The invitation arrived on a platter of polished silver, carried by a stone-faced servant in the Thorne family livery. It was not the cream-colored vellum typical of Academy missives. This was heavy parchment, gilded at the edges, sealed with a blob of crimson wax bearing the unmistakable imprint of the Imperial Dragon. It lay there, inert, yet it felt like a live coal.
I stared at it from my desk, where I'd been attempting to sketch a basic purification array from memory. The charcoal in my hand snapped.
The Rose Pavilion. Spring Tea Party. Third bell afternoon, on the Day of Blossoms.
The words, elegant and looping, seemed to pulse with a malevolent light. My breath hitched, the air in my solitary Academy room turning thick and suffocating. The date. The time. The location. It was all exactly as it had been in the memories of the original Rosalind—the final, glittering trap before the plunge into darkness.
A cold sweat broke out along my spine. In my past life, I'd heard about this scandal only in whispers after the fact—the shameful confession, the attempted poisoning, and the disgrace of Duchess Rosalind. As Selene, I'd been sequestered in the Cathedral, preparing for a holy rite, too removed from noble gossip to understand the nuances. Now, living it, the details were horrifically clear.
This was the event. The catalyst. The moment Rosalind Thorne's fate had been welded shut.
Seraphina Vale would poison a cup of tea. She would maneuver it to me. I would drink, become violently ill, and in my disoriented state, be coaxed into a humiliating, public confession of love for Crown Prince Cassian. The 'poisoning' would be framed as a desperate suicide attempt after his 'rejection.' My name would be sludge. My father would disown me. The path to the executioner's block would be a straight, swift line.
My fingers, stained with charcoal, trembled. I had spent the last few weeks since the checkpoint incident in a state of vigilant caution. I attended lectures, kept my head down, and exchanged only necessary words with Seraphina, who watched me with the calculating patience of a spider. I had begun the slow, arduous work of trying to gently stretch and awaken the latent holy channels in this body, a process as delicate as threading a needle in the dark. It was working, but it was slow. A faint warmth in my palms, a slight clarity in my senses—nothing that could stop a political avalanche.
I had hoped, foolishly, that by avoiding Seraphina and changing the small variables—sitting in different seats, taking different paths to class—I might derail the timeline. That the tea party might not occur, or I might not be invited.
The gilded mockery on the silver tray proved how naive that hope was.
"A reply is expected by dusk, my lady," the servant intoned, his voice empty of any inflection. He stood, a silent monument to my father's distant authority.
"Leave it," I managed, my voice surprisingly steady.
He bowed, placed the tray on the small table by the door, and departed, shutting the door with a soft, final click.
The moment I was alone, the calm shattered. I shot up from my chair, pacing the length of the rug. My mind, the mind of a former Saint who had strategized against demon hordes, whirred into frantic, survivalist overdrive.
I cannot go.
The thought was absolute, primal. Attending was knowingly walking into the lion's den while covered in fresh meat. Every advantage Seraphina and Cassian had orchestrated would be in play: the controlled environment, the preselected witnesses, and the orchestrated service.
But refusing a direct invitation from the Crown Prince was a snub of monumental proportions. It would require an excuse of equal magnitude.
An idea, cold and clear, formed. An illness. Not a petty cold, but something sudden, severe, and convincingly debilitating. The academy's head physician was a stern but honorable man. If I could manifest the symptoms of a violent, contagious stomach fever—a little internal manipulation of my own humors using the barest whisper of holy energy to induce fever and pallor—I could be confined to the infirmary. Isolated. Untouchable.
It was a risk. Using any power opened a window for detection, especially by anyone with magical sensitivity. But it was a smaller risk than the tea party. I could control the narrative and become a pitiable victim of circumstance rather than a scheming villainess.
I moved to my writing desk, pulling out a fresh sheet of paper. I would pen my regrets immediately, citing a sudden, debilitating malaise. I would send it before my father could possibly hear of the invitation and issue a command. I had to act first.
Just as my quill touched the inkpot, a sharp, authoritative rap sounded at my door. It wasn't the gentle tap of a maid or another student. It was the sound of someone who expected immediate entry.
"Enter," I called, laying the quill down, my heart thudding against my ribs.
The door opened to reveal not a servant, but a man-at-arms in the full, formidable regalia of the Thorne household guard—polished breastplate, forest-green cloak, and a sword at his hip. His eyes scanned the room once, a professional assessment, before landing on me. He held out a sealed letter.
"From His Grace, the Duke of Thorne. For your eyes only, my lady. An immediate response is required."
The blood drained from my face, leaving me cold. This was too fast. Far too fast. The invitation had only just arrived. How could my father's countermand already be here?
With numb fingers, I took the letter. The seal was my father's personal mark: a thorny rose encircled by a wall. I broke it, the wax crumbling like old bones.
The handwriting was as I remembered from sparse childhood memories: precise, sharp, and devoid of flourish. It was a blade of text on the page.
Rosalind,
Intelligence has reached me of your receipt of an invitation to His Royal Highness's Spring Tea Party. You will attend.
Do not embarrass the family.
Your recent… peculiarities at the Northern checkpoint have been noted. The Crown Prince's favor is the only shield that will suffice for such impulsive behavior. You will smile. You will be gracious. You will strengthen ties with the Crown Prince. Consider this an order from your Duke, not a request from your father.
Failure in this is not an option.
—Thorne
The paper rustled in my trembling hand. Each sentence was a nail hammering the lid of a coffin I was desperately trying to escape.
You will attend.
