The land stretched out before her, framed by the smudged pane of the carriage window. Once, it had been a living painting of gold-flecked meadows, lavender hills, and sunlight dappling through endless rows of fruit trees. Orchards had unfurled for miles, swaying with the gentle breeze, their leaves a verdant patchwork of amber, vermillion, and verdigris. Fields of wheat and barley had undulated in gilded waves beneath the sun, bordered by hedgerows blooming with wild roses and sweet pea. The idyllic valley had thrived, cradled in lush forests teeming with game that stretched toward distant ridgelines, where snow-capped mountains rose beneath skies streaked with clouds.

  Now, the land writhed beneath a veiled sun, stripped bare under the gray pallor. Like a carcass crawling with maggots, left to rot and be forgotten.

  The gentle cadence of homesteads and harvests was no longer. From her window, the fields stretched dull and uneven, their furrows scattered with the brittle remains of stunted crops. The soil looked leached, parched, faded to a dry, ashen brown in places, cracked in others where even the weeds had thinned. Here and there, broken fence posts slumped in the dirt, and scarecrows stood with their arms listing, dressed in rags that barely stirred in the wind.

  Whatever had replaced the orchards seemed reluctant to grow. No color touched the land, save for the dull yellow of sickly, withered crops struggling in scattered patches, barely clinging to life. Above it all, the sky hung low and metallic, heavy with the scent of an impending downpour and the faint, sour sting of something decaying in the air.

  Vespera exhaled apprehensively. This time of year, the fields should have been alive with motion. Men, women, and children moving in rhythm beneath the sun, laughter and shouts rising between the rows of golden grain and branches heavy with glinting fruit. There should have been the clatter of tools, the smell of earth and sweat, and the familiar hum of gossip weaving through talk of feasts and bonfires, of the harvest festival soon to come.

  But there was nothing. No voices or people. Just the wind, thin and cold, scouring through the emptiness, a warning of the looming winter to come.

  Vespera wasn’t sure what had changed more, the land—or herself.

  The carriage window caught a flicker of her reflection. Pale ashen hair curled unevenly at her nape and around her ears, grown wild after being shorn to the scalp in wartime. Her face, no longer softened by the ease of childhood or sunlit days, had become hollow, etched with the harsh lines of sleepless nights and the brutal toll of battle. The spark that once glimmered in her gray eyes had faded, leaving only the faint, dying glow of embers sinking into ash.

  Young Vespera had worn sun-kissed freckles and bright linens, laughing as if the world had never asked anything of her. She’d wielded sticks as swords, crowned herself with wildflower wreaths, and pilfered still-warm honey biscuits from the kitchen to share with the other children.

  This Vespera wore slate-colored fatigues. A real sword hung from her side. Its weight was as familiar as the calluses on her palms, a stark reminder of reality. Flowers felt like nothing more than fragments of a fever dream.

  The carriage rumbled on, its wheels cracking against the uneven road, sending up dust that clung to the air. These winding paths had once been carefully tended, with edges set in stone, gravel packed firm beneath the weight of polished wheels. Poppies, cornflowers, and the pale faces of daisies had spilled along the ditches, their blooms swaying in the wind.

  But now, the ditches were bare. The colors gone. The gravel lay scattered, the stones loosened and half-buried in ruts. Weeds strangled the verges, and the road itself had become little more than a scar of hardened mud and wheel-worn grooves, neglected, forgotten.

  Vespera barely noticed the jarring rhythm, barely registered the driver’s occasional curse. Her attention had drifted, drawn beyond the weary landscape until it caught onto a shape rising through the distant tree line.

  Strathwyn. Her family’s ancestral estate.

  At first, it seemed unchanged. The familiar silhouette of the main manor stood against the gray sky, a shadow piercing the russet canopy of the forest. And for just a heartbeat, Vespera almost felt like home again.

  But as the carriage closed the final distance, the illusion began to unravel.

  The manor itself had swollen with grandeur. Once a stately, aging house softened by moss and crooked charm, it now loomed wider, taller, hungrier. The fa?ade, once mellowed by lichen and time, stood glaringly white, scrubbed raw like bleached bone. Turrets that had been veiled in ivy and weathered slate now gleamed with polished copper, their harsh shine spilling unnaturally across delicate ornamentation.

  New wings jutted out at sharp angles, multiplying the manor’s presence. Facades crowded with scrollwork and imperial reliefs stretched over multiple stories, while tall windows lined each floor in rigid sequence, aglow with the light of chandeliers, marble busts, and heavy velvet curtains. Every corner bristled with carved embellishments—gargoyles, lions, laurels—rendered in such obsessive detail they verged on the grotesque.

