The following weeks in the capital were a strange paradox of frantic social noise and Lethia's silence.
The Duke's orders had been absolute... Lethia was to remain in the capital until his arrival. Sebastian and Elowen had already departed for the Duchy, leaving the vast Lorvil manor to Lethia and her ever present shadow, Serena.
News of Lethia's private tea with the Empress Dowager had spread through the capital like a fever. Suddenly, the "disgraced" girl was the most sought after guest in the city. Invitations piled up on silver trays daily stiff, scented parchments from noblewomen eager to either curry favor or dissect the scandal for their own amusement.
Lethia didn't even bother to break the wax seals.
"Burn them," she said one afternoon, not lifting her eyes from the ledger on her lap.
"All of them, Lethia?" Serena asked, gesturing to the stack of cream-colored envelopes. "The Countess of Valois has invited you twice now."
"All of them," Lethia repeated, her voice flat. "They don't have the intellect to interest me."
The only invitations she honored were those from the Ivory Wing. She visited the Empress Dowager several more times, providing the elder woman with the sharp, unsentimental company she so clearly craved. Beyond those rare outings, Lethia retreated into a state of productive lethargy.
To an outsider, she looked lazy spending her days draped over a chaise longue or staring out at the capital's skyline. But in her hands were the heavy, ink stained documents of her county.
Inherited from her grandmother, the county was the only soil Lethia truly cared for. It was her true power base. Though it was her first long absence from its borders, she remained meticulously diligent. She reviewed crop yields, tax ledgers, and trade agreements with the cold precision of a master architect.
The following morning, the sun dared to shine too brightly through the velvet curtains, much to Lethia's annoyance. She was hunched over a stack of grain requisitions, her hair barely pinned back, looking more like a grim accountant than a noble lady.
Serena had reached her limit. For days, she had watched Lethia alternate between a state of catatonic slumber and a obsessive fixation on tax ledgers. The air in the study felt stagnant, smelling of old ink and suppressed spite.
"That's enough," Serena declared, snatching a quill out of Lethia's hand. "If I have to watch you calculate the price of winter wheat for one more hour, I'm going to lose my mind. We are leaving."
Lethia didn't move. She slowly lifted her head, her face settling into a look of profound, icy neutrality. She stared at Serena with a flat, unblinking gaze her lips pressed into a thin, straight line that screamed she had absolutely zero interest in the world outside her door. It was the face of a woman who found the very concept of 'fun' to be a personal insult.
"I'll take you somewhere very exciting," Serena promised, ignoring the terrifying aura of her mistress. "The capital's central market. No lords, no Sidereons, just... noise."
Lethia's response was a low, dangerous murmur. "I would rather drink the ink on this desk."
But Serena was the only person in the Empire who had developed an immunity to Lethia's glares. Despite the sharp protests and the heavy sighs that followed, Serena effectively dragged her away from the ledgers.
To blend into the swarming crowds of the capital's lower districts, they abandoned their silks and corsets. They dressed in the simple linen tunics, sturdy wool cloaks, and plain leather boots. Lethia pulled a deep hood over her head.
"If someone steps on my boots, Serena," Lethia whispered as they stepped out into the chaotic, spice scented air of the marketplace, "I am holding you personally responsible for the ensuing massacre."
Serena only grinned, linking her arm with Lethia's and pulling her deeper into the sea of shouting merchants and colorful stalls.
The market was a cacophony of sights and smells that assaulted Lethia's senses. The air was thick with the scent of roasted chestnuts, frying dough, and spiced meats.
Serena was in her element. She stopped at a vendor selling meat pies... small, hand held crusts filled with minced mutton and heavy gravy and another selling candied peel. She walked along, happily munching on a tart, her face glowing with a simple joy.
Every time Serena offered her a bite of a honey soaked fritter, Lethia simply pulled her hood lower, her expression one of deep, simmering judgment.
"You're missing out," Serena muffled through a mouthful of pastry. "This is the taste of the real world, Lethia."
