CHAPTER 31: WHISPERS OF THE SWAN

In the early hush of dawn, when the world still hovered between dream and waking, a single figure knelt within a chamber carved from seamless pearl-toned stone. The walls curved gently around her, forming a perfect circle with no corners and no place for shadows to hide. The chamber breathed in silence, glowing faintly as if lit from within.

Viscountess Isolde Norton bowed before a basin of white marble shaped like an open lily, its bowl filled to the brim with crystalline water. Floating on its surface were lilies so pale they seemed to be spun from moonlight.

Yet despite the hour, the water reflected not the rising sun but a full, brilliant moon suspended in an invisible sky.

The silver cup clinked softly as she placed it beside the basin. She had been offered warm tea upon entering, and its sweetness still lingered on her tongue. It tasted like comfort and memory, of dreams she once believed in. She clung to that warmth like a child to its mother’s shawl.

The chamber exhaled perfume. White lilies bloomed in sculpted alcoves along the curved walls, filling the air with a scent that was both delicate and intoxicating. Violet crystal lamps glimmered like stars caught in glass, and threads of incense drifted lazily, curling in the still air.

There was not a single sharp edge in sight. Even the floor beneath her knees was smooth as clouded glass. The entire room seemed crafted not by mortal hands but born from a single thought—serenity.

Lady Isolde needed this peace. Desperately. Her daughter’s scream still echoed in the hollows of her heart. Her fall, dismissed by so many as madness or misstep, haunted Isolde’s every breath.

Tears welled in her eyes and slid down her cheeks in silent surrender.

"Ah... so that is the burden you carry."

The voice arrived like silk unfurling, soft and warm, intimate as a hand brushing against the cheek. It did not come from behind her. It came from everywhere. It moved like mist in the air.

Lady Isolde opened her eyes, startled, her breath catching.

There had been only one entrance. She had seen no one arrive. And yet, the reflection had changed.

The basin now shimmered with an image of a figure, an ethereal, robed in fluid layers of silk the color of dawn’s first blush. Draped over her shoulders was a high-necked cloak of dove-gray velvet, its hems embroidered with delicate swan feathers in white and thread-of-gold. Her veil, sheer and glowing, was pinned with tiny pearls that danced like stars upon gossamer clouds.

The holy maiden walked, but did not step. She glided, trailing a whisper of fabric that shimmered like moonlight on rippling water. Her reflection appeared in every polished surface, and yet not one of them aligned perfectly, as if the room could not contain the truth of her.

The Swan Divina.

Lady Isolde had been told not to raise her eyes. To keep her gaze lowered. To wait for the Divina’s blessing to speak. But the moment she looked up, awe banished obedience. Her breath hitched as her eyes took in the divine presence before her. The Divina’s very existence felt unreal, like a dream stitched into the seams of waking life.

She felt small. Unworthy. Like a blemish in a cathedral.

But the Divina did not chide her. She said nothing of the breach in conduct. She only stood there, cloaked in that veil of serenity, her image fragmented in the basin’s surface like a celestial secret.

"My daughter..." Isolde whispered. Her voice cracked, and her hands clenched tightly on her lap. "My poor daughter."

But strangely, she did not cry. The tears refused to rise again. A quiet calm wrapped itself around her. The pain remained, but it floated above her bones like fog above water.

"Sorrow is a mirror, my lady," said the Swan Divina, pointing at the basin, the movement of her hand as elegant as a swan, as grace personified. "Look closely... and you will see who held the dagger."

The words swirled like water in her ear. Lady Isolde’s eyes dropped again to the basin. At first, the moonlight danced gently across the ripples. Then, slowly, an image formed.

Her breath caught.

The Grand Duke smiled up at her from the still waters.

But something shifted.

The ripple deepened, twisting his smile. Darkness bled from the edges of his face. His features blurred and then reformed into something crueler and colder. In the next instant, he was no longer smiling. He was pushing. Pushing a girl, her girl, her darling child... down a cliff.

Lady Isolde gasped and nearly fell backward, gripping the edge of the basin with trembling fingers.

"She was not weak," the Divina murmured, her voice coiling like mist through the room. "She was plucked away. She was never meant to be a wife. She was chosen as a pawn to quiet a man’s ambition and disguise it as an alliance. You knew this, did you not, my lady?"

Lady Isolde’s heart pounded. Yes. Somewhere in the folds of her soul, she had known. She knew it when she saw her daughter’s face after the wedding night. She knew it when she heard the rumors the night before.

Her daughter had never been meek. She had merely been cornered. Gilded, dressed, and sacrificed.

The surface of the basin rippled again, and the Grand Duke’s image dissolved into broken moonlight.

The Swan Divina reached out with her gloved hand and placed a single water lily upon the water. It floated gently, calming the disturbance and sealing the vision.

Isolde stared at it in silence. Her lips parted, but no sound came.

Behind her veil, the Divina smiled—a subtle, victorious curve of the lips. It was brief. Vanishing before it could be questioned.

And though the room still smelled of lilies, the sweetness had thickened. It now clung to the air, like perfume hiding a deeper rot.

"My lady," the Divina said softly, her voice barely louder than the whisper of silk, "you now know the truth. But what you do with it... shall determine the weight of your soul."

Lady Isolde bowed low, her head nearly touching the floor. She could no longer look. Her heart was too full. Her thoughts, too shattered.

As she was led from the chamber, the warmth of the tea still lingered in her veins, like a drug that softened pain and blurred reality.

Outside, the sun had risen, but within her, the night had only just begun.

And in the sacred chamber of the Swan Divina, the water lilies floated silently, watching, listening, waiting for the next soul to be offered.