CHAPTER 59: TO LOSE THE MASK

The Dowager was unprovoked. "No," she said. "I only wish to ask you something."

"You’re not curious who conspires against your bosom friend?" the Divina asked, lips dark with vyrnshade blossoms, curling into a smirk. Her voice echoed from everywhere and nowhere.

"Hadrian and I are more than bosom friends," the Dowager replied, clearly catching the insinuation. "But I’ve not come on his behalf."

The Divina moved behind the mirrored wall. Her reflections flickered along the glasses... dozens of her, none the true one.

"But it does trouble you, does it not, friend?" she murmured.

The Dowager gave no answer. Like all women of her house, she wore silence the way other women wore pearls—proudly, and with precision.

"Don’t you see my heart?" she asked at last. "Aren’t you the all-seeing Seer?"

The Divina laughed, soft and celestial—a sound too elegant to mock, yet too amused to soothe. It rang through the chamber, brushing over marble, water, and glass like a wind stirring ancient silk.

"I see only what is revealed," she said. "And what I see in you is a secret curdling beneath your ribs. Atone, before it consumes what’s left of you."

The Dowager let out a breath, long and weary.

Behind the mirror, a veiled attendant smiled faintly. She had seen this ritual before: the Dowager seeking solace in riddles, the Divina offering veiled truths in return. But today, something sharper threaded the air between them. Today, the Swan pressed harder.

The Dowager raised the silver cup to her lips. She drank, then set it down gently, allowing silence to settle between them like stretched velvet.

"Do you know," she murmured, "when I was a girl, my governess used to terrify me with tales of the First Flame. Of Vaeronyx, the Cinderlord. The dragon whose thirst turned oceans to steam."

The Divina inclined her head slightly, but did not smile.

"A fine tale," she said. "Useful for keeping children quiet."

"Quiet?" The Dowager chuckled, low and dry. "No, my governess was quite mad. She told it with such color, I half-believed the stars still flinched when he roared."

Her gaze dropped to the water basin. She only saw the reflection of memory, not the fearful dragon as she wished.

"They say the Oracle of the Swan told him on their first meeting, ’If flame learns to love, it need not burn.’ And he... kneeled, to her, for love."

"Ah. The Oracle of the Swan." The Divina’s voice curled with something unreadable. "You speak fondly of her."

"As fondly as any woman might speak of another who refused to die quietly." The Dowager’s voice turned thoughtful. "Of course, she’s remembered as a temptress. A schemer. Isn’t that always the tale when a woman dares to hold sway over kings?"

"There are other tales," the Divina said, dry as parchment. "Of her mercy. Her kindness. Her loving heart of a mother."

The Dowager offered a smile. "They say their love was a forbidden miracle—he, the flame-born scourge; she, the last whisper of a dying divine line. Both demigods, both so different. And yet she tamed him. Not with steel. Not with spell. With love." She paused. "A curious thing, that. Love."

The Divina tilted her head, veil catching the soft light like a feather caught in moonlight. "Is that what you believe it was? Love?"

"What else convinces a dragon to kneel?" the Dowager replied lightly. "Certainly not politics. Dragons have little interest in treaties."

"I’ve seen men kneel easier than dragons," the Divina said, her tone sharpening like glass in silk. "And women who offered their own sons to the sword—for far less."

The Dowager’s jaw tightened. Her hands fisted quietly in her lap. "Some kneel for flattery. Others, for fear. A rare few... for promises."

The basin shimmered faintly—not with magic, but heat. Or perhaps memory made visible.

"Of course," the Divina continued, "love is the pretty ribbon we tie around our monsters. It gilds the horror. What begins as a tale of ash and ache ends in lace and lullabies. People want their dragons humbled. Their saints martyred. And their oracles... forgotten."

The Dowager raised a brow. "There’s a theory—an indulgent one—that the Oracle of the Swan never died. That her whispers still reach kings from behind perfumed veils. Guiding the ambitious. Warning the doomed."

The attendant stiffened. Their conversation never got so deep. Was the dowager implying that the Swan Divina was the Swan Oracle of the past?

"A charming theory," the Divina replied. "How convenient, that what cannot be explained is always the work of an eternal woman."

"You speak of her as though you’re impressed by her."

"And you," the Divina said smoothly, "as though you still believe in her."

A long pause followed, heavy and deliberate.

"Tell me, Divina," the Dowager said softly. "What do you think became of Vaeronyx?"

"I think dragons never existed," said the Divina, setting down her untouched cup. "But if they had—if the tales are true—then the one betrayed by Lion and Bear did not die. Fire doesn’t die. It waits. Beneath ash. Beneath stone. Until some fool stirs it."

The Dowager’s smile held, though it didn’t reach her eyes.

"And when that happens?"

"Then," the Divina said, "we remember why dragons belong in stories."

The Dowager nodded once, as if tucking something away. "How fortunate, then, that I only dream in stories."

"And I," the Divina said, rising with quiet grace, "only serve tea."

They both stood.

Two women, with one ancient tale between them. Neither trusted the other, yet in their own veiled, thorn-strewn way, they delighted in each other’s company.

"I come with a prayer," said the Dowager, her voice calm but not without fracture. A fine tremor threaded each syllable. "For Hadrian’s daughter. I ask—no, I beg—that you protect the princess. She is... innocent."

"I am no god to grant mercy," the Swan Divina replied, her tone cool, touched with dry amusement, as though the very concept of innocence amused her.

"Please." The word fell from the Dowager’s lips like a last coin cast into a deep well. "She must remain..." Her gaze shimmered in the low lamplight. A truth nearly escaped her, but she caught it, swallowed it. Instead, she exhaled softly. "...healthy," she whispered. "The poor woman has suffered enough for ten lifetimes."

The Divina did not move, but something in the air around her shifted. The divine stillness that cloaked her form shimmered, cracked like brittle glass beneath sudden weight. A sliver of shadow crept into her glow.

"Everyone owes her," the Divina said, her voice no longer soft, but iron. "And she owes everyone. But she will only receive what she is due when her husband ceases to hide. When he dares to lift his head and shed the mask he wears so devoutly."

She leaned in, the veil ghosting over the light between them. "Tell me, Dowager... can you afford the price of that truth?"

"No—!"

The word broke from the Dowager’s chest, raw and violent, as if she’d been struck. She staggered back a step, her fingers fluttering near her throat.

The Divina’s voice followed, a low echo spiraling through the circular chamber. "Perhaps that Silent Crown was always too heavy for him. Perhaps it’s time... someone took it off."

A pause. Long enough for a heart to break between beats.

The Dowager turned sharply. Her hands trembled as she gripped her robe, gathering what pride remained. And then, without another word, she fled through the arched door, her footsteps echoing like a retreat from confession.

Down the winding stairs she descended, clutching her shawl, the morning sun waiting like a judgment at the end. But before she could reach it, a shadow eclipsed the light—a warm, familiar shadow.

She looked up. Her breath caught. Her heart sank.

"Wh—what are you doing here...?" she asked, panic strangling her voice.