Marco had not slept. His body lay restless through the night, his mind circling the words of Jeremy's blood‑stained letter and the mother‑in‑law's decree. When dawn broke, he rose with hollow eyes, the weight of exhaustion pressing against him.
The curtains had changed again. Their lavender hue was lighter now, almost pale, a reminder of the ritual's progression. He remembered her words: five days. He had arrived two days ago. That meant this was the fourth day. Only three remained before the Love Night. Only three days to escape.
He stood before the mirror, his reflection gaunt, extravagantly unhealthy. His skin was pale, his lips cracked, his eyes shadowed. He barely recognized himself.
Forcing composure, he dressed quickly and descended the stairs. The palace was alive with strange activity. Painters moved along the walls, brushes sweeping across stone. Marco frowned. Why would they paint now? The scent of fresh lavender paint filled the air, clinging to the maids who passed him. Their gowns were lighter than ever, almost ghostly, their eyes fixed on him as though he were already marked.
At the breakfast table, Marco decided to test Jeremy's warning. He reached for a knife, his hand trembling. Instantly, every maid's gaze locked onto him, their eyes sharp, unblinking. Marco tried to steady himself, pretending to slice an apple.
But before the blade touched the fruit, the mother‑in‑law appeared. Her hand darted forward, snatching the knife from his grip. "Oh, darling," she cooed, her smile stretched unnaturally. "We don't do that here. Leave it to the maids."
Her voice was sweet, but her eyes gleamed with menace. Marco's stomach twisted. Jeremy had been right — the knives were false, the ritual carefully guarded. Something was terribly wrong in this place.
Breakfast passed in silence. Marco did not eat. He sat hollow, his mind racing, already planning to steal a knife tomorrow.
Night fell. The palace shifted into a fortress. Guards patrolled the halls, their footsteps heavy, their eyes sharper than before. Marco noticed the tightened security, the way shadows seemed to multiply.
Dinner time arrived. Marco refused. He told the maids he wasn't in the mood, his voice flat, his body trembling. He thought he could avoid suspicion.
But then — a knock at the door.
Ralph entered. His smile was disturbing, stretched too wide, his eyes gleaming with cruel delight. He leaned against the frame, his voice dripping with mockery. "Come, Marco. Have food. It's probably the last meal for you."
He smirked, the words slicing through Marco's chest like a blade. Chills ran down his spine. His breath caught, his heart pounding.
Marco thought of Jeremy's letter, of knives, of escape. But now, all he could think of was death at the table.
TO BE CONTINUED…
NEXT CHAPTER ON 18th FEBRUARY 2026