The heavy afternoon sun poured through the high windows of the hallway, casting long, golden bars across the carpet as Scarlett approached the study. The lingering taste of her lunch-a simple, quiet meal-felt like the last remnant of her normal life.
She reached for the heavy brass handles of the oak doors. Usually, she would push them open and hear her father's warm, booming laugh, or see him look up with a wink from his ledgers. But as the hinges groaned open today, the air inside the room felt different. It was cold, still, and smelled sharply of bitter ink and old parchment.
Reginald wasn't leaning back in his chair. He was sitting perfectly upright, his hands clasped on the green blotter. His face was a mask of stone-a stern, unyielding expression she had never seen before. There was no "Dad" in this room. There was only a high-ranking official of the Vandean House.
Scarlett felt a shiver of true nerves. She sat in the stiff wooden chair opposite him, her back straight, her hands folded in her lap just as she had practiced.
"State your name for the record," Reginald said. His voice wasn't his own; it was clipped, professional, and devoid of any fatherly warmth.
Scarlett blinked, taken aback. "Scarlett Vandean," she answered softly.
Reginald slammed a hand down on the desk-not in anger, but with a sharp, startling authority that made her jump. "No. State your name."
Scarlett's heart hammered against her ribs. She looked into his eyes and realized he wasn't looking at his daughter; he was looking at a candidate for a throne. He wants the Queen, she thought. He wants the real name.
She lifted her chin, meeting his steel-gray gaze with a newfound sharpness of her own.
"Queen Scarlett de la Vega," she stated, her voice ringing clear and steady through the silent library. "Future Sovereign of Casa Lava."
Reginald didn't smile. He didn't soften. He simply leaned forward into the light of the desk lamp, his shadows stretching long behind him.
"Better," he murmured, though his eyes remained flinty. "Now, Your Majesty. Word has reached the capital that a merchant uprising has begun in the southern ports of your husband's kingdom. They are burning the shipping manifests and refusing to pay the Royal tithe. They claim the Crown is starving them to fund your private gardens. You have three minutes before the Council demands your signature on an execution order for the ringleaders. How do you respond?"
The mock trial had begun. The room felt smaller, the pressure heavier, and Scarlett realized that in this moment, the man across from her was her first true political enemy.Reginald leaned back, the shadows of the library making his face look like a carved mask. He didn't offer a fatherly nod of approval; instead, he let a cold, sharp silence hang in the air to see if she would blink.Reginald's eyes didn't flicker; he remained as unmoving as a statue, waiting for her to crumble. But Scarlett leaned in, her voice cutting through the heavy air of the study like a blade. "You speak of treason and blood, but I will not be moved by ghosts and whispers," she declared. "State the name of this kinsman and provide the documented proof of their lineage to my advisor. I want the marriage records, the birth seals, and the testimony of the port authority. If I am to strike at the heart of my own Council, I will do so with the weight of undeniable evidence, not the shadow of a rumor.""We do have some proof of that, Your Majesty," he said, his voice echoing in the quiet room.Reginald reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a weathered, wax-sealed folder. With a deliberate, slow motion, he slid it across the green blotter toward her.Scarlett opened the folder, her eyes darting over the jagged signatures of the port authority and the family lineage charts of the De la Vega court. There, in stark black ink, was the undeniable link: the man leading the fires and the riots at the docks was the blood nephew of the man who sat at her right hand every morning. The betrayal wasn't a shadow; it was a fact."Your top advisor," Reginald said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, gravelly whisper. "The man who holds the keys to your treasury. The man who whispered in your ear this morning that all was well in the South. It is his nephew leading the fires at the docks. The Council is waiting, Your Majesty. The quill is in your hand. If you strike at the advisor, you lose your most 'trusted' ally. If you don't, the South burns."Scarlett felt the familiar sting of tears pricking at the corners of her eyes-the old Scarlett, the girl who played with dolls, wanted to cry at the betrayal. But she swallowed the lump in her throat. She remembered the sword training with Cornelius and the cold logic of the ledgers.
