The invitations went out at dawn. There was nothing subtle about them.
Each one was a heavy square of black cardstock, edged in gold and sealed with wax the color of dried blood. Instead of servants, ravens delivered them, tapping at the windows of the twelve most powerful noblewomen in Sanctum until someone let them inside.
The message was simple:
The Saintess requests your presence for tea. The Royal Gardens. Noon. Do not be late.
At noon, sunlight filled the Royal Gardens. A long table stood under the shade of the ancient oak tree. Just the night before, Mirabelle had learned to erase a man from existence beneath its branches.
The grass looked impossibly green. The white roses bloomed with an unnatural energy.
"The fertilizer is working wonders," Revas commented, adjusting the cuffs of his pristine white gloves. He wore a butler's uniform: a tailcoat, a crisp high collar, and a black silk vest. The clothes fit perfectly, showing off his broad shoulders and the graceful way he moved. He looked like every debutante's dream, unless they noticed the wild look in his violet eyes.
"You look ridiculous," Mirabelle said from the head of the table. She wore a high-necked, dark emerald silk dress that looked stunning.
"I look dashing," Revas replied, checking his reflection in a silver platter. "I've always wanted to be a butler. 'Yes, my Lord.' 'No, my Lord.' 'Would you like your poison in the soup or the wine, my Lord?' There's a lot of room for subtle homicide in this job."
The sound of nervous chatter drifted from the palace path. The guests were arriving.
Twelve women arrived: the wives of Generals, Dukes, and Ministers...the real power behind the throne. They huddled together, their silks rustling like frightened sheep. Lady Voss led them, wearing a new dress and looking as if she were heading to the gallows.
"Ladies," Mirabelle said, not standing up. "Welcome."
The women curtsied deeply. Too deeply. Fear had taught them manners overnight.
"Please, sit," Mirabelle gestured to the empty chairs. "The tea is hot."
They took their seats. Revas sprang into action.
He didn't just walk, he seemed to glide. Suddenly, he was behind the Duchess of Vale with a porcelain teapot.
"Lady Vale," Revas purred, leaning down near her ear. The Duchess flinched violently. "Chamomile? It is excellent for the nerves. And you seem... quite jittery."
He poured the steaming liquid, filling the cup to the brim without spilling a drop. His eyes stayed fixed on her exposed neck.
"Thank... thank you," she squeaked.
"You're welcome," Revas said with a grin. "One lump or two? Or maybe a finger?"
"Revas," Mirabelle warned softly.
"Sugar. I meant a finger of sugar. Obviously." Revas winked at the Duches, then moved on to the next guest.
After everyone was served, silence fell over the table. The women stared at their cups, too afraid to drink.
"I suppose you're wondering why I brought you here," Mirabelle began, stirring her tea. The spoon chimed against the china with a sharp, clear sound.
"To... celebrate your return, Your Highness?" Lady Voss ventured, her voice trembling.
"No," Mirabelle said. She looked up, her eyes cold. "I invited you here to discuss your husbands."
The women looked at each other in confusion.
"My father's council is... stubborn," Mirabelle said. "They cling to old laws. They cling to their gold. And they are plotting to kill me."
She took a sip of tea.
"General Kael is mobilizing Western Garrison. Lord Vane is hiring mercenaries from the Iron Coast." She sipped her tea. "They think because they meet in secret cellars, I cannot hear them."
She put her cup down.
"But the Abyss hears everything. The shadows are my spies. And Revas..." She gestured to her butler. "...Revas gets very upset when people plot against me."
Revas now stood behind Lady Voss, holding a silver knife and slowly slicing a lemon.
The sound was steady and wet.
"I do," Revas agreed cheerfully. "It makes me want to peel things. Like lemons. Or faces."
Lady Voss let her spoon fall.
"What do you want from us?" the Duchess of Vale whispered.
"I want you to stop them," Mirabelle said.
"We?" Lady Voss gasped. "We're just wives! We have no say in..."
"Do not lie to me," Mirabelle cut her off. "You run their households. You manage their correspondence. You know where they hide their ledgers. You know which mistresses they visit."
Mirabelle leaned in.
"I want their secrets. I want the locations of their illegal funds. I want the names of the mercenaries they hire. And I want you to convince them, by pillow talk or poison, to vote for my laws."
"And if we refuse?" Lady Voss asked, her voice a little stronger. "You can't kill us all. We are the nobility of Sanctum!"
Mirabelle didn't answer. She looked at Revas.
"Show them," she commanded.
Revas set down the lemon knife. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, ornate box. He placed it in the center of the table.
"A gift," Revas announced. "For Lady Voss."
Lady Voss stared at the box. "What is it?"
"Open it," Revas encouraged.
Trembling, Lady Voss reached out and lifted the lid.
She screamed.
She knocked her chair over and scrambled away from the table, gasping for breath.
Inside the box, resting on a bed of velvet, was a severed finger. It was wearing a distinct signet ring...a ring with the crest of the Royal Battle Mages.
"That belongs to the High Mage," Revas explained casually to the horrified table. "Or, it did. He left it in the garden yesterday. Along with the rest of him."
Revas picked up the box and snapped it shut.
"My Mistress killed three Battle Mages in ten seconds," Revas said, his voice dropping the butler act and becoming pure, deep menace. "Do you think your husbands can stop her? Do you think your guards can stop me?"
He walked around the table, letting his hand slide along the backs of their chairs.
"If you refuse," Revas whispered, "I will not kill you. Death is too easy. I will visit your homes at night. I will hide under your beds. And one by one, I will take... pieces."
He stopped behind Lady Voss again.
"A toe here. An ear there. I'll take apart your perfect lives until all that's left is screaming."
The Duchess of Vale was crying silently. The other women were pale as ghosts.
"I will do it!" the Duchess sobbed. "I will get you Vane's ledgers! Just please... keep him away from my children!"
"And I will talk to the General!" another woman cried out. "I know where he keeps the garrison keys!"
One by one, they gave in. They were afraid of their husbands, but even more afraid of the smiling nightmare who kept body parts in gift boxes. The choice was simple.
Mirabelle stood up.
"Excellent," she said calmly. "Revas, clear the table. The ladies are leaving."
"But they haven't touched the scones," Revas pouted. "I made them myself."
The women fled, running down the garden path and tripping over their skirts in their rush to escape the handsome butler and his cold Mistress.
After they left, Revas picked up a scone and took a big bite. Crumbs landed on his spotless vest.
"Dry," he critiqued. "Needs more butter."
He looked at Mirabelle, his eyes bright with mischief.
"Well, Mistress, you have your spy network now. You've also terrified the whole socialite circle. What's next on the list?"
Mirabelle watched the women run. She felt the iron chain on her wrist throb.
"Tonight," she said, "we're going to the Treasury. Lord Vane thinks his gold is safe. Let's prove him wrong."
Revas swallowed the scone and bowed deeply.
"A bank robbery," he said with a grin.