In the event that Lady Sabine Corvyr is disqualified, dismissed, or withdrawn from the sacred Trials before final selection, House Corvyr’s outstanding debt obligations may be transferred to protective administrative custody pending resolution of succession and estate viability.
Sabine read it twice.
Protective administrative custody meant the crown could take Corvyr, strip the assets, dissolve the household, and leave Cassian with a title attached to nothing.
They had tied her family’s survival directly to her continuation in the Trials.
Not just her success. Her participation.
If she was eliminated, Corvyr died.
If she withdrew, Corvyr died.
If she failed, Corvyr died.
The rage that rose in Sabine’s chest was cold and precise.
The palace had turned her family into a leash.
She found Yselle in the withdrawing room near the west gardens.
Yselle sat near the window with embroidery she was clearly not working on, her posture perfect, her face composed in a way that looked practiced rather than natural.
“Lady Sabine,” Yselle said without looking up. “I heard you survived your review with Serast. How tiresome it must be to nearly drown and then be interrogated about it.”
Sabine sat across from her. “You look tired.”
“How kind of you to notice.”
“I mean you look like someone who has also received letters she did not want.”
Yselle’s hands stilled on the embroidery.
For three seconds she said nothing.
Then she set the frame aside and met Sabine’s eyes. “Marrow has creditors. Legitimate ones tied to three stronger houses who would very much like our river estates and textile contracts. A banking consortium has positioned itself to absorb our holdings if I am eliminated before final selection.”
“So your family is being used as leverage too.”
“We are all being used.” Yselle’s voice was sharp. “The difference is that some of us were raised to understand leverage is simply how power moves. You seem surprised.”
“I am not surprised. I am angry.”
“Anger is useless. Strategy is not.” Yselle leaned back. “The palace does not care whether we win. It cares that we compete beautifully while our families dangle. That is the real trial. Not the water or the mirrors or the public humiliation. It is seeing how long we will endure before we admit we were sent here to be spent.”
Sabine studied her. “Then why are you still competing.”
“Because my younger sisters deserve better than being married off to men who view them as interest payments on Marrow debt.” Yselle’s smile was brittle. “And because if I must be spent, I will choose the terms. A crown is better compensation than a provincial marriage to someone’s fourth son.”
“You think you can still win.”
“I think I am still standing. That is the same thing until it is not.” Yselle rose. “Do not mistake this conversation for friendship, Sabine. Recognition does not make us allies.”
“No,” Sabine said quietly. “It makes the knives cleaner.”
Yselle’s expression shifted fractionally. Something almost like respect.
Then she left.
