Chapter 8: Cracks in a Porcelain Smile

“Did you hear her last night?” a maid whispered outside the velvet-draped chamber. “Lady Sylra was screaming.”

“Poisoned,” said another. “Some say she gasped Eirene’s name before collapsing.”

Inside the chamber, Lady Sylra lay motionless on a snow-silk bed. Her lips were blue. Her eyes—once sharp with calculation—were open but vacant.

Garrick stood nearby, hand stroking his beard thoughtfully.

“The timing is... unfortunate,” he murmured.

Eirene sat at Sylra’s bedside, feigning a perfect veil of grief. “She was like a mother to me,” she said softly, voice tremulous.

Garrick gave a pointed look. “You were speaking in Shadowhide tongue again yesterday.”

“I was reciting a prayer,” Eirene replied smoothly. “In my old dialect.”

“Your accent is slipping.”

She rose, expression tight. “Let them whisper. All that matters is that Sylra can’t whisper back.”

Garrick frowned. “You’re growing reckless.”

“I’m growing unstoppable.”