Chapter 2: The Edge of Elegance

I limped home under a sky the color of old iron, the forest behind me smelling of smoke and singed feathers. My shirt hung in tatters; my hair smelled like ash. The ring on my right hand was silent, cool against my skin, as if nothing had happened. It felt dishonest, that little band of silver. It had just murdered a chicken the size of a cart and then behaved like a piece of jewelry.

I found my way into the cottage by memory more than light. Mum cursed softly when she saw the rips and the blood, but she did what she always did: muttered prayers, shoved herbs into my hands, dabbed at my forehead with a rag that smelled like lemon and dirt. I let her fuss. There was something comforting in the routine—the small, human chores that made the world stop trying to hurt you for a little while.

When she left to fetch more cloth, I stared at my reflection in the basin. For the first time since the forest, I could place the face looking back: not the small, pale thing my mother called Rissa, but a woman with a lean jaw and tired eyes—Clarisse Leighton—folded into the wrong child like an old coat into a drawer. The name landed in my throat like an uninvited guest. I swallowed it down and let it sit there.

I thought about the life I’d been given and the life that had ended. I remembered the way I used to work a room—how I smiled at the right moment, laughed on cue, sold a story that fit whatever man I had in front of me. I had made money with words and a carefully placed tear. I had learned to read a lie the same way I read a book: the rhythm, the punctuation, the little hesitations that give everything away. That life had not been noble. It had been clever, practical, and sometimes cruel. I had survived by being a small, efficient storm.

It explained a lot. The instincts that made me win coin from drunken traders as a child. The sarcasm that cut like a blade because it kept people off balance. The habit of planning two moves ahead. I could not pretend it was innocence; I had honed craft and used it. Yet I wasn’t monstrous. Mostly I had been held together by the stubborn idea that kindness, when necessary, was a useful disguise rather than a weakness.

I decided, quickly and without drama, that no one would know. Not my mother. Not Margo. Not the woman at the well who always asked about the weather as if it were the safest thing to ask. Secrets were doors, and I had learned in my past life that doors were dangerous when left unlocked. The ring, the memory—both could make me a spectacle or a resource. Either would get me nailed to the nearest post or auctioned to some lord with a taste for curiosities. Far better to be several knives in a silk sleeve than a curiosity on display.

So I buried Clarisse inside me like a seed. I fed her stories and hardened my jaw until the shape of my past fit the life I wore now. I would use the gifts the world handed me—instinct, guile, the ring if I must—to carve out a future that didn’t include being found and used or being trapped in a village where every odd scrap of magic was a threat.

That was the plan, then: Leave.

Not petty leave, but proper leave. Leave the dust of the lanes and the smell of stew and the way people measured lives by how many cows they owned. I wanted to go where answers might be—somewhere with books and scholars who could look at the ring and tell me if it was a bargain from fate or a trap from the gods. I wanted to learn who had the right to kill a woman and not be punished for it. I wanted to see if Clarisse could be more than a ghost.

In the years that followed, I tested the ring every way I could imagine. I whispered to it. I shouted at it. I held it in moonlight, in firelight, in the moments between waking and sleep when the mind is supposed to be closest to magic. Nothing. It stayed as cold and silent as a gravestone. Frustration became a quiet, constant companion, and with it grew a hunger I hadn’t known before—the hunger to understand.

I had no access to the sort of education that taught you the names of the stars or the rules of magic, but I learned to make do. I begged scraps of paper from merchants, traded chores for torn pages from discarded books, and haunted the road whenever word spread that a scholar or hedge-wizard might be passing through. I asked questions until they grew impatient, and then I asked more. Most had no answers. Some told me fairy stories to make me go away. But a few, here and there, taught me just enough to keep the fire lit.

In time, people in the village began to call me “the little scholar,” a nickname delivered half in fondness and half in mild annoyance. I let them believe it was simple ambition that drove me—to leave, to study, to make a name for myself in some library or royal archive. And it was true, in part. But the real truth lived deeper: I wanted to unravel the knot of my own life, to understand why I had been given a second one, and why a dead ring that once protected me didn't wanted to be my tool to achieve my goals.