"The 'real world' tastes like clogged arteries and poor hygiene," Lethia retorted, though she didn't turn back.
Eventually, they drifted toward the Market Square, where the crowd grew dense and the atmosphere shifted. In the center of the square, a group of traveling minstrels had gathered. They weren't the polished musicians of the court; these were raw, soulful performers with lutes and battered violins.
A hush had fallen over the commoners as a woman with a haunting, raspy voice began to sing a ballad.
Ifthe stars are meant to fade ,
If our paths are drawn only to drift away,
Then tell me, why did the heavens let us meet?
Why plant the seed, if the harvest is but defeat?
Every breath is a ghost, every memory a chain,
I am weary of sunlight, I am tired of the rain.
The crowd swayed slightly, moved by the singer's lament about a love that felt like a cruel joke played by fate a lover asking the heaven why it bothered to bring two souls together if the only destination was a painful parting.
Lethia stood perfectly still, her crossed arms hidden beneath her cloak.
"Do you think it's better, Lethia? To have never met someone at all, rather than to meet them and lose them?" Serena whispered, her own eyes a bit misty.
For a heartbeat, Lethia looked at her with a faint, weary expression.
"Yes," she said quietly.
"I would rather not meet anyone at all."
Serena stepped forward, her voice gaining strength despite the mist in her eyes.
"You don't get it, Lethia. Love is beautiful."
Lethia turned on her heel, her cloak snapping like a whip. "I've had enough of this."
Love.
She had seen what love truly was.
Her mother had loved her father and he had made her pay for it.
Love is a luxury for the illiterate. It is a transaction where one party gives everything and the other walks away with the profit.
Lethia hadn't taken two steps before the mood of the square shifted.
The male minstrel's voice broke through the crowd,
I'd walk through the fire just to know thy name,
I'd give up the sun for a glimpse of the flame.
If the price of meeting thee is a lifetime of tears,
Then I'd pay it in full for a day in the years.
I do not regret the start or the fall,
To have held thee a moment is to have held it all.
If the Fate rewrites to tear us apart,
I'd tread again that sorrowed path.
The boy's conviction was a poison. It forced a question into her mind that she had spent a decade suppressing.
Did Mother feel the same way?
She pictured her mother's pale, withered face in those final hours.
Had she looked back on the wreckage of her life and felt no regret? If the Fates had stood at her bedside and offered her a different path... would she have pushed it away? Would she have chosen the same miserable end just to have known that man?
The thought made Lethia's skin crawl she couldn't decide if her mother was a saint or a complete lunatic.
Her internal debate was abruptly shattered by a sound so loud and jagged it set her teeth on edge.
Behind her, a young woman was sobbing. It wasn't a dainty, noble sniffle; it was a full bodied, soul crushing wail of pure agony. Lethia turned, her face twisting into an expression of sheer, unadulterated judgment.
Why on earth is she sobbing so hard?
Lethia thought, her brow twitching in annoyance. It was just a song. It was just vibrations in the air. The level of theatrical despair coming from this woman was, in Lethia's eyes, an embarrassing display of emotional illiteracy.
She turned to Serena, hoping for a moment of shared sanity, only to find her in the exact same state. Serena was practically vibrating with grief, her face a mask of tears and snot, nodding along to the boy's words as if they were holy scripture.
Lethia rolled her eyes so hard it physically hurt. She was ready to drag Serena out of the square by her hair if necessary this "fun" had officially turned into a circus of the pathetic.
But as she stepped forward to leave, her sharp eyes caught a detail that stopped her cold.
The sobbing young lady wasn't a commoner. Her cloak was high quality wool, the embroidery at her collar was far too intricate for the slums. More importantly, she was entirely alone. No guards, no handmaids, no protection.
Lethia's eyes narrowed, her annoyance increasing.
Acting on Lethia's subtle, sharp nod, Serena had practically fluttered over to the distraught girl, offering her the safety of their company as the sky bruised into a deep, dangerous purple. Lethia didn't speak; she simply led the way, her silhouette cutting through the evening mist like a prow of a ship.