Not a suggestion. A decree. From the one person in this world whose authority over me, in this life, was absolute. As Duchess Rosalind, my father's word was law. My wealth, my status, and my very safety within the Academy walls were contingent on his distant, disinterested support. To defy him openly was to make myself an orphan in truth, stripping away the last veneer of protection my name offered.
Do not embarrass the family.
The old, familiar pressure, the weight that had crushed the original Rosalind, settled on my shoulders. Her entire existence had been a performance to avoid this singular sin. It was the whip that had driven her to seek validation in the Crown Prince's smile, to believe Seraphina's false friendship, and to become so desperate for a scrap of approval that she walked willingly into her ruin.
And now it was my whip.
The Crown Prince's favor is the only shield…
So, he knew about the checkpoint. Of course he did. A duke had spies everywhere. He saw my act of healing not as a miracle, not as strength, but as a "peculiarity," a dangerous political liability. His solution was to throw me at the source of the problem, to have me beg for the favor of the very viper who wanted me dead.
The irony was so bitter I almost laughed. The saint who had healed thousands was now ordered to humiliate herself before a fraud in order to survive.
My plan of illness evaporated. A sudden fever would be seen as disobedience, a cowardly evasion. It would anger my father more than it would frustrate Cassian. It might even prompt him to send his own physicians, who would find nothing physically wrong with me—a discovery that would lead to accusations of malingering or, worse, magical manipulation.
I was trapped. The escape route I'd crafted for myself had been walled off before I could even take a step.
I looked up at the impassive guard. "There is no required written response. You may inform my father that his message is received and understood."
The guard's eyes flickered with something—perhaps a hint of pity, quickly suppressed. He bowed. "Very good, my lady."
He left, closing the door once more, leaving me alone with the two pieces of paper that spelled my potential doom.
I sank into my chair, the stiff crinoline of my skirt rustling. The gilded invitation gleamed mockingly. My father's stark letter lay beside it, a chain of command.
For a long moment, the old Selene surfaced—the part of me that was used to bearing burdens silently, to sacrificing my own desires for a perceived greater good or a direct order. That part whispered of acquiescence. Go. Endure. Smile. Perhaps you can navigate it. Perhaps fate can be changed from within the trap.
Then, the memory flashed: Kaelen Frost, his back to me, ice magic flaring as he faced a demon lord to buy me seconds. His rough voice. "In another life…"
His blood on the snow.
No.
The word was a fire in my core, melting the icy fear. I was not just Selene, the obedient saint. I was also Rosalind, who had already died once in infamy. And I was something new, forged in the regret of that battlefield.
I would not go as a lamb to slaughter. I would not go to "strengthen ties." I would go to war.
The tea party was no longer a trap to avoid; it was a battlefield to conquer. If I could not flee the engagement, I would change its outcome. Seraphina intended to poison me? Then I would turn her poison back on itself. She intended to humiliate me? I would ensure the humiliation landed squarely on its architect.
A grim, cold focus settled over me. The frantic energy of panic crystallized into a sharp, strategic clarity. I pushed the invitation and my father's letter aside. I pulled a fresh sheet of paper and began to write, not a refusal, but a different kind of note.
Lady Elara,
I find myself in need of a friend's counsel regarding a delicate social matter. The Spring Tea Party approaches, and I am uncertain of the… current factions present. Might you spare a moment to share your insights? Your northern perspective is always so refreshingly clear.
—Rosalind
Elara Frost was my only ally, my tether to the man who had died for me. She was also sharp, observant, and fiercely loyal to her brother. If anyone knew the lay of the land, the subtle alliances and enmities within the Academy's social sphere, it would be her. More importantly, she might know things about Seraphina, about Cassian's inner circle, that I did not.
Information was my first weapon.
Next, I needed to understand the tool of my intended destruction. I left my room and moved through the quiet halls of the noble dormitory toward the academy's main library. I requested scrolls on recent alchemical incidents, on common toxins, and—under the thinnest of pretenses—a botanical guide to rare flowering plants known for their medicinal and toxic properties.
The librarian, an elderly man with spectacles, gave me a curious look but fetched the materials. I pored over them in a secluded carrel. I wasn't looking for an exotic, untraceable poison. Seraphina was cunning but not a genius. She would use something reliable, something she could acquire through her family's connections, something with symptoms that served her narrative.
White Veil. The name jumped from a dry report on a recent noble scandal. A tasteless, odorless powder derived from a mountain root. Symptoms: violent tremors, slurred speech, facial contortions—mimicking a sudden, severe neurological affliction. It was humiliating, dramatic, and non-lethal in small doses. Perfect for her purposes. The report noted it was a controlled substance, logged by the Royal Apothecary.
A plan, dangerous and precise, began to take shape in my mind. It would require timing, nerve, and a complete abandonment of the passive role everyone expected of Rosalind Thorne.
As I returned to my room, the setting sun staining the sky with blood orange and deep purple, I felt a strange calm. The dread was still there, a cold knot in my stomach, but it was joined by a resolute fury.
My father had ordered me to the front line. Cassian and Seraphina had prepared an ambush.
Very well.
They would learn that the woman they were trying to break was no longer a desperate girl seeking approval. She was a regressed saint who had seen hell and a vengeful villainess with nothing left to lose.
I picked up the gilded invitation one last time. The wax seal of the Imperial Dragon seemed to smirk at me.
I smiled back, a thin, hard curve of my lips.
Let the game begin.
As night fell, a different, unofficial note was slipped under my door. It was unsigned, written in a hasty, elegant script. It contained only three lines: "The white powder comes from the Vale conservatory. The servant with the jade ring is bought. The prince prefers the gold-rimmed china." An ally—or a deeper trap—had just shown their hand.