Chapter 8: Anything to Win

A Week Earlier.

The carriage glided smoothly around the final bend, its black frame cutting through the mist like a shadow. With practiced elegance, it slipped through the grand gates of the Raelan Household—Dahlia's residence.

At the reins, the coachman slowed the horses, obeying the soft yet commanding knock from within. The passenger was neither expected nor welcomed, but no one questioned the banner fluttering atop the roof.

It bore the same sigil carved into the carriage's polished wooden panels—a crest so finely detailed that it could only have been etched by the hands of a master artisan. The lines danced like a woven tapestry, each cut delicate and purposeful, as if commissioned by royalty. The carving alone could feed a family for a year, and the symmetry of the wooden wheels—flawless, unwobbling, silently turning—spoke volumes of nobility.

A faint cough cracked the still air.

Lips, pale and dusted in arsenic-laced powder, peeked through a slight part in the velvet curtains at the back window. The skin beneath the layers of makeup was nearly translucent. Beneath the ghostly cosmetics, the woman's complexion was graying, her cheeks hollowed. Her eyes—wide, glossy, and bulging as if unnaturally pushed from their sockets—studied the estate.

Wisps of brittle hair clung to her damp temples. Her hand, veined and trembling, curled around the frame, her breath fogging the glass.

"What a beautiful young lady," she murmured to herself, voice soft and broken.

She blinked slowly, painfully, her eyes heavy from a fatigue that never left. The silk curtain slipped from her fingers, brushing her skin like a cruel memory—soft, smooth, and youthful.

She used to look like that. How many years had it been? Three? Four? More? In her youth, nobles compared her beauty to the finest the Central had to offer. Some whispered she could even surpass the radiance of the Wisteria women. She had once believed it.

Was it karma? Just as it struck Lady Naina, did it now reach for her?

Naina had fallen ill at the cusp of her debut, only seventeen, struck down by a mysterious skin disease. Her flesh burned from the inside, melting away under invisible heat. No bath could cleanse her, no oil could mask the stench. Her skin flinched even at the softest water—too hot or too cold, it didn't matter. She had become cursed, bedridden, shunned. And all because the Lord of Wisteria had broken an ancient taboo.

He had taken a liking to his father's adopted daughter, neglecting his first wife and marrying the sister instead—a union no one dared to oppose, but everyone whispered about. A curse, they said, passed from womb to womb.

Was this Mary's punishment too?

"Will a man come for me, like her husband came for her? Will I be saved?"

"Mary?" Dahlia's voice cut through the thick silence. She tapped the table softly, commanding her attention.

Mary blinked again.

"Yes?"

She placed the warm chamomile tea on the table—a familiar brew she once adored in Central, during her visits to Wisteria. After her fall from grace, the taste had grown bitter.

"How are you these days? Is it worsening? Did you find who did this to you?"

Mary twirled her finger on the rim of her glass. She didn't like this woman, not truly. But she was all Mary had now.

"I don't know what to say, Dahlia," she sighed. "It's getting worse. When it's hot, I feel like I'm burning."

"The heat, the politics—this city is a curse. Sometimes I wish I had been born like you, far from the mess of Central."

Dahlia poured herself a smoke-infused draught—the same kind she used in her baths. Though her noble rank was beneath Mary's, Dahlia's wealth, freedom, and influence eclipsed her entirely.

"I was asking about your condition, not your emotions," Dahlia replied coolly.

"Do you think I liked being born like this, Mary? Forced to wed a man twice my father's age? Thank the heavens he's dead now, and I could finally marry for love."

Mary offered a strained smile, but Dahlia only chuckled, puffing smoke away from her guest.

They walked from the pavilion toward the main house, passing through silken curtains that framed every doorway like veils of gold. The Raelan Household was opulence built in layers—not white marble like Central's cold stone, but pastel walls and golden arches, warm and full of life. The air smelled of lavender and amber, every step muffled by carpeted floors embroidered with swirling patterns. It reminded Mary of temples built for forgotten gods.

Villagers passed by, each wearing the vibrant greens of Raelan natives. Their skin glowed with health, their eyes mirrored emeralds. No one looked twice at her. No one whispered of her bulging eyes, of the waxen face hidden behind scented powder. They carried on with their business.

Here, people lived. Not just survived.

A girl emerged from the inner courtyard, Dahlia's youngest. Paint streaked her face and arms, and she wore a boy's tunic. She beamed upon seeing her mother.

"Mother!"

"Lady Mary," she added quickly, bowing, before disappearing into the next hall.

They entered Dahlia's private museum. The walls, curved and lined with soft lights, displayed portraits and relics. One massive painting showed a mighty woman in armor, helmeted, sword raised high. Fallen knights littered the ground behind her.

Mary flinched. Next to it, another painting depicted a headless woman, her hair gripped in a soldier's hand. Tears streamed from her half-closed eyes.

"Did you grow angry at your father?" Dahlia asked, casually.

Mary stared.

"Lord Bertram wouldn't act recklessly."

"In the barbaric lands, children are raised to kill their own kin before they can even speak," Dahlia muttered. "Affection is shown through dominance."

"You can hate Lord Bertam, but I would applaud to what he did if it meaning to save my loved one"

Mary said nothing. She remembered the girl who had been accused. She'd been kind. Innocent. Mary had refused to hear her pleas.

"Who is guilty, Mary? The one who pardons a threat, or the one who removes it?"

The question hung heavy.

The hall twisted like a living maze.

"What happened to these people?"

Dahlia pointed back at the painting.

"She did anything to win," Dahlia said. "Anything."

Mary's heart clenched.

"One time there were two friends, inseparable. But envy breeds jealousy, and jealousy brings ruin."

