No one noticed the moment the world tilted. It did not announce itself with thunder nor spectacle, but with a silence so delicate it passed for ordinary. Later, they would insist the signs had always been there in the glances that lingered too long, in the whispers cut short, in the way certain names were spoken only behind closed doors. But on that evening, beneath chandeliers and polite laughter, only two people felt the shift: a woman who had spent her life being overlooked, and a man who had never truly belonged anywhere at all.
And before dawn arrived, someone would be dead.
Episode I —
In the spring of 1884, when London society was as polished and merciless as the marble floors of its grandest halls, Miss Loreana Press was being laced into a life she did not intend to wear.
"Stand still, miss," murmured her maid, Clara Dovewick, tugging the ivory ribbons tighter.
"I am standing still," Loreana replied dryly. "It is the world that insists upon moving me."
She was seventeen and already spoken of in drawing rooms as though she were an heirloom teacup. delicate, valuable, destined for careful placement in a wealthy man's cabinet. Her gown was a vision of pale silk, cut with exquisite precision, flowing in dignified folds that whispered across the carpet. Her dark hair, thick and uncooperative, had been coaxed into elegant structure. Loose strands framed a face too intelligent to be considered entirely agreeable.
Behind her, in the reflection of the mirror, stood her mother, Mrs. Eleanor Press rigid, formidable, a woman who believed reputation to be oxygen.
"You will attend the ball," her mother said. "You will smile. You will speak when spoken to. And you will not disgrace this family as you did at Lady Thornmere's luncheon."
"I merely corrected a man who insisted the earth was 6,000 years old," Loreana replied. "If truth disgraces us, we are in dire condition indeed."
Her mother's jaw tightened. "You are to be married this season."
Loreana's eyes hardened.
Her elder sister, Adeline, had once stood in this very room radiant, hopeful, obedient. Married at eighteen. Seven children by twenty-six. Dead at twenty-seven of a fever that spread through nurseries like gossip.
Loreana had buried her sister with her own hands.
"I will not be sold," she said quietly.
"You will be secured," her mother corrected.
The carriage ride was intolerable.
Loreana sat alone in the rear compartment, staring out at gaslit streets, muttering her grievances under her breath. "A grand ball. How profoundly original. Perhaps we shall also discuss the weather."
From the front seat, her mother snapped, "Silence, Loreana!"
Loreana smiled thinly to herself. "If only."
The Ashford Grand Hall rose ahead towering, luminous, decadent. Chandeliers glittered like suspended constellations. Carriages lined the drive in an orderly parade of ambition.
Inside, violins soared. Laughter spilled. Silk rustled like restless leaves.
Loreana entered as though entering a battlefield.
And there he stood announced with theatrical flourish:
"His Serene Highness, Prince Hockenberg of Terrinem."
He approached her not five minutes later, polished and perfumed.
"Miss Press," he said with a smile too rehearsed. "You honor this evening."
"Do I?" Loreana replied. "I had assumed the chandeliers managed adequately without me."
He blinked.
"I have heard," he continued, "that you are… spirited."
"I have heard," she returned smoothly, "that you are persistent."
Before he could respond, her mother materialized. "Your Highness, forgive her. She suffers dreadfully from headaches."
"I imagine she suffers from education," the prince said coolly. "A condition that requires correction."
Loreana's lips curved. "And I imagine you suffer from hair oil. A condition that requires moderation."
A nearby debutante gasped.
The prince's expression chilled. "You will learn respect."
"And you," she said lightly, "may one day earn it."
She walked away before her mother could seize her arm.
She escaped down a quieter corridor away from violins, away from expectation.
The hallway was long, lined with portraits whose painted eyes seemed to follow her. The music dimmed behind heavy doors. At last silence.
Until
Footsteps.
Quick. Controlled.
She turned.
A man collided with her steadying her by the waist before she could stumble.
He released her immediately.
"My apologies," he said.
