“Mum… could you hand me that book?” I asked with a faint scowl, glaring up at the shelf far above my reach. It was irritating—no, infuriating—how every damn book in this world seemed to be placed precisely where my hands would never find them. This world had already given me enough reasons to loathe it, but being vertically cursed was a consistent insult I could never quite get used to. Even Mary, who wasn’t exactly towering herself, reached up and plucked the brown, leather-bound volume without so much as a stretch.

  “The ring wasn’t made for tiny fingers, you know,” she remarked, passing me the book with casual ease. “Why are you looking through the registries for toddlers barely past their first birthday?”

  I took the book with a half-hearted grunt and cracked it open, flipping past the weathered title page. Her question hung in the air, but I ignored it—for now. Let her figure it out on her own, I thought. Let her see. She leaned over my shoulder anyway, her presence a silent challenge. Curious, skeptical, and yet slowly becoming more invested.

  As we stood there together, the mayor returned with a tray of steaming tea, offering it politely before Mary dismissed him with the kindest possible version of “fuck off.” She had a gift for making profanity sound like polite suggestion.

  I continued combing through the pages, each birth recorded in fading ink. I focused on the entries associated with the doctor—Max Schlagmichtot, a name that sounded like a drunken punchline and yet appeared repeatedly, albeit sparingly. Too few births. Suspiciously few. And none of them quite what I was looking for—until one particular entry caught my eye.

  “There,” I muttered, tapping the page. “Doctor: Max Schlagmichtot. Father: undefined. Mother: Laura Wolle. Child: Sofie Wolle. Ring any bells?”

  I turned my head to look at Mary, who had begun frowning in thought. Her hand absentmindedly drifted to her chin, her expression clouded with concern that she didn’t voice right away.

  “Wolle… yes. That family comes from an earldom up north—way out, practically forgotten. I don’t know how she and Arthur would have even crossed paths.” Her brows drew tighter together. There was something else behind those words, some deeper unease.

  I tilted my head, trying to read the silence between her sentences. Her political position was secure now; no scandal from Arthur’s past would unseat her. So why the hesitation?

  “You know her?” I asked carefully, already preparing myself for some dramatic tale of betrayal between noble ladies and a certain traitorous husband.

  “No,” she replied slowly, “but I know of her. Laura Wolle made a name for herself once—not for glory, but disgrace. She refused an arranged marriage. Her family disowned her, but she was permitted to keep the family name. After that... she vanished from polite society. I haven’t heard her mentioned in years.”

  Her voice trailed off as she crossed the room, pulling out a heavier volume—a genealogical tome lined with gold trim and centuries of noble arrogance. She flipped through it expertly and landed on the Wolle lineage, confirming the story she’d just told.

  The Wolle family tree wasn’t especially distinguished. Fewer branches than Mary’s, thinner prestige, less shine. But still noble. Still enough to cause problems.

  “So,” I muttered, staring at the entry for Sofie Wolle, “we’re looking at an outcast noblewoman who may or may not be the mother of Arthur’s secret child. A woman likely struggling to survive, possibly on her own. A woman who—at any moment—might show up at our doorstep with a baby in one hand and expectations in the other.”

  The implications weren’t lost on either of us.

  “And if she’s wearing a ring like that,” I added, glancing at Mary, “then Arthur didn’t just seduce her—he invested in her. She could come seeking aid. Or justice. Or worse, a claim.”

  Mary said nothing. But her eyes stayed locked on the page.

  And I—well—I made a mental note. If Laura Wolle posed a threat to Mary’s place, to our place, then there would be no mercy.

  Problems were piling up. And I wasn’t about to let this one crawl in through the front door without a plan.

  “I’ll ask the guards to keep watch for her,” Mary offered, her voice calm but purposeful.

  It wasn’t a bad idea—at least not on the surface. But I doubted the guards would be of much use. They couldn’t possibly watch every woman entering the city, let alone notice one carrying a baby when dozens of peasant women passed the gates each day with bundles in their arms.

