“It’s a great deal to learn,” I say, voice tight. “So many secrets to uncover.”
“Oh, darling,” she laughs, the sound brittle. “You’ve barely scratched the surface.”
Margaux finally takes a seat, her fingers tapping on the polished table. The ScryVision brightens again, filling the room with a low ambient hum.
Vale Grace Hospital looms against Eclipsera’s twilight canvas, its newly erected glass spires piercing the heavens. The shot sweeps through recently completed wings where advanced medical equipment gleams beneath bright lighting, and healers in immaculate white coats tend to grateful patients.
“Thanks to the exceptional generosity at the Healing Hands gala,” the narrator croons, “Vale Grace continues its expansion. With the addition of our new Healing Arts Wing, featuringstate-of-the-art equipment, enchanted hydropools, and private meditation gardens—we remain committed to providing the finest magical medical care in Veldrith.”
Private suites with panoramic skyline views. Seven-course meals prepared by on-site chefs. Aromatherapy chambers. Personalized magical care curated to every whim. The footage pulses with engineered comfort.
“Our new recovery unit offers luxury massage, rooftop wellness gardens, and full-service concierges,” the voice continues. “Because recovery should be a sanctuary. Not a burden.”
The broadcast shifts to champagne-glass toasts, benefactors in evening gowns, and tailored suits applauding their own benevolence.
“And with continued support from the Vale Medical Charity Initiative,” the narrator concludes, “we remain committed to bringing premier magical care to all deserving citizens of Eclipsera.”
I can’t help but notice there’s no mention of Eclipsera General Health, which serves the Rift District and Lower Rings. It resembles an abandoned factory more than a medical facility, walls rotting from water damage, protective wards flickering in fits, failing as surely as dying lungs. No gleaming equipment there, just overworked healers fighting to save lives with outdated tools and dwindling supplies.
“Isn’t it remarkable?” Octavia sighs, watching the footage of pristine hover-ambulances docking beneath arc-lit archways. “The new wing is simply magnificent. The donation drive exceeded all expectations.”
“Indeed,” Margaux agrees, though something in her tone suggests she’s not entirely celebrating.
The invitation to that gala still sits in my desk drawer, unopened. It had come in those empty weeks after my parents died, when every part of me lay buried under a weight I couldn’t shift. I ignored it, too lost in grief to care about another elitist masquerade.
Now, watching these powerful people congratulate themselves on their generosity, while Eclipsera General quite literally crumbles, I wonder what else I missed while drowning in my own pain.
“More tea?” Octavia asks, reaching for the pot with a tremor in her wrist.
My ruby throbs violently against my throat, and I notice both women tracking its erratic flares.
The ScryVision flickers, its screen shifting. “Coming up next onWhispersilk—exclusive behind-the-scenes footage of the interview that has Eclipsera buzzing. Join us for an intimate look at the preparation, the drama, and never-before-seen moments with Kian and Dominic Blackwood. Stay tuned.”
Magic slams through me so suddenly the teacups rattle, porcelain clicking against gold-trimmed saucers. Margaux and Octavia exchange a look that sets every nerve on edge.
“Aria, dear,” Octavia coos, her voice smoothed to polite concern. “You seem unwell.”
“I’m fine,” I manage through clenched teeth.
Margaux flicks a glance toward the mantle clock. Her fingers keep tapping the same jagged rhythm.
“Just a moment longer,” Octavia murmurs, so quietly I almost miss it.
The screen illuminates with Kian and Dom’s faces, and Margaux’s voice cuts through the tension. “Showtime.”
Her hand lifts, and half a dozen surveillance orbs rupture in perfect unison. Two figurines detonate a beat later, their explosion masked by the concussive force of shattered glass. Octavia is already on her feet.
“We have perhaps ten minutes before security alerts Kian to the disruption,” she says, all pretense gone. “Move.”
“What the—”
“Up,” Margaux snaps, already at the wall. She presses her palm into a seam I hadn’t seen, and a concealed panel slides open, revealing dark garments. She tosses a set toward me. “Change. Now.”
“What the hell is happening?” Magic crackles around my fingers as I catch the bundle of fabric.
“We are getting you out,” Margaux says. “And contrary to what Father believes, not all of his perfectly controlled pieces stay in their assigned places.”
“But why?” I stare at her, fists clenched. “Why help me at all?”
