Ciera Dorne
The carriage jolted to a stop on uneven stone, flinging me forward hard enough to knock my shoulder against the frame. I braced myself on instinct, one hand catching the chipped edge of the door before I looked up.
No one opened it for me.
The driver didn't call down, didn't even look back. He simply climbed down and began unloading the trunks behind him. My life, reduced to a pair of old cases and a name that wasn't mine.
I stepped out alone. My boots crunched on the gravel, half-sunk in dew and mist. The air was heavier here, metallic with cold and clung to my sleeves like a second skin. Ahead of me, behind a stretch of pale grass and black ivy, House Thornevale rose like a fortress meant to outlast memory.
It wasn't welcoming. It wasn't meant to be.
Stone towers stood like sentinels, their windows shuttered, their surfaces worn smooth by generations of wind and snow. The wrought iron gates bore no family crest, only the outline of thorned vines, twisted into a grim pattern of loops and barbs. Beyond them, the house itself loomed pale gray against the sky, tall and silent, as if watching the world through hooded eyes.
No banners. No guards in ceremonial uniform. No warm lights flickering in windows.
Just silence.
And yet, I knew this place by name. Everyone did, though no one dared speak of it too openly. Thornevale was ancient, older than the Empire in some records. A house that held land but rarely court presence. A house that owed allegiance to no faction, not even the Crown itself.
We, the Valennes, had stood for warmth—roses blooming even in the coldest frost. Thornevale was different. Thorns did not bloom. It seems like it endured.
The guard at the gate barely spared me a glance. He read the parchment Cerxic had forged, stamped it, nodded once, then turned his back as the gates creaked open. That was it. No welcome. No questions. No curiosity about who I was.
And honestly, I preferred it that way.
The servants' wing was tucked along the eastern side of the estate. Smaller than I expected, but no less austere—plain wooden beams, narrow windows, and a slanted roof where snow still lingered even in spring. A senior maid met me at the door, looked me over like I was a basket of laundry, and handed me a set of keys and a linen apron.
"You'll sleep in the third chamber. No hot water on even days. Learn fast. Speak little."
She walked away without waiting for a reply.
I blinked.
In another life, I'd had twelve ladies-in-waiting to prepare my gowns. Here, I would be lucky to get a candle that didn't sputter out mid-wash.
My room was just big enough to contain a bed, a basin, and a cracked mirror nailed crookedly above a tiny desk. The mattress sank under my weight, worn thin from years of use, and the blanket smelled faintly of vinegar and mold. I sat down and stared at my gloved hands for a long moment.
This was my new life.
Useful, Cerxic had said. If you want revenge, you need to be useful again.
But I wasn't sure what I felt more—grief, humiliation or the strange hollowness that came from not hearing my name spoken aloud.
Seraphina Valenne would have balked at rough sheets. She would have summoned the steward and ordered new ones. But Ciera Dorne had no such luxury.
Ciera was just a girl.
A nothing.
I set the gloves on the desk and breathed deeply. I was still grieving. I still flinched when someone passed too closely behind me. I still woke up expecting to see Aldric's ridiculous morning hair or my father's half-smile over tea.
And I still whispered their names when I thought no one was listening.
But grief would not stop me from seeing this through.
Later, I wandered the grounds quietly. No one stopped me. I moved like I belonged, chin lowered, steps careful. In the servants' world, no one asked questions as long as you looked like you were running errands.
The estate stretched wide and tiered, stone terraces clinging to the cliffside like teeth. There was no music. No birds. The only sounds were wind against slate roofs and the faint rustle of servants doing their work in half-silence.
It was on one of those upper balconies that I saw him.
At first, just a shape. A man, tall and broad-shouldered, resting against the railing with his hands loosely clasped behind his back. He wore a dark coat lined in fur, the kind not worn by servants, and his hair was the color of dark wine under the overcast sky.
I couldn't see his face clearly. Only his posture. Confident. Not bored, not distracted but… watchful.
He wasn't looking at me. Or if he was, he was subtle enough not to show it.
Still, something about him tugged at memory.
Had I seen him before? In a past life, at court perhaps? A banquet? One of the diplomatic councils where faces blurred together under the weight of titles and masks?
Then, just as quickly, he turned and left, vanishing into the corridor without a word.
I lingered, heart pounding harder than it should've. Why did he feel familiar?
Why did I feel… seen?
That doesn't seem good.
Back in my room, I let the questions gnaw quietly at the edge of my thoughts. Who was he? And more importantly, what would he want with a nameless new servant like me?
Unless I'd already failed at being forgettable.
Unless someone in this place had eyes sharper than the rest.
——
Later that night, Cerxic arrived through one of the lesser courtyards. He didn't say how he got in. He just set a wrapped bundle on my bed and muttered, "You'll need better boots."
I didn't thank him. That wasn't our dynamic.
Instead, I asked the question that had been on my tongue all day. "Why Thornevale? Of all places, why send me here?"
Cerxic leaned against the wall and folded his arms.
"Because they don't care," he said simply. "They won't question you. They won't protect you. But they also won't notice you… until they do."
"That sounds like a terrible plan."
"It's the only one you've got."
I frowned. "And if they find out?"
"They won't."
"But if they do?"
He shrugged. "Then don't get found out."
For a spy master, he wasn't very comforting.
But I knew he was right. If I could hide here, I could build something. A place to listen. A place to learn. Even a place to poison a few wells, metaphorically speaking.
But tonight, there was no plan yet. No list of names. No blades under the pillow.
Only me.
Sigh.
I curled onto the cot, thin blanket tucked under my chin, and whispered something into the dark. Not a prayer, not exactly.
Just… a promise.
I would not be a ghost forever.
Not while the Empire still breathed.
Not while the frost still remembered the name Valenne. And especially not while someone upstairs looked down on me like they knew who I used to be.