Chapter 3
-– Part 1 —
Stunned by what she heard, Elfreda’s boots clicked to a halt on the stone floor. Her sudden stop forced Marchioness Magnum to pause her stride and glance back over her shoulder.
“Is something the matter?”
The question was posed with such flat indifference that Elfreda felt a surge of confusion. Surely the woman had heard those insults as clearly as she had.
“Marchioness Magnum, you must have caught what those attendants just whispered.”
“I have no idea what you are referring to. My ears caught nothing of the sort.”
With a dismissive shrug, the Marchioness turned her gaze toward the cluster of women trailing behind them.
“Did any of you speak?”
The ladies-in-waiting adopted looks of wounded innocence, shaking their heads in unison.
“Not a word, Chief,” one replied.
“The Princess is likely hearing things,” another suggested.
“The exhaustion of such a trek can play tricks on the mind,” a third added. “She probably took some random noise the wrong way.”
The Marchioness offered a sharp, mocking explanation, her eyes narrowing as if Elfreda were the one at fault. Elfreda scanned the group, but every face among the Machi staff was a mask of cold, synchronized denial.
Resistance was impossible. Under the guise of a mandatory medical screening, Elfreda had been stripped of her own guards and servants the moment they arrived. In this isolated wing, there was no witness to vouch for her sanity or confirm the malice she had just endured.
A sense of drowning took hold of her. In the suffocating quiet, her father’s parting instructions echoed in her mind.
He had warned her to remain patient and beyond reproach from the moment she arrived. He didn’t want any friction that might serve as a spark for conflict.
Thinking of her grandfather, Gunnar, Elfreda felt a pang of phantom shame. Had that legendary, blood-drenched conqueror been alive, he would have been outraged by such weakness. Her father had taken the throne three years prior, claiming his right as Gunnar’s sole heir, yet the transition had been fraught with tension. The nobility had openly doubted him.
To the court, he lacked Gunnar’s fire and the strategic brilliance required to maintain the supremacy of Makaeri.
He was painfully aware of his own reputation. To shield his authority, he avoided any gamble that might result in a humiliating defeat, which made a difficult campaign against Machi out of the question. Yet, he was equally terrified of being branded a coward for choosing peace.
Sending her here was his way of securing his reign while avoiding a war he wasn’t sure he could win. Elfreda understood his desperation, but the burden fell entirely on her.
Even if he hadn’t begged her to be compliant, she realized she had no other path.
She stood still, absorbing the waves of animosity radiating from the women around her.
The official apology Makaeri had issued for past transgressions was nothing more than a diplomatic lie. A piece of paper couldn’t erase generations of blood feuds. She knew the people who had traveled with her from home would eventually use her “adjustment” as an excuse to abandon her here. If she picked a fight with these ladies-in-waiting now, she would only be making her future misery even more certain.
These were the people she had to live with.
Replacing them would be a bureaucratic nightmare, and any newcomers would likely harbor the same prejudices. Besides, she doubted the King of Machi would care for a bride who made constant demands.
Defending her dignity would only lead to a total collapse of her position. Therefore—
“Princess.”
—She would have to become a ghost in her own life.
Elfreda looked up as Marchioness Magnum spoke. The older woman was watching her with a look of cruel fascination, waiting to see if she would break. Elfreda forced herself to swallow, pushing down her pride, and met the woman’s gaze with a hollow expression.
“When am I scheduled to meet the King?”
The shift in topic brought a smirk of triumph to the Marchioness’s lips. She had won. The woman took a moment to savor the silence before answering.
“Hard to say. His Majesty is occupied with important matters. Keep to your rooms; someone will notify you eventually.”
Humming a light, mocking tune, the Marchioness resumed her walk. Her lack of effort was a stinging reminder of Elfreda’s insignificance here.
It seemed that in this kingdom, hatred for her was the only thing everyone could agree on.
She walked toward Tems Palace, feeling utterly discarded.
* * *
The evening was a blur of solitude. Once she had bathed and arranged the few items she owned, Elfreda found herself with no distractions.
She crawled into bed, hoping sleep would act as a temporary escape.
Perhaps things would look different in the morning.