She stood up, her silk skirts hissing against the floor, and leaned over the desk until she was inches from her father's face.
"Then he is no ally," she snapped, her voice like a whip. "If he sits at my table while his kin lights the matches against my crown, he is a traitor in a fine coat. I will not sign an execution order for the peasants in the harbor-not yet. They are starving and being fed lies. Instead, I want the advisor brought before me in chains. If he wishes to lead, he can lead his nephew to the gallows himself to prove his loyalty. If he refuses..."
She paused, her eyes flashing with a "steel" that actually made Reginald's eyebrows twitch in surprise."Then he shall hang beside them. And I will seize his estates to pay back every tithe the merchants claim was stolen. If I am up here, he serves me. The moment he forgets that, he is nothing but a ghost."Reginald stared at her for a long beat. The "stern official" mask didn't slip, but for the first time since she entered the room, he stood up to meet her gaze as an equal.
"A bold move," he said, his voice still professional but carrying a hint of dark respect. "You risk a coup by the other nobles who fear your ruthlessness. But you have saved the docks. The trial is over... for today."
He let out a long breath, finally allowing his shoulders to drop. The "Dad" was back, but he looked at her differently now-with a touch of awe. "You didn't cry, Scarlett. Not even when I backed you into the corner."
Scarlett let out a breath she felt she'd been holding since her birthday. Her hands were trembling, but her heart felt solid. "I told you, Dad. I'm ready."
"We shall see," he murmured. "Go. Cornelius is waiting for you at the stables. He said if you survived the Council, you'd need the wind in your face to wash off the scent of politics."Scarlett left the heavy silence of the study and ran toward the stables. The smell of hay and horsehide was a relief after the suffocating pressure of the mock trial. Cornelius was already mounted on his great black stallion, holding the reins of Marigold, who was whinnying and stomping her hooves in the dirt.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," Cornelius noted, tossing her a pair of leather riding gloves. "Or like you've just ordered someone's head on a platter."
"A bit of both," Scarlett replied, swinging herself into Marigold's saddle with a grace she didn't have a year ago.
Cornelius smirked, turning his horse toward the dark treeline of the Vandean woods. "Good. You'll need that fire. Today isn't about pretty trotting in the park. We're going into the brush. If you can't keep your seat while drawing a blade at a gallop, you're just a target on a pedestal."
"Lead the way," Scarlett challenged, tightening her grip on the reins.The heavy scent of pine and damp earth filled Scarlett's lungs as she urged Marigold into a thundering gallop. The woods behind the mansion were no longer a place of childhood games; they had been transformed into a battlefield.
As they tore through the brush, Cornelius's "dummies"-sacks of grain and straw dressed in rough tunics-appeared like ghosts between the trees. Scarlett didn't hesitate. With her knees locked tight against Marigold's flanks, she drew her practice blade.
Swish-crack! The first dummy's head was lopped off cleanly. She leaned low, dodging a low-hanging branch, and parried a wooden obstacle Cornelius had rigged to swing toward her. She was a blur of red hair and steel, her breath coming in sharp, disciplined bursts.
"Not bad for a Princess!" Cornelius shouted, his black stallion pulling up alongside her as they broke out of the treeline and into the wide, grassy meadow. "But a dummy doesn't hit back. Let's see how you handle a King's Guard!"
He didn't wait for an answer. He spurred his horse forward, his own practice sword raised. This was the final test: The 101 Face-Off. The horses circled each other, their hooves churning the green grass into mud. Cornelius was larger, stronger, and had years of experience, but Scarlett had something else-a desperate, focused agility. They clashed in the center of the field, the sound of wood on wood echoing like a gunshot.
