The morning was bitter, the kind of cold that seeped into stone and bone alike. Winter had arrived in the city, and its silence weighed heavily on Windmere. Marco awoke in the inn, the sheets thin against the frost.
The laughter of his customers was gone, replaced by whispers and avoidance. His pies sat untouched, his counter empty. The people no longer saw him as a baker but as the rumored slave of the soon-to-be crowned prince. Each day brought fewer coins, and each night brought heavier doubts.
In the palace, Colden sat at his desk, the letter from Hauston spread open before him. His mother's arrival loomed, and with it, the coronation. Francis entered quietly, his voice steady. "This is a consequence of their decision. I will handle it." But Colden's eyes burned with resolve. "No. I will handle it. It is time I step into my role.
Arrange new décor for the palace. Provide trainers so the maids look presentable. Schedule teaching classes. We need work to be done." Francis bowed, but his heart ached at the weight Colden carried alone.
The days that had once been filled with joy now echoed with bitter remembrance. Marco's absence gnawed at Colden, and the palace halls seemed colder without his presence. Carmine watched from the shadows, her worry deepening. She knew the pressure would crush Colden if left unchecked, and yet she could not intervene without risking more scandal.
Elaine, meanwhile, faced her own torment. Her mother's recklessness had stained her name, and the concubines whispered cruelly. Invitations to elite parties ceased, and after her broken engagement of ten years, rumors spread that she had been unfaithful. Each word was a blade, cutting deeper into her spirit.
Viremont, disgraced, remained locked in her chambers. The once-proud matriarch now hid from the world, her silence only fueling the gossip that swirled through the palace. Elaine, unable to bear the weight of shame, withdrew from Carmine.
The bond they had forged began to fray, leaving Elaine isolated in her grief. Trauma and depression shadowed her steps, and she wandered the halls like a ghost of herself.
Outside, the roses that had once bloomed in the castle gardens now withered beneath the snow. Their beauty was buried, their color erased.
The palace, like the flowers, was covered in frost, its warmth forgotten. Winter had claimed Windmere, and with it, the fragile hope of its people.
To be continued…