Ten years made the decision less dramatic and more inevitable. Life is stubbornly ordinary until a year slips into ten; the tiny acts of defiance and survival compound. I kept the ring. I learned to hide the scorch marks. I learned to use a needle well enough to close my own wounds. I learned to lie for entertainment and for profit, to spin stories for traders, to charm a husband into lending coin when a sick cow meant empty bellies for a week. I watched and memorized names, patterns, the social rules of a place that never stopped measuring you by your usefulness.

When the time came, I had a plan.

The rumor reached me by way of bored merchants and women who liked to gossip over barley. The lord of the manor was hosting a feast for his son, a night of silk and wine to bind alliances and arrange marriages. The castle would be awash with nobles, with pockets heavy and heads light. They would laugh at the songs they paid for and drink until caution fell off their tongues. An eminent scholar—the same man who had been mentor to the lord years before—was expected as a guest. Scholars meant coin, but more importantly they meant knowledge; scholars meant connections to libraries and records and people who could translate runes into sentences.

It was perfect.

If I played this right, I wouldn’t just walk into that manor—I’d waltz in like I owned the damn place. Not Rissa, the farmer’s daughter with mud under her nails, but Rissa, a noble lady with more titles than morals. The trick was simple: dress the part, smile like I had a family crest somewhere, and never let anyone suspect I was mentally counting how many forks I could fit in my pockets. With the nobles too busy puffing each other up and arranging marriages no one wanted, I could slip between their conversations, collecting gossip like coin. If I was lucky, I’d get close enough to the famous scholar to ask a few harmless-sounding questions… the sort of questions that might tell me how to turn knowledge into power. And if along the way I found some bored, overperfumed lordling with more gold than sense—well, what kind of guest would I be if I didn’t lighten his load a little? With the right dress, the right smile, and maybe just a hint of scandal, I could leave that party richer, wiser, and far, far away from this mudhole of a village.

That night, I pried up the warped floorboard in my room and reached into the hollow I’d carved out years ago—a private treasure chest for a girl with nimble fingers, a long memory, and an even longer list of people who’d underestimated her. Inside lay the spoils of ten years’ worth of patience, selective kindness, and the occasional exploitation of the drunk, the gullible, or the romantically desperate. A few coins. Some dried herbs for coughs (because even the best thieves can’t con their way out of pneumonia). And tonight’s weapons of choice.

First, the dress. Black. Long. Lace. The kind of garment that made sensible men stare and stupid men open their coin purses. A traveling merchant had “gifted” it to me two winters ago after I’d kept his cup full and his ego fuller. He thought he was buying affection; I was buying wardrobe upgrades. It had been far too big back then, but poverty turns you into your own tailor. Years of stolen thread, hidden pins, and strategic tucks had turned it into something that clung in places a chaperone would disapprove of. Against my pale skin and long black hair, it didn’t just look intentional—it looked like a warning with lipstick.

The jewelry was equally deliberate: silver bracelets, a black velvet choker that made me look a touch older and a touch more dangerous, and the silver rune ring I’d never taken off. A decade ago, it had saved me from ending up as a side dish for a homicidal chicken the size of a wagon. I still didn’t know why or how, but it was the only thing I owned that hadn’t been taken from someone else. That counted for something.

Margo waited by the cart, arms crossed, wearing the expression of someone about to watch a loved one juggle knives. “You’re actually doing this?”

“Of course. A hall full of bored nobles, unguarded purses, and a famous scholar who’s never had the pleasure of meeting me? If that’s not destiny, I don’t know what is.”

“You mean to rob them blind.”

“I mean to collect… voluntary donations from the overprivileged,” I said, adjusting the ring. It caught the lamplight like it was in on the joke. “Besides, I refuse to die in this village of boredom. If I’m going to end up in a ditch, it should at least be a scenic one.”

She sighed. “Promise me you’ll keep your head.”

