The invitation came on the fourth morning after Gorgina's departure for the border.
It was a single sheet of thick cream paper, sealed with crimson wax stamped by Lady Elowen's personal rose crest. The handwriting was elegant, precise, and cold as the marble floors of the villa.
The Rose Salon. Eleven o'clock. Wear the emerald silk I chose for you. Do not be late, and do not embarrass the Wadee name before people who matter.
— Lady Elowen
Gerffron read it three times, standing barefoot in the shaft of morning light that sliced across his solar. The two pebbles from Styrmir rested in the hidden pocket of his robe, pressing gently against his thigh like tiny anchors. He had not dared visit the hidden gate since the night he discovered the cell empty. Selfi's footsteps outside his door had become too regular, too watchful. The silence from the dungeon felt louder than any scream.
He touched the blood-red rose pinned to his lapel — the fresh one Gorgina had left on his nightstand before leaving. Its thorns were sharp enough to draw blood if he pressed too hard. Good. He needed the reminder.
Selfi entered without knocking, carrying the emerald silk already pressed and ready. Her face was the same polite mask it had worn for days now. No extra warnings. No quiet glances. Just duty.
"Your Grace," she said, laying the robe across the chair. "Lady Elowen has sent the carriage. It will be here in one hour. She requests you sit beside her during the ride."
Gerffron nodded once. "Thank you, Selfi."
She bowed and left. The door clicked shut with the soft finality of a lock.
He dressed slowly, deliberately. The silk slid over his skin like cool water. The chiffon shoulders flowed when he moved, catching the light in soft waves. In the mirror he looked every inch the perfect consort — pale, delicate, expensive. Only the emerald eyes staring back at him knew how much of a lie that was.
The carriage ride was silent except for the creak of wheels and the occasional snap of Lady Elowen's fan. She wore deep burgundy today, rubies at her throat, hair pinned with silver combs that matched her daughter's. She did not look at him for the first twenty minutes. When she finally spoke, her voice was low and cutting.
"These are not your friends, Gerffron. They are vultures who will smile while they pick apart everything you say. Speak only when spoken to. Smile when required. And for Arbestas' sake, do not mention your… family."
He kept his gaze on the passing rose fields. "I understand, my lady."
"You understand nothing yet," she murmured. "But you will learn."
Remal Manor appeared after nearly an hour — smaller than the Wadee villa but elegant in a softer way, with ivy climbing pale stone walls and sapphire roses spilling over low hedges. The air smelled sweeter here, less like power and more like careful cultivation.
Lady Elowen led him inside without another word.
The Rose Salon was exactly as its name suggested: a bright, airy room filled with sunlight and the scent of fresh roses. Round tables draped in ivory linen. Silver teapots gleaming. Small groups of guests already seated, jewels flashing, fans fluttering like butterfly wings. Fifteen, maybe sixteen people. House-husbands and housewives in their finest silks, laughing softly, eyes sharp.
Every head turned when they entered.
Lady Elowen's hand rested lightly on his lower back — guiding, claiming. "My daughter's new consort," she announced, voice carrying across the room. "Gerffron Wadee, formerly of the Cliff family. Do be kind to him. He is still… adjusting."
Polite murmurs rippled through the salon. Gerffron felt the weight of every gaze measuring him — the pale skin, the mousy hair, the emerald eyes that didn't quite belong to this world. He bowed the perfect thirty-degree consort bow and let Lady Elowen steer him to a table near the center.
The first person introduced was Count Remal.
The man rose from his seat with genuine warmth, sky-blue tunic sparkling with sapphires, round face creased in a smile that actually reached his eyes. He looked about forty-five, comfortable in his own skin the way only someone who had survived many seasons of these parties could.
"Consort Gerffron," he said, offering a slight bow of his own. "Welcome. I've heard you're quite the quick study with etiquette. If you ever need a quiet word about which fork to use when the conversation turns sharp, I'm your man."
Gerffron managed a small, careful smile. "I may need that advice sooner than you think, Count. My… previous household was less concerned with forks."
Count Remal chuckled softly — a warm, rolling sound. "Then you're in the right place. These gatherings are excellent for learning the language no one teaches in finishing school."
Lady Elowen's fan snapped open beside him. "How charming. Sit, Gerffron. The tea is getting cold."
He sat.
The next introduction came almost ten minutes later, after the first pour of bergamot tea and a plate of delicate rose-shaped pastries had been passed around. Lady Rozana and Lord Jazaan were seated two tables away but leaned over during a lull in conversation.
