[Southern Wing — Prince Aran's Study
Rich tapestries suffocated the stone walls of the West Annex, trapping the heat and the cloying scent of ambergris. A massive mahogany desk dominated the corner, cluttered with brass instruments and leather-bound tomes.
"He succeeded, you say?"
The voice was soft, melodic, and utterly cold.
"Yes, Prince." The kneeling man pressed his forehead into the carpet. "We... we had no idea Rhodri would turn on Geralt. The shift in allegiance was... instantaneous."
Aran turned away from the window, his hair catching the fading candlelight. He studied his reflection in the dark glass. He possessed the same golden eyes as his father, but they looked out from a face that was all Isabella—exotic, delicate. It was a beautiful face, currently marred by a look of profound boredom.
"Hah... my dear older brother." He sighed, trailing a finger along the spine of a book. "He used to be so transparent. A glass vessel of duty. Now, suddenly, the glass is opaque."
The spy lifted his head slightly, sweat beading on his upper lip. "It is... difficult to say. His Highness, Crown Prince Al—"
The crystal goblet shattered against the stone wall, inches from the man’s head. A single shard nicked the spy's cheek; a drop of bright red blood welled up and slid down his jaw.
"That title rolls off your tongue with such… reverence." Aran lowered his hand, his expression placid. "Do not force me to remove the tongue that speaks it."
"I... My deepest apologies!" The kneeling man scrambled to correct himself, wiping the blood with a shaking hand. "Alden! Ever since the death of Empress Cassandra, he has become a cipher. We cannot read him. He took power in the vacuum before we could even draft a counter-measure. The test, the evidence—his trap was sprung before we saw the trigger."
Aran walked to his desk and collapsed into the high-backed chair. "You reported he was in his chambers. Resting. The entire time."
"Yes! We watched the door. There was no exit, no entrance."
"So…" Aran tilted his head, tapping a rhythmic finger against the wood. "He never left, yet he managed to capture Vorenus? He never left, yet he parleyed with Rhodri?"
The spy’s mouth opened, but no sound escaped, resembling a carp gasping on a riverbank.
"A man who can scale the Tower of Silver Star..." Aran smirked, though his eyes remained dead. "How difficult would it be for him to traverse a mere bedroom window? Tell me, are your heads merely decorative gourds atop your necks?"
The spy’s eyes widened. "Apologies, we will immediately—"
Aran waved his hand dismissively. Incompetence was exhausting. "Moving on. How did Duke Helbart take the humiliation?"
The spy swallowed hard, pressing his palms against the cold stone. "His Grace was apoplectic. He snapped the armrest off his chair. He is looking for blood."
"Excellent," Aran murmured. "And the girl? Lady Emmelyne? Reports suggest my brother was… solicitous."
"Confirmed. Alden smiled at her in the corridor, in full view of the court. He leaned in, whispered in her ear... the proximity was noticeable."
"My brother... playing the paramour?" The tapping grew increasingly erratic. It stopped abruptly. "He is not the type to simulate affection for political gain, even for the Viremont coin..." Aran’s lips curled into a smile that failed to reach his eyes. "It must be true."
"He desires her," Aran murmured, a feverish glint entering his eyes. "He abandoned me... for a creature of such common vanity?"
"Actually, Prince, there is another detail." The spy hesitated. "Since that encounter, the Lady’s history has begun to resurface. Talk of her... flexibility regarding suitors."
A pause.
Suddenly, a thin, manic smile stretched Aran’s lips. "Who started this? No, it matters not. Let the embers burn. Actually..." His eyes turned freezing cold. "Pour oil on them. Ruin it. Make it thorough."
The spy blinked. "You want me to spread rumors about Lady Emmelyne?"
Aran scoffed, grabbing a rolled parchment from his desk. "I want you to sever the root."
He tossed the scroll across the room. It landed with a heavy thud in front of the kneeling man.
"Duke Viremont is using the chaos to expand his control on Imperial food distribution. How ambitious!" Aran chuckled, tapping his chin. "We cannot let such weeds choke the garden, can we?"
The spy hesitated, then picked up the scroll. "You want me to take this to Duke Helbart?"
"No. Give it to Aldric."
The spy’s features morphed into a grin. He bowed low. "Understood, my Prince. I will recall him immediately."
Aran leaned back, savoring the moment.
"Helbart is wounded," Aran mused, twirling a silver bell between his fingers. "And wounded beasts lash out blindly. As his dutiful nephew... I should really point him toward the right throat."
