My Daughter-in-Law Stole My Face With the Eclipse Mirror and Made Me Serve Her Feast — Now the Mirror Is Screaming My Name
Seraphina sat across from High Steward Kincaid in her private study, the scent of expensive cigars clinging to the heavy drapes. Her face, despite Corinne’s best efforts, looked haggard, the silver cracks now visible even under thick layers of cosmetics.
She pushed a rolled map across the polished ebony desk.
“Four hundred acres,” Seraphina said, her voice a low purr. “Prime lunar vineyard land, Steward. Yours. Freehold title.”
Kincaid’s eyes widened, then darted nervously around the room. He knew the value of such a gift. It could erase his $850,000 gambling mortgage, restore his family’s honor.
“In exchange,” Seraphina continued, a thin smile on her cracked lips, “you will locate and destroy any original covenant documents pertaining to ancient facial transfers. Specifically, anything referencing a ‘1,000th lunar cycle’ clause.”
Kincaid swallowed hard, his hand hovering over the map. He already knew what she meant. He had glimpsed the charter during his search for the eviction clause.
“The Elder Council,” he began, “they might question…”
Seraphina leaned forward, her eyes burning. “The Elder Council will question nothing when your gambling debts are paraded across every public square. Your family name will be ruined. Your villa seized.”
Kincaid’s shoulders slumped. He nodded once, a defeated man. “It will be done, Your Radiance.”
He didn’t notice Corinne, hidden by a heavy silk curtain in the adjoining antechamber, her ears straining. She had been sent to retrieve Seraphina’s personal correspondence.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. She saw the desperation in Seraphina’s eyes, understood the danger.
Later that afternoon, as the palace buzzed with its usual activity, Corinne moved with silent purpose. She slipped into Kincaid’s outer office, where the morning’s official dispatches lay ready for the Council of Elders.
Her hand trembled as she pulled a sheaf of parchment from her sleeve. They were copies, painstakingly made, of Kincaid’s private gambling mortgage notes, dated and itemized.
She slid them discreetly into the largest leather dispatch bag, underneath the usual reports on trade tariffs and agricultural yields.
No one looked up. No one saw.
The Steward would destroy the charter, but Seraphina’s leverage over him, the very secret he guarded, would be exposed to the highest authority in the land.
Corinne walked away, her heart a frantic drum. She had burned her bridge.
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