Lady Rozana was tall and willowy, silver threading through her auburn hair, her gown a soft lavender that complemented her calm demeanor. Lord Jazaan was shorter, round-cheeked, wearing deep plum with gold cufflinks shaped like tiny crowns. They both offered polite nods.
"First tea party?" Lady Rozana asked gently, voice low enough that Lady Elowen — busy speaking with someone else — could not hear.
Gerffron nodded once. "Yes, my lady."
Lord Jazaan smiled, small and understanding. "The trick is to breathe between the compliments. They bite less when you don't hold your breath."
It was a tiny thing. A single sentence. But something in the way they looked at him — not with pity, exactly, but with the quiet recognition of shared cages — settled in Gerffron's chest like a single drop of warm water in a very cold well.
He did not push. He simply said, "I'll remember that."
They did not speak again for the rest of the hour. Just occasional glances. Small, careful smiles when Lady Elowen wasn't looking.
The third introduction happened near the end of the second course.
A young woman in severe black silk sat across from him — Lord Rasfi, Lady Elowen had called her earlier in a tone dripping with amusement. She was perhaps twenty, dark hair pinned tightly, eyes sharp as broken glass. She had been silent most of the tea, fingers tight around her teacup as though it had personally offended her.
When Lady Elowen stepped away to speak with the hostess, Lord Rasfi looked straight at Gerffron for the first time.
"You're the new one," she said quietly. Not a question. "The one they bought to keep the duke's line stable."
Gerffron met her gaze steadily. "That's one way to put it."
Her lips twitched — not quite a smile, but close. "My brother sends his regrets. He's too busy hunting and drinking to attend tea parties. So here I am, playing the dutiful daughter while he loses the family fortune at cards." She took a slow sip of tea. "Some of us weren't born to wear silk and smile. We wear it anyway."
The words hung between them — quiet, bitter, honest. Gerffron felt the faintest spark of recognition. Someone else who hated the role they'd been given.
He did not reply with anything clever. He simply said, "It's tiring, isn't it?"
Lord Rasfi's eyes flickered with surprise. Then she gave the smallest nod before looking away as Lady Elowen returned.
No more words passed between them.
Baron Acquikth arrived late, near the end of the tea.
He was older, perhaps fifty, dressed in a plain but carefully mended gray tunic. Silver at his temples, face lined with quiet exhaustion. When he bowed to Lady Elowen, the movement was stiff, as though his back pained him.
"Forgive my tardiness," he murmured. "The roads from the southern border were longer than expected."
Lady Elowen's smile was thin. "Baron Acquikth. How kind of you to join us despite your… circumstances. Perhaps the new consort can keep you company."
The baron took the seat beside Gerffron. Up close, Gerffron noticed the careful patches on his sleeves, the single modest ring on his finger. A man who had known better days.
They exchanged only a few words.
"The roses here are lovely," the baron said softly, eyes on his teacup.
"They are," Gerffron replied. "But I've learned some have sharper thorns than others."
The baron's gaze lifted for half a second. Something passed between them — not an offer, not yet. Just the quiet understanding of two men who had both survived things they could not speak of in polite company.
Nothing more.
The tea party lasted exactly two hours and twelve minutes. Gerffron counted every one.
He smiled when required. Bowed when spoken to. Complimented the pastries. Laughed softly at Count Remal's gentle joke about overbearing mothers-in-law. He did not offer to help with seating charts. He did not slip anyone notes. He did not ask for keys or alliances.
He simply observed.
And he was observed in return.
On the carriage ride home, Lady Elowen was silent for a long time. Then, just as the Wadee villa came into view, she spoke without looking at him.
"You were… adequate today. For a Cliff. Do not let it go to your head."
Gerffron stared out the window at the endless rows of roses.
"I won't, my lady."
Inside his solar that evening he sat at the desk and turned the two pebbles from Styrmir over and over in his palm. The emerald silk robe lay draped across the chair, blood-red rose still pinned to the lapel.
He had met six people today.
Count Remal — warm, experienced, possibly kind.
Lady Rozana and Lord Jazaan — survivors who understood cages.
Lord Rasfi — angry, trapped, honest.
Baron Acquikth — quiet, tired, watchful.
Lady Ashbeth — cool, distant, calculating.
And Lady Elowen, of course, watching everything like a hawk.
None of them were friends yet.
None of them had offered help.
But seeds had been planted — tiny, careful, barely visible.
And in a story that would stretch two hundred chapters long, tiny seeds were sometimes the most dangerous things of all.
Gerffron closed his fingers around the pebbles and smiled at the dark.
The first cup had been tasted.
The rest would come slowly.
One careful sip at a time.