The southern grain arrived late.

  Three days, as promised.

  But not by mercy.

  By observation.

  Celia stood on the balcony of her estate, watching the wagons roll past the gates, escorted by her guards. Dust rose into the twilight, curling like smoke from the battlefield she had not fought… yet.

  The king’s messenger arrived quietly, bowing deeply before speaking.

  “Lady Valmont, the audit reports compliance. Duke Harrington’s shipments are en route, as instructed.”

  Celia inclined her head slightly. “Excellent.”

  He hesitated. “There were… complications.”

  She smiled faintly. Complications were always welcome—they revealed the weak points of her opponents.

  “Explain.”

  “The coordinator you warned about… he has disappeared. Unconfirmed reports suggest he fled north. Some allege he was harmed.”

  Celia considered this carefully. A single thread pulled too fast could unravel the rest.

  “Harrington’s methods are cleaner than expected,” she murmured. “But not flawless.”

  Her aide, Marianne, stepped forward. “What do you wish me to do?”

  “Monitor,” Celia replied. “And document everything. Every misstep.”

  A faint rustle behind her.

  The hero approached silently, cloak damp from rain.

  “You’re escalating faster than before,” he said, voice low, calm. Always calm. Always precise.

  “Yes,” she admitted. “And now I know how far they will bend before breaking.”

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  He studied her carefully. “The duke knows he was cornered. He may retaliate.”

  “Perhaps,” she said softly. “Or perhaps he will think the corner an illusion.”

  He frowned. “You’re assuming he cannot predict you.”

  Celia’s eyes glimmered with a sharp edge. “I am never predictable.”

  A distant cry rose from the streets.

  Her attention shifted instantly.

  Marianne whispered, “The villagers—they are… celebrating? Or protesting?”

  Celia narrowed her eyes. They were celebrating.

  For now.

  But celebrations in the shadow of fear were always volatile.

  She descended quickly, boots clicking on the polished floors. Outside, the southern delegation had arrived at Greythorn village. Citizens cheered as grain was distributed.

  Perfect.

  But amidst the celebration, one figure moved differently.

  Alone.

  A shadow among the jubilant.

  Celia noticed immediately.

  “Follow me,” she whispered to Marianne. “Discreetly.”

  They approached the figure cautiously.

  A man dressed in nondescript black robes, moving with unnatural precision. He carried nothing visible, but the weight of intent was evident.

  Her pulse remained steady.

  Vines responded subtly beneath the ground, shifting, curling.

  Every step he took, she noted.

  Every breath.

  Every intention.

  And then he vanished.

  Not through doors or alleyways—through the crowd itself, without resistance.

  Interesting.

  The hero stepped beside her.

  “You feel that?” he asked softly. “Someone isn’t human.”

  Celia’s lips curved. “Perhaps. Or perhaps someone human has been trained too well.”

  Her mind raced.

  The first direct threat to her operation had arrived.

  Not the duke. Not Ardentis.

  Someone else.

  Someone with skills precise enough to evade both guards and observation.

  Someone dangerous.

  And they were now inside her garden.

  Celia’s vines moved subtly, threading through the earth like sentient whispers.

  A trace.

  A pulse.

  A signature.

  The intruder was near.

  She stepped silently, boots sinking into the soil. The hero followed, eyes narrowing.

  A single movement—then a whisper of shadow at her feet.

  The first strike.

  She had anticipated it.

  Her hand flicked, vines snapping upward like whiplashes.

  The intruder froze mid-step.

  Celia’s eyes narrowed.

  “Bold,” she whispered.

  “Foolish,” the hero added.

  The man—or whatever he was—trembled under the weight of her presence.

  Vines wrapped lightly around his wrists.

  Not to kill.

  Not yet.

  To test.

  “To whom do you belong?” she demanded softly, voice like silk over steel.

  Silence.

  Then a word.

  “Ardentis.”

  Ah.

  She had anticipated Ardentis’ moves—but not this.

  They were moving pieces directly now.

  Boldly.

  Dangerously.

  The vines tightened subtly, enough to make him feel the full weight of consequence.

  “Do you know what happens to pawns that move without orders?” she asked, tilting her head.

  He did not answer.

  Then she smiled faintly.

  “No matter.”

  Because by the time Harrington and Ardentis realized the threat, she would already have struck… and survived.

  The first blood had yet to be spilled.

  But the first warning had been delivered.

  And Celia’s garden would remember this trespass.