The shed was a sanctuary of shadows and silence, a refuge where Emilia could shed Celeste’s fa?ade. Under the dim glow of an oil lamp, she watched Lumen, her slime, glide over a pile of dry leaves. The creature, with its green mass and glowing core, devoured the leaves with a soft hiss, leaving only a damp residue. Emilia jotted down the result on a piece of parchment, fascinated by Lumen’s simplicity. No fangs, no grotesque eyes—it was a relief in a world that seemed designed to tear things apart. But its potential—its ability to adapt, to transform—was what kept her awake at night.

  “Let’s see if you can move faster,” she said, pulling out a handful of sour berries she’d gathered from the orchard. Marcus the Blind’s parchment suggested that acidic foods could stimulate slimes, and Emilia was determined to test it. She tossed the berries, and Lumen enveloped them, its core pulsing with a brighter glow. When Emilia snapped her fingers—a command she’d been teaching—the slime slid toward her with surprising speed, leaving a trail of sticky mucus. It wasn’t a race, but it was progress. Emilia smiled, wiping sweat from her brow. Lumen was small, but each day it became more hers.

  The training was interrupted by a knock at the shed’s door. Emilia tensed, hiding Lumen in an empty barrel before opening it. It was Mina, the youngest sister, her brown hair disheveled and her expression nervous. “Celeste, Mother wants you in the hall. Now. It’s… important.”

  Emilia sighed, adjusting her tunic to hide the sap stains. “I’m coming,” she said, forcing Celeste’s haughty tone. Mina nodded but didn’t leave immediately, eyeing her with a mix of curiosity and shyness. “They say you’re doing weird things in here,” she mumbled. “Freya says you’re crazy.”

  Emilia raised an eyebrow, stifling a laugh. “Freya says a lot of things. Don’t worry, Mina. I’m just busy.” She gently nudged her out, closing the shed. The sisters were a minefield, and though Mina seemed harmless, Emilia couldn’t let her guard down.

  The main hall of the mansion buzzed with an energy Emilia hadn’t felt before. Baron Dietrich stood by a table covered with maps and sealed letters, his face grimmer than usual. Lady Isolde, in a black silk gown, spoke quietly with Elara, the eldest sister, whose regal posture seemed to challenge everyone in the room. Lysa, Freya, and the twins, Livia and Sylvia, sat in carved chairs, each with a distinct expression: Lysa with her usual disdain, Freya with a mocking smile, and the twins whispering with giggles. Mina slipped into a corner, avoiding gazes.

  Emilia entered, feeling the weight of attention. The baron glared at her. “Celeste, you finally deign to show up. What’s this about hiding in a shed like a peasant? Your behavior is a disgrace.”

  Before Emilia could respond, Lysa cut in, her voice sharp as a blade. “She’s probably playing with that slimy thing she brought from Shadowport. What is it, Celeste? A new hobby or another way to embarrass us?”

  Freya laughed, tossing her hair back. “Oh, let her be, Lysa. If Celeste wants to roll around with mucus, it’s her funeral. Though I expected something more… elegant from you.”

  Emilia clenched her fists but kept her composure. “I’m not embarrassing anyone,” she said, mimicking Celeste’s arrogance. “The slime is an experiment, something that could help me survive dungeons. Not all of us settle for banquets and dresses, Freya.”

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  Livia and Sylvia giggled, but Elara raised a hand, silencing them. “Enough,” she said, her voice cutting like ice. “Don’t we have more important matters to discuss, Father? The Conclave of Spears is a week away, and we can’t afford distractions.”

  The baron grunted, slamming the table. “Elara’s right. The Conclave is no game. The dukes and the Iron Council will be there, and any mistake will cost us dearly. Celeste, if you can’t behave, you’ll be locked away.”

  Emilia bowed her head, hiding her frustration. The Conclave of Spears sounded like a high-society event, a place where Eldoria’s nobles played at politics while dungeons spewed horrors. She didn’t want to attend, but she knew she had no choice. The Varnholt family was noble, and her absence would be a scandal.

  Lady Isolde spoke, her smile not reaching her eyes. “All my daughters will attend, Dietrich. Even Celeste. Perhaps a touch of refinement will remind her who she is.” Her gaze pierced Emilia, as if she sensed something amiss.

  POV: Sir Roland of Falke

  Sir Roland, Lord Falke’s envoy, sat in an inn just outside the Varnholt estate, drinking sour wine that barely masked his bitterness. The letter in his hand, sealed with the Iron Council’s emblem, was clear: the Conclave of Spears would be more than a ball. Eldoria’s dukes, the kingdom’s five pillars, would gather in the capital to discuss the growing dungeon threat. Rifts like the one that had spewed venomous spiders near the Varnholt mansion were multiplying, and rumors spoke of a “King of the Depths,” an entity stirring the beasts.

  Roland had observed the Varnholt family during his visit, and he wasn’t impressed. Baron Dietrich was a bull—strong but blind to subtleties. Lady Isolde was cunning, but her daughters were a mess: Elara, too ambitious; Freya, frivolous; Lysa, venomous; the twins, useless; Mina, invisible. And then there was Celeste, the oddity. The girl he remembered as a capricious viper now acted… different.

  The Conclave would be the perfect stage to watch. The dukes, with their armies and mages, would vie for the Iron Council’s favor—the true power behind Eldoria’s empty throne. If the Varnholts stumbled—and with Celeste acting like an armed peasant, it was likely—Lord Falke could claim their lands. Roland folded the letter, smiling. High society was a game of knives, and he knew how to wield them.

  POV: Emilia

  Training with Gavril that afternoon was a brutal challenge. He’d swapped obstacles for a mock combat, using padded staves to teach Emilia to block and counter. Each blow reverberated in her aching muscles, but the aura flowed stronger, a warmth that kept her standing. When she disarmed Gavril for the first time, he let out a rough laugh. “Well, princess, maybe you won’t die so quickly after all.”

  Still, she had much to improve.

  Back in the shed, Emilia released Lumen, feeding it a handful of bark mixed with sap. The slime moved faster this time, its sticky mucus trapping a nail Emilia tossed as a test. She also noticed its surface was firmer, as if the bark had reinforced its mass. “Good boy,” she said, carefully stroking its jelly. Lumen didn’t respond, but its core glowed, and Emilia felt warmth in her chest. It was more than a tool; it was her ally in a world that wanted to devour her.

  The baron’s pressure and Lysa’s glares weighed on her, but the Conclave was the real problem. Emilia didn’t want to dance or pretend to be a noble, but she knew she had to play the game. The sisters would be a challenge—Freya with her taunts, Elara with her superiority, the twins with their giggles—but also an opportunity to learn. The noble world was as dangerous as the dungeons, and Emilia needed to understand it. With Lumen by her side and the aura growing within her, she was ready to face it. Not as Celeste, but as something more: a survivor who wouldn’t bend.