Episode 8
1212 Words
A BLADE HIDDEN IN BLOOM
Lira stood in the east courtyard garden, her fingers buried in damp soil as she replanted a row of pale violets. The early morning mist clung to her lashes, the crisp air heavy with dew and the faint scent of rosemary. The roses had started to bloom again—bright red, lush, taunting. How poetic, she thought. Beauty thriving in a garden grown from blood.
The act of tending to the earth grounded her. It reminded her of her old life, when she used to find peace in things no one paid attention to. Now, every small task served as a cover—a camouflage for the woman she was becoming. The one who counted poisons better than petals. Who memorized patrol patterns instead of poetry. Who smiled while planning deaths.
“You’ve missed breakfast again,” came a voice, disapproving and smooth.
Lira didn’t need to turn to recognize it. Rivan Morholt—Captain of the House Guard. Handsome, cold-eyed, and far too observant for her liking. His suspicions had grown over the past year. No one else seemed to notice the way she slipped out of lessons early, how her bruises never matched her explanations, or how her once-quiet demeanor now carried an edge.
She wiped her hands on her apron and stood, offering a practiced smile. “I wasn’t hungry.”
“You’re too thin. And too quiet.” He paused. “Too clever, lately.”
There it was. The warning in his tone.
“Gardening gives me clarity,” she said lightly. “Surely even guards need their hobbies.”
“Guards have weapons. Hobbies are for girls with nothing to fear.” He stepped closer. “But you… you don’t strike me as someone who feels safe anymore.”
Her heart thudded against her ribs, but her face remained serene. “Perhaps I’ve simply grown up.”
He tilted his head, studying her like she was a puzzle that refused to solve itself. “Or perhaps you’ve started keeping secrets.”
Lira didn’t answer. She bent down again, tucking the last violet into place and patting the soil. Let him wonder. Let him watch. It would make things all the more satisfying when he realized, too late, who he had underestimated.
The secret chamber beneath the library smelled of dust, ink, and time. It had taken her months to break the enchantment sealing it—an ancient vault warded with blood-borne magic. The door had responded to her veins, the Vale legacy etched into her very body. She had known it was there because in her previous life, her father’s will had made brief, hushed mention of a sealed room no one could enter.
Now, it belonged to her.
Scrolls lined the walls, tomes in languages long dead, diagrams of binding circles, and alchemical tools arranged with obsessive precision. The journal of her ancestor, Lysara Vale—the last blood witch of the family—sat open on the desk, its pages filled with furious ink and warnings written in a woman’s slanted hand.
“Power without pain is a myth. Every spell has a cost. Choose your price wisely.”
Lira traced the words with reverence. Lysara had been vilified, her name erased from official records. Branded mad. Dangerous. But perhaps she was simply a woman too powerful to be controlled. Lira liked her already.
Tonight’s task was simple: a tracking spell. She needed to know where her sister went when she slipped out of the estate under cover of darkness.
She set the items carefully: a strand of Elira’s golden hair, a drop of Lira’s blood, a pinch of nightroot, and a slice of moonstone. The circle glowed faintly as she whispered the incantation, her voice steady despite the cold creeping into her limbs.
The spell responded, pulsing once—then flickering to life. An image shimmered to the surface of the stone: her sister, cloaked, entering the old temple ruins in the west wood.
Lira narrowed her eyes. The ruins were said to be cursed, abandoned for decades. What was Elira doing there?
She banished the spell with a wave and began packing her satchel. Some answers needed to be found the old-fashioned way.
The forest at night whispered of old things.
Leaves rustled like breath. Branches creaked like warnings. Lira moved silently, the hood of her cloak pulled low. She stepped around exposed roots and stayed off the beaten path. Her dagger was strapped to her thigh, her pulse low and steady.
By the time she reached the ruins, the moon was high and bright, casting silver light on broken stone columns and overgrown steps. She crouched in the shadows of a crumbling arch, watching.
Elira was not alone.
Three others stood with her—hooded figures in dark robes, their hands clasped in prayer-like stillness. One held a book bound in black leather. Another drew symbols on the floor with white chalk.
Lira’s breath caught.
It was a summoning ritual.
“Blood of kin,” Elira intoned, holding a ceremonial blade. “Blood for power. Let the pact be sealed.”
She sliced her palm and let crimson drip onto the altar stone. The air thickened with energy. The magic was ancient, foul. It curled against Lira’s skin like smoke.
The ritual ended with a sudden gust of wind. The symbols flared bright—and then vanished.
Elira staggered back, pale but smiling.
The hooded figures bowed before her.
Lira slipped away before she could be discovered, heart racing. Her sister had made a pact with something old—something not entirely human.
No wonder she had risen so quickly in their father’s favor. Her power was not her own. And now, it was unstable.
Leverage.
Lira grinned, sharp and cold.
Two weeks later, during the spring masquerade at House Vale, Lira watched Elira glide across the ballroom floor, radiant in red silk, a gold mask glittering over her eyes. Nobles whispered about her beauty. Her charm. Her supposed benevolence.
All lies.
Lira wore midnight blue. Simple, understated. But eyes turned to her now, too. Word of her unexpected intellect had begun to spread. Her quiet observations that solved disputes. The painting she had gifted to the Lady of House Fen. A trap hidden in kindness.
She sipped her wine slowly, her gaze never leaving her sister.
Then she saw it—Elira swaying slightly. Her complexion just a shade too pale. A bead of sweat at her temple despite the cool air.
The pact was costing her.
Lira moved through the crowd, smiling, nodding, laughing when appropriate. But her mind was already calculating. Tonight was not the night to strike, but it was coming.
The dance of masks had begun.
Later, as she peeled off her mask in the privacy of her chambers, Lira stared into her mirror.
She looked older than her years. Sharper. Her eyes were no longer soft—they gleamed with purpose.
She touched the amulet around her neck, the one inscribed with the sigil she had found in Lysara’s journal. A charm of protection. And control.
“Elira has made her pact,” she whispered. “Now I’ll make mine.”
Not with demons. Not with shadows.
But with vengeance itself.
- Writer