He rang the silver bell. Almost immediately, the doors creaked open.
A young maid stepped in, keeping her head low.
Aran's gaze fixated on her. She moved silently, collecting shattered glass into a cloth, her movements lithe, cat-like.
"Wait," Aran drawled.
The girl's hand froze over a shard of crystal.
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"Have I... seen you before?" Aran asked, his eyes dissecting her.
The girl trembled, curtsying deeply. "Apologies, My Lord. I do not believe so. I am Apate, Imperial Consort Isabella’s personal maid. She sent me to serve you."
"Aha! Mother’s gift…" Aran's eyes lit up. "When were you appointed?" He reclined in the velvet chair, his throat exposed, lazily watching the frantic rise and fall of her bodice.
"It has been a week, My Lord. On the nineteenth of Veyra," she stammered, twisting her skirts.
"The nineteenth…" A dazzling, predatory smile graced Aran’s face. "How curious that mother sent someone so striking. I shall rely on you, Apate."
He didn’t dismiss her. His gaze lingered on her flushed bottom lip, tracing the line of her neck.
Apate dipped her chin, hiding her face, and hurriedly gathered the remaining glass. Her cheeks were crimson as she fled the room.
The door clicked shut, leaving only the soft pop of a dying ember in the hearth.
"Do you suspect her, Prince?"
A man emerged from the shadows behind the heavy window curtains, his gray attire blending seamlessly with the stone.
Aran's smile vanished. His face went slack, unreadable. He turned his attention to the desk, pushing aside a stack of letters to reveal a specific, worn text: .
"She has a face that could start wars," Aran murmured, running a finger over the title. "And a silhouette to end them."
"Shall I remove her?"
"No. Keep an eye on her. For now." Aran narrowed his eyes. "It might just be a stray kitten. And if not…" He rolled the parchment and placed it back on the desk. "I want to see who holds the leash."
[Western Wing — Ballroom
"The melody is rather… spirited," Lady Hena murmured, snapping her fan shut. "One might think the funeral bells hadn’t just ceased ringing."
Lady Ireen gave a dry, knowing laugh. "Sorrow is tedious, dear. The living require… vitality. Or in Lady Emmelyne’s case..." She leaned in, her voice dropping to a silken purr. "...she seems to find comfort in a very broad spectrum of sympathizers."
"Is that what we're calling it?" Hena whispered back, eyes widening. "I heard her hospitality in the duchy has become quite... communal."
The herald’s staff slammed three times against the floor, silencing the insinuation.
"Presenting Lady Emmelyne of House Viremont!"
Every head turned. The chatter died.
Emmelyne processed down the center of the aisle. Her chin was lifted high, her spine rigid. She forced her breathing to remain even. 'They are looking,' she told herself. 'Of course they are looking. I am the choice of the Crown Prince.'
The heavy gold choker at her throat caught the chandelier light, blazing with a brilliance that made the surrounding diamonds look like dull glass. Yet, the fans snapped shut like guillotines. Eyes went wide, darting from the gold at her throat to the purple of her dress, and then exchanging glances that were not filled with envy, but with glee.
Fragments of murmurs drifted through the crowd like smoke.
"Wait, isn’t that the necklace Lord Silas commissioned for his mistress?"
"What’s happening? I thought she was courting Cedric Devon?"
"Just yesterday, she wore the green earrings. Does she wear a different man’s favor for every hour of the day?"
Emmelyne stiffened as she heard the name ‘Cedric.’ A fleeting memory surfaced—a restless night, an intimate moment, and a promise. But the details slipped away from her mind. 'What was the promise again?' she wondered, but dismissed the thought as insignificant.
She stood apart from the main cluster, her ears filled instead with a constant stream of praise from Shuri, daughter of Count Cornwell, who clung to her side.
"Emmelyne, you are a vision!" Shuri exclaimed, dramatically shielding her eyes. "It’s no wonder His Highness was completely smitten. The other ladies look like drab sparrows beside a peacock."
One corner of Emmelyne's mouth curled upward. She scanned the room, preparing her expression. Let them stare. She touched the cold gold at her throat. She held the only gaze that mattered.
"Lady Emmelyne," Lady Ireen chirped, gliding closer with a fan held slightly too high to be polite. "That necklace is truly a singular piece. I haven’t seen craftsmanship like that since Lord Silas returned from his travels. Oh dear, he has such... specific tastes in women, doesn't he?"
"One wonders if the craftsmanship in the East is as... passionate as they say," Lady Pemberton chimed in.
