Page 29 of Maid For The Dark Elf

"Of course," Darion agrees, accepting his cup with a smile that doesn't reach his amber eyes. "Though one might argue that over a month is rather extensive for any single diplomatic mission."

"Important matters require thorough attention," Lady Ardyn replies, her grip tightening on her teacup's handle. "I received correspondence from him just yesterday, actually. He's making excellent progress."

The lie slides from her lips. I've handled all correspondence entering this house for weeks—there's been nothing from Aethan since his departure.

"How wonderful," Velryssa murmurs, selecting a small cake from the tiered stand. "And what did his letter say, precisely?"

Lady Ardyn hesitates for the briefest moment, her composure wavering like candlelight in a draft. "Confidential Crown matters, naturally. You understand the discretion required in such situations."

Lord Aldric leans forward, his dark eyes gleaming with interest. "Naturally. Though one hopes these confidential matters won't prevent him from attending the Harvest Festival. The family has such expectations for his annual address."

"I'm certain he'll return well before then," Lady Ardyn insists, though uncertainty creeps into her voice like frost across glass.

The conversation continues, each relative probing gently for information while Lady Ardyn deflects with increasing desperation. I move between them like a ghost, refilling cups and replacing plates while they dance around their true concerns—succession, inheritance, and the power vacuum Aethan's absence has created.

"Speaking of family expectations," Darion says, his tone carefully casual, "I've been reviewing some of the older genealogical records. Fascinating how bloodlines shift over generations."

My hand freezes halfway to Velryssa's cup. Something in his phrasing strikes a chord of memory, distant but insistent.

"Bloodlines are hardly a matter for tea conversation," Lady Ardyn replies stiffly.

"Perhaps not," Darion continues, "though I found it interesting how certain branches were... pruned... from the family tree over the years. Administrative corrections, one might say."

The memory crashes over me like cold water. Two years ago, maybe three, I'd been organizing Aethan's private study when raised voices from the adjacent chamber caught my attention. An argument about legitimacy, about someone whose claim had been deliberately obscured, removed from official records through careful manipulation of genealogical documents.

"The blood claim remains valid regardless of what the records show," one voice had insisted—Darion's voice, I realize now. "Erasure from parchment doesn't erase truth from memory."

Aethan's response had been firm but weary. "The matter was settled generations ago. Reopening old wounds serves no purpose except to destabilize what our ancestors built."

"Unless someone decides those old wounds deserve fresh air," another voice had added—Lord Aldric, speaking with the quiet menace of someone harboring long-nursed grievances.

The teacup slips from my trembling fingers, shattering against the marble floor with a sound like breaking bones. Lady Ardyn's sharp intake of breath cuts through the sudden silence.

"Clumsy girl!" she snaps, her embarrassment manifesting as fury. "Look what you've done!"

I drop to my knees, gathering porcelain shards with hands that shake like autumn leaves. The pieces cut into my palms, thin lines of blood mixing with spilled tea, but the physical pain feels distant compared to the realization blooming in my heart like poisonous flowers.

Someone with a blood claim. Someone deliberately removed from succession. Someone who might view Aethan's disappearance as an opportunity rather than a tragedy.

"I'm sorry, my lady," I whisper, though my voice sounds strange to my own ears. "I... I feel quite unwell suddenly."

Lady Ardyn's lavender eyes narrow with suspicion and irritation. "Unwell? How convenient."

"Perhaps she should rest," Velryssa suggests with false concern. "Servants work so hard these days."

I stumble toward the door, my vision blurring at the edges. Behind me, the conversation resumes as though I never existed—invisible again, just as Lady Ardyn intended.

But invisibility cuts both ways. They've forgotten I have ears, forgotten I have a mind capable of connecting scattered pieces into terrifying wholes.

The corridor outside the solar feels endless, my footsteps echoing off marble walls that seem to press closer with each step. I need air. I need space to think. I need to find Caelric and tell him what I've remembered before the knowledge burns through my chest like swallowed fire.

The front doors loom ahead, heavy oak panels that represent escape from this suffocating house of secrets and lies. My hands leave bloody prints on the brass handles as I push through into afternoon sunlight that feels like salvation.

Then I'm running, my feet carrying me down the cobblestone path while my mind churns through memories of arguments and genealogies and blood claims that refuse to stay buried.

"By the gods, Rosalie, are you alright?"

Nerina's voice cuts through the haze clouding my vision. I stand swaying at the front entrance of House Vaerith, my chest heaving as though I've run miles instead of the short distance from the Ardyn estate. Sweat plasters my hair to my forehead, and my apron bears streaks of dirt from where I stumbled along the cobblestone path.