A message? She thought, although the idea brought an uncomfortable feeling coursing through her veins. What could it be?
"Come in," She called at last despite the doubt gnawing at her, staring at the unopened door through the mirror's reflection.
It opened and a young boy of no less than nineteen carefully walked in, letting the door close behind him with a gentle push.
Unlike the guards, he wore a plain tunic of coarse, homespun linen, like the color of river clay. It hung straight from his shoulders, belted with a thin strip of worn leather, reflecting the simple garb of a castle runner.
His messy hair complemented the sharp line of his jaw, and the ruthless scar beneath his left eye.
Without a word, he approached, bowing his head as he extended a folded letter toward her with both hands.
"My lady," he murmured.
Lucrezia took it, feeling the weight of the seal before she even looked down. Her pulse hammered within her ribs, now threatening to explode, but she refrained from displaying her worry with a straight face.
The boy backed away with quiet steps, pulled the door open just enough to slip through, and was gone as swiftly as he had come. His work there has been over.
Sensing the need for her mistress's privacy, Edhira also curtseyed, quietly walking away in soft footsteps, before shutting the door gently behind her.
The room seemed to weigh a dire aura, a feeling which indicated something was wrong, and for unknown reasons, her pulse still thundered at the weight of the unopened letter.
She knew she should open it, but her reluctance was far stronger.
Lucrezia recognized the seal belonging to the House Bathory. It didn't surprise her much that her father thought to send her a letter, although it worried her at the suddenness.
Taking a deep breath, she broke the seal before unfolding it, walking towards the window. The morning's light spilled upon its content, catching the precise yet detailed handwriting of her father, the King. It was sharp and utterly poised, like the Alpha he was.
And it read;
To Lady Anastasia,
Wife to Lord Vaeron of Dreadwyn.
My daughter,
I trust you are settling well in your new home. Your mother worries over you, though I assure her you are treated with the care befitting any daughter of this house.
Matters here remain steady. The harvest is good for now but such fortunes change quickly, as you know. Your sister has taken ill again; her condition is delicate, and it would be disastrous were any fresh troubles to fall upon her.
I trust you keep your eyes open and your tongue guarded. A place such as yours holds many secrets, and the wise act only when the moment is certain. Continue in the role you have taken; it is safest that the Lord sees only what he expects.
Write when you are able.
—King Vladimir of House Bathory of Veximoor.
Lucrezia's breath stuttered when she finalized the letter, and her eyes stung with tears. H-Her mother…
Even the blind could tell the indirect message and its meaning, and a cold shiver ran down her spine. It was a message to remind her of the mission she was called to do, and the sacrifice of failing. It was a sign to act sooner than he expected her to be ready.
Again, it stood as a ticket back to Veximoor without suspicions. Her sister was sick, and the Lord wouldn't question her decision to visit in five months. However, a time like this made her feel… used.
For a while, she remained still in silence, watching dawn spread its full curtains over the manor. This was the path she'd agreed to follow, yet it was already becoming difficult on day two.
Lucrezia wouldn't be surprised that the message might have gotten to him before it did to her, and for once, she felt relieved that King Vladimir was smart enough to play this ruse. For everyone, it was safer.
Taking a deep breath to steady the wild rate of her heartbeat, Lucrezia walked towards the burning hearth. For a fleeting moment, a thought occurred to her with the "what if"? What if he hadn't read the letter? Clearly, the seal hadn't been broken, and if so, still, it was best to burn it carefully to hide any trace of evidence.
With that, she tossed the letter, watching the flames rise instantly, after consuming the paper until it was nothing but ashes, its illumination swallowing her soft features.
The bell tolled, breaking her out of her reverie. It was already breakfast time and she was to join him by this hour.
Walking towards the shelf, Lucrezia didn't pause this time because she knew where she needed to go. On her first night in their enemies' manor, when sleep refused to come and paranoia gnawed at her ribs, she had explored the chamber quietly, searching for a place that wouldn't look suspicious if she touched it often, and that's how she'd found it.
She crossed to the far side of the room, toward a low wooden bench set beneath the window. It looked purely decorative, carved with curling thorns and iron inlay, but it wasn't fixed to the floor like the rest of the furniture. She knelt, slipped her fingers beneath its edge, and lifted.
The bench rose easily—lighter than it appeared—revealing a narrow, hollowed-out space beneath it. It was an uneven stone filled with dust, yet to her, it was a perfect accidental pocket.