Loreana stepped back, straightening her gloves. "You appear to be in pursuit of something."
"Information," he replied.
He was tall, unmistakably so dressed in a dark tailored coat absent of decorative nonsense. His hair was dark brown, the type that glistened in the sunlight. His features were precise: sharp cheekbones, an angular jaw, eyes a deep storm-gray that missed nothing.
He bowed, though not theatrically.
"Niragon Tellom Lirantune Trest."
"That is either your name or a legal document," Loreana replied.
One corner of his mouth lifted. "It is my name. The document comes later."
"And what business brings you crashing into corridors, Mr. Trest?"
"I might ask what business brings you fleeing princes."
She crossed her arms. "I do not flee. I retreat strategically."
"Of course you do."
She studied him. Athletic build. Balanced posture. The faintest scar at his wrist. Observant. Composed.
Dangerous.
"You are not here to dance," she said.
"Nor are you."
A crash echoed from the ballroom.
A scream.
The kind that curdled the air.
They both moved before thinking.
The ballroom had dissolved into chaos.
At the foot of the grand staircase lay Prince Hockenberg.
Dead.
A thin blade protruded from his chest.
Blood seeped into polished marble.
Gasps. Shouts. Ladies fainting with commendable timing.
Loreana did not scream.
She observed.
Angle of entry. Depth of wound. Position of the body.
Niragon stood beside her, equally still.
"Interesting," he murmured.
"You find murder interesting?"
"I find patterns interesting."
Her eyes flicked to him. "You anticipated something tonight."
"Yes."
"And?"
"And this was not it."
Guards sealed the exits.
Mrs. Press clutched Loreana's arm. "You spoke to him!"
"As did half the room."
A constable pushed through the crowd. "No one leaves. This is now a crime investigation."
Loreana glanced at Niragon.
He inclined his head slightly.
A silent agreement.
Hours later, whispers filled drawing rooms.
Rumors bloomed like mildew.
Loreana slipped away into the library, where the prince had been seen moments before his death.
Niragon was already there.
"You investigate quickly," she said.
"You think quickly."
She examined the desk. A torn page. Ink still wet.
She lifted it carefully.
"Numbers," she murmured. "Accounts."
"Blackmail," Niragon said.
Her eyes flashed. "Against whom?"
They both turned toward the ballroom doors.
Society glittered.
Society lied.
The investigation deepened over days.
Servants questioned. Nobles interrogated.
Loreana and Niragon crossed paths repeatedly exchanging theories in hallways, libraries, gardens.
"You suspect my mother," Loreana said one afternoon.
"I suspect everyone," Niragon replied calmly.
"That is not comforting."
"It is not meant to be."
They discovered the prince had been threatening exposure financial ruin for several prominent families.
Including
The Press family.
Loreana's breath thinned.
"My father's debts…"
"Yes," Niragon said gently. "The prince held proof."
"And you believe I killed him?"
"I believe," he said, meeting her eyes, "that you are capable of many things. Murder is not one of them."
A pause.
"That almost sounded affectionate," she said.
"It was observational."
She smiled despite herself.
The true clue arrived unexpectedly.
Clara, her maid, mentioned the prince arguing not with Loreana — but with Mrs. Eleanor Press.
Loreana felt the ground shift.
She confronted her mother that evening.
"You met him privately."
"For your future," her mother said sharply.
"You feared exposure."
Silence.
Tremor.
"You would not," Loreana whispered.
Her mother's composure fractured.
"He threatened everything!" Eleanor hissed. "Your father's disgrace! Your sister's dowry unpaid! Our ruin!"
Loreana stepped back slowly.
"You killed him."
"No!" her mother cried. "I only meant to frighten him"
The blade had been small. Concealable.
Loreana saw it now the tremor in her mother's hands that night.
The "headache" excuse.
The urgency.
Niragon entered quietly behind her.
He had known.
"Mrs. Press," he said gently, "you underestimated your daughter."