across seashells. Gold embroidery traced the bodice; the neckline framed collarbones and throat with subtle boldness; sleeves slipped from her shoulders in soft folds. Modest in length. Dangerous in detail.
Mauve on her lips, lashes lifted like delicate wings. Regal. Poised. Every line deliberate.
"Does it suit me?" she asked, smoothing silk again.
Liaerin's smile warmed. "It suits who you've become."
Trumpets sounded down the hall. Then strings. The hour had arrived.
At the top of the grand staircase, Alfonse stood to her left, sharp in midnight blue; Alistar to her right, grinning like he'd already had too much wine. Each offered an arm.
"You ready?" Alistar teased—and under his breath: "Breathe. It's only a room full of jackals."
Alfonse's mouth twitched. "Jackals are easier. At least they don't smile while they circle."
Cassandra's hands were cold on their sleeves.
The herald's voice rang over the ballroom:
"Presenting Lady Cassandra Delmar, escorted by Lords Alfonse and Alistar Delmar."
A hush—brief, but complete. Then the hall breathed again.
Chandeliers burned like suspended suns, light scattering over jewels and marble. Perfume warred with wine. Silks whispered, fans traded secrets. The room turned, slow and patient, as predators in velvet.
Cassandra descended with chin high. She laughed once, nodded where required, never lingered too long. The dance of politics was one she knew.
Her eyes kept flicking to the doors.
Not yet.
A baroness in lacquered crimson purred, "My lady, the court seamstresses should be taking notes."
"You flatter me," Cassandra said, smile precise.
A sunburnt viscount pressed her for talk of southern ports and tariffs. She answered by habit, gaze already moving beyond his shoulder.
Near the gallery, a knot of barons lowered their voices for the music. "The Game won't touch her," one muttered. "Not with her blood. When the twins settle it, what place will she have?"
"Marriage bargain," another chuckled. "Or a title with no teeth. The Delmar girl dazzles tonight; tomorrow she's a pawn."
Cassandra glided past, serene. The words lodged like pins under the ribs.
She nodded to a countess complaining about fashion. She praised a trembling heir's swordsmanship. She let a countess whisper alliances and gave her nothing back.
Performance. Perfectly played.
And still her gaze darted to the far doors whenever they stirred, her pulse betraying her.
Leoleta did not appear.
The musicians shifted to a waltz. A young lord in pale green bowed too low; she took his hand and let the room turn to strings and glass. He spoke of vineyards and traveling cloaks and trends. She replied as required—measured, pleasant—eyes tugged again to the threshold.
The dance ended. Another began. Then another.
They asked about her brothers, about the Game she would never enter—measuring what she might fetch when the twins no longer needed her. Her answers slid like water, revealing nothing.
A marquess with pale eyes cut through the din. "Lady Cassandra, unveiled at last. Tell me—whose banner will you raise when the Game begins? Or shall the highest bidder claim it?"
Her smile curved just enough. "Some banners are worth less than the cloth they're sewn on."
He faltered, trapped between laughter and offense. By the time he decided, she was already gone—another partner, another turn.
Men laughed too loudly. Others stood apart with crafted aloofness. None had his sharpness. None carried storms in silence. The more she searched, the more she despised herself for it.
Through it all she remained flawless. Regal. Untouchable.
And restless.
"Smile," Alfonse murmured in passing as he slid toward another conversation. "You're making people nervous."
"I'm nervous," she replied without moving her lips. "They should be too."
Her smile never broke.
Her brothers raised goblets—speeches that braided duty with celebration, House Delmar's strength, Cassandra's formal debut. Then all eyes turned to her.
She lifted her glass. Candlelight rang the rim. Breath steady, though her pulse thundered.
"Lords and ladies of the court, honored guests—tonight we gather not only in celebration, but in recognition. Yet before its outcome is written, I would speak to what already endures: the bond my father forged, a trust that spanned provinces even when seas lay between us." Her throat tightened at the word father; she forced the glass in her hand higher, as though the movement alone could steady her voice.
"House Delmar does not stand divided. Whatever trials await, whatever banners rise or fall, I will stand with my brothers—as we have always stood—with resolve, with honor, with faith that our House shall not merely endure, but lead." The crowd blurred for a moment; faces and jewels dimmed, and in their place she saw the empty chair at the high table, the one that should never have been hers to fill. She drew a careful breath, swallowing the ache before it cracked her poise.
"My father, Duke Auren Delmar, believed in rising together—charting a course not by rivalry, nor by fear, but by faith." Her voice caught, the single tremor slipping free before she masked it with a small, deliberate pause. "That dream was his. Tonight, I claim it as my own."
She glanced to her brothers, drawing strength from their presence, the weight of their house carried between them. "So let us raise our glasses—not to victory alone, but to unity, to his legacy, and to the path he charted for us all. To House Delmar. May we rise—as he believed we could."
Applause cracked like surf on rock. Glasses lifted. The orchestra swelled.
At the high table, Alfonse's composure softened into something rare—pride, plain and unguarded. Alistar, less subtle, grinned openly, raising his glass higher than the rest.
For a moment, the weight on Cassandra's shoulders eased. Whatever the court whispered, whatever the Game demanded, her brothers had heard her—and they were proud.
Beyond them, the hall shifted. Whispers flitted between jeweled fans, calculations hiding behind polite smiles. Some praised her grace, others weighed her words like coin. Her father's dream had been spoken aloud again, and now it belonged to her. The court would not forget.
And still she searched the room.
He wasn't there.
The air thickened—perfume, heat, breath. Questions pressed from every side. Her head ached with the weight of expectation.
She lasted another hour. Perhaps more.
"I need air," she whispered to Liaerin, smile still affixed for the room.
Silks parted. She slipped free.
The corridor beyond was cavernous and cool, her footsteps loud on marble. Music thinned to a thread behind her. Relief should have come; instead, the quiet pressed harder.
By the archway, her pulse was louder than the strings.
Lanterns cast soft gold across hedges and stone arches. The fountain spilled silver into a basin bright with moonlight. Cassandra breathed, the weight easing as distance opened between her and the crowd.
For a moment, peace.
And yet the night was silent.
The breeze stilled. Even the sea seemed to hesitate below the cliffs, as if holding its breath.
Cassandra froze, palm flattening against her skirts.
Something was wrong.
A prickling awareness moved over her skin—the unmistakable certainty that she was no longer alone. And under it, another thought she couldn't silence:
She turned, very slowly—listening, searching, willing her power to be quiet, willing herself not to shatter.
The garden did not answer. The shadows did.