I turned away from the weapon racks while my mind was still reeling from the encounter. A wolf was lost from her pack. The words echoed in my mind. I needed answers about Valerie and Cassius, and I would find them in the book. However, the book was at home, not in here. They were one of the twelve figures.
"My lady," Lady Octavi whispered, her hand gently touching my elbow. "Some eyes of the court are turning."
She was right. The few ladies remaining near the edge of the clearing were watching me.
"Let's continue to follow, my mother," I said.
We walked towards the large structure.
As I stepped inside, it was severely warm and smelt of perfumed wax. The air hummed with the low whisper of gossip, influence sharper than any sword.
"Lady Aurelia!"
A voice called out from a table near the entrance. It was Lady Clara. She waved with her silk handkerchief. Beside her sat Lady Hillaria, looking utterly miserable in a dress of stiff blue, clearly wishing she were in armour and riding with the men to hunt.
As I approached, I saw Lady Clara sharply tap Lady Hillaira's shoulder. Lady Hillaria immediately straightened her spine.
I walked over to them. Lady Octavi took her position standing behind my chair, while Adel moved to pour tea. I took my seat.
Lady Clara offered me a beaming smile, then glanced toward Lady Octavi, who stood rigid behind me.
"Lady Octavi," Lady Clara said with her polite tone. "How about you take a seat, too? You are a noble and a lady… Surely you do not need to stand guard while we are merely drinking tea?"
Lady Octavi said. "My place is at my lady's back, Lady Clara."
"Lady Clara is right," I interjected calmly, tapping the empty chair beside me. "Sit, Lady Octavi. We are inside the pavilion, not in some sort of battlefield."
Lady Octavi hesitated but eventually pulled out the chair. "As you command, my lady."
"See?" I said, taking a sip. "Much better."
As Lady Octavi took a seat, Lady Clara immediately said, "Uh…All the ladies must be envious, as we share a table with the most esteemed Lady Octavi."
Lady Hillaria grabbed a small tart from the tray, ignoring the silverware entirely, and shoved half of it into her mouth.
"Envious?" she mumbled, crumbs instantly falling onto her stiff blue bodice. "For what? Sitting with a knight who let herself get bested by a mere lieutenant?"
THUD.
Suddenly, I heard the distinct, heavy sound of a heel connecting with a shin under the table. Lady Clara's beaming smile didn't waver for a second, though her eyes flashed a warning at Lady Hillaria.
"What Lady Hillaria means to say," Lady Clara corrected, her voice dripping with forced sweetness, "is that it is a rare honour to be in your presence, Lady Octavi."
"We already had tea time together with Lady Octavi in the palace, do you remember that?" Lady Hillaria grumbled while rubbing her leg beneath the tablecloth, but she didn't back down. She swallowed the tart aggressively.
"I mean what I said," Lady Hillaria persisted, her voice dropping to a serious tone as she turned her sharp gaze to Lady Octavi. "It bothers me, The Grandeur Sparring. I fought Milo, too. He is good, yes. But you? You are the Hawk. Watching you lose that match… it felt like watching a lion fold to a cat."
She leaned forward. "Did you slip? Or did you throw it?"
Lady Clara's hand shot out, clamping firmly onto Lady Hillaria's forearm and squeezing it hard enough.
"Lady Hillaria," She hissed. "You are forgetting yourself in front of Lady Aurelia."
"It is a valid question!" Lady Hillaria snapped, trying to shake off Lady Clara's grip.
"Lady Hillaria," I interjected gently. "Perhaps Milo was simply inspired that day. Or perhaps… Lady Octavi was simply tired after facing your father. It was a long day, after all." However, I knew the truth… Until now, I still haven't asked her about it. There would be a time to ask Lady Octavi about it.
Lady Octavi bowed her head slightly. "My lady is kind. But a loss is a loss, Lady Hillaria."
Lady Hillaria opened her mouth to argue further, yet Lady Clara's fingernails dug into her arm, silencing her effectively this time.
