She hated dresses.

  Always brushing against her ankles like a leash, whispering that she was supposed to be something delicate. Something tame. Vella muttered a curse as the silk skirt caught on the corner of the desk and tore ever so slightly.

  Hellen would notice. That old witch of a woman always did.

  Even the smallest imperfection could become a lesson in failure. Attention to detail is the difference between a clean escape and bleeding out in a gutter, she’d say. Voice smooth, sharp, and patient as the blade strapped beneath her left sleeve.

  It wasn’t the fabric, or the cut, or even the way the hem tangled around her boots when she moved too fast, though that didn’t help. No, what Vella hated most was how dresses made her feel.

  Fake.

  Which was ridiculous, really. Her whole life was a performance. Every glance calculated. Every word rehearsed. Every movement sharpened beneath the surface with purpose and steel. Deception had become second nature.

  But silk clinging to her skin felt different. That was the mask sinking too deep.

  Taking a deep breath, Vella let out a sigh as she looked over the ornate wooden desk. Hellen had trained her for that, too—how to wear a lie like a second skin. How to smile, curtsy, and kill without ever breaking character.

  The study smelled like beeswax and old money, just like the rest of the Caldwyn estate. Gilded picture frames. Antique globes. Scrolls arranged like trophies on polished slate shelves. All of it meticulously curated to whisper wealth and power.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  But Vella had been in enough royal dens to know the difference between real power and vanity dressed in gold leaf. The only item of value in the room was the desk. Real spruce wood from the surface, an almost unthinkable luxury, even in the highest courts.

  She knelt beside the desk, fingers moving without thought as she daydreamed about leaving the glowing caverns. The lockbox waited in the lower drawer, brass fittings gleaming just enough to announce its self-importance. Pulling one of the many pins from her hair, she fiddled with the lock until it gave with a soft click.

  Within lay an assortment of documents made of bamboo paper. One of the few plants grown in Luxia. They were sorted into neat rows, sigils stamped in crimson and gold. She found the one she came for. An open letter bearing the coiled crest of House Caldwyn—and slid it into a hidden fold inside her bodice. One of many custom additions.

  She didn’t read it. She never did.

  Because what it said didn’t matter.

  Some petty leverage. Some forgotten claim to land, to legacy, to something someone else wanted. It was always the same. Families tearing at each other in the dark, clawing for scraps of power, trying to rewrite bloodlines with ink and paranoia. They called it diplomacy.

  She called it a silent war.

  Brushing off her stray thoughts, Vella stood with care, mindful of the inkwell, the candlewax, and the scattered parchments. Leaving no prints. No fibers. No trace. Not that they’d ever suspect her. Who would?

  To the rest of Luxia, she was a dutiful daughter of House Veyrienne. A neutral family known for their silks and dyes. Full of artisans and diplomats. Polite to a fault, and too preoccupied with craft to bother with court intrigue.

  No one questioned how their goods slipped through sealed tunnels, or how their couriers passed between districts unchecked. No one dared to wonder why even the most territorial houses welcomed them without pause.

  After all, the Veyriennes could weave more than silk. They spun a flawless facade to veil a dynasty built on secrets and silence, where signatures were often replaced by corpses.