Morning came through Elena's bedroom window like an uninvited guest—golden, warm, and far too loud.
“My lady, the carriage leaves in two hours. You still haven't chosen a dress.”
Clara Winter stood beside the open wardrobe, holding two dresses as if they were arguments in a debate she already knew she was going to lose.
Elena lifted her face from the book she was reading—a treatise on the imperial bloodlines she definitely wasn't supposed to have in her hands—and studied the dresses with the expression of someone weighing two forms of torture.
“The blue.”
“You said blue yesterday, then changed your mind and chose green.”
“Then the green.”
“The green has a low back.”
The silence that followed lasted only a second, but it was enough. Clara noticed. Elena realized Clara had noticed. And both of them pretended nothing had happened, as they always did whenever the subject came close to that place.
“The blue,” Elena said, with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. “Definitely the blue.”
Clara nodded and began preparing the dress without saying anything else. It was one of the things Elena admired most about her: Clara always knew exactly when to stop asking questions.
The door flew open with a bang, making them both jump.
“Elena! Elena, Elena, Elena!”
Chloe Rosenthal swept into the room like a storm of skirts and golden curls, her eyes shining with the kind of excitement only a sixteen-year-old could possess.
“Did you know the Silent Duke is going to be at the social season this year? The Silent Duke! They say he's never smiled in his life. Not once. Not even when he was a baby. Do you think that's possible? Babies smile, don't they? Do you think he cried when he was born? Because if he didn't cry, maybe he's not human, and if he's not human—”
“Chloe.”
“What?”
“Breathe.”
Chloe took a breath. It lasted about three seconds.
“But did you know?”
Elena closed the book and hid it beneath her pillow with a movement so natural it seemed rehearsed. Because it was.
“I knew. Dad mentioned it at dinner last night.”
“You didn't look the least bit interested yesterday.”
“Because I'm not the least bit interested.”
“Liar. Everyone's interested in the Silent Duke. Sophia told me he has silver-colored eyes. Silver! Like a coin. Or a sword. Or the moon. Which comparison do you think is more romantic?”
“None of them. Coins are dirty, swords are dangerous, and the moon is too far away.”
Chloe made an indignant sound only younger sisters could produce and threw herself onto Elena's bed with the grace of a sack of potatoes.
“You're impossible.”
“And you're wrinkling my travel dress.”
“You have twelve travel dresses.”
“And I like all of them wrinkle-free.”
Clara hid a smile behind the blue dress as she hung it up. Elena shot her a look that clearly said, “Don't encourage her,” but Clara had already turned away.
The truth was, Elena liked it. The noise. The intrusion. Chloe's absurd energy filling every corner of the room as if silence were a personal enemy. Because in moments of silence, Elena thought too much. And when she thought too much, her hand went involuntarily to her back, to the spot between her shoulder blades where the skin was different. Where something had been engraved since the day she was born.
Something no one could see.
“Girls.”
The voice came from the doorway, and they both turned at the same time. Duchess Vivian Rosenthal stood in the doorway, elegant as always, with the kind of posture that made it seem as though the entire world should adjust itself to her, not the other way around.
“Chloe, get off your sister's bed. Elena, get dressed. Your father wants to speak with you before we leave.”
There was something in her mother's tone. Something Chloe didn't notice, but Elena did. A fine, nearly invisible tension, like a violin string tuned a note higher than usual.
“About what?” Elena asked.
“About Solaris.”
Vivian said nothing more. She didn't need to. Elena already knew what “about Solaris” meant when it came in that tone. It meant: about you. About what you carry. About how careful you need to be.
Chloe jumped off the bed, completely oblivious to the invisible current passing between mother and daughter.
“I'll choose my dress! I want the pink one. No, the lilac. No, the pink one. Clara, will you help me later?”
“Of course, Lady Chloe.”
Chloe left the room as quickly as she'd entered it, and silence returned like the tide.
Vivian looked at Elena for a long moment. Then she walked over, tucked a strand of her daughter's hair behind her ear, and said quietly,
“No dresses with low backs. On any occasion.”
“I know, Mama.”
“I know you know. But Solaris isn't like home. People look there. And some people search.”
