The glass walls of the observatory should have been a shield, but for Marco, they became a cage. The ghostly figures of Viremont and Jeremy stood over him, their blood-stained clothes dripping onto the soil. The world spun violently, the scent of iron filling his nose, choking the air from his lungs. His vision blurred into a wash of grey and red, and then, the ground rushed up to meet him. He collapsed into the dirt, the dandelions crushing beneath his weight, darkness swallowing him whole.
He was standing at the gates of the Lavender estate again. But this time, it wasn't a memory of the escape. It was a nightmare of the loss. The sky was a bruised purple, the air thick with the smell of smoke. Marco fell to his knees, the gravel digging into his skin, and he screamed—a raw, guttural sound that tore from his throat. He cried his heart out, the guilt weighing heavy on his chest like a stone.
From the shadows of the gate, a figure emerged. It was Jeremy. He looked whole, the blood washed away, his green hair bright against the dark sky. He walked toward Marco, his hand reaching out, a sad smile on his face. He opened his mouth to speak, to say the words Marco desperately needed to hear—
"Marco!"
The voice was sharp, cutting through the nightmare like a knife.
Marco gasped, his eyes snapping open. The dark sky of the Lavender estate vanished, replaced by the high, beamed ceiling of his bedchamber. He was lying in his bed, drenched in sweat, his heart hammering against his ribs.
A million hands seemed to be fluttering around him—maids dabbing his forehead, adjusting pillows, whispering in hushed tones. But the most immediate presence was Carmine. She was leaning over him, her face pale with terror. She had been shaking him, trying to pull him back from the abyss. As his eyes focused on her, she didn't ask if he was okay. She just grabbed him and hugged him so hard it hurt, her arms wrapping around him like a vice.
"What happened?" she demanded, her voice trembling, muffled against his shoulder. "You were screaming. You wouldn't wake up."
Marco couldn't answer. He just clung to her, the phantom sensation of the blood still on his skin.
Standing at the foot of the bed, Colden stood petrified. He hadn't moved since they had carried Marco in from the observatory. His hands were clasped over his mouth, his eyes wide and red. He looked like a man watching his world crumble. If anything were to happen to Marco—if he slipped away—Colden knew he wouldn't be a King anymore; he would be nothing. He took a shaky step forward, reaching out, but stopped, afraid to touch, afraid to break him further.
Down in the servant's corridor, the news of Marco's collapse traveled fast. The maids rushed past, their aprons rustling, their faces etched with worry.
Jesta, the new maid, paused in the shadows. She saw the flurry of activity, the rush of the medical staff up the stairs. Her eyes narrowed. Panic in a castle meant distraction, and distraction meant opportunity.
She turned and moved swiftly in the opposite direction, heading not for the kitchen, but for the lower levels. Her target was the basement door—the door Gladis had pointed out with such venom. She reached the bottom of the stairs, her hand outstretched toward the iron handle.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you."
Gladis's voice was like a whip crack in the silence. She stepped out from a side alcume, her eyes sharp. She caught Jesta's wrist, her grip surprisingly strong for an older woman. Her fingers dug into the girl's skin.
"Where are you going, misses?" Gladis asked, her tone dangerous. "The laundry is on the other side."
Jesta didn't flinch. She turned, her expression shifting into a mask of innocent confusion. She looked Gladis in the eye and smiled—a sweet, practiced smile.
"Well," Jesta said softly, "I saw something. I thought I heard someone calling for help. Down the hall. I thought... I thought they might need me."
Gladis studied her, searching for a crack in the facade. The silence stretched, heavy and thick.
Finally, Gladis let go of her hand, pushing it away. "Watch yourself," she hissed. "And be careful. I told you not to enter that room. Or the hall. Ghosts don't call for help down there, girl. Only things that shouldn't be disturbed."
Jesta nodded, rubbing her wrist. "Of course. My mistake."
She curtsied and turned away, but as soon as her back was to the head housekeeper, the smile vanished. She was pissed. The castle was a fortress of secrets, but she was a key looking for a lock. She returned to her small, drafty room and sat on the edge of the cot, her mind racing, plotting her next move.
Miles away, the forest had given up its secrets. June stood outside the rusted cabin, the morning dew soaking her boots. She clutched the scarf with the teacup embroidery to her chest one last time, inhaling the fading scent of home, before shoving it deep into her pocket.
She picked up her small pack of meager supplies and walked out of the tree line. She needed to move. Staying still meant death.
She made her way to the edge of a small, bustling town on the border of the woodland. The market was just opening, vendors shouting prices, carts rolling over cobblestones. June tried to blend in, pulling her hood low over her face. She kept her head down, but her eyes were everywhere.
Suddenly, a patrol of guards rounded the corner, their armor clanking. June's breath hitched. She couldn't be seen. She darted to the side, trying to slip into an alley, but in her panic, she stumbled. Her foot caught on a loose stone, and she twisted, falling forward.
She didn't hit the ground.
She collided with a solid wall of fabric and muscle. A man had been walking by, carrying a bundle of firewood. As she fell, he dropped the wood and caught her effortlessly. She slammed into his chest, his arms wrapping around her to steady her.
For a second, time stopped. June looked up, breathless, ready to apologize and run. But the man didn't let go immediately. He looked down at her. He was young, with kind eyes and a rugged face, wearing the simple clothes of a laborer.
He stared at her for too long. He took in the fear in her eyes, the dirt on her cheek, the desperate way she clutched his shirt. The guards passed by on the street, glancing into the alley, but the man stepped forward, shielding June with his body, hiding her in the shadow of the corner area.
He didn't turn her in. He didn't shout. He just held her gaze, his heart beating loudly in his chest.
June exhaled, realizing she was safe for the moment. She pulled back slightly, straightening her tunic. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "For... for not shouting. And for catching me."
The man looked at her. He didn't say a word. He just looked at her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. It wasn't fear she saw in his eyes, or suspicion. It was something else entirely.
In the span of a single heartbeat, amidst the chaos of the market and the threat of the guards, the man had fallen in love.
To be continued...