Her tonic.
Lucrezia exhaled shakily and took the bottle in both hands. Her father's letter still vibrated in her chest, making her powers simmer at the edges of her skin. It was the usual faint kind where her pulse becomes too loud, her senses too sharp, and emotions too close to slipping free. It didn't happen this way entirely, only when she forgot to take them for some time, but now she feels as though she wants leverage to take control.
She uncorked the vial with a soft twist and swallowed two of the small white pills. They dissolved immediately, transmitting a bitter taste spreading over her tongue. Within seconds, the familiar quiet settled through her veins, dimming the instinctive pull of her powers, and pushing her strength and senses back beneath the surface.
Her father didn't instinctively suggest she become his pawn despite the curse in her veins for nothing. He already planned this even before he did, which was why the tonic wasn't only to her disadvantage, but his.
As much as he fed from her, the poison in her veins would slowly trap his senses, and gradually weaken him, until he was nothing but a body without Lucifer's Bones. And then, it would be easier to destroy him.
She returned the vial to its place, lowered the bench carefully, and stood. Her body felt steadier, but her thoughts didn't because her father's words clung to her like cold fingers.
However, no matter how much she tried not to think about last night, the memory remains stubborn. Lucrezia knew she couldn't be feeling this way at a time between missions, yet… and she approached the oval-length mirror at the side of her chamber to smooth the final.
However, staring at her reflection brought a strange bitter sensation. Her hair was braided to a tight crown, the type worn by Queen Charlotte, sending a wave of unsettlement through her. She had believed that perhaps when she was far away from the land of Veximoor, the memories of her past would fade quickly, but these past two days only seemed to remind her how worse it would get. With every braid, every cloth, every crown, and every heel, she was reminded by the demons of their matchmaking.
Lucrezia took a deep breath, staring at her reflection in the mirror with a black oaken frame. The woman in the mirror was not the Lucrezia she had known; she didn't even know who she was before.
Not the cursed born, or the witch, and definitely not the abomination of their pack. Not the girl who stares down the window from the high tower, watching and observing the villagers, children, and their mothers who don't dare look up in fear that the witch might kill them.
Day after night, weeks to months, and months to years, she watched, observed, and remained still like a doll. Remained seated, long forgotten by the walls of Veximoor of House Bathory as an outcast.
And twice in a year, Lucrezia was let out to be ridiculed and reminded of the curse that runs through her veins, however, that wasn't who stared back. That wasn't the woman in the mirror.
This was Lady Anastasia Dreadwyn—though the credit was to her step-sister's—her hair wound and woven in a tight crown, pinned with silver hairpins.
However, no matter how many times she tried to convince herself otherwise, what stared back was a pretense of normalcy and title, belonging to a person she created herself to be. An appearance she was forced to carry in the weight of her weakness. Those ocean blue eyes she could barely even recognize, only the familiarity of her mother's.
Her gown was a sheath of pale ivory that caught the morning light like the inside of a seashell. Lace trembled along her throat, veiling the line of her shoulders, while the bodice, stiffened and shaped by some ancient hand of fashion, bound her heart tight.
The gown's skirts flowed down, and around her slippered feet. Gold embroidery traced the hem in curling vines, and lilies, symbols of purity and of danger both.
The dress… It was beautiful.
Again, Lucrezia recalled last night's incident, and her face flushed in embarrassment but dread substituted that emotion when the bell tolled again from somewhere below.
She drew a deep breath, tasting the scent of rose oil and lavender in the room, but a faint smell of old wood spice. Lucrezia wondered if it was just her or her sense of smell playing heavy tricks, but every corner of this room carried his scent.
Her heart thudded once and twice before she gathered her skirt and walked toward the door, half-ready, half-dreadful to meet the creature of Lucifer's bone.
Every fiber of her being shuddered when she stepped into the corridor that led down the hall. Back then, the silence from the manor was empty, void in space and liveliness, but now, it seemed more suffocating with some strange propensity reaching from the depths and aloft of the manor.
It seemed even alive with some tinge of… And at that point, Lucrezia doubted it was just magic and her thoughts became its chaos on their own.
Finally, her heels softly echoed as she reached the room but lingered at the threshold, more than tensed to walk in.
Her pulse throbbed wildly, sending a surge of chillness down her spine. It was vigorous, stimulating enough to run her blood cold, because that part of her, wilder and vigilant than the others, told her something was definitely wrong… and familiar somewhere.