"Well," Lady Clara interrupted loudly and smoothly, releasing Lady Hillaria's arm. "Regardless of the outcome, it certainly shifted the court's favour. But speaking of shifting favours…"
Lady Clara leaned in, her eyes sparkling. "The Crown Prince's apology letter…it has been the only thing the palace and the capital can speak of for weeks. To see a Royal confession displayed on every notice board in the kingdom… it was unprecedented."
Suddenly, she lowered her voice.
"Tell me, Lady Aurelia… How did you manage it? To bring a Crown Prince to his knees before the entire realm? As of right now, the court is in a frenzy. Some say it was an act of true love. Other whispers that…" She paused. "That perhaps the House of Aurelius reminded the palace of where the true strength in this kingdom lies…"
She took a sip. "Lady Aurelia, you may remember the rumour of Lady Anna and the Crown Prince."
I replied with a knowing smile, "Surely, I am aware of the rumour…"
"Have you considered the public, Lady Aurelia?" Clara asked. "For seven years, the common people have fed on the rumour of the Crown Prince and Lady Anna. To them, it was a fairytale. The dashing Prince and the sweet daughter of a Count, finding love despite the rules of the court."
"Fairytale" Lady Hillaria laughed. "It was a delusion! But the commoners ate it up. I heard the rumour. They think you are a villainess who snatched him away. They say the apology letter wasn't written by the Prince, but forced out of him by your father's—"
CRUNCH
Lady Clara's boot stomped down viciously on Lady Hillaria's foot under the table.
"What Lady Hillaria means," Lady Clara said with a terrifyingly sweet smile. "Is that the people are… romantic at heart. They loved the story of Lady Anna. They saw her as one of them, a lower noble rising high. By forcing the Prince to publicly confess his devotion to you, you didn't just end a rumour, my lady. You killed their fairytale."
Lady Clara leaned back.
"And now? They believe the big, bad House of Aurelius has crushed true love under its golden heel. A court can be ruled by fear, Lady Aurelia. But a kingdom? If the people hate their future Queen…"
"Is that a concern, Lady Clara?" I asked, keeping my voice steady. "Or a warning?"
"Merely an observation, my lady," Clara said. "The mob is fickle. They loved Lady Anna. Now they have to learn to love you. Or…" She tilted her head. "Perhaps they never will…"
I gripped the handle of my teacup as my knuckles turned white.
"Stepped in between them, huh?" I repeated, my voice trembling. "I didn't step in, Lady Clara. I was standing there the whole time."
Lady Clara paused, the teapot hovering over her cup.
"You speak of their seven years as a romance," I said while feeling the heat rise in my cheeks. "But do you know what those seven years were for me?"
I looked at them.
"Seven years. I learnt the etiquette of his court alone. I waited in my estate for a visit that never came, alone."
I lowered my eyes to the tea in my cup, seeing my own reflection.
"He never came to my home. He never wrote a single letter. He never sent a gift. For seven years, I was like a ghost in my own engagement because he was busy living out a fairytale with someone else.
The table went silent. Even the conversation at the nearby tables seemed to relax.
"The people call me a thief," I whispered. "They say I stole him. But how can I steal something that was promised to me by law, by blood, and by honour?"
I looked up. "I may have forced him to write that apology. As for the consequence, it was that he had neglected me and the responsibility of the betrothal. I asked for it because I just wanted him to acknowledge that I exist," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "Is that so villainous, Lady Clara?"
For a moment, there was a shared silence. A brief flicker of understanding between noblewomen who knew the cost of duty.
But then, Lady Clara leaned forward, her softness vanished, while her eyes sharpened.
"But let us not mistake sympathy for victory, Lady Aurelia," she said. "You have the truth. You have the moral high ground. You have the pain of seven years."
She gestured toward the open side of the pavilion, toward the distant city beyond the trees.
"But the public? They do not see that. They do not see the girl waiting in the tower. They do not care about your 'Truth'"
She smiled. "They only see the Prince on his knees. They only see the weeping Lady Anna. They only see the Golden Daughter of House Aurelius crushing poor lovers with her father's influence."
She took a sip of her tea, her gaze locking me in place.
"You can scream your innocence from the rampart, My lady. You can list every lonely night and every broken promise. But to them? You are not the victim."