  Arthur never struck me as the sort of man who would keep his mistress—if that’s what she even was—at arm’s length. Especially not if a child was involved. If he cared for her enough to gift her that kind of ring, he wouldn’t leave her far from his reach. And if she was in the city already…

  Well, I just had to pray she wasn’t one of the maids I’d killed during the chaos. That would be rather awkward—an orphan out there somewhere because of me. But even that thought didn’t stir much guilt. I mean, really, it would be absurdly hypocritical to start mourning one orphan when I’d sent fifty thousand soldiers to their graves without blinking.

  Still, if I ever met the child—truly met them—it might be different. I wasn’t heartless to them, once I got closer.

  We returned to our task half-heartedly, scouring through the registries for any other “L.W.” entries that might match. Predictably, it was a complete waste of time. There were no other names that fit the profile. No other possibilities that stirred suspicion. In the end, I tore out the page bearing the doctor’s signature—Max Schlagmichtot, may his ridiculous name rest in peace—and slipped it into my coat.

  We left city hall shortly after.

  Two out of twenty-three—would visit again. The tea was awful.

  Mary glanced over as we stepped out into the moonlight. “And where to now?”

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  I tilted my head, genuinely unsure. I hadn’t thought that far ahead. The only thought that flitted through my mind was that I needed a new dress—something less common, something befitting my complicated role.

  So we wandered the merchant street once again, past the shuttered windows and closed doors. I peered into each storefront through those large, crude glass panes—brownish, smeared with age and grime—to judge the clothing displays under the scarce moonlight.

  “What about that one?” I asked, pointing at a modest display.

  It was a mourning dress. Black, simple, and entirely funereal. A wide hat adorned with a silk veil perched beside it like a warning not to speak. Still, if I discarded the hat, it could pass as acceptable. Functional, even. I could picture myself in it—an unapproachable shadow in a world too bright.

  Mary inhaled sharply. She didn’t approve. She never did when I veered into darkness. In the end, I selected a few more pieces—dresses plain enough to serve my role as her daughter. Nothing extravagant. Nothing exciting. Just camouflage.

  As for the rest, I would have to make it myself. A fact that irritated me, but not enough to stop me. Dark colours were rarely in fashion in this world—people liked their cheer. Their pastels and golden trims. But darkness suited me. And if I had to thread it into fabric with my own hands, so be it. I’d have Tom fetch sewing supplies tomorrow.

  Disappointed and empty-handed, we left the shopping avenue behind. It offered no answers, no satisfaction. Only windows filled with pretty lies.

  Soon, our wandering brought us full circle. Back to the beginning. Back to the smouldering remains of the mansion—blackened stone, splintered beams, ashes caught in the wind. The final note of the song I had written in fire and ruin.

  Standing there, beneath the still sky, I remembered. This was the end of what had been. The closing act of Arthur’s reign. And also the reason Mary had every right not to love me.

  She stood just a few paces away, yawning in a way no noblewoman should. Ungraceful. Human. And in that moment, I realised something strange had settled in my chest.

  I looked at her and asked, almost idly, “Say, Mary… do you know what the Seed of Life is?”

  She blinked, confused. Of course she had no idea what I was truly asking.

  But I did. Or at least, I was beginning to. I didn’t know if she still carried it—or if she had acquired it again while I was away at war. But I could feel it. A tether, invisible and strong, pulling me toward her. My thoughts twisted around her presence, my actions tangled in concern, my choices no longer wholly my own.

  I should have seen her as a tool. As a pawn. She could have been so easily manipulated, used to climb the ladder, to secure power, to tie up loose ends. And yet… I didn’t.

  I refused to.

  There was only one reason for that.

  Something had taken root inside me. And it terrified me more than any battlefield.

