Chapter 13

October descended the marble steps, each delicate stride echoing in the grand hall like the soft fall of snowflakes. The late afternoon sun filtered through the high windows, casting fractured gold across the walls and floor, dancing along the polished stone like spilled honey. Her gown, a deep amethyst hue kissed with silver embroidery, shimmered as it caught the light, the fabric clinging to her like twilight made flesh. The neckline framed her collarbones like art, and her sleeves tapered elegantly into silken cuffs around her wrists. She looked like she belonged in a painting—otherworldly, untouchable.

Her hair, so often left loose and wild, had been coaxed into a flawless twist at the nape of her neck, a cascade of jeweled pins nestled like stars among the strands. Each step she took brought a soft whisper from her hem against the stone, a hushed lullaby that suited her mood—a careful calm overlaid with tension, like a harp string drawn just before it sings.

At the base of the stairs, the Windsor crest gleamed like a brand of silver fire on the door of the waiting carriage. The crest—a crowned fox encircled by a wreath of frostbitten roses—had never looked so proud, so ominously bright. It had been polished until the sun itself might have shielded its eyes.

But October’s path did not remain clear for long.

Two familiar figures stood before the carriage, blocking the way like shadows cast from her past.

Elina and Langris.

Both were clad in sparring garb, their tunics damp with sweat and streaked with the reddish dust from the training grounds. The air around them smelled faintly of steel and sun-warmed earth. Yet, despite the obvious signs of their recent exertion, neither of them seemed winded. Elina stood with her hands on her hips, grinning like a fox caught in mischief, while Langris remained still as stone, his arms crossed, his expression carved from cold marble.

October didn’t flinch.

Her smile remained intact—polished, pleasant, but distant, like a porcelain mask worn too long.

“Good afternoon, Elder Brother Langris. Sister Elina.”

Elina reacted immediately, flinging her arms up in theatrical glee. “Good afternoon, Snow Bunny!”

October’s brow rose, elegant and amused.

Elina’s eyes went wide as the words registered. “I mean—Good afternoon, October. That just... slipped out.”

“Mmm.” October made a thoughtful sound, eyes glinting with playfulness. “A curious slip, considering I’ve yet to see any snow.”

Langris gave only a nod, the barest movement of his chin, accompanied by a quiet grunt of acknowledgment. “Hm.”

October’s gaze flicked over to him, gauging as always the sharp edges hidden beneath his quiet demeanor. She had grown used to Langris’s silences, but not to their meanings.

Elina, ever the social whirlwind, stepped forward with a little bounce, her eyes bright as they took in October’s transformed appearance.

“Oh, you look so beautiful!” she gushed. “Like one of those dreamy princesses from the old stories—graceful, regal, terrifyingly pretty. Are you going somewhere? Is it a ball? Oh wait—is it a date?”

October chuckled, low and warm. “Nothing so dramatic. A tea party.”

Elina gasped, her entire frame vibrating with interest. “A tea party? Who sent the invitation? Why didn’t you tell me? Is it Lady Mirabelle? Duchess Yvonne? Ooh, or that terrifying Countess Belcaire?”

October gently shook her head. “I’m afraid I can’t reveal everything at once. Where would the fun be in that?”

Elina huffed playfully, puffing out her cheeks. “You’re so mysterious lately, you know. I like it. It’s like you’re becoming one of those cunning noble heroines from the gossip novels. Scheming and lovely.”

“Cunning?” October teased. “Now I’m offended.”

Before Elina could protest, Langris’s voice sliced through the warmth like a blade over frost.

“You… accepted?”

October turned to him slowly. Her smile didn’t disappear—it simply shifted, curved into something finer, more dangerous. The kind of smile one wore in salons where alliances were struck and broken with a single glance.

“Why wouldn’t I?” she asked, tone light. “It’s a perfect opportunity to meet new people. Make… friends.”

Langris’s brow twitched, a barely-there movement that revealed just enough.

“You’ve never had friends,” he said, deadpan.

October’s lashes lowered, her expression softening for the briefest heartbeat—then hardening again with a flash of humor.

“And yet,” she murmured, “perhaps it’s time I made some. You’d be surprised how charming I can be when properly motivated.”

Elina, sensing the undercurrent of tension, stepped between them with forced cheer. “I think it’s lovely! October deserves to go out and have fun. She’s been cooped up with books and Scheuer for weeks! Don’t you think so, Langris?”

Langris didn’t answer. His jaw clenched, his posture rigid. The wind stirred around them as if in warning.

October wasn’t sure whether it was the idea of the tea party that irritated him—or her presence in it.

But she had no time for his disapproval.

She turned to Elina, offering her gloved hands. The younger girl clasped them with a warmth that made October’s heart ache.

“Wish me luck.”

“You don’t need it!” Elina beamed. “But—okay, fine. Good luck. And remember, some of those noble ladies are snakes. Smile with your teeth—but don’t trust them.”

October’s laughter came easy this time. “Sound advice. I’ll keep it close.”

She took a step toward the carriage. But before she could ascend, Langris moved—quick as a blade drawn in silence.

“You won’t be welcomed,” he said. Not cruelly. Not bitterly. Just plainly. As though speaking the weather.

October paused, glancing back at him over her shoulder. Their eyes met—his dark and cold, hers bright and unreadable.

“I know,” she said softly. “But you see, Langris… business meetings were never about being welcomed either. Just about survival.”

She didn’t wait for his reply.

With a rustle of silk and a flicker of purple, she stepped into the carriage. The door shut with a muted thud, heavy with finality. A moment later, the wheels turned, and the horses began to move, their hooves clattering against the cobblestones in steady rhythm.

Inside, the world dimmed.

The carriage interior was lush and quiet, a cocoon of velvet and wood, smelling faintly of cedar and old perfume. October sank into the seat, exhaling a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

“Now…” she murmured to herself, leaning back and watching the city blur past the glass, “to make allies.”

Her reflection stared back at her in the window—poised, composed, but beneath it all, uncertain.

“Princess Isabella Tamara Martins never failed to negotiate a deal,” she whispered. “Befriending noblewomen can’t be that different.”

But as the city streets gave way to manicured gardens and looming manor houses, her confidence wavered.

Business had always had rules. There were contracts, clauses, numbers. Even betrayal had a price tag. But friendship?

Friendship was unpredictable. Messy. Emotional. There were no ledgers to consult, no fallback clauses.

And vulnerability…

Vulnerability was something she had never been trained for.

Yet here she was, about to step into a drawing room full of it—disguised as powdered cheeks and porcelain teacups.

Her hand slipped instinctively to the brooch pinned at her chest—a small thing, shaped like a fox in mid-leap. Not part of the outfit. Not part of the mask. But hers.

Just a reminder.

She might be October Windsor now, but she had been Isabella once—and Isabella never lost a negotiation.

Even if this time, the currency was trust.

And the cost… might be her dignity.