They reached the edge of the district where Ciro was waiting by the carriage.Once they were settled inside the cramped, velvet-lined interior, the flickering light of a passing street lamp finally allowed Lethia to look at the stranger properly.
The girl had disheveled ash blonde hair and watery blue eyes, but the most striking feature was the jagged, silver line of a scar that tore across her forehead, trailing all the way down to her left ear.
Lethia's expression went completely flat, her eyes narrowing into a look of dry, weary recognition.
Huh!!!
She thought, leaning back into the shadows. Is it really her?
There was no mistake. This was the second daughter of the Duke of Solmere. In the high circles of the capital, the girl was a legend for all the wrong reasons, cruelly dubbed the "Ugliest Noble Lady of the Empire" because of that very scar.
Serena, ever the chatterbox, was already hovering over the girl, handing her a handkerchief. "What on earth were you doing out there all alone, miss? It's far too dangerous for someone like you!"
The girl sniffled, her voice small and trembling. "I... I ran away. My sister and I, we had a terrible argument. I couldn't stay and I just started walking and the music... the song just caught me."
Lethia turned her gaze toward the window, watching the darkened shops of the capital blur past. She remained entirely uninterested in the girl's emotional outburst. To her, the Solmere family was another nest of vipers she had no intention of poking. Getting involved with the Duke's "problem child" was a political headache she didn't need.
The least she could do was drop the girl off at her residence and be done with it.
The hunting competition
Lethia realize, that explained the chaos. Next week, the capital would be swarming with every ambitious noble in the empire. It was the "mating season" of the aristocracy a perfect, shallow occasion to display skills, wealth, and find a marriage partner.
Lethia's fingers drummed rhythmically against the armrest.The girl was crying over a sister, but Lethia was already thinking about the hunt.
As the carriage slowed to a halt near the manor of Duke Solmere, the girl hurriedly wiped her face and muttered a quick, breathless "Thank you" before slipping out into the shadows of the side wall. She disappeared into the gloom toward a servant's entrance, her ash blonde hair the last thing visible before she vanished.
The door clicked shut, and the silence lasted exactly three seconds.
"Lethia! Did you see?! Did you actually see her?!" Serena practically shrieked, her hands flying to her cheeks in a state of total, wide-eyed shock. "The scar! It's her! It has to be her!"
Lethia didn't move. She remained leaning against the velvet cushions, her eyes fixed on the spot where the girl had stood.
"That was Rysa Tacitus!" Serena continued, her voice rising an octave with every word. "The second daughter of Duke Atlas Tacitus! I can't believe it..."
Lethia let out a long, slow breath, her expression remaining entirely unimpressed. She was well aware of the girl's identity. In the capital, Rysa's scar was more famous than her face, a permanent mark that had turned a Duke's daughter into a social pariah.
"Forget the girl," Lethia commanded. "The hunting competition starts in a few days. That's must be the reason why they are staying in the capital."
The carriage jolted as it turned onto the main road leading toward the Lorvil Manor, the steady rhythm of the horses' hooves replacing the chaotic noise of the market.
Serena leaned forward, her eyes still sparkling with the residual excitement of the day. "Lethia, are we also going to the hunting competition next week?"
Lethia leaned her head against the cool glass of the window, a small, knowing smirk playing on her lips.
"Why not, we will go and look for a marriage partner for our Serena."
Serena's blush deepened until her ears were red. "Lethia! Stop it!"
She swatted at Lethia's arm, but then she paused, a dreamy look crossing her face as she remembered the square. "But... if I'm being honest... that man who was singing? I liked him much better than any stuffy nobleman."
Lethia leaned back, her shoulders shaking with a fresh wave of amusement. "Yes, perfect!" she exclaimed.
"A match made in the stars. He will stand in the center singing that tragic, booming opera, and you can sit right beside him, sobbing your heart out. A full, dramatic opera every single night!"
The two of them burst into a fit of laughter, the sound filling the carriage and echoing against the wooden walls.