The Scent Of Silence

Chapter 1- The Summons

The letter smelled of crushed violets and smoke.

Myrren Vale held it by the edges, careful not to smudge the ink. The wax bore the spiral crown of Eirden: nine points, nine secrets.

The palace never summoned people like her.
Not scentcrafters.
Not lowborn artisans who lived in crooked alleys, where shelves sagged under jars and dried leaves.
And certainly not Myrren Vale, who had spent her life training herself to go unnoticed.

She broke the seal.

By order of His Majesty, King Alric IV, Mistress Myrren Vale is commanded to the Royal Court of Eirden before the next moonrise. Her skills in scentcraft are required in urgent matters of state. Refusal is not permitted.

Cold. Final.

Beneath violets and smoke, another tang clung to the parchment. Metallic. Like blood rubbed into wax. Whoever sealed it had stained hands.

Her gaze lingered on the shelves crowding her narrow shop: rosemary and rue, lavender strung from rafters, glass vials catching the last spill of sunlight. Every bottle whispered memory to her nose—ink and chalk from stolen scrolls devoured as a child, iron polish from healer’s wards that barred her entry, the faint sweetness of honeyroot from the tonic that once overdosed a child’s lungs.

Her chest tightened. The memory clung like smoke. She shoved it away.

A knock rattled the door.

“Already packed?” Ori’s voice spilled in, bright and brisk. She bustled inside, cheeks flushed from the evening chill, soap and bread clinging to her clothes.

Ori Fenwick. Nineteen, like Myrren. Orphaned young, raised among palace servants’ quarters, now working laundry shifts that left her arms raw and strong. Loyal, sharp-tongued, impossible to shake.

Wordlessly, Myrren held up the letter.

Ori gasped. “Saints above. The seal. You’re being called to court?” She set her basket down with a thump. “Wait until the neighbors hear—”

“No one will hear.” Myrren’s tone cut sharper than intended. “Not yet.”

Ori blinked, then grinned. “Secrets again. Fine. But you cannot go looking like that.” She gestured at Myrren’s grey dress, ink-stained cuffs, the herb dust woven into her braid.

“I’m not going to be seen,” Myrren muttered. “I’m going to work.”

“Palace work is still palace work.” Ori leaned against the doorframe, eyes dancing. “Who knows? You might catch the eye of a prince.”

Myrren’s lips thinned. “Romance is a distraction. Bonds break. Chemistry fades.”

Ori snorted. “Saints, Myrren, you talk about love like it’s a spoiled tonic. At least bottle it so you can sell what you refuse to keep.”

A flush crept up Myrren’s throat. She turned away, gathering her satchel.

Ori softened. “You’ve read half the palace ledgers that washed up in market stalls. Now you’ll see the rot yourself. At least wear a clean dress while you’re proving every noble wrong.”

Myrren almost smiled. Almost.

“Or worse,” Ori teased, quieter now, “you might catch the Queen’s eye.”

That stilled her. Everyone knew Queen Aelira’s name was sharper than her crown. If the King truly lay ill—as whispers claimed—then the Queen ruled in silence. And if the Queen wanted her summoned… Myrren already knew she was in danger.

Ori tugged her sleeve. “Then go as yourself. Clean dress. Smooth hair. If they mean to eat you alive, at least let them choke on envy.”

By dusk, the palace carriage jolted her up the winding road. Ori had bullied her into a clean wool dress, her hair combed smooth. She had not looked in the mirror. She could not bear to.

Her satchel clinked with clay jars, every blend she dared to carry.

Eirden sprawled below, rooftops glinting in the last spill of sunlight. Smoke curled from hearths with the tang of wet stone, dung, and bread pulled late from ovens. Yet the streets were not bustling. Children with hollow cheeks watched from shadows. Grain carts rattled past under guard, their locks heavy. The air stank of stale flour.

Famine.

A group of servants hurried by, whispers trailing. Myrren caught the acrid scent of fear on their clothes—the sweat of people who had seen riots. Even before she reached the palace, death pressed close.

Above it all rose the palace—vast, white, humming faintly with wards. Built to dazzle. But her nose caught the truth beneath: mildew in old stone, iron in cracked foundations, perfumes thick enough to mask rot. Even stone had a scent, and this stone whispered of secrets pressed too long into silence.

The gates opened. Servants led her through glittering halls where illusions shimmered over cracked walls. Courtiers drifted past in gowns like constellations, laughter sharp as glass. Jewels clinked, silk hissed, perfume battled perfume. None spared her a glance. To them, she was invisible.

Until the throne hall.

The air was suffocating—rose oil thick as honey. Myrren’s nostrils flared. Beneath the roses, something sharper burned.

Bitter almonds.

Her gaze locked on a goblet resting on a side table. A faint blue sheen clung to the rim—visible only to one who knew where to look. She touched it with a fingertip, lifted it to her nose.

“Wolfsbane,” she murmured.

Gasps. A scoff.

“A parlor trick,” one noble sneered.

“Perhaps she brought it herself,” Lord Aedric Harrow said, lips curved like a blade. “Perfumer’s tricks belong in the alleys, not before a throne.”

Myrren ignored them. “Aconitine binds the nerves. Tingling lips. Collapsing lungs. A seizing heart. The victim would already be dead—unless…” She tilted the goblet. “The dose was small. Enough to weaken, not kill. Whoever poured it wanted the victim watched, not buried.”

The laughter faltered.

“Careful.” A warm voice carried from the dais. “Dismissing someone who notices more than you could cost your life.”

Prince Thane stood at the hall’s center—golden-haired, smile like sunlight. His gaze on her was not mocking, but intent. A lesson wrapped in kindness: her presence here was no accident.

Heat rose to her cheeks. She had expected arrogance, not defense.

Captain Holt’s dry voice cut the silence. “Strange, isn’t it? You’d rather jeer than listen to the woman keeping your lungs clear tonight.”

Uneasy chuckles. Lady Seliora Veyne’s silver laugh rang out, edged and knowing. “Perhaps courage smells sharper than roses. Cousin, you do collect curious allies.”

Thane’s smile deepened. “Courage is rarer here than jewels, Seliora. And unlike jewels, it cannot be bought. I would be a fool to let it slip away.”

And then she saw him.

At Thane’s right hand.

Lord Corven. Raven-dark hair. Storm-gray eyes, unreadable. Stillness carved into him like stone. He did not smile. He did not bow. He simply watched.

As she passed, his voice brushed low against her ear.

“You shouldn’t have come.”

Her breath caught.

For the first time, she could not read a scent. Only danger. Only silence. The air around him seemed to chill, shadows clinging as though reluctant to let him go. She had the terrible sense that he could erase her from this hall as easily as snuffing a candle flame.

She looked back at the goblet in her hand—

and froze.

The seal at its base was no noble’s crest.

It was the King’s.

Comments for chapter " Chapter 1- The Summons"

MANGA DISCUSSION

1 Comment

LettyT.

“I’m hooked 😱 Every scene feels like I’m inside the palace myself—mystery, danger, and romance all woven together so perfectly. The cliffhanger at the end?? Absolutely chilling. MORE PLEASE

August 17, 2025 at 1:49 pm

The Scent Of Silence

Chapter 1- The Summons

The Scent Of Silence

Chapter 1- The Summons

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