Movement caught Drizella's eye - a shadow detaching itself from the dining room's far wall, slipping through the servant's entrance like ink seeping through parchment. Her muscles responded before her mind could catch up, propelling her from her mother's side. The salt and charcoal mixture still burned against her cut palm as she vaulted over an overturned chair.
That figure moved too smoothly for a regular servant. And why leave now, when we need all hands?
Her heels clicked against the parquet flooring as she burst through the servant's door, emerging into the torch-lit corridor. The passageway stretched long and narrow, designed to keep staff invisible during formal occasions. Now it served as a perfect funnel. Twenty feet ahead, the assassin's cloak whipped around the corner toward the garden entrance.
The corridor's musty air filled her lungs as she ran, her stays digging into her ribs with each breath. Glass-paned sconces cast fractured shadows across the walls, transforming the passage into a maze of light and dark. Her own reflection multiplied and distorted in each pane. The sound of breaking glass from the dining room still rang in her ears, mixing with her thundering pulse.
Focus. Calculate. Where would they go?
The garden door hung open, letting in the evening air thick with the scent of rain-dampened roses. Drizella paused at the threshold, scanning the formal gardens. Moonlight silvered the perfectly manicured hedgerows and gravel paths, creating a geometric labyrinth of shadows. Movement flickered between the topiaries - a flash of dark fabric against darker leaves.
Her feet crunched on wet gravel as she pursued, keeping low. The assassin was heading for the west wall, where the old oak's branches hung over into the neighboring property. Not if I can help it. She cut diagonally across the rose garden, thorns catching at her skirts. The shorter route would put her directly in their path.
The figure emerged onto the main garden path just as Drizella stepped out from behind a marble statue. In the moonlight, she could see the plain servant's livery was ill-fitting, the collar too high and stiff for household staff. The exposed skin at their wrist showed pale and unmarked by work.
"I believe," Drizella said, her voice steady despite her racing heart, "you forgot to clear the dishes before leaving."
The assassin's stance shifted - subtle but telling. Right foot back, weight centered, hands loose at their sides. A fighter's pose poorly disguised as a servant's hesitation.
"My deepest apologies, my lady." The voice was carefully modulated, neither male nor female. "I felt ill and needed air."
"How fascinating." Drizella took a measured step forward. "Considering I've never seen you in our household before tonight."
The assassin's right hand twitched. Drizella tensed, anticipating a weapon, but instead felt an invisible force slam into her chest. The magical blast knocked her back several steps, her boots skidding on the wet gravel. She managed to keep her footing, but the impact left her gasping.
They're not just an assassin - they're a Weaver.
Before she could recover, the figure's hands sketched a complex pattern in the air. The ground beneath Drizella's feet trembled as another wave of kinetic force gathered. She caught a glimpse of a satisfied smile beneath their hood just before the second blast struck.
Footsteps crunched on gravel as Drizella pursued the dark figure through Mother's prized rose garden. Her chest burned, each breath sharp and metallic in the chill evening air. The assassin's cloak whipped around a corner, disappearing behind the marble fountain that marked the garden's heart.
They're moving too deliberately. This isn't panic - it's a practiced escape route. Drizella pressed her palm against the rough stone wall, using it to propel herself faster around the bend. The scent of wet earth and crushed petals filled her nostrils as her skirts caught on thorny stems. She yanked the fabric free, feeling threads snap.
Moonlight caught the edge of a servant's uniform beneath the assassin's cloak - plain cotton and sturdy boots, but the movement was too fluid, too calculated for household staff. The figure reached the high garden wall, where ancient wisteria created a living ladder of twisted vines.
"Stop!" Drizella's voice cracked through the night air. She lunged forward, fingers grazing rough wool as the assassin's cloak slipped through her grasp.
The figure spun, and Drizella caught a glimpse of eyes that gleamed with an unnatural silver sheen. The air suddenly grew thick, heavy with the metallic taste of magic. Before she could step back, invisible force slammed into her chest like a battering ram.
Her feet left the ground. Pain exploded across her back as she struck the fountain's edge. Water soaked through her dress, the impact sending ripples across the pool's surface. Her lungs refused to work, spots dancing in her vision as she fought to draw breath.
"The Golden Quill sends their regards, Lady Tremaine." The voice was neither male nor female, distorted by magic until it seemed to come from everywhere at once. "Consider this a warning. The narrative must be maintained."
Drizella forced herself upright, ignoring the stabbing pain in her ribs. "There's nothing natural about your precious narrative." She spat blood onto the pristine gravel. "It's a prison built of ink and paper."
"Then you'll burn with the rest of the revisionists." The assassin's hands traced symbols in the air, silver light trailing from their fingertips.
Move! Drizella threw herself sideways as another blast of kinetic force shattered the fountain's rim where she'd been standing. Marble fragments pelted her back as she rolled behind a hedge. The roses' thorns bit into her palms, drawing fresh blood.
When she peered around the foliage, the garden was empty. Only the broken fountain and scattered gravel marked the encounter. Above, clouds drifted across the moon, casting strange shadows on the crushed flowers and torn vines where the assassin had made their escape.
Drizella pressed a hand to her aching ribs, each breath sending fresh spikes of pain through her chest. The metallic tang of magic still hung in the air, mixing with the copper taste of blood in her mouth. This wasn't just about her family anymore. The Weavers had shown their hand - wielding magic openly, attacking nobility in their own homes.
She pulled herself to her feet, using the ruined fountain for support. Water trickled down its cracked surface, creating dark stains on the white marble like tears. Or blood. The war she'd feared had finally begun, and there would be no going back to pretty dresses and scripted pleasantries. They'd tried to kill her mother tonight. Next time, they might not fail.
Let them come, she thought, straightening despite the pain. I'll tear their precious story apart page by page.