Chapter 37 – Morveth’s Mask
Lady Morveth stood still beneath the arching branches of the Court Garden, her silks untouched by the breeze. The once-pristine courtyard had dulled in recent weeks — vines strangling the stone lattice, lanterns dimming before they ever flickered to life. Flowers that once opened for moonlight now kept their petals curled shut, as if mourning something unseen.
A fine mist clung to the marble paths, curling around her ankles like smoke too polite to rise.
She ignored it.
Behind her, a steward finished listing reports — grain shortages, misaligned rites, unrest near the South Quarter. He spoke carefully, as one does when near a woman whose silences held more weight than her words.
Morveth raised a hand, and the steward stopped mid-sentence. His breath hitched.
"That will be all."
He bowed low and fled.
Only when his footsteps faded did Morveth exhale — not in relief, but in irritation. The mist had returned that morning. Again. The sky had refused its proper color. Again. The runes beneath the western altar had trembled, and a novice had reportedly collapsed during a dawn offering.
Again.
She turned slightly, gaze drawn to the pale blossoms at the garden's heart. Nightjade — sacred, stubborn flowers that only bloomed under full moonlight and silence. Tonight, they were half-open. Listening.
Morveth narrowed her eyes.