Chapter 1: The Summons

The letter carried the faint perfume of crushed violets with smoke. Myrren Vale held it delicately by the corners, careful not to blur the ink. Stamped into the wax was Eirden’s spiral crown, nine pointed arcs, nine buried truths. People like her were not summoned to the palace. Not scentcrafters, or alley-dwelling artisans whose shelves bowed under jars and brittle leaves. Certainly not Myrren Vale, who had spent her whole life mastering the art of being overlooked. She pressed her thumb to the seal and cracked it open.

By order of His Majesty, King Alric IV, Mistress Myrren Vale is commanded to the Royal Court of Eirden before the next moonrise. Her skills in scentcraft are required in urgent matters of state. Refusal is not permitted.

Cold and absolute but beneath the violet-sweet perfume and smoke, another scent threaded through the parchment. Metallic, as if blood had been pressed into the wax itself. Whoever sealed it had touched something they shouldn’t.

Her eyes drifted to the shelves lining her cramped shop, bundles of rosemary and rue, lavender drying from the beams, glass vials catching the last slant of daylight. Each jar breathed a memory at her: ink and chalk from the forbidden scrolls she’d devoured as a girl, the iron tang from healers’ halls that never allowed her inside, the faint honeyroot sweetness of the tonic that had once flooded a child’s lungs. Her chest tightened, the memory clung like smoke and she shoved it away.

A knock rattled the door.

“Already packed?” Ori’s voice spilled in, bright and brisk. She bustled inside, cheeks flushed from the evening chill, soap and bread clinging to her clothes. Ori Fenwick. Nineteen, like Myrren an orphaned young, raised among palace servants’ quarters, now working laundry shifts that left her arms raw and strong. Loyal, sharp-tongued, and impossible to shake. Wordlessly, Myrren held up the letter.

Ori gasped. “Saints above. The seal. You’re being called to court?” She set her basket down with a thump. “Wait until the neighbors hear..”

“No one will hear.” Myrren’s tone cut sharper than intended. “Not yet.”

Ori blinked, then broke into a grin. “More secrets, is it? Fine. But you are not stepping into the palace dressed like that.” She waved at Myrren’s grey gown, the ink smudges on the cuffs, the stray herb dust threaded through her braid.

“I’m not going to be looked at,” Myrren muttered. “I’m going to work.”

“Work or not, the palace is still the palace,” Ori shot back, lounging against the doorframe, mischief in her eyes. “And who knows? Maybe some prince will take notice.”

Myrren’s mouth went thin. “Love only distracts, because connections break and even the strongest chemistry fades

Ori snorted. “Saints, Myrren, you speak about love like it’s a bad batch gone sour. At least bottle it up so you can sell what you clearly don’t intend to use.”

Ori’s tone softened. “You’ve read more of those discarded palace ledgers than half the nobles who wrote them. Now you’ll get to face corruption firsthand, just, wear something clean while you’re showing them how wrong they are.”

“Or worse,” Ori added, her voice dropping, “you might draw the Queen’s attention.”

Myrren froze, Queen Aelira’s reputation cut deeper than her crown, and if the rumors were true, if the King was truly sick, then the Queen held the reins of power in chilling silence. If Aelira herself had ordered this summons… Myrren didn’t need anyone to tell her she was already at risk. Ori gave her sleeve a tug. “Then go as you are, fresh dress, tidy hair and if they plan to swallow you whole, at least make them choke on their jealousy.”

By the time dusk settled, the palace carriage was bumping its way up the winding road. Ori had insisted she wear a clean wool dress and smooth out her hair. She hadn’t dared look in the mirror, she couldn’t bring herself to. The satchel at her side clinked softly, filled with clay jars each holding a blend she’d risked bringing.

Below her, Eirden stretched out in the fading light, rooftops catching the last golden spill of the sun. Smoke drifted from chimneys, carrying the scent of wet stone, dung, and bread pulled too late from the ovens, but the streets were quiet. Children with thin faces watched from the shadows. Grain carts rattled under heavy locks and guarded eyes and the air reeked of old flour.

Famine.

A cluster of servants rushed past, whispers following in their wake. Myrren caught the sharp smell of fear clinging to them, the sweat of people who had seen riots. Even before she reached the palace gates, death was already near. The palace loomed above it all, huge, white, and faintly humming with protective wards. A place meant to impress, yet her nose told a different story: mildew in the stone, iron bleeding through cracked foundations, perfumes so thick they only hid the decay beneath. Even stone had its own scent, and this one spoke of secrets buried too long in silence.

The gates swung open and servants guided her through glittering corridors where shimmering illusions tried and failed to hide the cracks in the walls. Courtiers drifted past in gowns that sparkled like constellations, their laughter sharp and brittle as glass. Jewels clattered, silk whispered, and perfumes clashed in the air. No one spared her a glance. To them, she was nothing, just another shadow passing through. Until she reached the throne hall.

The air there was heavy, thick with rose oil so sweet it almost choked her. Myrren’s nostrils flared, beneath the roses, she caught something else, something acrid, and cutting.

Bitter almonds.

Her eyes found a goblet on a nearby table, a faint blue shimmer glinting along its rim, something only a trained eye would notice. She brushed her fingertip across it, brought it to her nose.

“Wolfsbane,” she said quietly.

Gasps rippled through the room, then a scoffs

“A simple parlor trick,” one noble sneered.

“Or perhaps she brought it herself,” Lord Aedric Harrow added, his smile sharp as a blade. “Perfumer’s tricks belong in the alleys, not before a throne.”

Myrren didn’t rise to the bait. “Aconitine targets the nerves, first the lips tingle, then the lungs tighten and finally the heart stops. The victim would already be dead… unless..” she tipped the goblet slightly “The dose was only strong enough to weaken, not to kill, someone wanted the victim to suffer rather than die. The laughter in the room faltered.

“Careful,” a warm voice called from the dais. “Mocking someone who sees more than you might cost you your life.”

Prince Thane stood in the center of the hall, golden-haired, smiling with easy sunlight. His gaze on her wasn’t mocking but deliberate, a quiet message wrapped in charm: she wasn’t here by chance. Heat crept up Myrren’s neck, she had braced for arrogance, not protection.

Captain Holt’s dry voice broke the silence. “Strange, isn’t it? You’d rather sneer at the woman keeping your lungs clear tonight.” Uneasy laughter rippled through the hall, then Lady Seliora Veyne’s silver laugh rang out, cool and cutting. “Perhaps courage has a stronger scent than roses. Cousin, you do keep interesting company.”

Thane’s smile deepened. “Courage is rarer here than jewels, Seliora, and unlike jewels, it can’t be bought, I’d be a fool to let it go.”

She noticed him then standing at Thane’s right, Lord Corven, with raven-dark hair and storm-gray eyes that revealed nothing. He stood utterly still, carved from shadow and stone. No greeting, no smile but only that unblinking gaze.

When she moved past, his voice slipped to her ear, quiet, edged like a blade.
“You shouldn’t have come.”  She drew in a sharp breath, for the first time, she couldn’t read a single scent, only the chill of danger, and the thick hush around him. Shadows clung to him as if unwilling to release their hold. She felt, terribly, that he could erase her presence as effortlessly as extinguishing a flame. She glanced down at the goblet in her hand and she froze.  The seal pressed into its base wasn’t a noble’s mark, instead it belonged to the King.