  “No? Is that something magical?” she asked, her brow slightly raised in quiet confusion. Of course she didn’t know. She couldn’t. The concept was too obscure, too abstract—something spoken about in hushed voices by mystics and lost in the fog of childhood innocence.

  “It’s something every child has,” I explained softly, my voice drifting on the stillness between us. “And loses—usually in their late teenage years. But you… you still have it.” I met her gaze for a moment, searching for a flicker of understanding in those calm, impenetrable eyes. “It’s no wonder my emotions are so—chaotic—when it comes to you.”

  She remained composed. Unreadable, as always. Her stillness made it difficult to gauge whether my words had reached her at all.

  “And why should I have it?” she asked with measured skepticism.

  “Are you pregnant?” I asked impulsively, the thought leaping to my lips before I could stop it. I didn’t even know how much that possibility meant to me—if it meant anything at all. Maybe I just wanted a reason. Something tangible to explain this maddening gravity she seemed to exert on me.

  “No,” she said, sharp and certain. There was no hesitation in her voice—no faltering. “I’m not.”

  That closed that door.

  “Does that mean you’re nice to children?” she asked, dryly curious now, perhaps trying to shift the subject back into territory she could control.

  “I try,” I said, eyes drifting shut. “But it’s… hard. Especially during war.”

  As the word Luna floated silently through my thoughts, the weight of it settled over me like a thick, invisible fog. That familiar ache rose again—quiet and sudden and merciless. I pushed it down, swallowed it like a bitter medicine. When I opened my eyes, she was already walking away, disappearing into the servant’s quarters.

  She didn’t believe me.

  She never truly did. Not when it came to this—these parts of me I didn’t know how to show. She made everything more difficult than it needed to be. But maybe I made it worse by hoping.

  Frustration gnawed at my ribs like hunger, and I followed after her, determined not to let the moment slip entirely into the void. I found a sheet of parchment in a room, scratched out a few words after sitting down, sealed them in an envelope, and stared at it, unmoving, for a long moment.

  Even now, with this Seed of Life still warping my instincts, pulling at my emotions like puppet strings—I couldn't walk away from her. I should have. She wasn’t convenient, or kind, or safe. But I was still drawn to her like a moth to a flame. And I knew how that story ended.

  So I decided to gamble. One bold step. One moment of truth. If this failed, then maybe not even the gods themselves could change the outcome between us.

  I tapped the table, drumming my fingers as I thought it through. Then I reached for a dagger—one I hadn’t used in months. Its edge was still keen, still cold to the touch. With it and the letter in hand, I made my way silently to Mary’s door.

  I pressed my ear against the wood and listened. Her breaths were slow, steady. She was asleep. Good.

  Carefully, I eased the door open. The hinges groaned faintly, and the wooden floor betrayed me with every step, but she didn’t stir. She lay on the bed, her features softened by slumber, her brow smooth and her lips gently parted.

  Peaceful. Vulnerable.

  I stood there for a while, just watching her. Trying to understand why I felt so much for a woman who had done little more than tolerate me. Was it just the Seed of Life? Was it something else?

  Maybe both.

  I stepped forward quietly and placed the dagger and letter beside her—where she’d be sure to find them. And then, without entirely understanding why, I reached out and brushed a few stray hairs from her face. The contact was gentle, reverent, as if touching a thread I wasn’t sure I should pull.

  Satisfied, or perhaps just resigned, I sank down a few feet away from her, sitting cross-legged on the floor by the window. I stared out at the fading night, the stars blinking out one by one. Soon, the pale fingers of dawn crept across the ground, brushing the earth with gold. It would be a new day. A turning point. A gamble.

  The first death I chose for myself would happen today—if it came to that. I didn’t fear it. In fact, I welcomed the stakes. If I succeeded, maybe there’d be a future where Mary and I could be… something more than this. Allies. Friends. Family, even—if she wanted that.

  The moonlight vanished.

  My smile lingered as sleep crept in, slow and certain.