The blue vial felt like a sliver of ice against Eliza's palm as she slipped through the darkened corridors of the West Wing. This was the room she had avoided in her dreams—the room that smelled of sickness, damp wool, and the slow approach of the grave.
Duke Vane lay beneath heavy furs, his face a grey mask of the man he once was. In her first life, Eliza had sat by this bed and wept, unknowingly feeding him the "tonic" Maryan brought, effectively becoming her father's unintentional executioner.
"Father," she whispered, kneeling by the bed.
The Duke's eyes flickered open, cloudy and unfocused. "Eliza? Is it... time for the medicine?"
"No, Father. It's time for the truth."
She pulled the cobalt vial from her bodice. Beside her, Silas kept watch at the door, his hand on the hilt of his blade, his eyes scanning the hallway.
"The world tells us that blood is thicker than water," Eliza murmured, uncorking the vial. "But I've learned that some blood is just slow-acting venom. I'm giving you back your life, Father, but you must be strong enough to see the monsters I've unmasked."
She tilted the vial to his lips. The liquid glowed with a faint, bioluminescent hue as he swallowed. Almost instantly, the Duke's breathing hitched. His chest labored, and for a terrifying second, the Hourglass Mark on Eliza's wrist turned a violent, bruised purple.
"He's seizing!" Silas hissed, stepping toward the bed.
"No," Eliza said, her voice trembling but firm. "The Collector said there would be a cost. The body has to burn out the rot before it can heal."
She gripped her father's hand. "Hold on. I didn't crawl out of my own grave just to watch you dig yours. Stay with me."
Slowly, the grey tint began to recede from the Duke's fingernails. His pulse, once a frantic, thready beat, settled into a deep, steady thrum. He fell into a natural sleep—the first in months.
Eliza stood up, her legs shaking. "The King is back on the board, Silas. Now, let's see how the pawns react when they realize they've lost their advantage.
Their reaction was swifter than Eliza had anticipated. They didn't even make it back to the library.
As they crossed the gallery, the gas lights suddenly flared to life, blinding them. Standing at the top of the grand staircase was the Baron, his face a mask of purple-veined fury. Beside him stood Maryan, clutching a heavy iron fireplace poker, and Julian, backed by four of the household guards—men Eliza realized had been bought with Vane gold long ago.
"You've stolen from me for the last time, Eliza," the Baron bellowed, his voice echoing in the rafters. "Attempted theft, consorting with a known criminal, and now... poisoning your own father? Julian saw you in my study with the toxins!"
Maryan stepped forward, her eyes wide with a manic, desperate light. "We saw the vial, Eliza! You're trying to finish what the 'illness' started so you can have the inheritance for yourself and your... pet wolf!"
Julian looked at Eliza, his face pale but determined. "It's over, Eliza. Give us the empty vial. Admit what you've done, and perhaps the Baron will be merciful enough to send you to a sanitarium instead of the gallows."
Eliza looked at the circle of guards closing in. She felt the heat of Silas at her back, his muscles coiled like a spring.
"Mercy is a word used by people who are too afraid to finish what they started," Eliza said, her voice dropping to a dangerous, low register. "And you, Julian, wouldn't know mercy if it bit your tongue out. You're just a man trying to hide a murder behind a scandal."
"Seize them!" the Baron screamed.
The guards lunged. Silas moved in a blur of silver steel, his blade parrying the first guard's spear with a bone-jarring crack. But there were too many.
Maryan rushed at Eliza, the iron poker raised high. "You should have stayed dead!" she shrieked. "Everything was perfect until you woke up!"
Eliza dodged the swing, the iron whistling past her ear. She grabbed Maryan's throat, slamming her back against a full-length mirror. The glass shattered, spider-webbing around Maryan's head like a jagged halo.
"That's the difference between us, Maryan," Eliza hissed, the shards of glass cutting into her own palm, her blood dripping onto Maryan's white silk. "You want a perfect world built on a foundation of corpses. I just want a world where you don't exist in it. You didn't break me—you just sharpened the pieces."
Suddenly, a heavy thud echoed from the West Wing. The doors to the Duke's chambers burst open.
"What," a booming, gravelly voice demanded, "is the meaning of this riot in my house?"
The Duke stood in the doorway, pale and leaning on a cane, but his eyes were clear, piercing, and filled with a cold, aristocratic rage that made the guards freeze in their tracks.
The Baron's face went from red to a sickly, chalky white. "Your Grace... you're... you're awake?"
"I am," the Duke said, his gaze falling on the Baron, then on Maryan's hand around the poker. "And it seems I woke up just in time to see my 'family' trying to slaughter my daughter. Baron, put down the parchment. Maryan, drop the iron. Julian... run. Run before I remember that I used to be a General."
The Hourglass Mark on Eliza's wrist glowed a triumphant, blinding gold.
"The end of the prologue is over," Eliza whispered, watching her enemies wither under her father's gaze. "Now, the real story begins."