Most of the servants still awake at that hour moved like ghosts through the corridors, exhaustion weighing heavily on their limbs as dawn crept closer. The night had drained them, and the promise of morning felt distant and hollow. When the crown prince entered the castle, the soft breeze of early dawn brushed against his face, carrying with it the scent of blood and rust that clung stubbornly to him. He walked across the polished marble floors with measured steps, the faint click of his boots echoing through the vast halls. His hands remained tucked into his trouser pockets, his posture relaxed, his face utterly devoid of expression.
The servants who had been murmuring among themselves stiffened instantly. Conversations died mid-breath. Hands that had paused resumed their work with forced urgency, hearts pounding loudly in their chests as he passed. None dared look at him directly. Only when the crown prince disappeared around a corner did they allow themselves to exhale, relief washing over them in quiet, shaky breaths.
Two maids lingered near a column, one blonde, the other brunette, their eyes fixed on the path he had taken.
"Why does he feel so… terrifying?" the blonde whispered, her brows knitting together. "It's worse than the rest of the royal family."
The brunette leaned closer, lowering her voice even further. "Probably because he's cursed."
The blonde stiffened. "C-cursed?" Fear slipped into her tone despite her attempt to sound composed. "By whom?"
"I don't know," the brunette replied casually, as though discussing the weather. "But I heard it was the same person who poisoned the first Queen. His birth mother."
The blonde's breath caught. Rumors had always claimed the first Queen died of an incurable illness. Poison had never been mentioned. Suspicion flickered across her face as she studied the other maid. "How do you know all this?"
"My mother worked here before she passed," the brunette said, her chin lifting slightly. There was no grief in her voice—only pride. Serving the royal family was an honor, and having a bloodline tied to the castle was a distinction many envied.
"Oh," the blonde murmured, jealousy threading her tone. She was the first in her family to serve the royals, and in the kingdom, that mattered greatly. Any service to the crown was revered, but a legacy of service was held even higher.
"They say after the Queen's death, the curse fell on the crown prince," the brunette continued. "That's what made him addicted to bloodshed. Why do you think he's always marching into war? Death brings him joy. To him, it's like a soft rain after a burning summer."
The blonde listened with rapt attention, unease crawling up her spine.
"He's always finding reasons to behead people," the brunette added, leaning closer. "That's why the servants fear him more than anyone else. More than the King."
The final words were whispered directly into the blonde's ear. Her eyes widened, and she clapped a hand over her mouth, horrified by the audacity of the statement.
Leonard, already making his way toward his chambers, slowed when his sharpened senses picked up a sound near one of the towering pillars lining the corridor. His eyes narrowed slightly as he altered his path, his footsteps silent against the marble. Then it happened.
A dull thud echoed through the hall.
A body collapsed onto the floor.
The figure was dressed in a maid's uniform, her skin unnaturally pale. A fresh bite mark marred her neck, clean and precise, with not a single drop of blood left behind. Leonard's gaze shifted calmly to a pair of spotless boots standing nearby. He followed them upward, unsurprised to find their owner.
Henry.
Their eyes met—Leonard's cold and unreadable, Henry's sharp with poorly concealed resentment. The dead body between them meant nothing to Leonard. Corpses were not uncommon within the castle walls. He had no desire to waste words on his half-brother and turned to leave.
"Sleeping with lowly maids now?" Henry's voice cut through the silence.
Leonard stopped.
News traveled quickly within the castle. Their mother had informed Henry the previous night about the maid the crown prince had taken to his room. A smug smile tugged at Henry's lips as he waited for a reaction.
Leonard did not turn. "At least they want me," he replied calmly, just loud enough to be heard.
Henry's smile vanished. His jaw tightened as fury flared in his eyes. He opened his mouth to retort, only to realize Leonard was already gone, his footsteps fading into the distance.
Insecurity gnawed relentlessly at Henry. He had heard the whispers during gatherings, seen the way women looked past him. They said his face lacked appeal, that the good genes of their bloodline had been claimed entirely by his older brother—praised as the most handsome man in the kingdom. His attempt to belittle Leonard had only backfired, a mistake he should have anticipated. Leonard had always possessed a sharp tongue and a cruel, effortless way of cutting deeper than intended.
"Arrogant fool," Henry muttered as he turned away, leaving the body behind. The servants would handle it. They always did. Without questions. Without fuss.
Moments later, a young maid approached the corridor, a cloth in her hands as she wiped the floors. She moved closer to the pillar with each careful stroke, her focus fixed on her task until something caught her eye. She frowned and leaned forward to inspect it.
A soft gasp slipped from her lips.
She stepped closer, her heart slamming violently against her chest as recognition dawned. Her knees gave out beneath her, and she collapsed onto the floor. The lifeless body before her was painfully familiar.
"Sister…" she whispered.
Tears blurred her vision as trembling fingers reached for the pale face. Her sister's eyes were closed, her expression eerily peaceful. The maid's gaze dropped to the bite mark on her neck, confusion and horror twisting together inside her chest. Was that what killed her? They had spoken not long ago. Laughed. Planned.
Her mouth opened to scream, but no sound came out.
The tears vanished abruptly, her expression going eerily blank. A voice echoed in her mind—firm, commanding, irresistible. Drag the body. Take it beneath the castle. Burn it.
Fear surged through her, and she shook her head weakly, silently begging herself to stop. But her body betrayed her. Her hands wrapped around her sister's ankles, and she began to drag the corpse away, sobbing soundlessly as her feet carried her through corridors she did not remember ever learning. The castle seemed to open paths for her, guiding her to a hidden place deep below its foundations.
Her mind screamed in protest, but her limbs obeyed.
This was how the royal family maintained order within the castle. Whenever a body was found, servants were compelled to dispose of it, to erase it, to never speak of it again. They would remember. They would know.
But their lips would remain sealed.
Forever.