The gilded imperial wax bearing the twin suns of the royal house gleamed atop a thick parchment envelope on Seraphina’s desk.
The Royal Hunt.
Beside it lay the broken pieces of the porcelain teacup High Inquisitor Malachi had left in his wake.
The tea had long dried into a dark, rusty ring upon the silver tray.
Seraphina did not reach for the invitation immediately.
Her gaze remained fixed on the hairline cracks running across the porcelain glaze.
Malachi came to measure my soul, and found only my teeth.
Lucien Ravenshade is auditing the timeline from the frozen valleys of the North.
And now Adrian sends his summons.
She picked up the silver letter opener, slicing through the heavy seal.
To Lady Seraphina of House Ashbourne,
By decree of His Imperial Highness, Crown Prince Adrian, you are summoned to attend the Spring Imperial Hunt at the Solaria Forest Reserves.
As the vanguard of the festival, your presence as the first lady of the ducal houses is formally requested.
Accompanying the royal vanguard: Lady Elena Valmont, by personal imperial invitation.
Seraphina let out a short, humorless breath.
The original text of The Crown’s Absolute Grace stirred clearly in her mind.
The Imperial Hunt was the second major stage for Seraphina’s scripted humiliation.
In the book, Prince Adrian had deliberately paraded Elena on his right arm, giving the humble baron’s daughter the prime seat beside the royal pavilion.
She had bribed a stable hand to loosen the girth straps on Elena’s mare, intending to throw the girl into the thorn brambles during the opening gallop.
But because of Rule 1 (Fate Protects the Heroine), the plot armor had activated: a noble knight caught Elena as she slipped, the sabotaged saddle was traced straight back to Seraphina’s personal crest, and Prince Adrian publicly denounced her before the entire court.
It was the scene that stripped away her remaining dignity, branding her not just as a sharp-tongued bully, but as a cowardly murderer.
“My Lady?”
Captain Vane entered the study, his boots clicking in a disciplined rhythm against the parquet floor.
He carried a leather-bound folio containing the latest perimeter reports.
“The royal courier has departed,” Vane said, offering a crisp bow.
“Duke Marcus has already accepted the invitation on behalf of House Ashbourne. He expects you to ride in the front carriage with him.”
“My father wants to show the court that House Ashbourne does not flinch in the face of the Valmont girl’s sudden rise,” Seraphina murmured, leaning back into her armchair.
“Shall I prepare the royal carriage guard, Lady Seraphina?”
“Yes,” she said, her violet eyes narrowing.
“And assign three trusted men from your private payroll to the imperial stables at Solaria forty-eight hours before our arrival. No one approaches the Ashbourne horses. And under no circumstances is any guard wearing our colors to be seen near the Valmont stalls.”
Vane looked puzzled, but after the midnight purge, he asked no unnecessary questions.
“Understood, My Lady.”
“One more thing, Captain.”
“Yes?”
“The guest manifest,” Seraphina said, tapping the corner of the royal parchment.
Vane hesitated, pulling a small roster from his coat.
“The Duke of Ravenshade arrived in the capital late last night from the Frostpeak Citadel. He declined the Prince’s offer to lead the vanguard hunt, claiming fatigue from the northern march, but his presence is mandated for the evening banquet following the chase.”
He arrived early.
A sudden chill drifted through the study.
TICK.
The phantom sound echoed faintly inside her temples.
Seraphina looked down at the royal parchment.
The trap was already springing.
The script was pulling its actors together—the Prince, the Saint, the Villainess, and the Black Wolf.
If she refused to sabotage Elena’s saddle, what would the narrative do to create its required conflict?
If she didn’t play the jealous monster, would Rule 3 force a wild beast out of the magical barrier to threaten the hunting party instead?
She picked up her quill, dipped it into the black ink, and penned a single line across the bottom of the imperial reply:
“House Ashbourne shall attend, and we shall provide our own escort.”
“Send it to the palace,” Seraphina said, handing the sealed reply to Vane.
As the guard captain exited, Seraphina walked to the vanity mirror, looking at the cold, unyielding reflection staring back at her.
The hunt was not a game of horses and hounds.
It was the first field test against a script that wanted her blood.
“Let them bring their horses,” she whispered, her lips parting into a razor-thin smile.
“I will bring the cage.”