“I’ll keep my head,” I said sweetly. “And if I lose it, I’ll make sure it’s wearing the choker so it looks presentable when they find it.”

We rattled toward the manor, the cart creaking under us. Dusk thickened into the kind of dark where good intentions go to die. The torches ahead burned like golden bait, and the ring gave a faint pulse against my skin. I didn’t care whether I was walking into the best con of my life or a swan dive into disaster. Either way, I was dressed to kill—if not literally, then financially.

The mansion’s gates loomed ahead, all iron scrollwork and torchlight, guarded by two men whose helmets looked more expensive than anything in my house. They stepped forward, crossing halberds with a little too much ceremony.

“Invitation?” one asked, voice as flat as week-old beer.

I tilted my head, letting the lamplight slide over my cheekbones. “Oh, I’m afraid mine was… misplaced. You know how it is with servants and sealed envelopes—always getting things wet, or using them as kindling. Tragic, really.”

The other guard frowned. “No invitation, no entry.”

I let my lips curve into the sort of smile that’s half-apology, half-promise. “Are you sure? I came all this way. It would be terribly awkward if I had to tell Lord—” I paused, pretending to search for the right name, “—Lord Whoever-He-Is that his guards turned away a guest dressed like this.”

The taller guard’s eyes dipped, just briefly, to the neckline of my dress. Then to my hand, where the silver ring caught the light. I leaned in, close enough for the faintest trace of perfume to bridge the space between us.

“Besides,” I murmured, “it’s a celebration. Wouldn’t it be bad luck to start the night by disappointing a lady?”

They exchanged a look—the universal male expression for this is above my pay grade but I’d like to keep breathing—and stepped aside.

Inside, the manor was a cathedral to excess. Crystal chandeliers dripped light over silk and velvet, gold-gilt mirrors, and tables sagging under enough food to feed the entire village for a month. The air smelled of roasted meat, wine, and too many perfumes fighting for dominance.

And then there were the people—dozens of nobles, all dripping in jewels and titles, staring at me as though I’d been hand-delivered by the gods for their personal entertainment. My black dress cut through the sea of color like a shadow at a summer wedding. Heads turned. Fans twitched. A few whispers sparked like flint.

It was flattering. Also dangerous. I needed to be noticed, but in a way that made people curious, not suspicious. Mystery was a safer weapon than fame.

For the next two hours, I drifted through the crowd, trading pleasantries and deflecting questions about my family with the kind of polite evasions you could embroider on a handkerchief. Where was I from? “Oh, nowhere remarkable.” Whose daughter was I? “A very dull man, I assure you.” The less I said, the more they leaned in.

Then, from the marble staircase, a servant in gold-trimmed livery struck the floor with his staff.

“Lord Edric of House Talvane,” he announced, “and his son, Master Rowan Talvane.”

Polite applause. Father and son descended—Edric all broad shoulders and frost-white hair, Rowan nineteen, dressed like he’d lost a duel with a tailor and too smug to notice.

“And our honored guest,” the servant continued, “Scholar Aldren Vey, of the royal court.”

The room brightened at the name, applause swelling. I clapped, already planning my route to the scholar before the swarm could close in.

I edged through the crowd toward Scholar Vey, who was deep in conversation by the grand oak table. My plan was simple: slip in, ask a few pointed questions, and leave without drawing too much attention.

But before I could close the distance, a tall figure stepped directly in my path, blocking me like an immovable shadow.

Rowan Talvane, son of Lord Edric, stood there with a smug grin plastered across his boyish face. His eyes didn’t flick away; instead, they settled on me like a moth to flame.

“Not often we see a lady in black who can hold a room’s attention without even trying,” he said, voice smooth but eyes a little too bright.

I gave a polite nod. “Flattery from the lord’s son is a dangerous game, but I appreciate the effort.”

He chuckled, clearly mistaking my civility for interest. “I’m Rowan, by the way. And you are?”

“A guest,” I said, with just enough cool distance to keep the mystery alive.

He stepped closer, unabashed. “A guest with a striking dress and even more striking eyes. What brings you to this feast—besides making it more interesting?”

