The guards obeyed without hesitation.
They nodded once to Theron and moved, swift and efficient, herding the servants and maids toward the exits. Within moments, the grand hall began to empty, voices shrinking into frightened murmurs beyond the doors.
Aveline's gaze lifted to Theron.
His eyes had never left her.
Henry's screams continued, raw and relentless, tearing through what remained of the evening's illusion. The musicians were dragged away mid-note, their instruments abandoned. The dancers followed, wide-eyed and shaking.
Mortimer stood mortified, his mouth opening and closing without sound.
Isolde, however, found her voice.
"I knew it was you!" she shrieked, her face blotched red with fury. "How did you get here? What do you want?"
She lunged toward Aveline, fingers clawed.
Aveline didn't move. She didn't need to. One of Theron's guards stepped forward and struck Isolde across the face.
The sound cracked through the hall like a whip.
Aveline watched, almost detached, as Isolde's cheeks rippled from the force. For a surreal instant, it seemed her features shifted entirely before her eyes rolled back and her body crumpled to the marble floor in an undignified heap.
The tremor of her fall vibrated faintly beneath Aveline's shoes
Beatrice saw it, and she danced harder… If it could even be called dancing.
There was no grace. No elegance. No rhythm. Her arms flailed, her steps uneven and desperate, skirts tangling around her ankles as tears streaked down her powdered cheeks.
"The cow sure dances funny…" Aveline clapped lightly, once, twice. "But she sure is more entertaining than the pig."
Beatrice did not stop.
She tripped over her own hem and crashed to the floor. A sob tore from her throat, but she scrambled back up immediately, resuming her frantic movements.
She was not dancing for applause. She was dancing for her life.
Henry's screaming never ceased.
When his lungs emptied, he would gasp, bend forward, and stare at his hand pinned grotesquely to the table. The sight of the dagger embedded through flesh and into wood seemed to shock him anew each time.
And then he would scream again.
Over and over.
Aveline felt her lips stretch into a wide smile amidst that total chaos.
She had never imagined she could take pleasure in another's pain. If it were anyone else, if it were any stranger, she would have recoiled.
But these were not strangers.
These were the architects of her suffering. To see them reduced, to see them humiliated, powerless, and terrified… It did not make her feel monstrous.
It made her feel… balanced, as though the scales of the world had finally shifted, even if only slightly, in her favor.
Mortimer tried to bolt.
He barely made it a step before a guard emerged from the shadows and forced him back down. The movement was swift, efficient. A shove to the shoulder, a twist of the arm… and he was on his knees before Aveline.
Without a word, the guard extended a thick wooden stick toward her.
Aveline stared at it.
Then she looked at Theron.
He gave a single nod.
"Handle him first," he said calmly, gesturing toward Henry, who was still screaming in broken intervals. "He's not going anywhere."
The dagger remained lodged in Henry's hand. His cries rose and fell like some grotesque rhythm, yet Theron did not seem bothered. If anything, there was a disturbing stillness in him, as though the sound merely confirmed something long overdue.
Aveline stepped forward.
Mortimer, the great Viscount of this house, was kneeling before her.
Her fingers clenched unconsciously in the fabric of her skirt.
This was the man who had beaten her whenever trade deals failed. When harvests were poor. When his wine soured. She had been nothing more than an outlet, an object to bruise so he could feel large again.
Now he knelt as if her mercy were oxygen.
The guard pressed the stick into her hands. It was heavier than she expected.
She looked at Theron again, almost instinctively, as though she needed someone to say it aloud.
That it was allowed. That she was allowed to retaliate.
He smiled softly… And nodded.
Aveline planted her feet. The silk of her dress restricted her stance, but she adjusted as best she could and gripped the stick with both hands.
"No… Aveline… no!" Mortimer begged, thrashing uselessly as the guard forced him upright again. "I fed you! I kept a roof over your head!"
Her hands trembled.
"You treated me worse than a dog," she said.
She swung.
The first strike lacked force. Mortimer raised his arm to block it, and the impact jolted painfully up her wrists. The stick flew from her grasp and clattered across the floor.
Mortimer barely flinched.
But Aveline's hands were shaking violently.
Her body that was malnourished for years and weakened by neglect, betrayed her. Even now, even when handed power, she could not wield it properly. The gown tangled around her legs as she tried to step forward again.
Theron saw it.
Before she could bend fully to retrieve the stick, he was beside her. He picked it up. And without ceremony…
He swung.
The sound of it cutting through the air was sharp and vicious.
Mortimer howled.
Theron struck again. And again.
Each blow landed with deliberate force. Fabric tore. Skin split. Mortimer's proud posture collapsed as he curled onto the marble floor, arms over his head, whimpering.
But Theron did not slow. He did not rage wildly. He delivered each strike with controlled precision, like a man correcting an error.
Aveline forced herself to watch.
Her stomach churned. Something inside her recoiled at the sight, at the brutality. But she held her ground.
This was what they had done to her nearly every day for ten years. If one day of pain shattered him, what did that say about the years she had endured?
The stick rose and fell until Mortimer's cries weakened… then faded entirely. He lay motionless.
Only then did Theron stop.
The hall fell into a heavy, ragged silence, broken only by Henry's distant, hysterical sobbing.
T heron lowered the stick. Mortimer had fainted.
And Aveline stood there, heart pounding, unsure whether she felt vindicated… or hollow. Something rumbled in her stomach. She lifted her chin, refusing to look embarrassed, and her gaze drifted until it landed on Beatrice.
The girl had stopped dancing.
A yellowish stain spread beneath her skirts, pooling at her feet. Her face was white with terror, eyes glassy and unfocused.
"What next?" Theron asked, tossing the bloodied stick aside as if it were nothing more than a broken branch.
Aveline didn't hesitate.
"Throw her to the hunting dogs," she said, pointing toward Beatrice.
Beatrice let out a shriek so sharp it seemed to cut the air itself. Then she ran…straight toward one of the stone pillars.
Before anyone could grab her, she slammed her head into it with a sickening crack.
Her body dropped instantly.
The guard who reached her knelt, pressed fingers to her neck, and then looked up. "She's dead."
The words fell flat.
Aveline stared. For a long moment, she simply stared at the unmoving body, at the pool of fabric and hair and stillness.
"Is it that easy to die?" she murmured.
There was no mockery in her voice. Only quiet disbelief.
Theron looked at her, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. He could not quite grasp where her thoughts had gone. Whether she was shaken… or reflecting on something much older.
"Now," he said after a pause, turning his attention back to the last one standing. "About him…"
He pointed at Henry.
Aveline followed his gaze.
Henry's face was streaked with tears and sweat, his body trembling violently, one hand still pinned grotesquely to the table.
She opened her mouth…and her stomach growled... Loudly.
The timing was so absurd that she blinked… then looked up at Theron with a faint, almost mischievous smile.
"Dinner?" she asked, batting her lashes with exaggerated sweetness.
For a heartbeat, he simply stared at her. Then he bowed his head slightly and chuckled under his breath.
If she were hungry… If she could still joke… Then she was not broken beyond repair. And that was enough for now.
"Of course," he said softly.
They turned toward the banquet table, stepping around shattered porcelain and spilled wine as though this were merely an inconvenient interruption to dinner.
Behind them… Henry swallowed. His free hand trembled as he reached for the dagger embedded through his flesh.
With a strangled gasp, he wrenched it upward. The blade tore free from wood and hand alike. Blood spilled. He didn't mind.
He staggered to his feet, gripping the dagger in his uninjured hand, chest heaving, eyes wild and unhinged.
And he stepped forward, his eyes on Aveline.