Playing along

Marcella woke with a start, her head snapping up on the hard surface of her mahogany desk. For a disorienting moment, she wasn't sure where she was — her vision blurred, her mind fogged with the remnants of uneasy dreams. The faint scent of ink clung to her fingertips, and the sharp imprint of parchment pressed against her cheek.

"Lady Marcella," a stern voice chided from across the room, "this is hardly the posture of a proper Duchess."

Her gaze flicked toward Master Aldric Rowan, who stood by the window, arms crossed, and his expression caught somewhere between disapproval and amusement. Morning light poured in behind him, haloing his silver-streaked hair in gold.

Marcella exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down her face to shake off her lingering exhaustion. "Apologies," she muttered, sitting up straighter. "I didn't sleep well."

"That much is obvious." Master Rowan's sharp blue eyes settled on her with clinical precision. "Though I doubt it's your studies that kept you awake."

Marcella bit back a dry laugh. If only you knew.

It wasn't her studies that had tormented her last night — it was the painting. That twisted, unsettling artwork had clung to her mind like a stain she couldn't scrub clean.

And what made it worse was… the flicker of recognition in Berith's eyes.

He knew something — she was certain of it. But what?

"Lady Marcella?" Master Rowan's voice cut through her spiraling thoughts. "Shall we begin?"

She forced her mind back to the present, straightening her shoulders and clasping her hands neatly in her lap. "Yes, Let's begin."

Master Rowan moved to the large map of Cardania that hung on the wall, gesturing at it with a long, bony finger.

"As I was saying," he began, "understanding the power structure of the empire Cardania is essential for a future Duchess. The balance of influence between the crown, the nobility, and the church is—"

"The crown holds its power through intimidation, not divinity," Marcella interrupted, "The Cassavines' so-called 'divine blessing' was a fabrication by King Adrial to win loyalty during his conquest. Convenient propaganda to mask centuries of ruthless expansion."

Master Rowan's hand paused mid-air, his gaze flickering toward her in surprise. "A bold interpretation," he remarked. "But official records—"

"—are written by the victors," Marcella finished. "And they rarely tell the whole truth."

The corner of Master Rowan's mouth twitched upward. "You seem unusually well-versed in matters the court prefers to forget," he observed.

"I read," she replied simply. And I lived it, she whispered.

Returning to his desk, Master Rowan folded his hands atop an open ledger. "Now," he said, "we move to the matter of alliances. The lifeblood of noble families."

Marcella leaned back in her chair, suppressing a sigh. She knew this game too well — and she'd played it better than most.

"A Duchess must understand how to forge and maintain alliances," Rowan continued. "Trust, shared interests, and mutual benefit—"

"Trust is a myth," Marcella interrupted again. "The strongest alliances are built on leverage."

Rowan's brow lifted. "Leverage?"

Marcella cocked her head, a slow curl bruising her lips. "Why waste time building 'trust' when you can ensure obedience?"

His expression faltered. "And how, my lady, would you go about ensuring such… obedience?"

Marcella rested her chin on her hand. "Let's say," she began, "I know that a rival's estate is failing. Rather than negotiate a trade deal, I'd quietly purchase the surrounding land — their supply routes, their trusted suppliers — and cut them off. Then I'd wait."

She paused, savoring Rowan's growing unease. "Sooner or later, they'd come to me, desperate for aid. And when they do... I'd demand far more than a simple trade agreement."

A dry chuckle escaped his lips. "That is… ruthless."

"It's efficient," Marcella countered. "And far more reliable than relying on empty smiles and hollow promises."

Master Rowan cleared his throat, evidently eager to regain control of the lesson. "And what of factions?" he asked. "How would you handle a court divided by ambition?"

"You don't handle them," Marcella pulled a smirk. "You control them."

 "Control?"

"You make yourself indispensable," Marcella explained. "Give them a reason to need you, a reason to fear you, and a reason to depend on you. And if they betray you?" Her gaze sharpened. "You make an example of them so severe that no one dares to follow their lead."

The silence that followed was heavy. Rowan stared at her for a long moment, his fingers steepled beneath his chin.

"Now," Master Rowan said carefully, "let's discuss the current political climate. King Thomas Cassavine's reign is stable," Rowan went on, "but there are whispers — rumors of unrest in the northern territories. Certain nobles have grown... ambitious."

He paused and then spoke the name that had haunted her since the art exhibition.

"Duke Berith of The Crimson Bastion."

Marcella's hand twitched in her lap, her fingers curling slightly against the fabric of her gown.

"Berith's influence is growing," Rowan continued. "His wealth, his military strength — even his alliances. The court is beginning to wonder what his true ambitions are."

"And what," she cooed, nonchalantly with her tone, "is your assessment?"

Rowan's gaze narrowed. "I believe Duke Berith is a man who values power above loyalty," he said. "And men like that…" His eyes hardened. "…are the most dangerous of all."

Her thoughts drifted back to the painting, Berith's profile flickering in her mind.

What are you scheming?

"Tell me, Lady Marcella," Rowan demanded for an answer, "if you were to face Duke Berith in court… how would you handle him?"

"Carefully," she replied. "I'd watch him closely — never letting him think he had the upper hand. I'd match him word for word, move for move, until he didn't know whether he was winning or losing."