"Like us?" Mary tried to smile.

"The wealthy one paid a man to defile her friend, simply because others adored her too much."

Mary recoiled.

"She was joking... was she?"

Dahlia smirked.

"Adultery is a taboo. She was beheaded before she could even speak, even if she does who would believe a word of a whore?"

She grinned at the headless painting.

"She was raped, I would stand for her" Even if it's just a story to entertain, Mary hated such ending it's the rich friend fault feeling insecure despite holding the hierarchy, and the man took the chance to obtain one time pleasure just because he was rejected.

"Why are you looking at me like that? Your eyes look like they're about to fall out."

Mary turned away, flustered. So the woman knows she was betrayed, she was crying wondering if this a dream.

The hand? It must have been the rapist hand, silencing the poor girl with a rusty old sword. It must have been painful.

Then she smelled something.

A sweet, floral scent wafted through the air.

Three girls exited the bathing chambers, laughing. In the center was Astrid, Dahlia's eldest. But it wasn't her who caught Mary's eye.

Behind them walked another girl—half-drenched, her dress clinging to her form. Her skin shimmered. Her hair, still wet, framed amber eyes that caught the light like polished resin.

Mary froze.

"Wisterian blood?" she whispered. "Weren't they sold off? You bought them?"

Dahlia remained silent, smiling.

The steam in the bathhouse had barely begun to settle when the murmur of girlhood laughter quieted, like wind silenced by a stormfront.

She was coming.

Footsteps—light, yes, but deliberate. Sharp enough to echo beneath the drip of the marble fountain. Her presence glided like silk yet stung like a needle through skin. The maids lowered their gaze. Even Astrid stopped brushing water from her sleeves. A pressure had entered the air, an invisible weight that bent posture and dried mouths.

Adeena felt it. Not fear, not quite. Instinct.

The noblewoman approaching was not one to be underestimated.

Lady Mary Thorneveil.

She moved like a queen out of place, but never out of control. Her long golden hair was coiled in loose waves, reminiscent of a faded crown, pinned delicately yet severely, like Cersei Lannister in stories told by oil lamp. Though her hair still held length and shine, it was clearly suffering—losing its luster, its health, like a rose pressed too long in a book. And that smile—ah, that smile. Crooked, cutting, filled with noble malice wrapped in courtly charm. She smiled not out of warmth, but calculation.

Dahlia let her be, choosing instead to sip her pipe again. She exhaled slowly, a haze of smoke parting between them like a veil.

The sound of dripping water punctuated each step as Mary drew closer. The chatter of the other girls had entirely stilled, save the soft rustle of towels and drying cloths.

Adeena, standing beside Lady Astrid, watched silently. She didn't fidget. She didn't tremble. Her hands remained calmly folded, her damp clothes clinging to her skin like silk to wax. Despite her position, despite her dress, something in the crowd's eye would have mistaken her for the noble daughter here—not Astrid.

And that... was dangerous.

Adeena noticed it immediately: Mary's gaze was set on her.

Something flared.

Astrid's fingers pressed against her wrist. "My lady?" she whispered.

Adeena stepped forward instinctively, her arm extending before Astrid. Protective. Noble-like.

Mary smiled. Slow. Unsettling.

Then stopped, inches from her, her hand hovering as though she meant to brush a strand of Adeena's wet hair but thought better of it.

"I didn't know she had a child," Mary murmured, her voice a velvet dagger.

The bathhouse air, warm and fragrant, turned thick.

The maids murmured, heads ducking.

A child?

They all knew Astrid was not being spoken of.

Adeena didn't move.

Astrid glanced between them, uncertain. Confused. But beginning to understand.

Dahlia remained silent, drawing on her pipe again.

Mary's eyes trailed every inch of Adeena—from the damp hem of her thin dress, to the way the water droplets clung to her lashes. There was no fear in the girl's eyes. Not defiance. Just... patience.

Mary tilted her head slightly.

"Hah," she breathed. "If I recall, this is exactly how that whore looked when she seduced that man. Was she not?"

The word cut through the steam like a blade.

Gasps rose in quiet waves. Eyes widened. But no one spoke.

Whore?

The mute woman hidden in the Wisterian house? Adeena's mother?

Astrid stepped forward slightly, her hand gently pulling Adeena's back.

Mary laughed bitterly, backing off. "If I touched her, I might fall under the same spell."

She turned sharply, walking back toward Dahlia. Her voice rang out, clear enough for everyone to hear:

"Runs in their veins. The whole family is a disgrace."

The words struck like frost.

It was a known tale—Arthur of Wisteria marrying his adopted sister, ignoring social order. His daughter, Naina, the mute beauty, had grown sick on the eve of her debut. Rumor said she stole her stepsister's intended, a noble suitor of high standing, only to suffer and be cast aside.

It was said she had miscarried. Said she was sold when Wisteria fell.

"If she was pregnant," Mary scoffed, "that child must be a bastard."

She turned again, this time to Dahlia. "Who was the father, Dahlia? Is she a bastard?"

Thump.

A pulse of rage. A heartbeat like a thunderclap.

Adeena lifted her head slowly.

Her gaze met Dahlia's.

"That fucker," she muttered beneath her breath. But Astrid, standing closest, heard her.

"Adeena," Astrid hissed, clutching her hand tightly.

Mary paused mid-step, her lips curling.

"Bring her to lunch tomorrow," she said airily. "That girl is... interesting."

And with that, she vanished into the archways beyond the bathhouse, her voice already spinning stories with Dahlia as they passed through corridors of velvet and pale stone.

Adeena remained rooted.

The last thing she saw was a final glance back.

Mary Thorneveil, smiling. Smirking. Like she'd already won something.

But she hadn't.

Not yet.