"Lady Borandi, are you all right?"
Several young ladies converged on Borandi, their voices pitched with performative concern.
"Even though there was a rumor that Lady Eyre did it, I *believed* it was untrue. How could she try to blame *you* with such a lie!"
The cluster of girls turned reproachful glances toward Susan—wolves deciding which among them had gone too far.
"But what *is* that thing?" one of them whispered, staring at the space where the projection had been.
"I know." Another girl stepped forward, eager to display her knowledge. "It's a patented invention from the House of the Northern Duke. My father saw one at the imperial palace and described it in detail. If you stand before a special stone, an exact image of events appears in the air—like a memory made visible."
Susan clutched her shoulders, fingernails biting into her own flesh as she fought to control the trembling.
She didn't know where this *thing* had come from—but she had to turn the situation around. Immediately. No matter what.
Forcing calm into her expression, she lifted her chin with stubborn defiance.
"That day, I was at the castle at His Lordship's *invitation*."
A clever blend of truth and lies. In reality, her father had been visiting the ducal castle on business, and Susan had begged to accompany him.
"That's *not the point!*" Borandi's voice cracked with hurt. "Why did you *slander* me?"
"Lady Borandi, someone deliberately arranged this to humiliate me." Susan pivoted smoothly, her tone shifting to wounded innocence. "And who here could have *dared* do such a thing, do you think?"
She let the implication hang.
Several young ladies turned to look at Marin.
Marin watched the proceedings with an utterly neutral expression—a blank canvas offering no satisfaction.
Susan stepped directly in front of her, green eyes blazing.
"You brought in fabricated evidence and disgraced me like this, Lady Shuvents."
"You asked me to show evidence." Marin shrugged lightly. "I simply showed that day as it was."
*Look at that impassive face.*
Because of a woman like *this*, her entire reputation was being dragged through the mud.
Susan felt heat building behind her eyes—a blood vessel bursting, her vision tinging red at the edges.
No matter how she tried to salvage this, she couldn't silence everyone who had witnessed that projection with their own eyes.
She would never become the flower of Western high society now.
*Because of this woman.*
The mask of politeness shattered.
"Do you think someone as *insignificant* as you could ever compare to His Lordship?!"
"Alas for you," Marin said mildly, "but Lord Gerald likes people like me. Not you."
Fury erupted.
Susan's hand flew up—aiming for Marin's cheek with all the strength she could muster.
But Marin had been ready. She tensed her body and threw her head back slightly—
Susan's palm met only air.
The momentum carried her forward. She staggered, arms pinwheeling—and crashed directly into the champagne table.
Glass shattered. Liquid exploded across her white dress in a cascading wave.
"*KYAAA!*"
The nearby ladies screamed and scattered like startled birds.
Susan stumbled backward in horror, stepped on the champagne-soaked hem of her gown, and fell sprawling onto the floor.
She lay there—sticky with champagne, hair disheveled, dress ruined—a portrait of absolute ruin.
*The complete fall of the flower of Western high society.*
---
## — Marin's Room —
Marin collapsed face-first onto her bed, utterly drained.
It felt as though she'd returned not from a tea party, but from an actual war—every ounce of strength wrung out of her.
*Knock-knock.*
She lifted her head just enough to acknowledge the sound.
"Yes?"
"It's Julia, my lady."
"Come in."
Julia entered and regarded Marin—who had become one with the mattress—with open sympathy.
"Was it difficult?"
"A gathering of ladies." Marin's voice was muffled by the pillow. "Not my kind of event. Not at *all*."
"I'll prepare washing water for you."
"Thank you."
"And one more thing—there was a message from the forge. They asked you to come by."
"*Truly?*"
Marin bolted upright, exhaustion forgotten, her face alight with anticipation.
*Is the sword ready?*
She glanced down at her sky-blue dress. Wrinkled from lying around, but still presentable enough.
"Julia, I'll wash when I return from the forge."
"Yes, my lady. I'll have it ready."
"I'll be back soon!"
Marin practically flew toward the door.
