The Alice Dome did not weep for its dead. It stood silent, grey, and indifferent, the stone walls absorbing the sound of Elaine's grief until the air felt thick with it. She sat on the edge of the bed frame, the mattress bare, her body curled inward as if protecting a wound that would not stop bleeding. The image of her mother falling, the blood on Marco's chest, the rain—it played on a loop behind her eyelids. She tried to hold it in, to be the statue the Dome expected, but a shudder ran through her, and then another, until she broke.
She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. She was the Lady of House Wood now, the mistress of this cold empire, and she felt entirely like a child lost in a storm.
The door creaked open. Elaine didn't look up, expecting a servant come to tell her to quiet down. Instead, soft footsteps padded across the floor. The mattress dipped as someone sat beside her.
It was *Glenn*. The girl with the pearls in her hair and the warmth that seemed out of place in this house. Glenn didn't say anything at first. She just reached out and took Elaine's hand, her grip firm and grounding.
"It's okay to cry," Glenn whispered, her voice breaking the suffocating silence of the room. "You don't have to be strong yet. Not here."
Elaine looked at her through blurred vision, seeing the genuine concern in Glenn's eyes, and the dam broke completely. She leaned into the girl, finally letting the tears fall freely.
Miles away, the Grand Hall of Windmere Castle was ablaze with light. The table was long, draped in white cloth, and laden with silver platters. It was a feast for a King, a celebration of a new era.
Carmine walked out from the service doors, her posture stiff. The maids moved in unison, lifting the lids off the dishes to reveal roasted meats and spiced vegetables. The aroma filled the room, but it turned Colden's stomach. He sat at the head of the table, the crown heavy on his brow. The seat to his right—the one meant for his consort—was conspicuously empty.
He stared at the vacant chair, his knuckles white as he gripped his wine glass. The laughter around him felt like glass grinding against his skin. Nothing felt the same. The victory was hollow without the person he had fought for.
Isabelle sat at the other end, her smile perfect, her eyes sharp. She raised her glass.
"A toast," she announced, her voice smooth as velvet. "To King Colden. Long may he reign."
"To the King!" the brothers, Demure and Lars, chimed in, their voices loud and filled with false cheer. They grinned, lifting their goblets high.
Francis stood near the back, leaning against the pillar, watching Colden's face. He saw the way the young King's eyes kept darting to the empty door, the way his smile didn't reach his eyes.
A noble across the table leaned forward, cutting into his meat. "Your Majesty," he said, chewing loudly. "We must thank you for stabilizing the kingdom. Though, one does wonder... what became of Arthur? The boy who was falsely accused of the late King's indiscretions?"
The table went quiet. Francis's breath hitched slightly, his hand drifting to the hilt of his sword. He watched Colden closely.
Colden paused, the wine glass hovering at his lips. He set it down slowly, his expression smoothing over into a mask of cold composure. He looked the noble in the eye.
"Arthur?" Colden said, his voice low and steady. "Let's just say he is in a better place."
The noble nodded, satisfied, and returned to his meal. The conversation moved on, the danger passed, but the chill in Colden's voice lingered.
Upstairs, away from the noise, Marco sat on the edge of his bed frame. The room was dark, lit only by a single candle. He wasn't crying, not anymore. He was just thinking. He thought about his life before all of this—the secret hookups in dark alleys, the fleeting moments of real love in the brothel, the simplicity of being invisible. It was messy, but it was memorable. It was real.
He looked at his hands. He felt like a ghost in his own story.
The door opened, and Carmine slipped inside, carrying a tray of food. She set it down on the small table and looked at him, her brow furrowed with concern.
"What's wrong?" she asked softly.
Marco looked up, his eyes hollow. "Carmine," he said, his voice raspy. "Remember that day? When I told you about that man I met at the brothel? The one who told me not to become shameful for loving myself?"
Carmine nodded, stepping closer. "Yes. I remember."
Marco let out a bitter laugh that hurt to hear. "Well, I hate myself now."
Carmine shook her head immediately, panic rising in her chest. "No. No, that's not right, Marco. You can't listen to them. They don't know you."
Marco cut her off, his voice quiet but fierce. "You know how I remember things? I make them memorable. I think about them so hard that they stick. I carve them into my mind." He looked around the cold, stone room. "But I can't remember this. Being with Colden... here. I want to forget it. I want to make it disappear."
Carmine sat beside him, taking his cold hand in hers. She squeezed it tight, anchoring him.
Marco looked at her, his eyes swimming with unshed tears. "Do you not want to check on Elaine? I would."
Carmine looked away, staring at the wall. "Well... that might not be the right thing, you know. She needs space. She has her own house to rule now."
"I know how it feels to lose a mother," Marco whispered, the memory of Lily flashing in his mind. "It's..." He stopped, unable to find the word that could hold the weight of that loss.
The laughter in the Great Hall continued, oblivious to the grief upstairs. But down in the bowels of the castle, the atmosphere was different.
The basement was cold, damp, and smelled of mildew. Francis descended the stone stairs, a torch in one hand and a plate of stale bread and cold meat in the other.
In the corner, chained to the wall by his wrists and ankles, sat Arthur. He was dirty, his clothes tattered, his face bruised. He looked up as the light approached, flinching away from the flame.
Francis set the plate down on the floor and slid it toward the prisoner with his boot. He didn't say a word. He just watched.
Arthur looked at the food, then up at Francis. A weak, defiant smile touched his lips. He reached out, grabbed the plate, and hurled it at the wall. The ceramic shattered, food splattering across the stone floor.
Francis didn't flinch. He just watched the boy in the dark, his face unreadable, before turning to leave.
To be continued....