  The fence line rose taller and taller as the carriage approached, its iron bars twisting into elaborate spirals, crowned with gilded thorns, unwelcoming and extravagant. Beneath the wheels, the gravel shifted. No longer the rutted earth of an untended road, it had transformed into pearly white pebbles, raked into sterile, symmetrical rows. As the gates swung open, guided by armed men in imperial garb, the carriage rolled forward, its wheels grinding through the heavy silence. The carriage was scarcely through when the gates clanged shut.

  Vespera watched the vast courtyard unfold through her window. It, too, transformed. Fountains burst in rigid arcs, water falling into alabaster basins ringed with roses so precisely placed they seemed sculpted, not grown. Hedgerows, once wild with bloom and leaf, had been clipped into unforgiving geometry. Flowers no longer sprawled with seasonal whim, but stood in curated spectacle, their colors so exact they bordered on the artificial. The grass, too, had been trimmed with surgical precision, each blade uniform along the pebbled path.

  And everywhere she looked, she found the mark of the Caelreth Empire: austere seals etched into ornaments, banners snapping in the wind. The emblem was a blazing sunburst, ringed in barbed laurels, with a dragon rearing, coiled around a downward-pointed sword. Its wings flared wide, claws gripping the sun’s edges—as if claiming even the light for the Empire.

  This was no longer the Strathwyn she remembered.

  Vespera stared, silent. Her hands remained folded in her lap, but her fingers had curled in slightly, nails faintly pressing into her breeches. A flicker of something surfaced within, then sank before it could catch. She kept her face still, eyes forward, as though she could look long enough to make the weight in her lungs dissolve. As though the shape of the estate might change if she blinked.

  She didn’t blink.

  The carriage ground to a halt, its wheels bracing against the pale pebbles. There were no banners to herald her return, no servants kneeling in greeting, no warmth or cheer. Only the cold, watchful glares of two dozen armed men and women standing in a crescent before the manor’s great doors. While their confident postures and spotless boots spoke of meticulous training, Vespera could tell with but a glance that they were untested by the true weight of war. Well-equipped, they wore the Strathwyn’s colors—deep damson edged in steel-blue piping—with the family crest stitched over their chests: a silver sickle moon cradling a wildcat in mid-pounce. Beneath its paws, a single plum blossom bloomed.

  At the center of the crescent, like a jewel at the center of a circlet, stood a stocky man with curly dark-blond hair and a short beard streaked with grey. His cloak, a vivid splash of purples and furs, outshone even the estate’s newfound grandeur. Gold and jewels gleamed from every inch of him, their brilliance garish against the dim, overcast gloom. When their eyes met through the carriage glass, he flashed a smug, warmthless smile. Without a word, he stepped forward and swung open the door.

  “Lady Caelborn,” he said, spreading his arms in an exaggerated flourish. “An honor to meet the Fourth Calamity of the Caelreth Empire in the flesh. The Stormwraith herself. The Witch of the South. The Final Scourge of Eldrun.”

  The litany of titles twisted Vespera’s stomach. Reverence, idolatry, hatred, fear—she had heard them all before, be it from allies or enemies. But this man’s voice carried something different: oily, theatrical, dripping with mockery.

  Only after he finished did the guards bow. He did not.

  Vespera stepped down from the carriage, a single valise in hand. The pebbles crunched beneath her boots. The chill nibbled at her scalp.

  “You must be Lord Quillian Carrvol,” she said, though she knew the title was wrong. According to the imperial chancellor, Carrvol was barely a noble, let alone a lord. Proper form would have been to address him simply as the steward of Strathwyn. But seeing the ostentation of the estate—and of the man himself—Vespera decided caution was wiser than correctness. If the quality of her stay hinged on his mood, a little flattery might be a necessary expense. Besides, he only knew her as Lady Caelborn, a name assigned to every mage orphan brought into the War Collegium.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  A spark flickered in his brown eyes. “The very same. I trust your journey was pleasant, my lady.” His voice oozed with calculated courtesy. “As much as I’d love to show you around, it grows late, and I suspect rain is on its way. Let me escort you to your chambers. You can rest and wash away the dust of the road before dinner. I’ll have it sent to you, as I am unfortunately preoccupied this evening.”

  “Thank you,” she replied.

  “Of course.” Carrvol’s gaze dropped to her valise, one brow rising in disbelief. “Is that all your luggage?”

  Vespera inclined her head.

  He opened his mouth as if to say more but hesitated. Finally, he managed a tight smile. “I’ll send for a dressmaker by morning. Now, if you will.”

  Without waiting for her response, Carrvol turned and made for the entrance. The guards parted for him, though their eyes never left her. With a fleeting glance across the transformed courtyard, Vespera followed.

