Sylana stood by the fire, muttering to herself, the words dark and half-formed—something about her sister, something about finally being done with all of it.
She didn't hear the footsteps behind her.
Bonk.
The heavy book connected with the back of her head with a satisfying thud, and Sylana spun around with fire in her eyes, ready to tear into whoever had the nerve—
The words died in her throat.
A young woman stood there, one hand still loosely gripping the book, the other propped on her hip. Her eyes were bright with amusement, her smile the particular kind that meant she'd heard everything and found it terribly entertaining.
Duchess Aveline. Of course it was.
"Really, Sylana?" Aveline tilted her head. "Mumbling about killing your sister again? You'd think you'd have gotten it out of your system by now."
Sylana's fists clenched at her sides. Of all the people to walk in—of all the times. "Duchess Aveline," she said, forcing her voice level. "This time it's different. My plans—"
Bonk.
The book came down again, harder. Sylana recoiled, clutching her head with a hiss.
"Your plans are always 'different,'" Aveline said, her voice sharp now, the amusement thinning into something more pointed. "And they never are. How many times are we going to do this?"
"But this time—"
Aveline held up a hand, and Sylana fell silent despite herself.
"No." Aveline's tone left no room for argument. "You've been scheming about controlling Lita, about besting your sister, and all you've managed to do is stand here talking to a fireplace." She looked Sylana over once, with the expression of someone deeply unimpressed. "Pathetic."
Sylana opened her mouth.
A thick stack of papers landed in her arms before she could get a word out.
"You have reports to finish," Aveline said simply. "You're behind. Consider this your punishment for wasting company time on fantasies."
Sylana stared at the documents. Then at Aveline. "...Paperwork?"
"Paperwork," Aveline confirmed, already turning to leave. "Every single page, done by tomorrow morning. And Sylana?" She paused at the door, glancing back with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Your little schemes won't get you anywhere as long as I'm around. Just do your job."
The door clicked shut behind her.
Sylana stood in the silence, arms full of documents, her pride in ruins. For a long moment, she simply stared at the stack.
Then she sat down, picked up her quill, and started writing—her jaw tight and her thoughts already three steps ahead.
The candles burned low through the night.
Sylana worked without stopping, her quill scratching across page after page, the pile shrinking by degrees. It was humiliating. She knew that. Aveline had meant it to be. But somewhere around the third hour, the humiliation had quietly become something else.
She'd started actually reading what she was filing.
Names. Places. Financial records with numbers that didn't quite add up. Small inconsistencies, easy to miss if you were just pushing papers—but Sylana wasn't just pushing papers anymore. She read each one carefully, turning details over in her mind, noting the connections.
Interesting.
By the time the sky outside had begun to lighten, she'd finished the stack. She leaned back in her chair and looked out at the pale morning horizon, a slow smile spreading across her face.
"You think you've won, Aveline," she murmured. "But you just handed me everything I needed."
She set down her quill.
And immediately, there was a knock at the door.
A servant entered without preamble, set another mountain of documents on her desk, bowed, and left.
Sylana stared at it.
Then Aveline appeared in the doorway, looking freshly rested and entirely too pleased with herself. "You seem almost cheerful," she observed, narrowing her eyes slightly. "That's suspicious."
"I finished everything," Sylana said, keeping her voice smooth. "There's no need for more."
"Hmm." Aveline stepped into the room, her gaze moving over Sylana's composed expression with something like suspicion. "You seem far too fine for someone who just pulled an all-nighter. Surely you have more in you."
Sylana pressed her lips together. "I really don't think—"
"Don't strain yourself thinking," Aveline said pleasantly, turning to leave.
Sylana watched her go, something hot and bitter rising in her chest. Under her breath — barely even a whisper — she muttered, "One day, I'll wipe that smile off your face."
Aveline stopped.
The room went very still.
"What was that, Sylana?" Her voice had gone cold, careful, like a blade being drawn slowly.
Sylana's eyes went wide. "N-nothing! I was joking, I swear, you know how I—"
Aveline turned. In one fluid motion, she drew the fan from her sleeve and sent it spinning across the room.
It hit Sylana square on the forehead with a sharp thwack.
Aveline crossed the room, retrieved her fan with perfect calm, and looked down at Sylana, who had gone completely still in her chair, hand pressed to her forehead.
"You threatened me." Aveline's voice was pleasant again, which was somehow worse than the cold. "I think a little more work will help clear your head."
"I was kidding—"
"I know." She was already heading for the door. "Enjoy the bonus stack."
The door shut.
Sylana sat in the ringing silence, staring at the new pile of documents. The sun was barely up. She hadn't slept. Her forehead was throbbing.
She picked up her quill.
By the time the sun started dipping toward the horizon—a full day later—Sylana had finally, finally, finished.
She set down her quill. Stretched her aching neck. Stood up.
A knock at the door.
Aveline's head appeared. "More paperwork."
Something in Sylana's expression cracked. She drew in a breath, her mouth opening—