Silk brushed lightly against Lina Tyron's skin. Outside the high, arched windows of her chambers in the Tyron Mansion's east wing, Lysendar suffocated under the weight of the Purification Protocol. Even here, in the heart of power and wealth, isolated by white marble walls and silence enchantments, the tension was a low, constant note in the air, a hum seeping under doors and through luxurious tapestries.

  Lina was in her early twenties now. The beauty inherited from her mother had blossomed, but it was a cold, glassy beauty, like a flower perfectly preserved in ice. Her dark hair was still pinned in intricate braids by skilled maids, her dresses were of the finest silk imported from the South, her jewels discreet but priceless. Outwardly, she was the image of the Tyron heiress: elegant, restrained, a perfect ornament for the social tapestry her mother, Lady Vareth, wove so masterfully. Inwardly, however, Lina felt like one of the rare insects her mother collected: trapped in a gilded glass jar, displayed, but unable to escape.

  News of Grenda Malvar's death and the annihilation of the Glass Circle's elite team had reached the mansion that morning as a cold, direct report delivered to Lady Vareth by one of her shadowy contacts. Lina was present when her mother read the coded scroll, thin lips curving minimally into something resembling calculated disdain.

  "Grenda was always too direct," Vareth commented, rolling the scroll with pale, elegant fingers. "Brute force and blind discipline. Useful for handling cattle, but inadequate for more complex anomalies. The Circle overestimated its methods. And underestimated the worm they created."

  Lina felt a chill run down her spine hearing the word "worm." She knew, without her mother needing to say it, who she meant. Lysa. The Zero. The "old doll" she had tormented with the toy baton, years ago, in that empty room she now shuddered to think about. The Valueless creature who refused to break, whose empty eyes seemed to record every humiliation, every shock, every laugh.

  And now, that thing had killed Grenda Malvar, a figure even Vareth treated with reluctant respect. Had decimated a team of Circle Masters. Had lit the Purification fire now threatening to consume the kingdom.

  The fear Lina felt was cold and sticky. Fear of Lysa. Fear of the vengeance she felt in her bones was coming. Fear that the "old doll" would return to collect the debt with interest paid in blood and ruptured code. But mixed with the fear was something else, something she barely dared admit to herself: a thread of resentment. Resentment towards her mother, who used her as a tool in cruel games. Resentment towards the System that allowed such things. And perhaps, just perhaps, a grain of guilt for what she had done to the girl on the pedestal.

  "Mother..." Lina began, her voice slightly trembling, watching Vareth put the scroll in a sigil-warded box. "If Lysa... if the Zero did that to Grenda and the Masters... won't she come here? To Lysendar? For us?"

  Vareth turned to her daughter, and her eyes, pale as ancient ice, assessed Lina coldly. There was no comfort there, only calculation.

  "Leave strategic concerns to those who understand them, Lina. Your role is to be seen, admired, a reflection of House Tyron's stability and good taste, especially now, with this public commotion. The Purification, though vulgar in its execution, offers opportunities. Minor families who backed the wrong horse will see their assets 'reassessed.' Contracts can be renegotiated. Positions in the Social Chamber will become vacant. We must project strength and serenity, not childish fear."

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  "But Grenda is dead!" Lina insisted, a note of panic creeping into her voice. "What if Lysa is as powerful as they say? What if she's already here?"

  "If she is foolish enough to come to Lysendar, she will be dealt with," Vareth replied, her tone final, cutting. "I have my own arrangements. The official System is loud and inefficient. My methods are more discreet. And more permanent. Now, go prepare for this evening's recital. The Emissary of Value from the South will be present. A useful contact I intend to cultivate, now that certain old influences have been conveniently removed."

  Lina swallowed hard, fear and resentment forming a lump in her throat. Arguing was pointless. Her mother didn't see people; she saw pieces on a board. And Lina was just a well-dressed pawn.

  Later, alone in her sumptuous chambers – a space decorated with flowing silks, crystals emitting soft light, and polished ghostwood furniture – Lina walked to the large window overlooking the mansion's meticulously kept gardens. Down below, Tyron guards patrolled silently, their gray armor almost invisible against the growing evening shadows. Security had been doubled since the Decree, but it brought her no comfort. It felt more like a cage.

  She looked at her reflection in the darkened glass. Saw the elegant young woman, the heiress. But beneath the surface, saw the scared eight-year-old girl, brandishing a toy baton at a still, silent figure on a pedestal. Remembered the frustration, the childish anger at not getting a reaction, at failing to break that stubborn Zero. Remembered her mother's guests laughing, the feeling of easy, cruel power. And felt a wave of nausea.

  "Was that really me? How could I have been so...?"

  But guilt was quickly choked by fear. Fear of what Lysa might do if she found her. Fear that the past would come to collect its price literally and violently. And fear, always the fear, of her own mother, who would discard her without hesitation if she became an inconvenience or an embarrassment.

  Her chamber door opened silently, and a servant entered, carrying a tray with calming herbal tea. It was Elara, a middle-aged woman with a kind face and eyes that had seen too much in decades of service to House Tyron. Elara had been one of the few servants who sometimes showed her a glimpse of genuine kindness, a look of silent sympathy, especially when Vareth was near. She was, perhaps, the only person in the mansion Lina felt she could minimally trust, though she had never dared do so openly.

  "Your tea, Lady Lina," Elara said, her voice low and calm, placing the tray on a small table.

  "Thank you, Elara," Lina murmured, turning from the window.

  Elara hesitated for a moment, her eyes meeting Lina's with cautious concern. "My Lady seems troubled tonight. The news from the Capital? The Purification?"

  Lina looked away. "It's all so horrible, Elara. The arrests, the fear outside..."

  "Yes, my Lady. Dark times," Elara agreed, tidying an object on the dressing table. Her hand paused for an instant. "I heard maids talking about Supervisor Malvar. About the Zero who killed her. They say she was from Orphanage 12."

  Lina's blood ran cold. Elara knew. Of course, she knew. Servants always knew everything.

  "Those are just rumors, Elara," Lina said, trying to keep her voice steady, but felt her hands tremble slightly.

  Elara met her gaze again, and this time there was deep sadness there. "Rumors have roots, my Lady. And some roots grow even in the coldest marble." She gave a small curtsy. "Please, be careful. Lady Vareth... she seems more... intense lately. And the world outside is more dangerous than it looks from in here."

  With a final significant look, Elara withdrew, closing the door softly behind her.

  Lina was alone again, the untouched tea cooling on the tray. Elara's words echoed in her mind. Roots grow even in the coldest marble. Be careful. Was it a warning? A show of sympathy? Or just the obvious observation of a servant who knew the intrigues and dangers of this house well?

  She walked back to the window. Night had fully fallen on Lysendar. The city lights glittered in the distance, beautiful and cold. But now, for Lina, each light seemed a watchful eye. Each shadow, a potential hiding place for the vengeance crawling towards her. She was trapped in her cage of silk and fear, while outside, in the dark heart of the city, the "old doll" she once tormented might be preparing to break not only the System, but also the last vestiges of the safe, protected world Lina Tyron knew. The scent of black rose in the air suddenly seemed like the smell of approaching death itself.