The Blackthorn carriages rolled away from the royal field, a stark contrast to the vibrant energy left behind. Inside the lead carriage, the air hung thick with the cloying scent of perfume and simmering rage. Lady Jane sat rigid, her gaze fixed on the passing city, but her focus was inward. Her hands lay clenched in her lap, her knuckles white, her perfectly manicured nails digging half-moons into her own palms.
Eleanor broke the heavy silence, her voice a sharp, precise instrument. We must address the situation with the girl. That display was not mere chance. She possesses a cunning we clearly underestimated. To secure Adrian Crestwell's attention on her first public outing... it was calculated.
I simply cannot believe she looked at us with those wide, innocent eyes and lied, Margaret chimed in, shaking her head with a performative sigh. She said she wasn't sure about attending!
Jane's head snapped toward Margaret, her eyes flashing with a venom that made the other woman flinch. You were present for that conversation as well, Margaret. Do not position yourself as a shocked observer.
Ah, yes. I was, Margaret conceded, shrinking back into the velvet upholstery.
Eleanor pressed on, ignoring the exchange. The thought of her marrying before our daughters—girls raised in this city, trained for this life—is an insult. How do we explain this to our children? How do we face our friends?
Oh, perhaps we could... try a different approach? Margaret ventured, her voice tentative.
Two pairs of sharp, impatient eyes turned on her, expecting another useless comment.
Margaret continued, a slow, sly smile touching her lips. We could tarnish her reputation. Just like her mother's. If the mother was a social-climbing temptress, the daughter cannot be far removed, can she? People will believe it.
Jane and Eleanor stared, their expressions a mixture of shock and dawning curiosity. Eleanor leaned forward. Explain yourself. Like her mother? Our husbands disapproved of Elara because she was a common herbalist from a questionable background.
Margaret waved a dismissive hand, as if swatting a fly. The rumors about her chasing married ment the women causing scenes at her little shop that was no coincidence. I may have... encouraged that talk.
Jane sat up straighter, her posture like iron. You did what?
You heard me, Margaret replied, her tone losing its timid edge and gaining a glint of cold pride. Benedict and I were newly wed. He started muttering about taking a mistress to help round the house. I couldn't let him, of course. My maids discovered his visits to Elara's shop. He even promised her a better location in the merchant district. I saw the threat.
Eleanor's face was a mask of horrified fascination. Why would you do that? She wasn't even involved with Kellen then!
That was eighteen years ago, Margaret said, her narrative flowing now, as if recounting a minor domestic triumph. I planted the seeds. I ensured the whispers reached every corner of the market. Benedict stopped his visits immediately. The scandal clung to her like a bad smell. So, when Kaelen insisted on marrying her, his brothers were only too happy to cut him off. With her name dirtied, I suppose he wanted a quiet life away from it all. He abandoned his post as a court minister, they fled to the countryside, had their child, and... well, you know the rest. Elara's health failed. She died. A simple story, really.
She finished with a slight shrug, her eyes devoid of any remorse. The two other women absorbed the confession in stunned silence. The sheer, casual cruelty of it—the ruin of a life, a family, all over a petty, preemptive strike—was breathtaking. Margaret, the woman they dismissed as a silly gossip, was in fact the most ruthless among them.
Eleanor found her voice first, though it was hushed. It is a... clever idea. But we cannot use the same method now. A scandal of that magnitude would splash mud on the entire Blackthorn name, ruining our daughters alongside her.
Jane nodded slowly, her mind already turning to more subtle knives. Eleanor is correct. We must find a solution that removes her without staining us. She looked at Margaret with a new, wary respect. But your initiative... is noted.
The conversation lapsed into a tense quiet, each woman retreating into her own thoughts, the shared understanding of Margaret's true nature settling between them like a shroud.
In another carriage, the atmosphere was light, filled with the fading adrenaline of the day. Layla watched the city pass, her mind replaying the startling events.
Cousin, she began, turning to Charles. I've seen so little of the city, but I noticed... I've only ever seen two vampires here. I understood they moved freely in the capital?
Charles smiled, relaxing against the seat. The ones you saw pale, with that faint silver gleam in their eyes if the light hits just right?
Layla nodded.
Those are Halflings. The product of a human and a vampire union. They are not true vampires, not entirely. They possess some of the speed, some of the strength, but they are... lesser in the eyes of a full-blooded vampire. Their presence here is tolerated, but they hold no real status.
Halfling, Layla repeated, the word new on her tongue. I had no idea such a thing was possible.
It is, though it's... frowned upon in many circles, Charles explained. So, how does a true vampire appear?
Oh, they can look like anyone, he said with a casual wave. You would not know one by sight alone, unless they chose to reveal their fangs or move with a speed that seems unnatural. They walk in our daylight without issue and blend seamlessly into a crowd. It is their strength and their age that truly set them apart.
A look of understanding dawned on Layla's face. So, they look... normal, but are not.
Quite, Charles confirmed, grinning. The Purebloods, the royal lines, are even more so. I've never seen one myself. They are notoriously reclusive.
Really? Why is that?
They are rare and hold themselves apart. Their power is immense. A single Pureblood warrior is said to be worth an entire human army. That is why, in all our conflicts, they have never taken the field. Our armies struggle enough against the common vampire soldiers, who are faster and stronger than our best men.
Layla absorbed this, a new dimension of the world opening up to her. The complexities of the kingdom's politics and power structures seemed deeper and more intricate than she had ever imagined.
Thank you, Charles, she said, her voice soft with genuine gratitude. For the invitation today, and for the education. It means a great deal.
He offered a warm, brotherly smile. Please, do not mention it. We are family. It is my duty, and my pleasure.
The carriage slowed, then came to a smooth halt before the Blackthorn manor's main gate. As Charles helped her down, the grand front doors opened, revealing a receiving line that felt more like an inquisition.
Lady Jane, Eleanor, and Margaret stood flanked by their daughters, their faces arranged in masks of polite welcome that did not reach their eyes. To the side, separate from the family, stood Silas, Lucia, and Livia. Their postures were tense, their faces carefully neutral, but their presence was a silent declaration of loyalty. They watched Layla, a united front of three against a gilded wall of twelve, waiting to see what game would begin next.