---
## — The Forge —
As Marin approached, she knocked—but the sound was swallowed entirely by the roar of hammer striking anvil.
She pushed the door open and stepped inside.
"Surenn!"
"Oh! Lady Marin!" Surenn, clad as always in her sleeveless work shirt, raised her hammer in greeting. "Come in!"
*Wow. Look at those muscles.*
Marin's eyes went wide with admiration as she drew closer.
"Is the sword finished?"
"Yeah. Finished yours before everyone else's."
Surenn grinned and set a long object wrapped in thin leather on the worktable.
The leather fell away, revealing an ivory-colored scabbard. Gold dust had been scattered across its center in a wavy, organic pattern—shimmering, sparkling. The scabbard alone looked like a work of art.
Surenn drew the blade slowly from its sheath.
The thin steel gleamed like a mirror, catching firelight and reflecting it back in rippling waves. A green opal had been set beautifully into the hilt—gem and metal joined with flawless craftsmanship.
"*Wow!* It's beautiful!"
"I heard you're leaving on a long journey soon, so I hurried."
"Thank you, Surenn. Truly."
"The sword's ready—so how about a drink?"
Marin's memory flashed to rivers of champagne at the engagement ball.
"Champagne?"
"*Psh.* That's basically water. Sparkling water."
"Then what...?"
Surenn's grin turned wicked. She reached beneath the table and slammed a white bottle down on the wood with theatrical flair.
Marin eyed the bottle with wary curiosity.
"*This* is real alcohol. Ha-ha-ha!"
The cork popped. Immediately, the sharp, eye-watering scent of strong spirits filled the air.
*Does it taste like vodka?*
Until now, Marin had only ever drunk champagne and wine. She'd enjoyed both and considered herself reasonably strong when it came to alcohol.
*Isn't it time to test my limits?*
Surenn raised an eyebrow—*can you handle it?*
Marin responded with an equally wicked smile.
---
## — The Duke's Study, Night —
Milky moonlight filtered through the drawn curtains.
Gerald sat alone in the quiet study, waiting.
Marin usually came at this hour to read him to sleep—her voice low and soothing, filling the silence with stories and reports until his mind finally stilled enough for rest.
But no matter how long he waited, her familiar light footsteps didn't come.
"Kay."
The Shadow materialized silently before him.
"Find Marin."
Kay nodded and vanished.
When he disappeared, the office fell into absolute silence—familiar, yet somehow wrong.
In the mornings, the house was enlivened by visits from Marin, Olive, and Perido. In the evenings, Marin returned to read. From morning until night, she filled his time with sound and presence.
*When did that become normal?*
He was still turning the thought over when Kay's footsteps returned.
"She's at Surenn's forge."
A slight furrow appeared between Gerald's brows.
He acknowledged Surenn's skill—few blacksmiths could match her craftsmanship. But her rough manners sometimes overwhelmed people unaccustomed to them.
"Surenn is keeping Marin this late?"
"It appears..." Kay hesitated—an unusual occurrence. "...she's staying of her own accord."
"Explain."
"She's drinking with Surenn."
"Ha."
Gerald stood.
"It seems I'll have to go myself."
Kay dissolved back into shadow.
---
The forge was still a distance away, but their voices carried through the cold night air.
"Surennn-nn! Anyway, I did it! I was like—*that's it! That's it!*—and that lady just—*bam!* She *fell!* Isn't that *hilarious?*"
"HA-HA-HA! Marin, do you know how many times you've told this story already?"
"Ooh? How many?"
"A *hundred* times! HA-HA-HA!"
Surenn slammed the table, laughter roaring out of her.
"Really? Only that? We need *more!* Hee-hee-hee!"
*Both drunk.*
Gerald's steps quickened.
The forge seemed to be burning with every fire stoked at once, radiating warmth into the winter night.
He threw the door open.
Heat and the sharp, acrid smell of strong alcohol washed over him in a wave.
"Oh! Your Grace!" Surenn greeted him cheerfully, waving her hammer. "What brings you here?"
"Who? The *Duke-e-e-e*?!"
Marin's voice rang out—bright, ringing, utterly unrestrained.