The castle of Dravenguard had awakened, and with it, the invisible gears of duty creaked into motion. Servants rushed through stone corridors with linens and trays, slippers slapped the floor, and the scent of sweet porridge clung to the air. I washed my face at the communal basin and slipped into another of my gray dresses as usual, worn thin from years of laundering.
But even among the flurry of activity, whispers clung to her steps like shadows.
'Why?'
"Did you see her? The girl who danced with Prince Lucien."
"The one with the blue rose! Still wearing it, too."
"I heard she shared his chambers."
"Shared his bed."
I scoffed, 'they were now spreading lies.'
The words prickled against my skin still. I had to kept my head down, but I could feel their stares. Lustful glances from kitchen boys, grins from stable hands. They hung around now. Almost as flies do. It was irritating.
'When did I become important?' I thought, yet it was arousing something.
I pulled my sleeves tighter.
In the laundry courtyard, two guards sauntered in with empty flasks, pretending to need water. One of them, a tall man with a jagged scar down his neck, leaned too close.
"You looked lovely that night," he said, fingers brushing her wrist.
She pulled away, face pale. "Please, don't."
"Didn't mean offense. Just wondering if the Prince qould love to share you with the rest of us now."
A heavy thud interrupted him. Vaeloria's steward had dropped a crate of scrolls nearby and was now watching him with the sharp gaze of a hawk. The guard cursed under his breath and left.
Later, in the shadowed halls of the west wing, she was summoned.
Princess Vaeloria's quarters glowed with afternoon light. Velvet drapes, marble floors, and the ever-present scent of lavender oil surrounded me like a veil of beauty I could never touch. Vaeloria sat before a golden mirror, her younger siblings lounging on the cushioned divans like coiled vipers.
"Our flower returns," one of them said.
"A rose, they say," another added, sneering. "I see only weed."
They circled her. Not touching the rose, never that. Its spiritual hum was enough to make their skin crawl. But they poked and mocked, whispering cruel imitations of Lucien's voice, taunting her with every step she took.
Vaeloria said nothing. She watched. Her eyes unreadable. But I could feel it.
It was not hate.
It was envy.
That night, after I had laid out Vaeloria's gowns, folded silks, and fluffed pillows, I found myself sitting with two other handmaids by the servants' hearth. Lyra, all freckled cheeks and endless chatter, and Cassine, older, with eyes that had seen too much.
"He looked at you like you were the moon," Lyra said, teasing. "That Prince. What does he smell like? Be honest."
"Steel and stars," I answered before I could stop myself.
They burst into laughter.
"And what did he say to you?" Cassine prodded.
I hesitated. Then, quietly... "That he loved me."
The laughter died. Silence stretched.
"Men say many things in gardens," Cassine said finally. "But if he meant it... then be careful. Love like that either lifts or consumes."
In the upper chambers of the castle, Prince Alaric lay wrapped in healing runes and bandages. His chamber was scented with bitter herbs and the faint smoke of spellfire. The court physician muttered incantations over his wounds.
Alaric stared at the ceiling.
Lucien.
The name tasted of iron and fury.
He gritted his teeth.
He would grow stronger. Strong enough to burn Artherion to ash if needed. He would study the forbidden arts, train in the outer dominions, even if it meant consorting with the dead. One way or another, he would never be humiliated again.
But he was not alone.
There were whispers in the court. Quiet footsteps that moved when no one watched. Messengers who never spoke aloud. And always, in the background, Saevan.
He was neither noble nor peasant. His name was a breath on the lips of warlocks, a shadow in the corridors of power. He stood beside King Ashkeroth and Prince Alaric in court, but none knew where he truly came from. He was not bound by swords or oaths. He was ideology. Corruption. A spirit of all unholy. Guiding all on a path of vanity.
Saevan moved through Artherion not as enemy, but as friend. He wore no black cloak. No fangs. No sulfur. Just subtle smiles, and words like honeyed poison.
He whispered to lesser nobles of Artherion, feeding their greed with promises."You should have your own province. Why should your family serve the crown when your coffers are nearly empty?"
To a young priest, "Is the King truly chosen by the divine? Or have you never asked why you're forbidden to read certain texts?"
To a court maid, "The Queen keeps you close. But what has she given you? You deserve more."
And they listened. Oh, how they listened. Seeds were being planted.
All the while, I carried out my duties, unaware. My days bled into each other. Cleaning. Sewing. Serving. Dreaming.
At night, I clutched the blue rose under her pillow.
'Why'd you give me this?'
---
And far away, in the throne room of Artherion, King Elyrion sat alone. His robes were heavy with starlight. Moonlight spilled across the marble. The knight beside his throne did not speak. His armor shimmered. His eyes glowed with silent frost.
The King spoke softly.
"The wind shifts."
"It does, Your Grace," the knight answered.
King Elyrion narrowed his eyes toward the east.
"The future, my subjects... a third of the lot."
The knight's eyes gleamed brighter.
"Like sheep to the slaughter.. will follow."
The King's expression did not change.
"Shall I ready an army of the soldiers destined not to fall?"
His voice was calm.
"Let the story unfold. Ink has been spilled. Let the pages turn."
And the throne room remained silent.
For though no sword had been drawn, a war had already begun.
And none would know it...
Until it was far, far too late...
---