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Chapter 21 - Chapter 21

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Chapter 21: The Name They Whisper

The court was dressed in gold and glass that morning—

Chandeliers flickered. Nobles whispered.

But when she entered, the whole room held its breath.

Nyra.

No collar.

No escort.

No apology.

She wore midnight blue with a slit high enough to make liars stare.

Her scar was uncovered, gleaming like truth down one side of her face.

Her hair was pinned with silver thorns.

She walked as if she belonged.

No…

As if she ruled.

Bryant wasn't beside her.

He had told her not to come.

> "They'll bait you."

> "Then I'll bite back," she had replied.

Now, as she passed the thrones and smiling monsters, she felt them recoil and lean closer at once.

She was a ghost. A weapon. A whisper made flesh.

And the Council wanted proof.

"Lady Evelyn," crooned Lord Vannic, seated like a vulture in velvet. "How generous of you to appear."

She smiled faintly. "Lady Nyra, now. Didn't you hear?"

A few chuckles echoed — nervous ones.

Vannic's eyes sharpened. "Of course. And such elegance deserves… tradition."

He gestured.

A servant approached with a goblet on a black cushion. Silver rim. Steam rising faintly from within.

"The Court's Vintage," Vannic said silkily. "A drink for those of noble standing. Rare. Honored."

Nyra inhaled slowly.

Then caught it—

Truthroot.

Bitter.

Illegal in some packs.

Deadly in the wrong dose.

A test.

She glanced at the cup, and something flickered—

> Her mother's voice. Whispered in a cold cell:

"You are not to sip anything poured by hands that bow too easily."

> "They poison your name before they poison your blood."

Her fingers flexed.

She looked up—every noble watching.

If she refused?

They'd know.

If she drank?

She risked exposing her bloodline.

So she smiled.

"Such hospitality," she said, and took the goblet.

One sip.

Fire in her throat.

Pain in her gut.

But her spine?

Straight.

She handed it back, ignoring the tremor in her stomach.

The nobles leaned in—

Waiting for a sign.

A reaction.

A collapse.

But Nyra only tilted her head and said, "Shall I curtsy now, or after you start panicking?"

Then—

A voice rang out.

Clear. Female. Too smooth.

> "We thank Lady Smith for her loyalty to the realm."

The room froze.

Nyra turned slowly.

The speaker stood in red silk, half-shrouded behind an aging noble.

Beautiful. Poised.

Unknown.

But her gloved hand bore a ring.

Obsidian. A broken crown over an open eye.

The Council's shadow mark.

She was a plant.

Sent not to shame Nyra—

But to expose her.

Gasps rippled.

No one corrected the name.

No one defended her.

Not even Lord Vannic.

He only smiled now.

Satisfied.

Because the wolves had their scent.

And Bryant?

He wasn't here to stop it.

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