**Chapter Eight: Serpents in Silk**
The palace was quieter the next day—but not safer.
Without Lorenzo's presence casting a long shadow over the halls, the vipers of court life began to slither more freely. Smiles lingered too long. Eyes narrowed with interest. Whispers echoed behind closed doors, and the air grew thick with anticipation. I could feel it in the walls. The vultures were circling again—only this time, their talons were manicured and their perfume sweet.
At breakfast, Elira placed a folded note beside my plate. There was no wax seal, no signature.
"You are invited to Lady Vinora's salon at midday."
Just ten words. But they carried the weight of a thousand.
"She's summoning me," I said aloud.
"She's studying you," Elira corrected as she poured tea. "She wants to know who you are now that Lorenzo's gone. You're in her territory now."
"Should I decline?"
"You can't. Not without insult. Not without consequence."
I looked at the note again. Smooth. Precise. Like its sender.
Lady Vinora—treasurer of the crown, daughter of a duke, widow of three husbands. She wielded power with silk gloves and a smile sharp enough to slit throats. Rumor said she once bankrupted an entire region with a single word. Another claimed she had lovers buried beneath her garden roses.
I believed both.
"She's dangerous," I murmured.
"She's worse than dangerous," Elira said. "She's bored."
* * *
I arrived at the salon dressed in ivory—a soft color that didn't scream challenge, but didn't invite dismissal either. My gown was modest by court standards, with sheer sleeves and a cinched waist. Pearls lined my collar. I wore no crown.
They would expect a queen to arrive dripping in jewels and arrogance.
Let them be disappointed.
Vinora's salon was a sunlit chamber at the heart of the West Wing. The glass ceiling let in streams of golden light that made every woman in the room glow like royalty. Plush cushions lined the marble floor, and golden trays held an assortment of desserts, fruits, and flutes of sparkling wine.
Ten women were already seated in a crescent formation when I arrived. Vinora sat at the center, her posture perfect, her gown a cascade of emeralds and black lace. Her hair was coiled high, her face flawless. She looked like a woman carved by power—and perfected by calculation.
When I stepped in, all ten pairs of eyes turned to me.
Vinora rose with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Your Highness. You grace us."
I returned the smile. "Lady Vinora. Thank you for the invitation."
"Come," she said, gesturing to the empty cushion beside her. "Sit."
I did.
Wine was poured. Pastries were offered. I declined both.
Around me, the women chatted easily—about fashion, about summer estates, about the emperor's new trade agreement with the Eastern Isles. But every word was a performance, every laugh a test.
"Your gown is exquisite," a lady in yellow said. "Very... demure."
A compliment or an insult?
"Thank you," I replied. "I find subtlety makes a louder statement than embroidery."
They smiled, but I could feel their eyes sharpen.
Another woman leaned in. She wore green silk and too many rings. "I heard your sister was quite the beauty."
"She is," I said, tone even.
"More beautiful than you?"
The air paused.
My heart didn't.
"Beauty is a strange thing," I answered. "Sometimes it blinds people. Sometimes it burns them. I think my sister was the sun. I prefer to be the flame."
Vinora let out a soft, amused laugh. "Well said."
The tension eased—slightly.
"Tell us," said a younger noble, her accent foreign. "What is it like, being married to a man like Prince Lorenzo?"
Another test.
I smiled softly. "Every day is a chess game."
"And who wins?"
"That depends. Are you playing with love or survival?"
They laughed, but it wasn't mocking. It was intrigued.
I could feel it then—the shift. The tilt. They didn't trust me. But they were starting to respect me.
That was enough.
For now.
* * *
As the salon thinned, Lady Vinora touched my arm lightly.
"Walk with me?"
I nodded.
We strolled through the glass corridor, alone. The palace gardens stretched beyond the windows, kissed by golden sunlight. I could feel the warmth, but not the peace.
"You handled them well," she said.
"Handled?"
"Don't play coy. You parried every jab without breaking a sweat. You're not as green as you look."
I met her gaze. "Was this a test?"
"Of course. Everything in this palace is a test. The question is—did you come prepared? Or did you just survive?"
I paused.
Then said, "I prepared to survive."
Vinora smiled. It was the first real one I'd seen.
"Good answer," she said. "Let me offer you advice, Princess. You're new. You're young. And you're surrounded by wolves. Don't try to tame them."
"What should I do instead?"
"Feed them just enough to keep them hungry. And never let them know what you're truly thinking."
We stopped at a window overlooking the northern gardens.
"I liked Amara," she said suddenly.
I tensed.
"She was smart. Poised. But she wasn't ruthless. Not enough to wear the crown for long."
"You think I am?"
"I think," Vinora said, "you have potential. But potential means nothing unless you're willing to use it."
A pause.
Then she stepped closer, her voice dropping.
"Be careful, Princess. Maldrin is watching. The Queen Mother is testing you. And the court—well, they're simply waiting to see whether you'll fly or fall."
She turned and walked away, her steps echoing like a warning.
* * *
That evening, I sat alone in the garden outside my chamber. The sun was setting, painting the sky in reds and golds. I breathed in the scent of roses, tried to calm the racing in my chest.
I was tired.
Not just physically—but tired of pretending.
Of playing.
But there was no other choice.
"Elira," I said as she joined me with a shawl. "How do you do it? How do you live here every day and still smile?"
She sat beside me. "I stopped smiling for them a long time ago."
I looked at her.
"I smile for myself. For my survival. For the people who can't afford to smile anymore."
I thought of the servants. Of the stable boy who had bowed so deeply he dropped his brush. Of the cook who trembled when she burned a loaf of bread. Of the maid who had quietly hidden a bruised arm behind her back.
This palace was gilded. But beneath the gold, it was rotting.
"Then I'll learn to smile for myself too," I said.
She nodded.
"And one day," I added, "I'll make them regret ever underestimating me."
* * *
Later that night, a letter was slid under my door.
It was written in elegant handwriting. Inked in red.
> "The game has begun.
>
> Move wisely, Princess.
>
> Or bleed beautifully."
There was no name.
Just a seal I didn't recognize—an hourglass surrounded by thorns.
I held the letter over the candle until the flames consumed it.
And then I didn't sleep at all.