Since I'd returned from the palace, the Marquess' Manor had become a hive of relentless activity, with tutors coming and going like bees, each buzzing with some new lesson on how to be a successful heir. At first, I clung to their words like a thirsty flower savoring rain, but as days blurred into endless nights, facts and figures drowned my mind, leaving me overwhelmed and exhausted.

"Perhaps a little spell to turn my eyes brown—or better yet, one to erase me from memory entirely," I murmured to Eamon as we strolled toward my chambers after my final lesson of the day. I tried to inject humor in my tone, but weariness bled through. "Maybe then I could slip away, and Alaric could return to bearing this burden."

Eamon arched a brow. "You're far beyond such tricks now, Luci. You have the mind for this; your father made sure of it."

I knew he was right. My father had always nurtured a sharp mind in me, one that could navigate politics and diplomacy easier than most others. But I couldn't help the uneasy feeling creeping over me as we passed staff arranging lavish decor in preparation for my upcoming debut as the Marquess' heir.

"Must everything be so... grandiose?" I muttered.

"Grandeur is the lifeblood of high society," Eamon said with a grin that lacked any real humor. 

Before I could reply, Elara, my maid, appeared and curtsied with barely contained urgency. "My lady, the seamstresses await you in your chambers."

A groan escaped me. My feet suddenly felt leaden. "Tell them I'll be there soon."

Eamon chuckled, leaning against the wall with an amused look. "You used to adore dressing up in your mother's gowns."

"That was before anyone critiqued every inch of my body," I muttered, the seamstress's last fitting still fresh in my mind. "Ladies here are expected to be as soft and delicate as the silks they wear. And I'm the opposite of that."

Eamon's gaze softened, a flicker of shock crossing his face. "You're nothing short of—"

"Save it," I interrupted as Elara returned, barely containing the grim expression on her face. I knew she must have received attitude from the women waiting for me.  

"Let's get this over with," I muttered under my breath. 

The moment I entered, the room's air turned icy. The two seamstresses—Ysabel and Isolde—stood with their apprentices, identical scowls pinching their faces, the kind that could curdle fresh milk. Their pale hair was braided so tightly that it pulled their eyes into sharp slits. Without waiting for pleasantries, Ysabel's lips twisted with impatience.

"Quite discourteous to keep guests waiting," she snapped as Elara helped me remove my outer garments.

"You're not guests; you're the Marquess' employees," I replied smoothly, holding her gaze with polite steel. "If you find this assignment disagreeable, I'll happily let my grandfather know."

Isolde's mouth curled into a sneer. "We're the best in the capital, my lady. You should count yourself fortunate to wear our work." Her voice dripped with a condescension that grated like nails on glass. "But perhaps your lack of experience clouds your judgment."

I bit my tongue as they began their work, apprentices pinning fabric with more force than necessary, and their jabs stung sharply as their needles pricked my skin. I could see their reflections in the mirror, smirking and sneering as though I weren't even there.

"Muscular and masculine," Isolde whispered to Ysabel with a smirk," She's like a statue in a hall of warriors instead of a young woman. We'll need more fabric for these arms."

"Dressing a statue would be easier," Ysabel sniffed, her tone laced with disgust.

Anger simmered in my chest as I looked at my reflection, at the muscles I'd earned through years of training with my father and our guards. My body wasn't the Aurorean ideal, soft and pliant like silks; instead, I was built with strength, yet my form was hardly unfeminine.

"Best not to worry about it, dear," Ysabel said, mistaking my silence for embarrassment. "And there's always makeup to soften these... exotic features." She finished as she motioned to my face.

My jaw clenched, and I fought the urge to hex her into something small and slimy. Instead, I forced a frosty smile. "How charming. Tell me, what ladies of import have been graced by your delicate touch?"

Isolde laughed, hollow and brittle. "Why, Lady Estermont's daughters for the Harvest Ball, the Viscountess of Thornfield for her... fourth nuptial. And Lady Hargrave's grand soirée," she listed, each name dropped like lead.

"Impressive." I nodded slowly. "But as I see, all noble families that hold lower rank than a Marquess." My words hovered, thickening the air around us. "My ball is your chance to elevate your reputation, provided you're not dismissed."

The room fell silent, and one apprentice drew a sharp breath, finally sensing the thin ice beneath them.

"Moreover," I continued, holding them with a hard stare, "I would like to remind you that the Marquessate holds all rights to your designs under our employ." I openly smirked at them through the reflection. "Should I select a different boutique, we would retain your designs and credit them to another."

My words hung like a blade over them, the threat clear. "Are we understood?"

