Carmine stood in the hallway for a moment longer than necessary, her eyes lingering on the spot where the new maid, Jesta, had vanished into the shadows. The girl moved with a fluidity that didn't belong in the kitchens; it belonged in the barracks or the dark alleys where secrets were traded. But Carmine had enough ghosts haunting the castle without looking for new ones. With a sigh, she pushed the door open to her room.
The chamber was sparse, utilitarian, reflecting the life of a soldier who rarely stopped moving. She sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress groaning softly under her weight. From the folds of her tunic, she produced a small bundle wrapped in cloth. She unwrapped it carefully, revealing a slice of red velvet cake.
It was Elaine's favorite. The deep crimson color reminded her of the roses in the palace garden, and the sweetness was something Elaine used to crave after long days of training. Carmine ran a thumb over the frosting. She wasn't hungry. She just missed her. The silence of the room was a stark contrast to the chaos of the coronation and the hissed insults of the crowd. Here, in the quiet, the weight of their separation felt physical, like an ache in her chest. She had promised to protect Elaine, but here she was, eating cake alone in a castle that was slowly turning into a prison.
Miles away, the air in the Alice Dome was heavy with fog. Elaine stood by the window of her chamber, looking out over the misty fields. The cross fountain in the center of the courtyard sprayed water in a melancholy rhythm, the water flowing toward the four separate houses that made up the estate—a constant reminder of the fractured family that lived within.
She watched the concubines below as they walked through the gardens. They didn't look at her with malice anymore; they looked with pity. It was worse. Pity was the mask they wore while they carved up her mother's legacy behind her back.
The door opened, and Glenn entered, carrying a small basket of sewing supplies. She was humming a light tune, trying to fill the oppressive silence.
"Good morning," Glenn said, her voice bright. She walked over to Elaine, reaching out to adjust a stray lock of hair. "Your hair is looking lovely today. The red really pops against the—"
"What are my brothers doing here?" Elaine asked, cutting her off. She didn't turn from the window, but her voice was steel.
Glenn's hand froze in mid-air. She pulled it back, her smile faltering. She turned away, rummaging through her basket. "Oh, the daisies we planted last week? They are doing great. I think the rain really helped the roots take hold."
"I asked you a question, Glenn," Elaine said, turning now. Her eyes were sharp. "You didn't answer."
Glenn stopped rummaging. She straightened up, but she didn't look at Elaine. "Why do you gotta worry about it? You just got back. You should be resting."
"Because I promised mother," Elaine said, stepping closer, her voice rising. "I promised her that I would definitely have the kingdom that was solely hers and fathers. I promised I wouldn't let them take it."
Glenn whipped around. The softness in her face vanished, replaced by a sudden, jagged intensity. She leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper.
"Liar."
Elaine blinked, stunned. "What did you say?"
Glenn didn't back down. She shouted, the sound cracking in the quiet room. "Well, you already have a share in the property in the back! You have the manor, you have the servants! And now you want the kingdom too? Aren't you a little selfish for a concubine's daughter who is pretty much dead?"
The words hit Elaine like a physical slap. Selfish. A concubine's daughter. Dead.
Her hand moved before her mind could stop it. The sound of the slap echoed through the room, sharp and final. Glenn gasped, her hand flying to her cheek, her eyes wide with surprise and hurt. She looked at Elaine as if seeing a stranger, then turned and fled the room, the door slamming shut behind her.
Elaine stood frozen, her hand stinging. The silence returned, thicker than before. She sank to the floor, the tears she had been holding back finally spilling over. She cried for the sting of the slap, for the cruelty of the words, but mostly for the memory that washed over her.
She remembered the day of her mother's death. The rain. The blood. Viremont's hand in hers.
"Be brave," Viremont had whispered. "Promise me. Never let anyone else take the special away from you. The kingdom... it was supposed to be ours."
She remembered years before that, sitting on a velvet stool as her mother braided her hair. Viremont's voice was soft then, recounting a love story that felt like a fairytale. "Your father and I built this place, Elaine. Before the concubines came. Before the politics. It was solely ours. You must remember that."
Elaine curled into herself on the cold floor, drowning in the memories. She had made a resolution to be strong, to be the Lioness, but in this empty room, she felt like a child again, helpless and afraid.
Back in Windmere, the Observatory was a glass sanctuary perched on the edge of the castle grounds. It was quiet, filled with the scent of damp earth and blooming nightshade. Marco knelt in the soil, his hands dirty, picking flowers. The repetitive motion, the feel of the roots and the petals, calmed the storm in his mind. For a moment, he felt a little good. He felt useful.
He reached for a dandelion, its yellow head bright against the dark soil. He paused, wiping his brow.
He looked up. Someone was standing beneath the large oak tree at the edge of the garden, far away. The figure was shrouded in shadow.
Marco squinted. "Hello?"
The wind blew, rustling the leaves. The figure stepped forward, into a patch of sunlight that broke through the clouds.
It wasn't a stranger.
It was Viremont.
She wore the same clothes she had died in. The fabric was dark, wet, and sticking to her skin. But it wasn't just water. It was red. Thick, dark red blood dripped from her hair, running down her face like tears. She stared at him with hollow eyes.
Marco's breath hitched in his throat. He tried to stand, but his legs felt like lead.
Then, another figure stepped out from behind her. Jeremy. The boy from the Lavender estate. He looked pale, his neck bent at an awkward angle, the wounds on his chest still fresh and bleeding.
They didn't speak. They just stood there, staring at him. Accusing. Reminding.
*You survived,* their eyes seemed to say. *We didn't.*
Marco's heart hammered against his ribs, painful and erratic. The world began to spin. The glass walls of the observatory seemed to close in on him. He tried to breathe, but the air was choked with the smell of iron and death.
He reached out a trembling hand, trying to say something, anything, but no words came. The ground rushed up to meet him. He collapsed into the dirt, the flowers crushing beneath his weight, the world fading to black as the ghosts of his guilt hovered over him.
To be continued.