A sharp inhale shattered the predawn silence as Drizella's eyes snapped open. The silk sheets beneath her fingers felt wrong - too smooth, too cold. Moonlight spilled through her chamber windows, casting silver shadows that made the blood-red rose beside her face look almost black. Almost, but not quite.
The obsidian dagger pinning it to her pillow absorbed the light completely.
Her pulse thundered in her throat as she jerked backward, spine hitting the carved headboard with enough force to rattle the entire bed frame. Don't scream. Don't make a sound. The command repeated in her mind as she forced herself to breathe through her nose, counting each exhale. One. Two. Three.
A piece of parchment dangled from the dagger's hilt, swaying slightly in the draft from her movement. The cream-colored paper seemed to glow against the weapon's dark blade, its edges crisp and precise. Too precise. Drizella's fingers trembled as she reached for it, careful not to touch either the rose or the dagger.
The message contained only three words, written in an elegant hand with ink that gleamed wetly in the moonlight: "Remember your place."
Someone was in my room. Someone was here while I slept. The thought sent ice through her veins. She scrambled from the bed, bare feet hitting the cold floor as she spun in a desperate circle. The heavy brocade curtains stirred innocently in the night breeze. Her wardrobe doors remained firmly shut, exactly as she'd left them. Nothing seemed disturbed, and that somehow made it worse.
She snatched up the brass candlestick from her bedside table, wielding it like a club as she moved to check behind the changing screen. Empty. Under the bed. Clear. Inside the wardrobe - nothing but rows of perfectly arranged gowns. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps as she worked her way around the room's perimeter.
The window latch caught her attention. Something wasn't right about the metalwork. She lifted the candlestick higher, squinting at the brass fixture. A faint greenish residue coated its surface, barely visible except where it had eaten tiny pits into the metal. When she brought her face closer, the air around it carried a sharp, acrid scent that made her eyes water.
Magical residue. They didn't pick the lock - they dissolved it.
Drizella's gaze darted to the dagger still pinned in her pillow. If they'd wanted her dead, she would be. This was a message. A warning. Her fingers clenched around the candlestick as fury began to replace her fear, hot and clarifying.
She crossed back to the bed, forcing herself to study the rose more carefully. Its petals were unnaturally perfect, each one identical in size and shape. When she leaned closer, she could see tiny symbols etched into the velvet surface, so small they might have been natural variations to an untrained eye. But Drizella had spent too many hours studying forbidden texts not to recognize a binding spell when she saw one.
The sound of footsteps in the hallway made her freeze. A servant making early morning rounds, or something worse? She couldn't leave evidence for anyone to find. Moving swiftly, she wrapped her hand in the edge of the sheet and grasped the dagger's hilt. It came free with surprising ease, as if it had been waiting for her touch.
Hide it. Now. She grabbed her heavy cloak from the wardrobe, fumbling with trembling fingers to wrap the weapon in its folds. The rose she left for last, holding it by the very tip of its stem. Even through the fabric of her nightgown, she could feel an unnatural warmth radiating from its perfect petals.
Drizella's fingers traced the window frame's ornate carvings, her breath crystallizing in the pre-dawn chill. The first rays of morning light caught something peculiar - a faint iridescent sheen where the brass latch met the wood. She leaned closer, nose nearly touching the metal. The surface bore an oily rainbow pattern, like a puddle after rain, but when she brushed it with her fingertip, the brass felt oddly pitted.
Residue. Magical corrosion. Her stomach clenched. She'd seen similar marks in her father's study, where experimental enchantments had gone wrong. This was different though - purposeful, targeted. The intruder hadn't picked the lock or forced entry. They'd simply... dissolved their way through.
She yanked her hand back, wiping it frantically on her skirts. The residue might be toxic, might already be seeping into her skin. Her gaze darted to the other windows, the door, searching for similar traces. Each latch and hinge received her careful scrutiny, but only the one bore the telltale corruption.
The obsidian dagger lay on her bed like an accusation. I can't leave it here. Can't risk the maids finding it. But touching it... her fingers hovered over the blade. The metal seemed to drink in what little light reached it, creating a void in the shape of a weapon. She snatched her cloak from its hook, the heavy velvet familiar and grounding against her trembling hands.
Using the fabric as a barrier, she wrapped the dagger carefully, layer by layer, until its shape was completely obscured. The rose she left untouched - let them wonder what she'd done with their threat. She secured the bundle inside her cloak's hidden pocket, feeling its weight press against her ribs with each breath.
A floorboard creaked in the hallway. Drizella froze, counting heartbeats. Just the house settling. Or a maid starting her morning rounds. But she couldn't be certain, couldn't trust anything now. She pressed her ear to the door, straining to catch any whisper of movement.
Silence stretched, broken only by the distant toll of the cathedral bells marking the hour. Five chimes. The household would be stirring soon. She had perhaps twenty minutes before her absence would be noticed.
Her fingers found the key hanging at her throat, its familiar edges grounding her racing thoughts. Think. Who in this city knows enough about magical weapons to help? Who can I trust not to report this to the Golden Quill?
The answer came with crystal clarity: Elara. The weaver might be paranoid, might be hiding secrets of her own, but she'd already proven willing to work against the Quill's interests. And more importantly, she had as much to lose as Drizella if their conspiracy was discovered.
Drizella pressed her ear to the door one final time, then eased it open just enough to peer into the hallway. Empty. The pre-dawn gloom would provide excellent cover, but she'd need to move quickly. She slipped into the corridor, each step placed with deliberate care to avoid the squeaking boards she'd mapped in childhood games of midnight stealth.
The weight of the dagger seemed to grow with each step, its presence burning against her side like a brand. Remember your place, the note had said. Her fingers curled into fists. Oh, I remember my place perfectly well. And I intend to burn it to the ground.