Tressa Denvyr arrived at Castle Halden wearing mourning gray, though no funeral had been held.
Her gown swept the marble floor like spilled ink, and her veil was pinned just high enough to reveal the twist of a smile that never reached her eyes.
She walked with the same trained elegance that once made maids lower their heads and young knights hold their breath. Now the guards didn’t bow as deeply, but they didn’t stop her either.
Elowen heard of her arrival before the hour bell struck. She had just dismissed her tutors when a steward approached, eyes flicking to the side nervously.
“Lady Tressa Denvyr has requested a private audience. She says she bears a message of importance—from your former husband.”
Elowen raised an eyebrow, not in surprise but in amusement. “Of course she does. Poison travels better on a silver tongue.”
She did not ask what message Tressa carried. She simply gestured toward the sunroom.
“Send her to the Solace Room. Let her bring her shadows into the light.”
When Tressa entered the room, she curtsied low and slow, her gown rustling like dry leaves.
“My lady Halden,” she purred, rising. “It’s been too long. Though I see the castle suits you. Power has done wonders for your posture.”
Elowen didn’t rise from her seat. She had chosen a chair beside the window, where sunlight touched the violet trim of her gown like a crown.
“And widowhood suits you. Mourning gray is a flattering choice—for a woman who’s lost nothing but attention.”
Tressa didn’t flinch. She sat gracefully across from her, folding her hands like a woman offering prayers—though her voice held none.
“I’ve come with a message from my brother. He requests a private audience. He wishes to speak of… closure.”
Elowen blinked once, then let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Closure. Is that what he calls betrayal now?”
“Men do love to rename their failures,” Tressa replied, her tone still honeyed. “It makes their guilt easier to carry. ‘Closure’ sounds less like groveling, more like diplomacy.”
“He’s always been skilled at avoiding the truth,” Elowen said. “But I don’t share his need to dress wounds in silk. He left me. He humiliated me. Now he wants a tidy ending?”
“He wants a conversation.”
“And I want peace,” Elowen said firmly. “But I didn’t find it in him then, and I won’t find it in him now. Tell your brother he may write his regrets on parchment and burn them. That’s the only warmth he’ll get from me.”
Tressa leaned forward slightly, her voice softening. “Elowen… he’s changed.”
“No,” Elowen said, cutting her off. “He’s cornered. There’s a difference.”
A flicker passed through Tressa’s eyes—frustration, maybe, or the first hint of respect.
“You used to be softer,” she murmured. “You used to listen.”
“I used to be afraid,” Elowen replied. “You taught me better.”
The silence that followed was cold and clean, like the pause before a blade falls. Tressa rose first, adjusting her gloves with meticulous care.
“I’ll deliver your refusal,” she said, her tone careful now. “Though I don’t imagine it will stop him.”
“Let him try again,” Elowen said. “And watch him find less than mercy.”
Later that evening, Elowen stepped onto the upper terrace to breathe, only to stop short at the sight below. Near the shaded arcade, Tressa stood locked in hushed conversation with Lord Veymar. Their heads were close, their hands too still, their words too quick.
When Elowen stepped into view, Tressa tilted her head just slightly—but enough to show she knew she had been seen. Veymar didn’t even offer a nod. He simply turned and walked away like a man satisfied with the seed he had just planted.
The weight in Elowen’s chest was not panic—but something colder. She returned to her chambers and summoned her steward immediately.
“Draft a decree,” she said. “Lady Tressa Denvyr is to be denied all further access to the court.”
The steward hesitated. “Shall I give a reason, my lady?”
Elowen didn’t look up from her writing desk. “Yes. Tell her she has mistaken poison for diplomacy. And I no longer dine with ghosts.”