Episode 7
1087 Words
THE POISONED GARDEN
The gardens of House Vale bloomed in the autumn sun, a riot of orange and crimson, their beauty deceptive. Beneath the curling petals and polished hedges lay secrets — old, buried things. Lira had always hated how perfect the garden seemed, how her family walked among the thorns as if they never bled. Now she saw it for what it truly was: a stage dressed in flowers, hiding the rot beneath.
Today, she wore her meekest expression and her dullest dress. Her sister Serana was hosting a luncheon with the young noble heirs of the western houses, and Lira, ever the invisible sister, had been invited only as a courtesy. That was a mistake Serana would come to regret.
Lira took her place at the far end of the long table beneath the arbor, as birds chirped prettily above. She smiled, soft and unassuming, as Serana began spinning tales of court gossip and diplomatic triumphs. Her sister was radiant, dressed in sapphire silk that matched her eyes, laughter ringing like bells. The perfect image of a daughter. Of a future lady of the realm.
But Lira watched every movement. Every glance exchanged across the table. Every moment of hesitation. She wasn’t here to eat or to smile. She was here to read.
And just before the first course was served, she saw it.
Lord Calden, heir to House Wysten, passed a folded slip of parchment beneath the table to Serana. Sleight of hand — almost too quick to catch.
But Lira had died before. She noticed things now.
She let her gaze drift to Serana, who accepted the message with the barest nod, her fingers brushing Calden’s briefly. A pact. Perhaps a bribe. Or worse — something political.
Serana Vale was weaving her web again. And this time, Lira had caught the glint of the thread.
Later that night, Lira returned to the garden.
The same arbor, the same seat where she’d watched Serana lie behind her laughter.
Only now it was cloaked in moonlight, and Lira wasn’t alone.
The hooded man was already there.
“You watched today,” she said.
He tilted his head. “You’re learning.”
“I want to know what Serana gave him.”
“I could find out,” he said. “But you won’t like the price.”
Lira raised her chin. “Then teach me to find out myself.”
There was silence. Then, a chuckle. “You never stop surprising me, Lady Vale.”
He stepped forward and handed her a book — worn leather, old. “Start with this. Codes and ciphers. If Serana is dealing in secrets, she’ll use them often. Learn to break them, and you’ll c***k open her entire kingdom of lies.”
Lira clutched the book. “And if I fail?”
“Then you’ll be just another girl buried beneath her smile.”
The following weeks were a blur of hidden study and shadowed observation. Lira slept little, ate less, and trusted no one. The cipher book revealed more than techniques — it taught patterns, the way people folded notes, how their handwriting changed when afraid or hurried. It taught silence, patience.
And it worked.
One evening, during a masquerade ball hosted in the golden ballroom, Lira saw her chance. Serana left her clutch behind in the powder room. Careless. Confident.
Lira stepped in moments later and retrieved the small velvet pouch. Inside were two folded notes. One in a tight, careful script.
The first was a simple cipher. Lira decoded it in under an hour.
Meet in the south wing. Midnight. Bring confirmation of his allegiance.
So Serana was forming an alliance. Not just with Calden, but with someone unnamed. “His allegiance.” Likely a powerful figure. A noble? A foreign agent?
The second note took longer to understand. It was written in reverse — mirror text — and seemed like poetry. But when Lira rearranged the stanzas, it revealed the name of an estate: The Gravenhall Estate.
A ruin. Abandoned since the mage purges. Once owned by a family who trafficked in cursed relics and blackmail.
And now Serana was sending someone there.
Why?
Lira didn’t wait to find out secondhand.
Two nights later, she slipped away from the manor under the cover of fog. Dressed in hunter’s black, she took the east trail toward the forest that bordered the Vale lands. Gravenhall stood past the old woods, a half-day’s ride if one knew the way.
She took none of the household guards, not even the loyal stable boy who’d begun offering her hints of friendship. This mission could not risk exposure.
The closer she drew to Gravenhall, the more wrong the world seemed. The trees grew twisted, bark split with old scars. The wind didn’t whistle — it howled. Even the birds avoided the sky.
And when Lira finally crested the ridge and looked down upon the crumbling silhouette of the estate, something in her bones whispered, Run.
She didn’t.
She descended, slow and silent.
The estate gates were shattered. The stone archway lay in ruins, overtaken by ivy and silence. She stepped carefully, every breath measured. The main hall was empty — dust and rot, broken furniture and moonlight through cracked windows.
But in the cellar beneath, she found them.
Three men. Two cloaked. One kneeling, chained.
They didn’t see her — not at first. She remained hidden behind a crumbled shelf, listening.
“Lord Wysten swore fealty to Serana Vale,” one of the cloaked men said.
“Then he is a fool,” replied the other. “She will not hold power long. Not once the old magic wakes.”
Old magic. Lira’s stomach turned.
The kneeling man was barely recognizable — bruised, bloodied, but noble. Not Calden. Another. Perhaps a rival Serana was silencing.
“We have the relic,” the first man said. “The girl delivered it herself.”
A pause.
“She doesn’t know what it is,” the other answered.
“She doesn’t need to.”
Lira backed away slowly.
Serana wasn’t just scheming for political power.
She was awakening something ancient.
And it was nearly too late.
Back in her chamber, Lira locked the door and spread out every note, every diagram, every piece of evidence. It was bigger than her. Bigger than revenge.
Serana’s alliance wasn’t a game of courtly ambition.
It was a preparation for war.
And the price would be more than noble blood.
It would be the soul of the realm.
- Writer