Elena held her mother's hand for a moment. Vivian's hand was cold.
“I'll be careful.”
Vivian nodded, released her hand, and left the room with noiseless steps. Elena remained where she was, staring at the closed door, feeling the familiar weight of something she could never say aloud.
Then she took a deep breath, rose, and went to the mirror.
The girl looking back at her was beautiful—reddish-brown hair falling in waves to her waist, amber eyes, fair skin. A perfect lady. A flawless Rosenthal.
Elena turned her back to the mirror. She looked over her shoulder. Her nightgown covered everything, as always. But she knew what lay beneath it. The mark. Silver lines forming a symbol she had drawn from memory dozens of times, only to burn the paper afterward, every single time.
The Mark of the Goddess of Fate.
Four people in the world knew. Her father. Her mother. Clara. The High Priest.
And if anyone else found out, according to her father, it wouldn't be a matter of scandal. It would be a matter of war.
Elena released the shoulder of her nightgown, letting the fabric fall back into place.
“Clara.”
“Yes, my lady?”
“The blue. Definitely the blue.”
Clara smiled—a small, knowing smile that said more than any words could.
“Definitely.”
Duke Arthur Rosenthal's office smelled of leather, ink, and worry. Elena could always identify the third scent, even if it didn't really exist. It was something in the way her father sat—too straight, too tense, as if he were holding up the ceiling with his spine.
“Sit down, Elena.”
She sat in the chair across from the desk. Between them lay maps of Solaris, invitations to balls, and guest lists. The social season was a battlefield disguised as a party, and her father treated every event like a military operation.
“This year will be different,” Arthur said without preamble. “The Emperor is ill. Not officially, but everyone knows. Prince Lucien is still young. And House Ashford is making moves.”
“Duke Victor?”
“He and Cardinal Magnus. Together, they're dangerous. Separately, they're merely ambitious. But together...”
Arthur didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
“And what does that have to do with me?” Elena asked, even though she already knew the answer.
Her father looked at her with those eyes that matched hers—amber, warm, but at that moment filled with something Elena could only call controlled fear.
“If someone at the Temple of the Moon starts looking for the bearer of the Mark, Solaris will be the first place they'll look. All the daughters of the great houses will be there. Every one of them will be watched.”
“I've always been careful, Papa.”
“I know. But caution isn't enough when the right people start asking the right questions.”
Elena was silent for a moment. Then she tilted her head slightly.
“What do you want me to do?”
“What you always do. Smile. Be charming. Be the perfect Rosenthal daughter. And don't let anyone—anyone—see your back.”
Something in his voice tightened Elena's chest. It wasn't an order. It was a plea. From a father who knew he couldn't protect his daughter forever, but would try until his dying day.
“I promise,” Elena said.
Arthur nodded. Then, as if remembering that he was also a father and not merely a duke, his expression softened.
“Leon is going with you. I'll arrive in a week.”
“You aren't coming with us?”
“I have business on the eastern border. Nothing serious. But I want to settle it before I go to the capital.”
Elena stood, walked around the desk, and kissed her father's forehead. Arthur closed his eyes for a second—just one second—and when he opened them, the duke's mask was back in place.
“Go. Your mother hates delays.”
Elena smiled. This time, the smile reached her eyes.
“I know who I inherited my punctuality from, Papa. And it wasn't you.”
Arthur almost smiled. Almost.
The Rosenthal carriage left at noon beneath a sky so blue it looked painted. Elena sat beside Chloe, who had already changed dresses three times before leaving home and was now asleep with her head on her sister's shoulder, exhausted by her own enthusiasm.
Across from them, Vivian read a letter with the expression of someone assessing a battlefield. Leon rode beside the carriage, his posture perfect, one hand never far from his sword.
Elena looked out the window. The green hills of the eastern region stretched to the horizon, and somewhere beyond them, Solaris awaited. The golden capital. The balls. The conspiracies. The eyes searching for what they should never find.
She touched her back through her dress. A quick, nearly unconscious gesture.
The mark was there. As always. Silent. Waiting.
Elena didn't know what for.
But she had the uneasy feeling that this season, she would find out.