Cornelius swung wide, trying to use his height to unbalance her. Scarlett saw the opening. Instead of pulling away, she leaned into the strike, using Marigold's momentum to pivot. With a sharp, guttural cry, she executed a perfect striking maneuver-a low sweep followed by a sudden upward thrust against his shoulder.
The impact sent a shockwave up her arm, but it sent Cornelius reeling. He lost his stirrups, his arms flailing for a second before he tumbled backward, landing with a heavy thud in the tall grass.
Marigold came to a dancing halt, her sides heaving. Scarlett looked down at her brother from the saddle, her eyes flashing with a cold, triumphant fire. She didn't offer a hand. She didn't giggle. She simply held her sword at her side.
"Have you had enough for today, Brother?" she asked, her voice steady and ringing with authority. "It has been a long day, and I have had quite enough of being tested. I hope you know by now-I mean business."
Cornelius lay in the grass for a moment, staring up at the blue Pembroke sky, his chest heaving. Slowly, a wide, genuine grin broke across his face. He sat up, dusting the dirt from his tunic, and looked at his sister with pure, unadulterated respect.
"You are so ready, Scarlett," he breathed, shaking his head. "Heaven help the man who tries to stand in your way in Spain."
The Return to the Mansion
The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in bruises of purple and gold, as Scarlett led Marigold back to the stables. Her body ached in places she didn't know existed, and her mind was weary from the political chess match with her father, but she felt... forged.
As she walked back toward the house, a servant met her at the back entrance, holding a small silver tray. On it sat a single letter, sealed with a familiar, heavy wax.
"This just arrived via the express post, Miss," the servant murmured.
Scarlett's heart skipped a beat. She took the letter, the scent of cedar and tobacco immediately wafting up to meet her. It was the reply from Sorel.
She hurried to her room, her fingers trembling as she broke the seal.Scarlett barely had time to wash the dust of the meadow from her hands before she was tearing into the parchment. The moment the seal broke, the scent hit her-that heavy, masculine anchor of cedar and leather-but this time, the words on the page were even more intoxicating than the cologne.
The Letter from Casa Lava
"My Dearest Scarlett,
I find myself writing this in the dead of night, the only time the castle is quiet enough for me to hear the echo of your voice in my head. Your last letter... I have read it so many times the ink is beginning to fade under my thumb. But it is the scent, Scarlett. That rose perfume. It doesn't just sit on the paper; it haunts these stone halls. It has taken root in my mind, and I find myself becoming sickly with the need to have you here. >
I am obsessed, in a way that would surely frighten the court if they knew. I can feel you, miles across the black Atlantic, as if you are standing just behind the curtain of my bedchamber. I reach out in the dark, expecting to touch your hand, only to find the cold air of Spain.
And the dreams... they are more vivid than my waking life. I find myself lost in that green maze you described. I wander through those high, twisting hedges for hours, the scent of roses leading me deeper into the labyrinth. I am desperate, searching every turn, until finally-there you are. You look up at me, and you smile that smile that makes the sun seem dim. And then, just as I reach for you, I wake up.
I wake up alone, clutching your letter, drowning in a cologne that no longer smells like me, but like the memory of you. What have you done to me, my Future Queen? You are the blood in my veins and the air in my lungs, and yet you are an ocean away. This year cannot end fast enough. I am counting every heartbeat until I can finally see the face that has captivated my soul.
Perpetually yours,
Sorel"
The Aftermath of the Letter
Scarlett pressed the letter to her chest, her heart thundering against the parchment. She could feel the "sickly" intensity of his words-the raw, captivating hunger of a man who was just as Bewitched as she was. They were two hunters, two fighters, two royals, lost in a shared trance that spanned the world.
She looked at her reflection in the vanity mirror. Her hair was slightly mussed from the fight with Cornelius, her cheeks flushed from the wind, and her eyes bright with a dangerous, new knowledge. She wasn't just preparing for a throne anymore. She was preparing for him.
The Year of Seventeen was halfway gone, and the forge was almost complete.