Chapter 1
The storm had arrived sometime before dawn. It had swallowed the morning whole, turning the world beyond the windows of Larton Hold into a blur of grey. Not that there was much worth looking at. The gardens would survive. The Lunar berries always did in the summer storms. Unlike people, they required very little of one another.
Thunder rolled across the sky as Sylvie sank lower into the wash basin, warm water lapping against her skin until even the edge of sound felt distant.
There was no peace in House Chamiril. At twenty and six, Sylvie endured the whispers of court and odd stares. Too old for most noble daughters; too clever for her own good; and too stubborn to bend to the marriage games of lesser years.
A low rumble shook the windows and Sylvie smiled to herself as she rested her head against the rim of the basin. Rain lashed against the tall windows of her chamber, drumming a relentless rhythm against the glass. The storms of Lamerre made everything feel smaller, as though the heavens themselves were pressing down upon her.
Sylvie looked up at the ceiling, letting out a soft yawn. Exhaustion danced across her eyes, pulling them into a bitter lull. The dreams had returned again. They always returned when summer began its surrender to autumn, casting her into an illusion that felt like a memory.
Even in sleep she knew these halls. She had walked them a hundred times before despite never seeing them in waking life. Narrow passageways carved deep beneath the earth. Endless corridors swallowed by shadow.
A chill wrapped around her like an embrace. Beyond, water dripped steadily along dark stone walls. A mocking sound of laughter echoed ahead as puffs of light flickered and then vanished, beckoning her to follow.
Sylvie hesitated as the light danced at her feet. With each step, the darkness shifted around her, casting the orbs further away.
"Stop!" Sylvie cried out, running after them.
"SYLVIE!"
Water splashed over the edge of the basin as Sylvie gasped for air.
"Sylvie!" The voice cried again.
Sylvie's eyes flew open as Vera, her handmaiden, grabbed her shoulders heaving her forward. For a moment Sylvie couldn't remember where she was. The lights lingered stubbornly at the edge of her mind, as rain continued to hammer against the windows.
“My lady,” Vera breathed, eyes wide in terror “Gods above, I thought—”
Sylvie blinked slowly, breathing heavily.
“You weren’t moving.” Vera’s face had gone pale. “You weren’t moving,” she repeated. “I called your name three times.”
Realization dawned slowly.
“Oh.”
The word felt inadequate.
Vera stared at her for another moment as though confirming she was, in fact, alive before releasing her shoulders.
“You frightened me half to death.”
"I must have fallen asleep." Sylvie looked around confused.
"In a bath?" Vera's large blue eyes studied her face apprehensively.
“An unfortunate location, I’ll admit.” Sylvie joked with a crooked smile. Vera looked down at her stone faced. That more than anything, convinced Sylvie she had genuinely worried the young handmaiden.
Neither woman spoke as they studied one another. Truthfully, had Vera not grabbed Sylvie, she would probably have been dead, and Sylvie knew as such. Her heart thrummed quickly.
A loud crash of thunder rattled the windows as water dripped from the edge of the basin onto the stone floor between them. Sylvie crossed her arms over her chest keeping her eyes on Vera, suddenly aware she was very much naked in that moment.
"What?" Vera snapped noticing the shift in Sylvie's demeanor.
"It's just.." Sylvie began adjusting her position. "I'm quite naked, Vera."
“I have known you since you were ten and four.” Vera scoffed. "It is a bath, my lady."
Sylvie groaned. "You are aware I am six and twenty years old. I am no longer a child, Vera."
Sylvie paused.
A dangerous thing to say to someone who possessed years’ worth of embarrassing stories.
Vera seemed to recognize the advantage immediately.
“My lady, I have seen things that would make a cleric gasp. I was there when you attempted to ride your late father's horse because your brother convinced you it liked you better than everyone else."
"I am aware. Now turn around."
“Really?” Vera narrowed her eyes.
"Spare the minor details, and please turn."
Vera tossed a towel toward Sylvie and turned her back to the basin. Sylvie stood gingerly, the water of the wash basin sloshing around. She grabbed the towel fastening it around her body and stepped out delicately, spilling water on the floor.
For a brief moment, Sylvie caught sight of her reflection. The woman staring back looked as though she had spent the night wandering with ghosts.
Long dark waves clung damply to her shoulders. Large brown eyes regarded her from beneath heavy lashes, made darker still by exhaustion. In summer her skin usually carried warmth from the sun. Enough that her mother often complained she looked more suited to riding through the countryside than sitting in court.
Now she looked pale. Not merely tired, but pale as though the sun hung no longer in the day and was replaced by the moon. The color had drained from her face entirely, leaving her almost ghostly against the dark curtain of her hair.
For an unsettling moment she thought of the tunnels. The darkness and the lights dancing just beyond reach.
Sylvie looked away, but the reflection remained in the water long after she did.
“I’m ready,” Sylvie said at last, her voice still carrying the faint edge of sleep.
Vera studied her for a moment longer, as though verifying she meant it this time, then gave a short nod.
