The town was still cloaked in darkness, the kind that lingered even after dawn. A week of mourning had passed, and the air was heavy with rumor and unease. Then, at last, the sound of wheels broke the silence. A carriage, gilded and imposing, rolled to the frontier of the palace. The guards straightened, the maids whispered, and the nobles leaned from their balconies to catch a glimpse.
Queen Isabelle stepped down first, her presence commanding even in the cold air. Beside her descended Emily and Gweneth, her daughters-in-law. The three looked stunning, their gowns shimmering with embroidery, but it was the jewels that caught every eye. Necklaces of top-class material, stones cut to perfection, glimmered against their pale skin. The crowd murmured in awe, though the weight of their beauty only deepened the tension.
Colden stood timidly at the palace steps, his shoulders tense, his eyes lowered. He was the prince, soon to be crowned, yet he looked more like a boy awaiting judgment. Isabelle's gaze swept past him without pause, landing instead on Francis. For a moment, her eyes softened. She had always harbored a quiet fondness for him, though he had been her husband's butler, and their paths had rarely crossed. The memory lingered in her eyes, unspoken but undeniable.
Inside, the daughters-in-law took their seats at the long table. Their manner was peculiar — waiting until Isabelle sat first, then following in perfect synchrony. Carmine entered, her steps measured, her voice polite. "May I ask your preferences for the evening meal?" she said. Emily and Gweneth exchanged a glance, then nodded in another direction, as if the question itself was beneath them.
Isabelle scoffed lightly, her tone sharp but casual. "Oh, they will suit themselves with warm water. Not more than a teacup. And some seaweed. Of course, not the green kind." Carmine blinked, confusion flickering across her face. Isabelle added quickly, "I forgot to mention — they are on a diet."
Carmine's eyes drifted over the two women, their frames already thin, their bones sharp beneath silk. Dieting for death, she thought grimly. Still, she returned with two cups of warm water, setting them gently before the women. Emily and Gweneth recoiled, refusing. Isabelle intervened with a smile that carried no warmth. "They will share the one cup. It is great for bonding, I've heard."
Carmine's lips pressed into a thin line. Bonding? Heck yes, she thought. Put these two in a mental asylum and the bonding will literally become strong. She said nothing, only bowed her head and stepped back.
The dinner continued, the tension thick as the winter air. Colden sat in silence, Francis kept his composure, and Isabelle's presence filled the hall like a storm cloud waiting to break. The jewels sparkled, the whispers grew, and beneath it all, the palace trembled.
To be continued…