The Con Artist

Dionne POV:

Clang!

The heavy oak door of my dim side-bedroom burst open without a knock, and the Browning Clan's head steward, Vane, marched straight toward my dressing table with an insolent sneer twisting his lips.

I sat motionless before the tarnished bronze mirror, holding a wooden comb, running it slowly through my long silver-gold hair. My reflection was calm, serene.

Vane slammed a velvet-lined black iron tray onto my dressing table, rattling the mirror . Resting upon the cloth was an Oath Ring forged of crude cold iron—the lethal, cursed metal that seared elven flesh and withered spiritual veins .

To an elf, an Oath Ring was more than status; worn upon the finger, it was identity itself, legal proof of life and lineage attuned by blood . A Noble House flaunted gleaming Electrum and Silver . This ring was a fourth-tier Dull Ring of pitted cold iron—the mark of an outcast cast down to the dirt, an insult designed to burn an elf's pride down to the marrow .

"First Miss, Clan Lord Curtis has signed the decree," Vane barked, thrusting his chin out. "Your sacred betrothal to Warlord Holden has been transferred to the Second Miss. In three days, you will be sent down to the Low Marches to wed High Lord Adrien. This fourth-tier outcast ring is what you deserve."

He leaned in, his murky eyes dripping with condescension, clearly waiting for me to shatter.

"Don't even think about hanging yourself from the rafters again," Vane sneered, his voice loud enough to carry into the corridor. "The Clan Lord said that if you try to die a second time to guilt Warlord Holden, he won't even grant you a burial shroud!"

I slowly set the comb down, turned around, and looked at Vane.

There was no grief in my eyes. No heartbreak. No hysterical despair. Only an abyss of freezing stillness.

"Have you finished barking?" I asked softly.

Vane blinked, momentarily unnerved by the chilling indifference in my voice, but his arrogance quickly flared back up. "You useless, Spiritless cripple—how dare you speak to—"

"How dare you!" Tessa lunged from the shadows, her eyes rimmed with red as she threw her small frame between me and the steward. "You're just a servant! How dare you insult the First Miss!"

"Out of my way, little wrench!"

Vane scoffed, raising his heavy hand to backhand Tessa across the face, channeling a sharp gust of spiritual wind from the green-tinted Verdant Ring on his finger.

Before his palm could touch a single strand of Tessa’s hair, my hand moved.

Crack!

The sharp, sickening sound of bone splintering echoed through the bedchamber.

My fingers had clamped around Vane’s wrist like a vise of solid steel, thumb digging mercilessly into the nerve cluster along his spiritual artery. His spiritual wind collapsed in an instant.

"Aaargh!" Vane dropped to his knees, his face turning pale green from the blinding agony. "My wrist... my bones! Let go!"

I didn't let go. Instead, I twisted his arm down another fraction of an inch, forcing his forehead against the icy floorboards. Leaning down, I whispered into his ear, my voice smooth and lethal:

"Go back and tell Curtis: I accept the marriage. But if he sends another dog to bark in my room, I will snap its neck and leave the carcass at his study door."

With a flick of my wrist, I hurled his arm back.

Vane scrambled backward across the rug, cradling his limp, bruised wrist. Terror dilated his pupils as he stared at me from the floor. He couldn't understand it.

"You... you've gone mad..." Vane rasped, scrambling to his feet and stumbling out the door in sheer panic, slamming it shut behind him.

The room fell dead silent.