Shiva, Elder of the Southern Court
She had tried to hide it—draping herself in high collars and velvet, walking softly through the halls, avoiding the tower's shadow like a child who'd been burned.
But the court had already scented her.
And the blood doesn't lie.
Shiva sipped her wine and watched the garden from the balcony of the eastern wing. The blooms below had long since withered. It was nothing but ash and root now.
And yet, the scent rising from it tonight was different.
New.
Like embers just beneath the earth, waiting for the right breath to flare again.
She had not spoken to Vasilios in days.
That wasn't unusual. He preferred silence when he was brooding. And Shiva had no interest in poking wolves when they paced.
But still—she was watching.
And she had seen the signs.
The girl's path to the portrait gallery.
The way she touched the stone behind the veil, as if she felt it humming.
The card left at her door. Too subtle for Marek. Too poetic for Malenthros.
No. That was Vasilios's hand.
Trying to guide her.
Trying, perhaps, to tame her.
But Shiva knew better.
Girls like this were not tamed.
They were either crowned or consumed.
She rose from her seat, her gown rustling like silk on bone. The air was thick with jasmine. Not by accident.
The scent always rose before a turning.
And Maryna Valmont was turning.
Shiva had seen it before.
A marked girl begins to remember—not just in mind, but in blood. Dreams sharpen. Desires shift. The body betrays her with need, but it isn't lust—it's instinct.
Legacy.
She's beginning to feel the Court's rhythm.
Beginning to hear the music behind the walls.
And soon?
She would start dancing to it.
The Council would want to interfere.
Marek had no patience for prophecy.
Malenthros already had his doll.
And Vasilios… he believed in restraint.
A beautiful lie.
Shiva had lived long enough to know that restraint was simply what power wore to keep others from running.
But Maryna?
She wouldn't run.
Not once she saw what waited inside her.
Not once she knew what she could take.
Shiva poured more wine.
It stained the glass like blood.
She lifted it toward the moonlight and whispered to the dark:
"The garden wakes. The tower watches. And the flame remembers."
Then she turned and stepped into the shadows.
Because soon, the girl would come.
And Shiva would be waiting.
Not with chains.
Not with kindness.
But with the crown no one else dared offer.