Emmelyne narrowed her eyes. Was that a slight? Before she could offer a sharp retort, Lady Hena leaned in, her eyes dancing with a look that wasn't admiration.
"And how is dear Cedric? It must be so difficult for a man to keep a woman’s attention when the competition is so—shall we say—lavish."
A giggle erupted from a nearby cluster. The ladies didn't bow low; they hovered, heads tilted like birds of prey watching a wounded animal.
Emmelyne felt a prickle of cold sweat on her neck. Why weren't they cowering? She was the future Crown Princess. They should be begging for her favor.
"Shuri," Emmelyne murmured under the cover of the violins, gripping her fan until the wood creaked. "Why do they keep parading these names before me like a ledger of debts?"
Shuri leaned in, her voice a conspiratorial breath against Emmelyne’s ear. "Everyone knows His Highness is completely taken with you, my lady. They must be jealous. They want to remind you of... lesser men, to bring you down to their level."
Emmelyne’s smirk returned, though it was brittle. 'Jealousy'. Yes. That had to be it. "Power has a way of making the envious... desperate, doesn't it?"
By the third hour, the laughter had thinned to a nervous murmur. Every time Emmelyne turned, backs turned with her. The isolation was absolute.
Emmelyne spotted Lady Hena again. She needed to reassert control. She needed to remind these women of the hierarchy.
"Lady Hena," Emmelyne cooed, approaching her. "I’ve noticed your fondness for Lord Cedric. It’s quite charming. Since we’re close, I’ll make sure to recommend him to you. He needs a steady hand..."
Hena went rigid. The champagne in her glass pitched dangerously, splashing onto her knuckles. "What do you mean I am 'interested' in Lord Cedric, Lady Emmelyne?" Hena’s voice climbed an octave, shrill and trembling. She recoiled, pressing her back against the sofa. "Are you trying to sully my reputation?"
Emmelyne blinked, her smile faltering. The reaction was too visceral. "I… You asked me about him—"
"I asked about the scandal!" Hena snapped, her face flushing red.
"What scandal?"
Before Emmelyne could inquire, a wall of silk and velvet materialized between them. Three other ladies rushed to Hena’s side, encircling her defensively. They looked at Emmelyne not with jealousy, but with disgust.
"My lady was merely asking politely," Shuri interjected from Emmelyne's elbow. "There is no need for such theatrics."
"You cannot just associate a noblewoman with your own... discarded lovers and expect it not to stain her," Hena hissed, smoothing her skirts with shaking hands.
"Discarded lover?" Emmelyne frowned, her heart hammering a warning rhythm against her ribs. "What are you—"
"Oh... please," Hena cut her off, standing abruptly. She refused to meet Emmelyne’s eyes. "No need to act the innocent. Everyone in the capital knows..."
"How could you address my friend in such a disrespectful manner?" Shuri interrupted again. "Just because my lady is beautiful enough to attract the attention of many men doesn’t mean you should feel envious."
Hena stared at Shuri, then at Emmelyne, in disbelief.
"Fine. Suit yourself," Hena said, turning to depart. "However, I kindly request that you refrain from uttering my name in such inappropriate contexts, Lady Emmelyne. I would never want to be associated with such… filth. Now, excuse me."
Hena vanished into the crowd. The surrounding ladies drifted after her, their backs turning in unison like a closing gate.
Emmelyne stood in the rapidly widening circle of empty floor. Her hand flew to the necklace. 'Filth?'
Slowly, she turned.
Shuri was still there. She hadn't moved. She was smiling that same wide, glazed smile of absolute worship. But now, in the silence, the smile looked wrong. It looked carved.
Emmelyne took a step forward. A cold pit opened in her stomach.
“Shuri,” Emmelyne whispered, her voice trembling for the first time. “What are you concealing?”
Shuri blinked, her head tilting innocently. "My Lady? I don't—"
"The facade," Emmelyne snapped, her voice cracking. Panic clawed at her throat. She needed Shuri to deny it properly. "The rumors. The ‘filth’. It was you, wasn’t it?"
Shuri retreated a half-step, her hands fluttering to her chest in mock horror. "Emmelyne, please! I’ve always been on your side! I swore I wouldn't tell a soul about your... visitors. I don't know how they found out! It wasn't me!"
The admission hung in the air like poison. Shuri hadn't denied the rumors; she had confirmed them to the entire room.
Emmelyne looked around. The eyes of the court were upon her. And for the first time, she realized she wasn't the queen holding court. She was the jester in the center of the ring.