  The stone floors of Strathwyn’s entryway echoed beneath Vespera’s boots as she followed Carrvol through the grand hall. The walls, once adorned with faded tapestries depicting her ancestors tending golden fields and rearing proud, sturdy beasts, now displayed slick, garish portraits of men and women in imperial finery. A chill skittered up her spine as she passed under an arched archway, its gleaming marble floor reflecting the harsh lighting of sconces that lined the walls.

  Carrvol didn’t spare a glance for her as they continued down the hall. His steps were firm, purposeful, echoing off the high, vaulted ceiling. The hall stretched for what seemed like an eternity, each stride taking them deeper into a realm of splendor Vespera scarcely recognized. Gleaming marble floors reflected the glitter of gilded chandeliers. Walls once simple and unadorned were now paneled with polished mahogany, inset with intricate carvings of imperial triumphs and prosperity. Tapestries of silk and gold thread caught the light with every flicker of torch flame.

  But as they pressed on, the opulence began to thin. The gold filigree dulled to plain wood, the marble gave way to worn stone. The air grew cooler, mustier. Portraits faded to muted tapestries, and the light seemed to dim of its own accord, as though the house itself were shedding its grandeur in layers. Revealing more of its former bones.

  By the time they reached the curving staircase tucked away near the rear of the manor, it felt like they had slipped back into another time altogether. The air grew heavier, tinged with the faint, familiar scent of old wood and lavender oil. Beneath her boots, the stone gave way to creaking floorboards she remembered too well. The ones that groaned in protest whenever she had tried to sneak away unseen.

  Carrvol paused at the base of the stairs, smiling as he gesturing upward. “Your quarters are prepared, my lady. That wing is somewhat less extravagant than the rest of the estate—renovations were postponed until spring. Still, I trust it will serve as a suitable home during your stay.”

  Vespera didn’t react. His words were nothing more than a polished excuse, an indirect reminder that she was little more than an unwelcome guest tucked away out of sight. The thought gnawed at her, but it also anchored her in an unexpected way. Better, perhaps, to be hidden from the grand halls steeped in memory. To not have to witness how much the manor had been gutted and reshaped into something unrecognizable. The older wing seemed untouched by Carrvol’s influence. She had never been allowed to wander these parts as a child, and the unfamiliarity wrapped around her like a worn but welcome cloak. It was easier to breathe here, easier to imagine that some piece of the past still lingered. She could not have borne sleeping in her former chambers, knowing they would have been stripped of everything she had known.

  “I’ll manage,” Vespera said.

  “Wonderful.”

  They ascended the staircase, their footsteps echoing in the narrow, dim corridor. At the end of the hall, Carrvol stopped and swung open a door with a low, grating creak. Inside, the room was spare and utilitarian, stripped of any pretense of comfort or hospitality. A single cot, draped in a rough woolen blanket, rested against one wall, while a modest desk in the corner sat cluttered with unused paper and dried-up inkpots. Near the window stood a weathered chest and a low dresser, their surfaces scuffed and worn by years of neglect. A battered tin tub had been placed behind a folding divider, offering a meager semblance of privacy for bathing.

  Something inside Vespera relaxed.

  Carrvol stepped back, a thin, self-satisfied smile playing at his lips as he cast a leisurely glance over the room’s barren austerity.

  “I shall leave you to settle in,” he said. “Tomorrow, we must speak at greater length. I am most eager to hear every stirring detail of our triumphant conquest over the dastardly Aurentine Alliance. I have seen to it that a servant is assigned to your care—she will be along shortly. Rest well, my lady.”

  Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and strode away.

  Vespera remained standing in the middle of the room for a long moment, the heavy silence pressing against her. The stone walls loomed bare and cold, and the only window offered a view of the bleak, overcast garden beyond. Gravel paths wound through the grounds, stark and empty save for the distant figures of guards pacing their patrols.

  She moved toward the window, drawing back the thin curtains with a flick of her fingers. Beyond the brittle winter garden, the silhouette of the family mausoleum rose against the gray horizon, its sharp angles casting long, jagged shadows across the frozen earth. The sight struck her harder than she expected—a cold reminder of all she had lost, and the crushing weight of a legacy now reduced to little more than a relic.

  Her lips pressed into a tight line as a thought settled like a stone in her stomach. Was it purely coincidence that Carrvol had assigned her this room? Tucked away in the farthest corner of the estate, hidden from the grand halls and lavish chambers that visitors would see—yet left with an unobstructed view of the mausoleum, that last, crumbling monument to her family’s name. The choice felt deliberate. A silent, calculated insult.

