Episode 10
1083 Words
ASHES OF INNOCENCE
The morning mist clung to the earth like a shroud, veiling the Vale estate in pale gloom. From her window, Lira watched the slow creep of dawn, her thoughts a tangled weave of questions and calculations. With the upcoming Harvest Ball only days away, her enemies would soon gather under one roof, cloaked in elegance, drenched in deceit.
It was the perfect opportunity.
But she wasn’t ready—not yet.
Lira turned from the window and faced the task she'd set for herself. The letter in her hands bore the sigil of the House of Whitemoor, one of the lesser noble families aligned with her father. They were known for their cruelty, cloaked in smiles and diplomacy. In her former life, House Whitemoor had helped frame her for crimes she didn’t commit, whispering poison into the ears of influential figures.
This time, Lira would speak first.
She inked her response with a steady hand, forging a message in her father’s diplomatic voice. Her hours spent studying his correspondence had paid off. The letter invited Lord Whitemoor to an early meeting prior to the Harvest Ball—under the pretense of trade negotiations. In truth, Lira intended to slip truth into his lies, to set a trap he wouldn’t see coming.
She sealed the letter with House Vale’s crest and gave it to Orin, her loyal servant, with instructions. “Make sure it is delivered discreetly, and ensure he believes it came directly from my father’s steward.”
Orin nodded. “As you command, my lady.”
When he left, Lira took a deep breath. Every move she made now carried consequences.
Later that afternoon, she trained again in the secret chamber beneath the east wing. Her mentor—an exiled mage named Sylas—watched her with a critical eye.
“Again,” he said, his voice a whip.
Lira gasped, sweat trailing down her temples, but she obeyed. Her fingers danced through the air, channeling the threads of latent magic that Sylas had coaxed to life over weeks of painful ritual and sacrifice. Her blood still bore the scars of the pact, but power was finally within her grasp.
The spell—one of perception and suggestion—could bend the mind of a weak-willed target. Not control, but influence.
She chanted, focusing on the energy surging through her limbs, and cast it toward the mirror.
The reflection shimmered.
Sylas nodded, satisfied. “You’re improving. But remember, subtlety is your ally. A single overstep and your entire act will unravel.”
“I know,” she said, breathless. “I’ll be ready.”
“Ready to kill?” he asked, eyes gleaming.
Lira looked down at her blistered palms. “Ready to become what they fear.”
The night before the ball, Lira slipped into the library. Her sister, Serina, sat curled on the divan, laughing softly with a suitor—Lord Thorne, a fox of a man with too many secrets and too much charm.
Lira’s skin crawled. In her first life, Thorne had betrayed Serina and claimed House Vale’s inheritance through twisted loopholes and bloodshed. He was no ally, only an opportunist.
Serina spotted her. “Lira! Come, sit with us.”
She offered a demure smile, taking the seat across from them. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“Not at all,” Thorne said smoothly. “We were just discussing the ball. Serina tells me you’ve been quite involved in the planning this year.”
“A small role,” Lira said. “I prefer the details.”
“Details often shape the grandest outcomes,” he mused.
Her smile widened—sharp and knowing. “Exactly.”
Their conversation danced on polite nothings, but under the surface, Lira tracked every glance, every hesitation. Serina, ever oblivious, flirted with Thorne, unaware of the knife he would one day drive into her back.
Lira intended to turn that knife first.
The Harvest Ball opened in a blaze of candlelight and music. Nobles poured into the grand hall in silks and jewels, wine flowed like water, and laughter rang with undertones of danger. Lira stood at the top of the staircase, a vision in midnight blue. The crowd’s hum quieted as she descended.
Gone was the invisible girl of years past.
She was no longer prey.
Whispers chased her steps, but she didn’t flinch. Let them talk. Let them wonder.
Lord Whitemoor arrived, pompous as ever, his wife glittering beside him like an ornamental dagger. Lira greeted them with all the grace of her breeding, hiding the poison in her smile.
“My lord,” she said. “I trust your journey was pleasant?”
“Uneventful, Lady Lira,” he replied, amused. “I was surprised by your father’s invitation.”
“As was he,” she said sweetly. “But trade must go on.”
He blinked, caught off-guard, but quickly recovered. She led him to the drawing room where the stage was already set. She offered wine—untainted—and spoke of taxes and shipping routes. Meanwhile, she let slip just enough to suggest House Vale’s growing weakness, baiting him with opportunity.
Whitemoor took the bait, boasting plans he’d only share with someone beneath notice.
“House Greystone,” he muttered, “they’ve been siphoning your border resources for months. Your father’s too proud to see it.”
Lira’s eyes gleamed. “That is… troubling.”
When the meeting ended, she slipped away and scribbled everything down.
More threads. More leverage.
The night wore on, and Lira danced with lords and smiled for ladies. All the while, her trap tightened. She cornered Thorne in the garden near midnight, where the lanterns swayed and the air smelled of roses.
“Enjoying yourself?” she asked.
He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve changed, Lira.”
“So have you,” she said. “But change is… good.”
“You’re dangerous now.”
“I was always dangerous,” she whispered. “You just never saw me clearly.”
He laughed, low and wary. “Careful, little shadow. You’re playing with fire.”
“I’m counting on it.”
When dawn touched the windows, Lira stood in the silent corridor, watching the guests depart. Her plan had worked.
House Greystone. House Whitemoor. Thorne. All had shown their hands.
And Serina?
Still ignorant. Still perfect.
But not for long.
In the ashes of innocence, Lira’s power grew.
And the fire was only beginning to burn.
- Writer
