Elara shuffled forward, her feet dragging on the polished stone floor. The fever still hummed under her skin, making the air feel thick and too bright. A man in a plain tunic walked in front of her, his back broad and uncaring. He did not look at her, only pointed with his chin. "Here. Wait." He led her past a set of towering wooden doors, carved with strange beasts and curling vines. They stood open just a crack, letting out a low murmur of voices and a brighter, warmer light. Elara kept her gaze on the man’s tunic, tracing the rough weave, until a flash of movement caught her eye. Through the narrow gap, she saw it. Not the grand room, not the tall windows, but a small tableau caught in the golden light. Margaret's hands, sharp and quick, were at Lydia’s throat. Her aunt’s fingers, pale and bony, adjusted something precious. Something silver. The necklace. It hung heavy against Lydia’s blue silk dress, the grey stone dull against the fabric, just as it had been dull against Elara's own skin. But it was *her* necklace. Her mother’s. The one she had wrapped around her wrist, the one that smelled of summer rain. The one Margaret had called the key. Lydia squirmed under her mother’s touch, a pout on her face, but she wore it. Elara felt her breath catch, a sharp, cold jab in her chest. The air left her lungs in a silent whoosh. It was not just gone. It was *there*. On Lydia. Margaret tugged at the silver chain, making the stone settle perfectly in the hollow of Lydia’s throat. Her aunt smiled then, a small, tight curve of her lips that Elara knew meant danger. Lydia glanced up, her eyes wide, and Elara jerked back, pulling her head away from the crack in the doors. The man in the tunic stopped. He turned, a frown on his face. "Did I say stop?" Elara shook her head, fast and small. She kept her eyes on his boots, the polished leather. She could still feel the cold spot where her breath had stopped, the echoing image of the necklace. Her mother’s necklace, on Lydia. Her stomach twisted, a pain sharper than the one in her hand. She did not know what to do when something was stolen. Not really. She only knew what happened when she tried to get it back. The man gestured, and Elara stumbled forward, her gaze fixed on the floor ahead. The closed doors. The stolen thing. --- The man in the tunic led Elara down a long, white corridor. The stone was smooth and cold beneath her worn shoes. Her bandaged hand throbbed, a dull ache that seemed to match the thrum of her fever. She kept her head down, watching the patterns in the marble. A rush of air, quick and cold, swept past her. The man in front of her stiffened, pulling back against the wall. Elara looked up, her eyes wide. A dark blur, a tall shape, was moving towards them, fast. Lucian moved through the Temple halls, his boots silent on the polished stone. His thoughts raced ahead, circling the upcoming Rite. The elaborate deception. The child he had brought, now tucked away, too small, too quiet, too damaged for this place. Elias had taken her, wrapped her hand, a flicker of true compassion in this den of artifice. But the main task remained. The fraud. The gem. The pact. He passed a guard, a small girl trailing behind. A flash of a bandage, a wisp of dark hair. He felt a faint tremor, a whisper against his senses, like a memory half-formed. A faint echo of that unyielding barrier in the woods. His stride faltered, a single beat. He almost stopped. He dismissed it. The Temple was filled with ancient wards, currents of old power. His senses were taxed, seeking the truth, sifting through the layers of deceit he knew awaited him. It was a child, probably one of the Temple servants. Unimportant. His focus narrowed, drawing him towards the chambers where the other Lords would be waiting. He did not look back. He continued, his pace regaining its urgency, the faint tremor already forgotten. Elara watched the dark coat disappear around a bend. He had moved like the shadow under the trees, fast and quiet. Her breath hitched. The air still felt cool where he had passed. The man in the tunic, still pressed against the wall, let out a slow sigh. He pushed away from the stone, looking at Elara with a sharp, impatient glance. "Come on. Don't dawdle." Elara nodded, a tiny jerk of her head. She followed, but her eyes kept straying to the empty corridor where the dark coat had been. He hadn't seen her. No one ever did, not really. But a part of her, small and fragile, had hoped for something. Anything. It had not come. --- The antechamber was small, round, and smelled of old stone and something sweet, like faint flowers. A single chair, high-backed and too big, sat in the middle. The man in the tunic pointed to it. "Wait here. Don't move." He turned and left, the heavy door clicking shut behind him. Elara walked to the chair. She did not sit. She stood beside it, her fingers tracing the smooth wood of the armrest. Her hand throbbed, a dull pulse that kept time with her heart. She could