The scent of burning frankincense was supposed to cleanse the soul, but inside the Grand Reception Room of Ashbourne Manor, it smelled like an execution waiting to happen.
Seraphina sat on the high-backed velvet settee, her spine straight as an iron needle.
Dressed in an immaculate gown of deep midnight violet—cut high to the throat with pristine lace—she held a porcelain teacup with steady fingers.
Across from her sat High Inquisitor Malachi.
The man was a walking pillar of the Holy Church of Destiny.
Clad in pristine white robes embroidered with gold sun-sigils, his eyes were pale, watery gray, and devoid of warmth.
At his hip rested the brass pendulum used by the Inquisition to measure “spiritual dissonance”—the Church’s term for demonic possession, dark magic, or unapproved deviations from the divine prophecy.
Two silent, armored Templars stood behind him like marble statues, their hands resting on the pommels of sanctified broadswords.
“You look well, Lady Seraphina,” Malachi began, his voice soft, melodic, and entirely devoid of human inflection.
“Though the Holy See was… surprised by the correspondence received from your estate yesterday.”
“Were you?” Seraphina asked, taking a measured sip of bitter black tea before lowering the cup onto its saucer without a sound.
“I assumed a twenty-percent reduction in our quarterly tithe would be met with pragmatic understanding, not an unannounced audit by the High Inquisitor himself.”
Malachi’s thin lips barely moved.
“The Holy Church does not concern itself with mere coin, Lady Seraphina. We concern ourselves with the spirit of the flock. For three generations, House Ashbourne has given without hesitation to ensure the kingdom’s divine protection. For a young lady of nineteen to unilaterally slash that offering… it suggests a shift in temperament. An unsettling suddenness.”
The air in the room grew heavy.
Seraphina felt the familiar chill creeping across her skin.
He isn’t here for money, she realized, her mind racing behind her impassive mask.
He’s checking the script.
In the original novel, Seraphina was a superstitious, fearful pawn who threw gold at the Church to buy holy charms, desperately praying to secure Prince Adrian’s affection.
By withholding funds and acting with cold financial calculation, she had triggered the Church’s anomaly detection.
If she flinched, apologized, or broke down into tears, Malachi would deem her unstable and push harder.
If she acted holy, he would suspect a body snatcher.
She had to lean into the arrogance.
She had to give him the venomous villainess he expected—but armed with ironclad legality.
“Temperament, Your Eminence?” Seraphina let a soft, mocking laugh escape her lips.
She tilted her head, her violet eyes flashing with razor-sharp arrogance.
“Let us not confuse religious piety with bad bookkeeping. House Ashbourne provides grain to six northern garrisons and outfits half the imperial cavalry. If the Church wishes to receive full tithes, perhaps your priests should bless our eastern iron mines so the yields match your holy greed.”
Malachi’s pale eyes narrowed.
Slowly, he reached into his sleeve, pulling out the heavy brass pendulum.
The metal hung from a fine silver chain, etched with sacred runes that hummed with faint, golden mana.
“The Church has noted… oddities surrounding your person lately, My Lady,” Malachi murmured, letting the pendulum dangle between them.
“A near-fatal carriage incident where you emerged untouched. A falling chandelier in your private chambers that crushed stone but spared your flesh. And now, sudden political maneuvers against Count Valmont.”
The pendulum began to swing.
Left.
Right.
Left.
“There are dark forces that seek to twist the destiny laid down by the heavens,” Malachi said, his voice dropping into a solemn whisper.
“Entities that warp the natural path of noble bloodlines. When a person evades their ordained burdens, reality cracks around them.”
Seraphina’s pulse hammered, but her expression remained made of stone.
The Church knows about the compensation, she thought, a spark of cold fury igniting in her chest.
They call Rule 3 ‘ordained burdens.’ They protect the script because they think the world falls apart without it.
The pendulum swung faster, the runes flickering faintly.
Seraphina didn’t look at the pendulum.
She leaned forward, closing the distance between herself and the High Inquisitor until she was staring directly into his watery eyes.
“If you believe I am possessed, Inquisitor, draw your holy blade and test me,” Seraphina whispered, her tone dropping into an icy, venomous challenge.
“Accuse the sole daughter of Duke Marcus Ashbourne of heresy before the entire Noble Council. But know this: before your Templars can escort me to the Cathedral dungeons, my father will freeze every grain shipment entering the Capital’s orphanages and cathedrals.”
She smiled, sharp and merciless.
“Let us see if your faith can feed ten thousand starving imperial citizens when the Ashbourne grain vaults close.”
The room fell into a deathly silence.
Malachi stared at her.
For ten long seconds, neither of them blinked.
Malachi reached out, catching the brass weight in his palm and slipping it back into his robes.
The Inquisitor had found no demonic mana, no spiritual parasite.
All he found was a vicious, power-hungry noblewoman protecting her family’s wealth with cold-blooded extortion.
Exactly what a villainess was supposed to be.
“You are as unyielding as your father, Lady Seraphina,” Malachi said quietly, rising from his chair.
“The Church will accept the adjusted tithe. For now.”
“A wise choice, Your Eminence,” Seraphina replied, remaining seated.
“Balthazar will show you to the gates.”
Malachi bowed with stiff, formal courtesy, turning to leave with his silent escorts.
But as he reached the double doors, he paused, looking over his shoulder.
“The Royal Banquet approaches, Lady Seraphina,” the Inquisitor noted, his voice carrying an ominous edge.
“Prince Adrian and Lady Elena will be formally announced as the vanguard of the Spring Festival. Be mindful of your steps. Destiny does not tolerate those who try to rewrite its text.”
“Destiny should write a better script,” Seraphina murmured under her breath as the heavy doors slammed shut.
Once she was alone, Seraphina let out a long, ragged exhale, slumping back against the velvet cushions.
Her hands were cold as ice.
She had survived the Church’s probe, but the margin was razor-thin.
The Inquisition was watching the cracks in the timeline.
Suddenly, the porcelain teacup on the table before her cracked down the middle with a sharp SNAP!
Hot black tea spilled across the polished silver tray, soaking into the lace tablecloth.
Seraphina looked at the split porcelain, then glanced toward her locked desk drawer where Duke Lucien’s intercepted cipher lay hidden.
The Church was hunting for anomalies.
Lucien was hunting for allies.
And reality was running out of patience.
Seraphina picked up a napkin, dabbed the dark tea from her fingertips, and stood up.
The Royal Banquet was less than a week away.
It was time to prepare the stage.