I smiled thinly. “Curiosity. And perhaps to remind the nobles that not all visitors are dull.”

He blinked, clearly unaccustomed to conversation that didn’t revolve around his own ego. “Well, I suppose that’s fair. I’m sure you’re used to turning heads.”

“I’m used to being invisible when it suits me. But thanks for the compliment.”

Rowan’s grin grew wider, almost predatory. “And what would you say if I offered to show you the best parts of the manor? I could be your guide.”

I tilted my head, eyeing him carefully. “Are the best parts guarded by you? Because I hear the less entertaining rooms are.”

He laughed, clearly pleased by the jab, though he didn’t seem to get the edge. “I like a woman with spirit.”

“Spirit and sarcasm are my preferred weapons.”

He leaned in, lowering his voice. “I could teach you a few new tricks.”

“Oh? Like how to be a noble lady with a silver spoon and no spine?”

His smile faltered, but only briefly. “You’re sharper than most I’ve met.”

“Because I have to be. Ignorance is a luxury I can’t afford.”

His eyes flicked toward the scholar I was trying to reach, but then he caught my wrist before I could slip past.

“Not so fast,” he said, grip firm but not painful.

A shiver ran through me, cold and sudden, memories flashing unbidden—the violence, the betrayal, the fear.

I met his gaze evenly, voice low and laced with a dangerous edge. “Listen carefully. I’m not here for your amusement. Cross me, and I promise you won’t forget it.”

His confident smirk wavered. “You’re all fire and ice, aren’t you?”

“Mostly ice,” I said, pulling free with a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “But I know how to burn when it counts.”

Just then, footsteps echoed from the stairway. Lord Edric and Scholar Vey approached, their expressions tightening as they took in the scene.

I stepped back, folding my arms with mock innocence. “Well, this turned out more lively than expected, my young lord.” I said smiling.

Lord Edric’s heavy footsteps thundered toward us just as Rowan’s grip slackened. His sharp eyes cut between his son and me like a blade.

“What in the gods’ names is happening here?” His voice boomed through the hall, silencing nearby conversations instantly.

Rowan scrambled to regain his usual arrogant grin, but his voice faltered. “Father, this guest—she’s been... rude, refusing to answer properly. Honestly, I don’t even know who she is.”

I lifted my chin, calm but with a simmering edge. “I’m a guest, Lord Edric. And I’ve been nothing but polite.”

Edric’s gaze pinned Rowan with an icy glare. “You would do well to remember your manners. A lady deserves respect.”

Rowan muttered under his breath but dared not argue.

Scholar Aldren Vey stepped forward, raising a hand in a fragile attempt to restore calm. “There’s no need for a scene—please, let’s maintain decorum.”

His eyes shifted toward me, then suddenly locked onto the silver ring glinting on my finger.

His pupils dilated, breath hitched sharply, and color drained from his face in an instant. His lips trembled, but words failed him.

Then, as if possessed by a sudden madness, his knees buckled like a puppet’s string had been cut. He crashed to the marble floor with a wet thud, face turning an alarming shade of green.

A dreadful, unmistakable sound broke the silence—an unholy, humiliating drip, drip.

The hall froze. All heads snapped toward the scholar, who now lay in utter disgrace: tears streaming down his cheeks, snot running freely, whimpering pitifully like a child terrified in the dark. His body convulsed as he sobbed and whimpered, barely able to control himself, his bladder betraying him in the most undignified way possible.

“MONSTER! THE EMBODIMENT OF ALL EVIL!” he shrieked, voice cracking and echoing off the stone walls, pointing a shaking finger at me. His sobs turned into desperate, high-pitched whimpers, almost animalistic in their terror.

The gathered nobles exchanged wide-eyed glances, some biting their lips to hide snickers, others pale with genuine shock and fear.

I stood frozen, the cold weight of the ring heavy on my finger—utterly baffled by the spectacle unfolding. What madness had possessed this scholar? And why did my presence unleash such a grotesque display of hysteria? This wasn’t good.