“Good,” she said simply. “Stand still.”
Sylvie sighed but complied as Vera moved around her, gathering the clothes. Fabrics of deep blue and silver lay draped across the chair, heavier than any court dress from the Sea of Trolan.
"Are we going somewhere?" Sylvie asked, running her hand over the heavy fabric.
Vera didn't answer immediately as she dragged the gown over Sylvie's head and straightened the seams. She tugged the fabric into place, fastening buttons and pulling at lace.
“Just to breakfast, my lady.” Vera said quietly as she worked.
“You know that is not what I mean.” Sylvie replied.
When Vera finished, she stepped back and assessed her with narrowed eyes. Whatever she saw there made her expression soften slightly, though she did not say so aloud.
“I just worry, Sylvie.” she said.
Sylvie huffed a small laugh under her breath. "You should worry I have not eaten yet."
Together, they left the chamber.
The corridor beyond was long and cool, stone polished by generations of passage. Tall tapestries lined the walls, depicting hunting parties frozen mid-motion and hounds forever locked in pursuit.
Sylvie’s steps echoed softly against the marble floor.
Vera walked half a pace behind her shoulder, as she always did when the household was awake.
The corridor opened into the grand spiral staircase, curling downward through the heart of the estate. Stone balustrades traced each turn like ribs around a slow-beating core. As they descended, the sound of the house changed: footsteps above, distant doors, the faint rhythm of labor continuing as though nothing else existed.
At the base, the air warmed.
The dining hall was already awake.
A great hearth dominated the far wall, its fire crackling steadily. Light spilled across a long table of dark wood, reflecting the flames flaked in gold.
Sylvie crossed the threshold, taking her place at the far end of the table. Across from her, a man lowered a letter he had been reading. Dark hair, threaded with early streaks of grey lining his temples, and he wore a kind of expression that suggested he had been interrupted more often than he cared.
He glanced at her over the paper.
“Sylvia,” he said, voice dry as parchment. “You’re late.”
Sylvie inclined her head slightly as she sat.
“Francis,” she replied. “You’re reading bad news again.”
His eyes flicked to her briefly then grunted, folding the letter once.
"Rather, it is the usual kind of news," he said.
A servant stepped forward, pouring tea into the cup beside her plate. Sylvie smiled warmly as she settled into her seat, smoothing the sleeves of her dress as though the fabric itself might explain her existence.
"Is this the good kind of usual news?" Sylvie asked spreading jam on a pastry.
"Why were you late?" Francis asked ignoring her question.
"I was asleep," Sylvie said mildly.
"That is not an excuse," Francis chided.
“It is when one is unconscious.”
A faint sigh passed through the table as Sylvie took a bite of the pastry. Francis was the eldest brother and the rightful Lord in her father's stead.
Sensing Sylvie urge to argue, Vera moved swiftly behind her chair and cleared her throat. Sylvie narrowed her eyes as Vera ran her fingers over the loose strands of hair that had escaped her long braid.
"My lord," Vera murmured avoiding his gaze. "It was entirely my fault."
Sylvie clenched her jaw. Once again, Vera was making excuses for her like a child.
"Francis, I am not a child. We do not need to have morning audience every morning." Sylvie said.
"Sylvia," Francis straightened himself. "As I am Lord of Larton Hold, you will abide by my rules." Sylvie blinked slowly, anger rising in her chest.
He studied her for a moment.
The fire cracked sharply in the hearth, sending a brief shimmer of heat through the dining hall. Above them, the high arched ceiling disappeared into shadow, broken only by the long stained-glass windows that filtered the stormlight into muted blues and greys.
Outside, Lamerre was still drowning in rain.
Francis ran a hand over his face and picked up the letter.
"This letter," he said slowly. "Is from the Kingdom of Nenia itself."
Vera's hands paused behind Sylvie's chair. Sylvie did not immediately respond. She took a slow sip from the tasse letting the weight of her brother's words settle.
"I suspect they are in need of more grain," Sylvie said setting the cup down gently.
"No," Francis said softly. "They are in need of a bride."
Sylvie’s heart lurched in her chest. Blood pooled in her ears, thrumming loudly.
“What?” was all she could manage. For a moment, Sylvie thought she had misheard him.
“You are to be wed to Julian in three days time,” Francis said conclusively.
The fire crackled in the hearth as rain tapped softly against the stained-glass windows. Sylvie didn’t speak. She stared at the tea in her cup. The surface trembled slightly as her fingers tapped against the table.
Three days.
It took three days to travel from Lamerre to Nenia.
Her stomach sank.
“Mother reached out—”
So that was it. Their mother reached out on her behalf to sell her off like a prized mare. Vera made a sound behind her, pulling her from her thoughts.
“What?”
Francis raised his eyebrows. “I said this is an honor for our family. You should be honored, Sylvia.”
Sylvie stared at him stone-faced. She felt anything but honorable in that moment.
Francis watched her, his expression hardening. She knew this was a losing battle.
Sylvie stood slowly, placing her hands on the table.
“We best not keep them waiting.”
