The Windmere castle felt strange. With the King gone, with Marco fled into the night, and with Francis absent, the halls were devoid of the usual tension that held the court together. It was a free space, hollow and echoing, like a shell left on the beach after the tide has gone out.
Carmine stood in the laundry courtyard, the name *Meredith* still hanging in the air. The soft-faced maid didn't flinch under Carmine's scrutiny. Instead, her expression hardened, the gentleness fading into a sharp urgency.
"You need to make distance," Meredith said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You can't stay here. Elaine needs you."
Carmine frowned. "Elaine? She is in the Alice Dome. She has the walls, the guards—"
"She has nothing," Meredith cut her off. "You don't understand the harshness of that place. With the King dead, the succession is a bloodsport. The concubines are circling. Elaine is the next victim. Viremont is gone, Carmine. There is no one left to shield her from the cruelty of the sisters."
The mention of Viremont hit Carmine like a punch to the gut. She remembered the blood on Marco's clothes. She remembered the scream. *Elaine is alone.*
Carmine nodded, her decision made instantly. "I have to go. I will go request a carriage from the stables."
Meredith shook her head, grabbing Carmine's arm. "There is no time for formal requests. The stable master reports to the council. We leave now."
Meredith whistled sharply. From the shadows of the servant's stables, a sleek, black horse trotted out, already saddled. It wasn't a workhorse; it was a runner.
"Oh, no need," Meredith said, swinging herself up into the saddle with practiced ease. She extended a hand down to Carmine.
Carmine hesitated for only a second before grasping the hand and jumping up behind the maid. As they settled, Carmine realized where they were heading.
"Velloria," Carmine murmured, looking at the dark road ahead. "We are going back to Velloria."
The place where it all happened. Fast, hastly, brutal.
Carmine held onto the horse's mane, the wind whipping her hair. She thought to herself, *I always knew that we would eventually have to return to this place. The ghosts don't stay buried forever.*
Meredith glanced back, a small, tight smile on her face, before kicking the horse into a gallop. They thundered out of the palace grounds, vanishing into the night, racing against time to save a Lioness.
Unaware of the chaos unfolding in his wake, Colden sat in the royal carriage, Francis across from him. The rhythmic clatter of the wheels on the cobblestones was the only sound. Colden stared out the window, the darkness of the forest reflecting in his eyes. He was miles away, worrying about Marco, worrying about the kingdom.
Francis was polishing a dagger, his face grim. Both of them had no idea that the Windmere Mansion was no longer a home, but a cage that had just been unlocked.
Back in the castle kitchens, the smell of baking dough filled the air. It was a sickeningly domestic scent for what was about to happen.
Jesta stood by the oven, pulling out a tray of perfectly golden cookies. She placed them on a rack to cool, humming a soft, tuneless melody.
She wiped her hands on her apron. The smile vanished from her face, replaced by a cold, dead expression. She Swifted away from the counter, moving with a terrifying speed and silence that no ordinary maid possessed.
She walked down the back staircase, past the storage rooms, and stopped at a heavy wooden door at the end of the hall. A door that should have been locked.
She pushed it open.
The room inside was dark, lit only by a single sputtering candle. The air smelled of copper and rot.
Chained to the wall, her wrists rubbed raw and bleeding, was Gladis. The head housekeeper looked up, her face pale and slick with sweat. But it wasn't just the chains that horrified her—it was the empty space below her right knee. Her leg was gone, hastily bandaged, the stain of red seeping through the wrappings.
Gladis's eyes widened in terror as she saw the maid enter.
Jesta smiled, a wide, unnatural grin that didn't reach her eyes. She tilted her head to the side.
"I told you," Jesta whispered, her voice like gravel. "Not to interfere."
Gladis tried to speak, but only a broken sob came out.
Jesta laughed. It was a light, airy sound that bounced off the stone walls, mocking the suffering before her. She picked up one of the fresh cookies she had brought down, inspecting it.
"Pity," Jesta said, taking a bite. "You missed all the fun. But don't worry. The night is young."
To be continued.