It was afternoon. The sun shone too bright, too merciless. It baked the white stones of the courtyard, making the air waver with heat.
King Mortifer sat upon the gold throne they had carried out for him, a skeleton wrapped in fine silks and the fading aura of power. His eight sons stood before him in a grim line—a spectrum of heirs, from Tenebrarum's masked stillness to Tiberius's tense slouch.
The women were arranged like a tragic tapestry: the two queens, one proud and withering, the other pale and forgotten; Camilla and Isabelle with their attendants, islands of calculated composure; and Aurelia, with Sorana a half-step behind her, feeling like a splash of unbelonging color on a monochrome canvas.
"Why are we here?" Aurelia's whisper was the softest rustle of silk, meant only for Sorana.
"I don't know," Sorana murmured back, her eyes fixed ahead. "The king wanted it. No one knows why."
The silence was a living thing, broken only by the king's labored, wet breathing. Then, he lifted a hand, the joints like knotted wood. His voice, when it came, was a papery scrape that seemed to drain the light from the afternoon.
"Before the end... a clarity." His sunken eyes moved slowly across the faces of his sons. "You are my blood. The strength... and the poison... of this realm."
He paused, gathering strength. The courtyard was so still that the rustle of a banner sounded like a shout.
"I have watched you. Plotted against each other. Hungry for this." A trembling finger tapped the arm of the gold throne. "So... you will show me. Not with whispers in shadows. Here. In the sun."
He gestured to a steward, who stepped forward carrying a heavy, iron-bound chest. With a loud click, it was opened. Inside, on a bed of black velvet, lay eight identical, simple daggers.
The air in the great courtyard was not that of ceremony, but of a held breath. King Mortifer sat upon the gold throne they had carried out for him, a skeleton wrapped in fine silks and the fading aura of power.
"A king does not rule with a hidden blade," Mortifer wheezed, the sound like dry leaves in a tomb. "He rules because he is the sharpest one in the open."
A steward stepped forward, opening an iron-bound chest. Inside lay eight identical, simple daggers.
"You will each take one," the king commanded. "Before the sun sets... you will bring me a trophy. Not from the kennels or the forests." His sunken eyes gleamed with a cruel, testing light. "There is a black, venomous serpent, the Ash-veiler, released into the Hedge of Whispers. You will bring it to me. Unharmed."
A collective, silent shockwave passed through the courtyard. Camilla's hand flew to her throat. Isabelle's smile was frozen, brittle. Tiberius's face went blank with disbelief.
The Ash-veiler. Its venom was a necrotic curse; even the great dark creatures of the mountains fell to it in agonizing paralysis. To capture it alive was not a test of strength, but of impossible control, of subduing the most lethal thing in the realm without marring it. It was a metaphor for the kingship itself: rule the poison, or be consumed by it.
But the king was not finished. With a final surge of will, he raised his voice. "And to bind your fate to the realm's future... you will not hunt this poison alone."
His gaze swept over the women—the queens, the princesses, the attendants. Aurelia felt his eyes pass over her like a cold wind.
"There are eight of you, my sons. And eight ladies of the court. The queens will judge. The ladies... will be your anchors in the storm."
"The ladies will be cloaked and masked. They will be placed within the Hedge of Whispers. You will enter the maze to find them. The first person to remove a lady's mask claims her as his bound companion. Her fate is tied to yours. Her victory, your victory. Her failure... your shame."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a grave, grinding whisper that carried to every corner.
"But hear the maze's one law: no steel may be drawn within the Hedge of Whispers. To spill a brother's blood is to forfeit all. Win your partner with wit and speed, not slaughter. The blades... are for the world outside."
The decree was complete. It was no longer a simple fratricidal hunt. It was a pairing, a forced alliance decided by a deadly game of hide-and-seek where the only weapon was the truth behind a mask.
"The hunt is not just for a brother's weakness," the king rasped, collapsing back into his throne. "It is for a partner for the game. Prove your worth. Prove your cunning. Prove... who deserves to steer this kingdom's heart and wield its strength."
His gaze, heavy and final, locked on Tenebrarum.
"Let the hunt begin."
He had gathered them to declare a war with two fronts. The trophies he demanded were both a brother's defeat and a woman's sealed destiny.
Aurelia understood with cold, crystalline clarity. She was a piece on the board. And the fastest hunter, the one who moved with the silent certainty of a predator who already knew her scent, was already calculating his first move into the shadows of the maze.
"We go this side."
The Queen Mother's grip was firm, herding the eight women—princesses, attendants, and Aurelia—away from the courtyard's glaring sun into a shaded antechamber. The door shut with a heavy finality. On a long oak table lay their fate: eight silver masks, blank and anonymous, and a selection of simple, hooded cloaks in varying shades of grey and brown.
The air was thick with the scent of dried herbs and dread.
"I know I should not question this," Camilla's voice tore through the quiet, sharp with a princess's frustration and a woman's fear, "but why must we be part of this game? It doesn't sound great. It sounds like we're being handed out as prizes."
The younger queen opened her mouth, a placating response on her lips, but Isabelle was faster.
"This is not a game of preference," Isabelle cut in, her voice smooth as polished ice. She picked up a mask, studying her reflection in its blank silver surface. "It is a game of fate and strength. It is the highest honor. My wedding is in three days, and I see this for what it is: an excellent planning by the king to test the mettle of his heirs and their future consorts. Do not question the king's design."
The two queens exchanged a glance, their smiles widening in identical, approving arcs. "Matrona, that was a very great and loyal response," the Queen Mother said, her gaze shifting meaningfully to Camilla. "I think you should learn from her."
The rebuke hung in the air, colder than the silver masks. Every lady felt it. Aurelia watched, confused. Camilla's questions had seemed not just fine, but sensible. Yet in this room, sense was secondary to spectacle and submission.
Isabelle's mind, however, was already racing down the verdant, confusing paths of the Hedge of Whispers. Her imminent marriage to Magnus was a political footnote. The true prize of the game, the only one that mattered to her, was Tenebrarum.
Let the others be found, she thought, a secret, fierce smile touching her lips as she selected the plainest cloak. I will not wait.
The king's decree had stated that the princes must find and unmask a lady. It had said nothing about a lady finding a prince. There was no rule against it.
While the others fretted over being chosen, Isabelle began to plan her hunt.
She would find Tenebrarum first. And in the green, silent heart of the maze, she would make sure he was the one to lift her mask.
This was not mere ambition. It was purpose.
This game was the first, true path to why she was here. Her betrothal to Magnus? A useless shell. Her presence at court? A carefully staged prelude.
Velmara had brought her here for this.
This was a hidden witch matriarch, she had not sent her to the palace for a minor marriage.
She had planted her here as a living snare for the most dangerous power in the kingdom: the Crown Prince Tenebrarum. "Get his attention," Velmara had instructed, her voice like roots twisting through stone. "Not his affection. His obsession. Become a puzzle he cannot solve, a shadow in his own house. The rest will follow."
As she tied the plain grey cloak around her shoulders, her fingers were steady.
The other women saw a mere mask. Isabelle saw a tool.
The maze wasn't a test of fate; it was a stage for a carefully arranged destiny, and she was finally stepping into the spotlight of revenge.
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To be continued...