still see the necklace, heavy on Lydia’s throat. It was stolen. When her cousin, Jessa, took her food, Elara learned to be quiet. If she cried, she got less. If she screamed, she got nothing. When Aunt Margaret took her thin blanket, Elara learned to shiver. If she asked, she got a slap. When Uncle Richard took her mother’s ribbon, the one with the faded flowers, Elara had tried to get it back. He had hit her with his open hand, hard, and told her it was his now. He had laughed. She knew what happened. But this was different. This was mother’s. The gem. The key. The thing Margaret said would get a crown and kings’ love. It was not just a thing. It was part of her mother. She thought about the other children in the village. If a boy stole a toy, his mother made him give it back. Sometimes, his father would hit him. If a girl took a flower from someone’s garden, she had to return it. Or she got in trouble. There were rules. But no one had ever helped Elara. The rules never worked for her. She touched her bandaged hand again, pressing lightly. The dull pain was a reminder. She had lit up the woods, made the beast go away. She had felt hollow after. Like something had burned out inside her. It had been her mother’s power, Eleanora had said. Power. Her mother's. Lydia was wearing it. Lydia, who had stolen her food, and pushed her down the stairs, and laughed when her uncle hit her. Lydia, who was not her mother's daughter. Elara looked at the door. She looked at the window, too high to see out of. She thought about the dark coat, who had not stopped. She was alone here. No one would give it back. No one would help. So she had to. This time, she would not be quiet. This time, she would not shiver. This time, she would not let them laugh. --- In a gilded chamber just off the main hall, Margaret smoothed the front of Lydia’s blue dress. Lydia shifted, her shoulders hunched. The necklace, dull and grey, rested against her throat. "Stand still," Margaret said, her voice a low murmur. "Straighten your back. Remember what I told you. You are Selene, daughter of the five gods. You are strong. You are proud. You will not cry." Lydia’s lower lip trembled. "But Mother, what if… what if they know? What if it doesn’t work?" Margaret’s hand went to her sleeve, her fingers brushing against the small, cool vial hidden there. A drop of Elara’s blood. The key, she knew, to convincing the gem. To convincing the Lords. The wards around that child were clever, but not impenetrable. Not to her. "It will work," Margaret said, her gaze sharp. "It must. We have waited eight years for this. We have sacrificed too much." She thought of the meagre funds, the endless feigned deference, the careful cultivation of connections. Richard's cowardice was an inconvenience, but a manageable one. The child’s inconvenient existence was also manageable. "The gem," Lydia whispered, touching the stone. "It doesn’t feel warm, Mother." "It will warm," Margaret assured her, a cold certainty in her tone. "When you stand before them, when the blood is offered, it will sing. It will sing for you. You are the daughter of Selene. You remember the story?" Lydia recited, her voice thin. "Selene, goddess of souls, loved by the five. Her heart was split among them, sealed in the gem, given to her daughter. Her daughter, who will unite the realms." "Good," Margaret said, a rare nod of approval. "And when they ask you about your mother? What do you say?" "She was kind. She sang to me. She taught me to look at the stars." Lydia swallowed hard. "But I don’t remember, Mother. Not really." "You remember what I have told you," Margaret said, her voice hardening. "That is enough. They want a legend. You will give them one. This is our future, Lydia. A crown, and five kings’ love." She adjusted the necklace one last time, pressing it firmly against Lydia’s skin. "Do not fail me. Do not fail us." The vial in her sleeve felt cold, solid. It was the insurance. It was the guarantee. --- The antechamber remained quiet. The sweet smell of faint flowers still hung in the air, mixed now with the fainter scent of something metallic, like old coins. The high-backed chair stood exactly where it had been placed. The silence stretched, long and thin. A faint click sounded from the door. It opened slowly, revealing the man in the tunic. He stepped inside, his brow furrowed, his gaze sweeping the small room. He looked at the chair. He looked to the corner by the window. He looked under the chair, a quick, dismissive glance. His eyes returned to the high-backed chair in the middle of the room. It stood empty. The smooth wood of its armrest, which a small finger had traced, was bare. The space where Elara had stood, deciding, was hollow. The air did not stir. The man’s mouth tightened. He took another step into the room, then stopped. He turned towards the door, his hand reaching for the heavy wood. The small chair sat empty. She was gone.

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