She set her cup down.
"You are like the Wicked Witch who finally came down from the mountain. And the crowd… they always cheer when the witch burns."
The witch burns, huh.
The words didn't just hurt, they twisted inside me.
The wicked witch. The public. The villainous.
I gripped the tablecloth until my knuckles turned white. I was the victim here. I was the one trapped in a story that wanted me dead. I was the one who had seen and felt my own body stuffed into a sack and drowned in the dark. I have felt dead, and I would die in the future.
What did these two know about it?
I wasn't the villain. I was just trying to breathe.
I sat frozen. The words echoed in my mind, but somehow they were quickly drowned out by a sound that wasn't there, a high-pitched ringing.
Drip.
A single drop of crimson splashed onto the pristine white tablecloth.
I blinked, confused. I raised a hand to my face. My fingers came away wet and red.
"My lady?" Adel's voice was right beside my ear, but it sounded distorted.
I tried to speak, to tell her I was fine. However, a sudden and violent cough ripped through my chest. I covered my mouth with my napkin. When I pulled it away, the white linen was soaked in dark blood.
"Aurelia?"
The voice cut through the distortion. It was my mother.
She had risen from her seat at the High Table, I saw her movement so abrupt that her chair scraped loudly against the floor. In a heartbeat, she was beside me, ignoring the court's confused stares.
She reached out, her cool hand kissing my trembling cheek. Her eyes darted to the blood-soaked napkin in my trembling hand.
"My darling, are you alright?" she asked, her voice thick with worry. She leaned in closer, blocking me from the court's view. "Is it the sickness?"
Her expression shifted instantly. The soft worry in her eyes hardened into fierce resolve. I saw her as if she felt something inside of me. She knew.
She didn't scream. She didn't panic. She straightened up. She locked eyes with Lady Octavi over my shoulder.
"Get her out," she commanded, her voice low and absolute. "Now."
They didn't wait for my permission. As they hauled me up from the chair, another cough wracked my body, sending a sharp pain through my chest.
The world was tilting. The golden light of the pavilion smeared into streaks of blinding white. The chatter of the nobles warped into a deafening roar.
… Witch… …Blood… …Burn…
Then, the world snapped.
The noise cut out. The smell of roast meat and perfume vanished. The grip on my arms disappeared.
I was no longer being dragged. I was standing.
I looked around. There was nothing.
I was standing in an endless expanse of void again. The air was biting cold, chilling me through my dress. The ground beneath my feet felt like ice, even though I wore my heels.
"Is it Nona again?" Scared I was. "Or Gennaia?"
I started to walk. My footsteps made no sound in the darkness. I expected to see the terrifying presence of Nona or the golden glow of Gennaia. I braced myself…
But as I walked deeper into the cold, a light flickered in the distance.
I wasn't a divine glow. It was the warm, yellow flicker of candlelight.
I moved toward it. Slowly, shapes began to resolve in the gloom.
It was a table. A small, round tea table.
It looked exactly like the table from my private balcony at home. There was the familiar silver teapot. There were plates of untouched cakes, tarts, and sugared fruits, arranged precisely as Adel would have set them for a lonely afternoon in my room.
And there was a chair.
Sitting in the chair, with her back to the darkness and her face illuminated by the candles, was a girl.
She was swinging her legs back and forth, her heels kicking the chair legs with a rhythmic thud, thud, thud. She wore a white nightgown, which I used to wear, that looked far too thin for the cold of this place.
I walked closer, my heart hammering against my ribs.
I opened my mouth to speak, but the words stopped in my throat. I knew that hair.
The kicking stopped. The silence that followed was heavy.
The girl picked up a teacup with delicate, practised grace. She turned her head slowly.
Her hair was white, just like mine. Her face was mine. But it wasn't the face of me right now.
It was softer. Rounder. The face I saw in the mirror for the first time, seven years ago.
It was the face of a fourteen-year-old girl.
She took a sip of tea, her eyes burning with a cold I had never possessed; her eyes were precisely the same as my mother's.
"Pathetic," the girl said. Her voice didn't sound like a child's; it sounded like my mother's, cold and dismissive.