Samara eased the door shut behind her, careful not to let it creak.
The house was quiet—too quiet. The kind of silence that pressed against her ears and made her acutely aware of every breath she took, every shift of fabric against her skin. She stood there for a moment, fingers still wrapped around the doorframe, listening.
Nothing.
No footsteps. No movement. Not even the soft rustle of Elise's habitual pacing.
Slowly, Samara let out the breath she had been holding.
Her aunt was still hibernating.
Relief washed over her in a warm, dizzying wave, loosening the tight knot that had been coiled in her chest since the moment she stepped back onto the property. For a heartbeat, she allowed herself to lean against the door, eyes fluttering shut as the tension seeped from her shoulders.
That had been too close.
If Elise had been awake when she returned—if she had sensed even a fraction of what Samara had been doing—the consequences would have been far worse than a lecture. Samara pushed herself upright and moved quickly down the narrow corridor, bare feet silent against the worn wooden floor.
She slipped into her room and closed the door behind her, twisting the latch with practiced care.
Only then did she finally relax.
Her room was small and sparsely furnished, but it was hers. A narrow bed pressed against the wall, a single window overlooking the fields, and a wooden chest at the foot of the mattress that held everything she owned. The familiar scent of dried herbs, smoke, and old wood wrapped around her like a thin blanket of comfort.
Samara crossed the room in long strides and knelt by the chest, lifting the lid quietly. She pulled out a set of clean but worn clothes—soft from years of use, patched in places where fabric had thinned. They weren't pretty, but they were practical. They always were.
She changed quickly, movements efficient and practiced, as though she were perpetually prepared to leave at a moment's notice.
Because she was.
When she sat on the edge of her bed to tie her laces, her fingers slowed.
Something was wrong.
The air shifted.
It was subtle—so subtle that anyone else might have dismissed it as imagination. But Samara had grown up learning to listen to the quiet warnings her body gave her. Her shoulders stiffened, spine straightening instinctively.
She felt her presence.
"I thought I told you to attend etiquette classes."
The voice cut through the stillness with terrifying clarity.
Samara's heart skipped violently, slamming against her ribs. For a fraction of a second, she froze—caught between instinct and fear. Then she forced herself to move, sitting upright and turning slowly toward the doorway.
Elise stood there, leaning casually against the frame.
Her posture was relaxed, almost lazy, but Samara knew better. Elise's silver hair was braided neatly over one shoulder, her dark robe falling in smooth, unwrinkled lines around her thin frame. Her arms were crossed loosely, but her sharp eyes missed nothing.
Those eyes had seen far too much.
"I was on my way," Samara replied.
Her voice was steady, even calm, but the lie tasted bitter on her tongue.
She knew Elise could see straight through it.
Elise studied her for a long moment, gaze moving from Samara's face to her hands, her boots, the half-packed chest. Then her nose wrinkled slightly.
"Why do you smell strange?" she asked. "Where exactly were you?"
Samara opened her mouth, searching for an answer that would satisfy without revealing anything—but Elise was already moving.
In two swift steps, she crossed the room and caught Samara's wrist before she could react. Her grip wasn't painful, but it was firm, unyielding. Commanding.
Samara swallowed.
Elise's fingers brushed over her skin, pausing where the faint imprint of the ring still lingered. Her brows knitted together, eyes narrowing as though she were reading something invisible.
The silence stretched.
Then Elise sighed—a soft, weary sound that unsettled Samara more than anger ever could.
She released Samara's hand.
"I have told you many times," Elise said quietly, "do not involve yourself with supernatural beings. Do not meddle in matters that do not concern you."
She turned away, beginning to pace the small room. Her steps were measured, but there was tension in them, a restless energy that betrayed her composure.
"Of course," she continued, voice edged with restrained frustration, "you never listen. You never have."
Samara clenched her fists in her lap, nails biting into her palms. She kept her gaze forward, jaw tight.
"And now," Elise went on, "you've gone and proven exactly why I worried."
She stopped abruptly and turned back to Samara, her expression sharp.
"Do you have any idea what you've done?"
"I handled it," Samara said, lifting her chin.
The words were automatic, defensive.
Elise let out a short, humorless laugh. "That's what worries me."
She resumed pacing, muttering softly under her breath—words Samara couldn't quite catch, but the tone alone made her stomach knot. The air in the room felt heavier by the second.
Samara braced herself.
Punishment was coming. She had always known it would, eventually.
Then Elise stopped.
Slowly, deliberately, she straightened and turned to face Samara, her expression shifting. The irritation faded, replaced by something colder. Calculating. Thoughtful.
"Well," Elise said at last, "my little birds have been busy."
Samara frowned. "Your… birds?"
Elise's lips curved into a thin, knowing smile. "Palace maids are being recruited."
Samara's head snapped up. "No."
The word came out sharp, immediate.
Elise's smile widened.
"Oh, yes."
Samara shook her head, standing abruptly. "You can't be serious."
"I'm very serious," Elise replied coolly. "You've drawn attention to yourself, Samara. Dangerous attention."
She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Sending you to Mora will keep you occupied. And watched."
"I'm not palace material," Samara said flatly. "You know that."
"Which is precisely why you'll be perfect," Elise countered. "You'll blend in. Listen. Observe."
Samara stared at her. "You're sending me away as punishment."
Elise's eyes softened—just slightly. So slightly Samara might have imagined it.
"I'm sending you away to protect you."
The words settled between them, heavy and complicated.
Mora.
The capital.
The palace.
Samara felt a strange mixture of dread and anticipation coil in her chest.
"I hope you repent while there," Elise added quietly. "Pack your things and leave now."
"Now?" Samara echoed.
"Yes," Elise said firmly. "Before whatever you stirred decides to come looking."
Samara hesitated only a moment before nodding.
She moved quickly, stuffing essentials into her bag—clothes, herbs, charms, the few weapons Elise didn't know about. As she worked, her thoughts churned relentlessly.
The forest.
The shadow.
He will come for you.
When she finished, she slung the bag over her shoulder and turned to face Elise.
"You're not telling me everything," Samara said.
Elise met her gaze steadily. "Neither are you."
For a heartbeat, neither spoke.
Then Elise reached out and adjusted the strap on Samara's shoulder, her touch brief but deliberate.
"Be careful in Mora," she said softly. "The palace is dangerous. I can guarantee you that."
Samara nodded, though something in her stirred—not fear, but a quiet sense of inevitability.
Elise studied her for a moment longer, then reached into her pocket and withdrew a bracelet.
It looked unremarkable. Plain. Cheap, even.
"Keep it close at all times," Elise said, her voice suddenly serious.
Samara took it and slipped it onto her wrist.
The effect was immediate.
The faint imprint of the ring vanished as though it had never existed.
Samara stared at her hand, astonished. "What is this?"
"Something you should wear at all times," Elise replied, a restrained smile touching her lips.
Samara looked up—but Elise had already turned away.
She left without looking back.