"Of course, Lady Luciana," they chorused, their voices stumbling as they scrambled to recover from their insults. The hostility dissolved, leaving them tentative and respectful.

Once they gathered what they needed, they curtsied—stiff and mechanical—before leaving in uneasy silence.

Elara lingered, her face lit with awe. "My lady, you were magnificent. I can only dream of such bravery."

I chuckled, feeling like a pincushion as I stifled a wince. "Thank you, Elara. I'll need a bath, please."

She quickly prepared the bath with the urgency of a soldier, and soon, I was alone, sinking into the warm water, the steam soothing me. My eyes fell on the tiny red marks dotting my skin from where they'd prodded, a constellation of minor injuries. For a fleeting moment, I fantasized about ruining their boutique's reputation, but that seemed a hollow victory. 

A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts. "Your dinner is ready, milady," Elara announced.

"Thank you, Elara," I said, rising from the water and wrapping myself in a towel.

Eamon was waiting for me at the dining table, having already set out the food. I eased into my chair, my limbs weary and heavy.

"More fan mail?" Eamon teased as he slid over three wax-sealed letters.

"Hardly fans." I broke the first seal with little enthusiasm. "Just endless invitations I'm forced to politely refuse."

"You only need to answer if they're from a family above your rank," he reminded with a smirk. "Or are royal invitations, which are as good as orders unless you feel like causing an international incident."

"War might be less exhausting," I muttered, rubbing my temples.

"Cheer up," he said, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Perhaps you could invite Prince Leandro to be your debut partner."

I almost choked. "You can't be serious, Eamon! I can't believe you would even suggest him after how he spoke to you at the palace."

"He spoke to me as any royal would to an attendant, Luci. Plus, he's popular. Some even think he'd be a better king than Sterling."

"I'd sooner waltz with a gargoyle than parade around as his political pawn," I shot back, rolling my eyes. "Dancing with a prince who sees me as a piece on his chessboard holds no appeal."

Eamon's laugh rang out, rich and unrestrained. "But gargoyles are quite stationary and far less attractive than our dear prince."

Leandro was attractive, but it would take more than looks to charm me. 

"Tradition dictates you must have a partner," Eamon added, his humor dimmed by sympathy. "Consider it a necessary evil."

I sighed, conceding that I might have to entertain the idea, even if it tasted bitter. "We'll see."

As dinner drew to a close, I turned to Eamon. "I have some reading to do for tomorrow. Meet me in the library?"

Eamon nodded, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin. "I promised to help a maid finish her tasks, but I'll be along shortly. Shall I send Elara to you in the meantime?"

I shook my head, smiling. "No need, I'll manage. Tell Elara to take an early night."

I headed to the library, its vast, dim interior already feeling like a second home. I found the book I needed quickly, feeling a slight sense of pride for memorizing the catalog without magic. Settling into a plush chair on the second floor, near the farthest window, I sank into the pages, the quiet enveloping me.

Time passed unnoticed as I lost myself in the ancient texts, the flickering candlelight casting shadows that danced around me. I felt at peace until the faint creak of the floorboards made me look up, the sudden sound quickening my pulse.

"Eamon?" I called, expecting his familiar face to emerge. Only silence answered.

A sudden unease pricked at me. I stood, listening closely. But I only heard the sound of my heartbeat.

As I turned toward the stairs, a shadow lunged from the darkness, slamming me to the ground with enough force to knock the air from my lungs. 

Strong hands wrapped around my throat, squeezing tight.

Instinct kicked in, and I sent a blast of energy from my hands. The assailant flew backward as a green light flashed briefly, illuminating the room. Gasping for breath, I scrambled to my feet and ran to the door.  But they were quick. I had only managed to get halfway down when they grabbed my hair. 

I saw a quick flash of metal, and then I felt the searing pain of a knife plunged into my shoulder as we tumbled down the remaining steps. My head struck the floor with a hard thud, and stars exploded in my vision.

Gritting my teeth, I pushed myself up, but my vision was blurry, and my arm felt heavy. My attacker was already back on their feet, charging at me. With the last of my strength, I unleashed another blast, slamming them against the far wall, then used my magic to topple a towering bookshelf onto them.

My breath was coming in shallow gasps as I stumbled to stay on my feet. I could feel the sticky warmth of blood trickling down my head and my arm. Then my legs gave out, and I fell but couldn't feel any pain as I hit the unforgiving wooden floor. 

I heard the door burst open and the familiar clink of swords as the manor knights rushed toward me. 

I tried to speak, but darkness crept over me, and I slipped into unconsciousness.