Alone in her chambers, Seraphina laid the stolen records across her desk.
The candlelight caught the ink in glints. To anyone else, it might have looked beautiful. But she knew what was written here. It wasn't art. It was evidence.
These pages told a story: her father's death, the decisions that led to her marriage, the subtle moves that had weakened House D'Lorien while lifting Alaric's allies.
None of it was a mistake. None of it was chance.
Her father had been eliminated. She had been next. Not with poison or a knife in the dark, but in public. They had planned to burn her like a symbol, an end to a house that once stood for something real.
Even now, looking at the ledgers and contracts, she knew this wasn't everything. There were gaps. Pieces missing.
These records could bring disgrace. Possibly exile. But not execution. The fire had demanded something more. Something deeper. There were still secrets buried in the court, and she was going to uncover them.
She leaned back in her chair. The pulse under her skin beat harder than before, reacting to her anger.
Soon, she thought. Not now. But soon.
When she struck, there would be no second chances.
But she couldn't build her plans here. The estate walls felt like they were watching her. Every hallway reminded her of Alaric. Every corner reminded her how close she had come to dying.
She needed her own space. Somewhere hidden. Somewhere quiet. A place where no one could interfere.
She pulled a clean sheet of parchment and began to write.
But land wouldn't be enough. Getting revenge required more than just space. She would need money, allies, and a new source of power.
She thought back to something she had once overheard: a comment about trade routes in the south. Spices. Rare goods. At the time, she'd ignored it.
Now, she saw it differently.
She started writing again, a second letter. This one was coded. A broker would handle it, someone she'd used once before during her mother's illness.
The letter would lead to investments. Quiet ones. Under a false name. Small shipments. Slow growth. But it would be hers.
Let them believe she was just a forgotten duchess.
While they watched the throne, she would buy everything around it.
Caelan would help. He wouldn't ask questions. He never did.
She needed a new base. A property far from the court. Something small, unremarkable. Purchased through others. Nothing that pointed to her.
It wouldn't be a home.
It would be a place to rebuild.
She wouldn't raise an army, not yet. But she would gather people. The kind the court ignored. Those who had no place. The ones who knew how to survive.
Three days later, a courier returned. No name. No seal. Just a folded piece of parchment with a location, a time, and a drawing of an old manor.
She left at dusk. No guards. No attendants. Dressed like a minor archivist with a worn cloak and a plain satchel.
The tunnel she used was hidden at the back of the estate grounds. A relic from a time before her family had built upward. It wound beneath the trees and opened near a river. She walked the rest of the way.
The manor was as promised. Abandoned. Unnamed. Set against the edge of the hills.
Caelan waited there, already inside. He nodded as she approached.
"No records. No ownership on file. We checked."
She nodded back. "Good."
Inside, it smelled of dust and wood rot. The windows were shuttered. The walls were bare.
But she could see what it would become.
The basement would store documents. The east hall could be converted to a training room. The upper floor would be for planning.
She turned to Caelan. "Can it be secured?"
"Already working on it."
She closed her eyes for a second. Breathed.
He didn't push. He never did.
That night, she slept on a cot in a room with no door. And for the first time since the fire, she slept without dreaming.
The next morning, she started working. No ceremony. No grand speech. Just quiet steps.
She mapped the building, marked blind spots, measured the rooms. She walked the perimeter until she memorized the land. She listed what needed repair. She tagged what needed to be removed.
In the garden, she found a broken sundial and began planning how it could be repurposed as a hidden message post.
She made lists. Of supplies. Of names. Of places she might reach out to when the time was right.
This wasn't rebellion.
Not yet.
It was preparation.
She wrote one more message. Just a line. Folded and sealed in plain paper.
"The ember is lit."
No crest. No name. But she knew Caelan would get it to the right people.
The court had taken her father. Had tried to erase her name.
Now, she would return the favor.
Not with banners.
But with silence.
And when she rose again, the court wouldn't see a duchess.
They would see the storm coming.
She spent the next several days reviewing old intelligence reports her father had archived. Most were outdated, but some provided a clearer picture of how alliances in the court had shifted over time. The names of old family friends that had vanished from the records were circled in red ink. Disappearances, unacknowledged transactions, appointments that led nowhere, each had a thread. One that led back to Alaric, and by extension, Evelyne.
She planned to track every one.
At night, she tested defenses around the manor. Simple things, at first. Trip wires. Sound alarms. Basic wards. Eventually, she'd bring in specialists. But for now, she needed to know every entrance, every vulnerability. The manor would hold her secrets, and it had to be ready.
One morning, a bird arrived with a sealed scroll. No name. Just coordinates and a line: "We remember your father."
She folded it carefully and burned the edges before placing it into the hidden cache behind the hearth.
Help was coming. Not loudly. Not with fanfare. But it was coming.
And when it arrived, she would be ready.
She also began recruiting. Quietly. Carefully. She placed word in markets and messenger routes frequented by the overlooked, former spies, blacksmith apprentices, mapmakers, and cooks who'd served nobility and disappeared. She made a list of potential people, those who had lost homes, names, or faith in the court.
One by one, messages went out. Some returned unanswered. Others came with coded confirmations.
By the end of the second week, three had arrived at the manor. One was a former court scribe. Another, a scout once aligned with a now-dismantled noble house. The third, a potionmaker whose family had vanished under investigation.
They didn't come for gold. They came because they had nothing left.
Seraphina met each one herself, explained nothing more than they needed to know. She didn't promise revenge. She offered purpose. A chance to do something with the ruin the court had left them.
They accepted.
They began repairs on the manor. Rebuilt sections of the library wall. Set up coded lighting signals along the back field. Repurposed cellars for supply storage and temporary quarters.
And every night, Seraphina reviewed progress, updated maps, and kept her network growing.
She was no longer alone.
The ember was catching.
And soon, it would burn.