The Knight Beneath the Veil

The morning after her wedding arrived with the mournful howl of wind against stone.

Selene had not slept. She watched the dawn unfurl like a wound across the sky, bleeding pink and orange through the stained-glass windows of her new chambers. The Virelith estate was quiet, too quiet for a household that wielded such power in the king's court.

She stood barefoot on the cold balcony floor, the wind whipping her dark hair behind her like a banner. Below, rows of armored guards drilled in perfect formation, their spears glinting like silver fangs in the morning light.

Among them, one man stood apart.

Broad-shouldered, dark-haired, and graceful in his movements, he led the drills with the confidence of someone born to command. When he turned his head briefly upward, she saw the unmistakable profile of Elias Wren—her brother's oldest friend.

Her former betrothed.

Her stomach twisted.

An hour later, she descended to the training grounds wrapped in a cloak of deep crimson, the Armitage crest embroidered subtly at the hem a silent rebellion, a refusal to let her bloodline fade into obscurity.

Elias noticed her immediately and stepped away from his men, removing his helm with practiced grace. His features had not changed, still the square jaw, still the piercing hazel eyes that once looked at her with unguarded affection.

Now, those same eyes carried a storm behind them.

"Lady Virelith," he said with a bow, his voice tight. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"You know why I'm here, Elias."

A flicker of emotion crossed his face, regret, perhaps, or something darker.

He gestured toward the outer courtyard. "Walk with me."

They moved in silence until they reached the shaded corridor by the old fountain, its waters frozen over. The air smelled of steel and pine.

"You never visited after Thorne died," Selene said, voice steady but soft. "Not once."

"I wasn't permitted."

"You weren't exiled. You were promoted."

Elias sighed and turned to her. "You want me to say I betrayed you. Say it. Curse me. Slap me. Whatever makes it easier."

"I don't want vengeance from you, Elias. I want the truth."

Silence.

Then, he looked down, knuckles white around his helm. "I never believed Damien killed Thorne. I still don't."

Selene's eyes narrowed. "Then who?"

"I don't know. But Thorne had been digging into something dangerous, something involving the Crimson Court."

She froze. "The Crimson Court is a myth. A tale to scare children."

He shook his head. "They're real. Thorne thought someone in the palace was working with them. That he was close to exposing something. The week before his death, he warned me not to trust anyone, especially not you."

Selene reeled. "Me?"

"He thought you were being watched. Used. I didn't know what he meant then. Maybe I still don't."

Her mind raced. "He left me a journal."

Elias turned sharply. "What did it say?"

"Only a line. He named you. Said not to trust you."

Pain flashed across Elias's face. "Then you have to decide who you believe: your brother, or the man who loved you since childhood."

Selene looked away, unable to answer.

Later that day, Selene sat alone in the Virelith manor's war room. The chamber was vast, lined with maps, sealed letters, and carved war banners. On the central table lay a scroll bearing the king's seal.

She ignored it.

Instead, her eyes found the fireplace, and above it, the family portrait of House Virelith. Damien stood among them, younger but still stoic. His parents were grim-faced warriors. No softness in their expressions, only pride and battle-won scars.

What kind of boy grows into a man like Damien?

The door creaked.

Damien entered, his cloak dusted with frost. He crossed to the table without speaking.

Selene broke the silence. "You promoted Elias. Why?"

"He's a competent commander."

"He was supposed to marry me."

He didn't flinch. "And yet you married me instead."

"That wasn't a choice."

"You always had a choice, Selene. You chose your niece."

Her jaw tightened. "Don't say her name like that."

"I say it with respect," Damien said, placing a sealed letter in front of her. "This arrived from the north. Our border outposts are being attacked by small raids, but coordinated. I leave in two days to investigate."

She stared at the letter. "You're leaving me here?"

"This is your home now."

Her fists clenched. "I want access to your archives. Every document tied to Thorne's death. Letters. Reports. Witness statements."

He met her gaze. "Fine. I'll assign someone to help."

"I want your word you won't interfere."

"You already have it."

She paused. "Why are you helping me?"

Damien moved closer, his voice low. "Because I want what you want. The truth. And because the real enemy is still out there. You're not a threat to me, Selene. You're a weapon I can use."

She didn't like being called a weapon.

But she liked being helpless even less.

That evening, as shadows stretched long across the manor's halls, Selene sat with Liora in the reading chamber. The fire crackled quietly, and the child read aloud from an old tale about a lion who hid his claws to live among sheep.

Liora paused mid-page.

"Auntie?"

"Yes, dove?"

"Will you ever love him?"

Selene blinked. "Who?"

"Lord Damien."

The question caught her off guard.

Liora's gaze was wise and solemn. "He watches you like Papa used to watch Mama. From far away, like he's scared of looking too close."

Selene took the book gently from her hands and drew her into her lap.

"Sometimes," she said softly, "people pretend not to feel anything, so they don't get hurt."

Liora tilted her head. "But don't they hurt anyway?"

Selene smiled bitterly. "Yes. But it feels safer that way."

When night fell, Selene crept into the eastern wing of the estate where the old archives were kept.

The halls were quiet, save for the flicker of torches and the occasional whisper of wind slithering through the stone.

Inside the records chamber, she found shelves stretching to the ceiling, scrolls and tomes sealed with wax, many of them older than the kingdom itself.

She was not alone.

A man leaned over a desk, candlelight illuminating his lean, wiry frame. He turned as she approached a stranger, not older than thirty, with ink-stained fingers and a sardonic smile.

"You must be the new Lady Virelith," he said. "I'm Quinn. Archivist. Your husband said you'd be trouble."

"And you're still here?"

"I like trouble."

Selene raised a brow. "I want everything on the Armitage investigation. And anything sealed by royal decree in the last year."

Quinn whistled. "Bold. I like that."

He moved with surprising grace, scaling shelves, unlocking cabinets.

"Do you believe in ghosts, Lady Selene?"

She frowned. "What?"

He tossed her a scroll. "Because your brother's case is full of them. Redacted names. Missing records. People who were alive when the report was written but dead by the time it was sealed."

She unrolled the parchment.

There, beneath the lines of faded ink, was a name she had not expected to see.

Lady Vanya Caelborn, Court liaison. Assigned to Thorne Armitage three weeks before his disappearance.

Her former friend.

Her rival.

Her first heartbreak.

Selene's breath turned to frost.