But the room felt alien, and the silence was heavy. She tossed for an hour, the sheets feeling like sandpaper against her skin. She considered getting up to pace, but the fear of being judged by the watchful ladies-in-waiting kept her pinned to the mattress.
The palace was deathly still, the Queen’s early retirement having signaled the end of the day’s activity.
-– Part 2 —
Loneliness was a familiar companion, but in this foreign palace, it felt sharper, like a physical ache.
Lying in the dark, Elfreda tried to map out a strategy for survival.
She decided she would be relentlessly pleasant. No matter how much they loathed her, she would offer smiles and soft words. She would shrink herself until there was nothing left for them to strike at.
Just as she committed to this internal surrender, a sudden chill swept through the room. She kept her eyes shut, but her ears caught the faint, rhythmic sound of approaching steps. A servant coming to check the embers, she told herself.
But the gait was wrong. It was too heavy, too deliberate.
Her muscles locked. Every instinct screamed at her to look, yet a deeper, more primal fear told her to stay still. If she pretended to be asleep, perhaps the danger would pass.
Under the heavy velvet of the quilt, her fingers began to shake.
—The metallic rasp of a blade leaving its sheath sliced through the silence.
She squeezed her eyes shut, her teeth sinking into her lower lip. The truth was undeniable now.
Someone had come to end her life.
On her very first night in Machi, the local hatred had manifested as a shadow with a knife. Should she scream? If she tried, would the steel find its mark before she could make a sound?
A single, hot tear escaped her lid and tracked down her temple.
She wasn’t ready to die.
Desperation took hold. She would beg. She would offer them anything—her silence, her cooperation—if they would only let her draw another breath.
Elfreda slowly opened her eyes.
The room was a cavern of shadows, save for the flickering glow of a single candle. A dark, masked silhouette loomed over her, the cold edge of a sword already pressing against the skin of her throat.
She forced her voice to remain steady, though it was barely a whisper.
“…Please. Don’t.”
The assassin seemed startled by her lack of hysterics. She took a shallow, trembling breath and continued her plea.
“Spare me, and I will do whatever you ask of me.”
“The only thing I require is the death of a savage.”
The voice was like grinding stone. Elfreda looked into the killer’s eyes and saw a depth of loathing so profound it felt like a physical weight. Hope vanished. She realized there was no bargaining with a grudge this old.
The figure shifted, drawing the blade back for the final strike. Elfreda held her breath and braced for the end, her eyes snapping shut.
“Gah!”
A choked, guttural cry tore through the air.
Suddenly, a heavy weight collapsed onto the bed, and a spray of hot, thick liquid drenched her chest. But there was no pain. Elfreda’s eyes flew open, her body convulsing in shock.
A scream finally escaped her.
“Ah…!”
The man who had been seconds away from murdering her was now a heap of cooling flesh, bleeding out across her blankets. The warmth of his blood seeped into her skin, sending a violent shiver through her limbs.
She gasped for air, her tears mixing with the red stains on her gown.
Then, she saw it—a shock of gold that seemed to glow in the dim room like a rising sun. She blinked through her blurred vision, but the radiant image remained.
“Talk about a stroke of luck.”
The man spoke softly as he wiped a stray droplet of blood from his golden hair. It was an absurd thought to have in a room with a corpse, but Elfreda found the low, melodic vibration of his voice strangely grounding.
She looked up at him.
Even from her position on the bed, his height was imposing. He had eyes the color of a deep forest that regarded her with a chilling neutrality. His features were perfect, from the sharp, aristocratic line of his nose to the finely carved curve of his mouth.
He looked less like a man and more like a masterpiece rendered in oil and shadow.
“Replacing a bride is such a tedious chore.”
The realization hit her then. This was him.
Elfreda struggled to find her breath, her mind reeling on the edge of a blackout. She knew she was about to faint, but she forced the words out before the darkness took her.
“I… thank you. For saving my life.”
The man’s expression shifted, perhaps surprised by her choice of words.
He offered a faint, enigmatic smile, and with that image burned into her mind, Elfreda’s world went black. She knew he wouldn’t kill her tonight; he hadn’t gone to the trouble of saving her just to finish the job himself.
The irony was bitter. The man who had just rescued her was the very person she had been raised to despise above all others.