  A sting of resentment pricked at her, sharp and fleeting, but it ebbed quickly into the strange, heavy numbness that had been gnawing at her ever since the war. She ran a hand over her face and exhaled, the weight of exhaustion finally settling in. The room, simple and impersonal, was still a relief. To any other noble, the accommodations might have seemed an insult. But she was no longer one. She had spent half her life in barracks and battlefield camps; luxury, or even comfort, had long since ceased to define her.

  Vespera unlatched her valise and unpacked the few belongings she had brought: a set of worn army fatigues, a handful of nightshirts, smallclothes, and a pair of threadbare socks. She moved mechanically, refusing to dwell on what the meager contents said about the life she had led until that point. As she folded the last of her things into the dresser, a soft knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts.

  “Enter,” she called, standing to adjust her attire.

  A girl stepped inside, her attire plain yet practical: a faded brown dress with a white apron, its edges frayed from wear. She was younger than Vespera, barely out of adolescence, her features soft with youth. Wide brown eyes darted anxiously around the room, taking in every corner. A blonde braid trailed down the side of her neck, the rest of her hair neatly tucked beneath a simple white coif. She clasped her hands in front of her, trembling slightly, and curtsied so deeply that Vespera almost feared she might topple over.

  “M-my lady, I’ve been sent to help you prepare for dinner,” the girl stammered, her voice respectful but quivering with apprehension. “Shall I assist you with a bath?”

  Vespera studied the girl quietly, the silence of the mansion pressing in around them. It had been a long walk through the cold, empty halls, and until now, she hadn’t seen another soul. The girl, with her wide eyes and fearful demeanor, might appear innocent, but Vespera knew better than to mistake that for harmlessness. Undoubtedly, the girl had been tasked with reporting every movement, every word, back to Carrvol.

  Vespera gave a small nod. “Yes. That would be... appreciated.”

  While her external injuries had healed, a deep ache remained, dull and constant, settling into her muscles and joints. Her movements were slow, stiff, and each step brought a sharp, gnawing discomfort. A creeping sensation that only grew worse with each passing day, and hindered everyday activities, from eating to bathing.

  “A-at once, my lady.”

  Avoiding any eye contact, the maid moved quickly behind the divider, gathering towels, soap, and a ladle from the nearby cupboard. Vespera observed her for a moment, noticing the tremor in her hands as she worked. It was clear the girl more than nervous, but rather afraid of her. Vespera doubted the maid had been given a choice in serving her.

  Steam curled in the air, clinging to Vespera’s skin as she sank into the tub and closed her eyes. She had never cared for being waited on, but right now, exhaustion outweighed pride. The maid worked quietly, her hands careful as she poured warm water over Vespera’s hair, the steady trickle breaking the heavy silence of the room. Fingers scrubbed gently through her scalp, stirring a mixture of soap and roadside dust.

  Once the bath was finished, Vespera dried off and dressed herself. The maid excused herself briefly, returning a few minutes later with a tray of food: roast chicken, fresh bread, a simple salad, and glasses of juice, water, and wine. Vespera dismissed her with a nod after she set the tray on the desk.

  She ate slowly, her mind drifting to distant battlefields and the men she had lost. Faces blurred by time, enemies fallen by her hand—all of them were ghosts now. The mansion’s silence pressed in around her, heavy and suffocating, at odds with her clashing memories. She didn’t let herself glance toward the window, but also didn’t need to. She could feel the family mausoleum presence looming out there in the dark, and the thought of it turned the food in her stomach to stone.

  When she finished, she leaned back in her chair, staring at the flickering candle on the table. Time felt warped, folding in strange, bitter ways. She was here again, in the place where it had all begun. But the life she had once known was long gone. The girl she had been had also been dead and buried for over a decade. There was no reason for her to mourn.

  All Vespera wanted now was to forget everything and rest.

  She pushed herself up and crossed the room to the bed. As she pulled back the covers and adjusted the pillow, something crinkled beneath her hand. Frowning, she slipped her fingers underneath and drew out a small slip of paper, folded once.

  The parchment was thick and expensive, the kind meant for official letters, not casual notes. Across it, in elegant, flowing script, three lines unfurled like a whisper from the past:

  They have stolen your name, your home, your past.

  But the land remembers its true heir.

  Welcome home, Sovereign.

  Vespera’s heart gave a sharp, involuntary jolt. She stared at the note, her fingers tightening around the edges as the weight of the words sank in. A chill crept down her spine.

  Someone knew who she truly was—and had been waiting.

  Slowly, she slid the note back beneath the pillow and lay down, her body rigid against the mattress. The darkness pressed in around her, and for the first time in years, Vespera found herself unable to sleep.