Raine_Whitlock
Stories
6
Chapters
149
Words
220.6 K
Comments
0
Reading
18 h, 23 m
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The palace did not sleep after the poisoning. By dawn, it was already alive with whispers, scurrying feet, and the scrape of doors opening too quickly. Servants carried trays and basins with their eyes lowered, their voices hushed but sharp enough to slip under thresholds. The prince’s concubine collapsed. It was her cup, not his. The Shadowlord touched her, and she lived. Every word tangled her name tighter in the palace web. Myrren lay in her own chamber now, the familiar scents of dried herbs and…-
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Dawn broke gray and bitter, pressing low over the palace spires. The courtyard stones were slick with dew, cold against Myrren’s boots as she crossed them under too many watching eyes. The air itself seemed to hold its breath, as though waiting to see whether she would falter. The carriage waited, lacquered black, its wheels already wet with morning damp. Beside it, Corven sat astride a dark horse, still as carved obsidian. He had been there before she arrived, silent, as if waiting was his natural…
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The palace had a way of suffocating its guests. Even inside the chamber assigned to her, Myrren smelled too much: perfumes soaked into curtains, smoke from the braziers, damp stone under layers of velvet. No matter how many candles flickered, the air still carried mildew, as though the palace itself rotted beneath its finery. She had not slept since the banquet. The noblewoman’s collapse replayed in her mind—the bitter almonds on the air, the weight of every gaze, Thane stepping into the silence like…
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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…
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Author’s Note To the judges, the readers, and those who shared the spiral with me, my deepest thanks. The Scent of Silence began as a whisper in the dark: a single image, a locked memory, a love that refused to die. I didn’t know if anyone would read it. I didn’t know if I could finish it. But I did. All 115 chapters, completed before the judging even began. And if you’ve made it here, to this final page, then something stayed with you. Maybe a line. A scent. A kiss that broke the world. I…
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