Episode 10
~Blood Beneath the Chandeliers~
The Crown Prince was the image of imperial poise—coral hair artfully styled, green eyes sparkling beneath the glittering candelabra. At his side, Regina descended the steps with a queen’s elegance, her gown—midnight blue and silver filigree—catching the chandelier's light, icy blue eyes unwavering beneath the scrutiny.
Whispers buzzed behind fans painted with peacocks and roses, slippers brushed discreetly on the marble:
“They say the Archduchess has always been at his side; it’s practically a foregone conclusion she’ll be the next Empress…”
“You must admit, there’s a striking resemblance between the Crown Prince and young Lady Lillian… Could it be—”
“Ah, but isn’t the Archduchess long rumored to guard hidden secrets? If Evander is the father, think of the scandal! The Empress would have a fit.”
“Nonsense, my dear! Regina is far too proud to let such rumors touch her. But if she becomes Empress, what will happen to the old factions?”
“I’ve heard she’s the only woman who truly dares challenge the Empress herself.”
“Did you see the way the Crown Prince looked at her? That is not a platonic gaze…”
The orchestra shifted to a softer refrain, gilding the atmosphere in expectation. The aroma of glazed pheasant and honeyed figs mingled with perfume and candle-smoke as the gilt-edged company leaned in closer, eager for any hint of confession or intrigue.
One elderly countess, voice reedy, declared, “A union would unite the Houses, but at what price? The House of Drosnik must be hiding something for such a daring display…” Her companion nodded, eyes flinty. “Or perhaps it is Regina who hides the greatest secret of all.”
Amidst the swirl of rumor and anticipation, the noble assembly’s excitement swelled—each whisper a delicate weapon, every glance a veiled challenge, and under the beating heart of crystal and candlelight, the future of the Empire hovered on the razor’s edge of possibility.
The resplendent Banquet Hall fell into hushed anticipation as a clear, sonorous voice rose from the dais above the grand marble staircase. The Master of Ceremonies, adorned in velvet trimmed with golden braid, stepped forward, his tone both commanding and gracious.
“Hear ye! Hear ye! The noble House of Drosnik welcomes its esteemed guests!”
From the crest-bearing balcony, the patriarch of the Drosnik family appeared, clad in an embroidered doublet of deepest garnet and ornate silver filigree, flanked by his regal spouse in a gown of velvety emerald, and their only son—the poised, striking heir—whose bright hair and steady gaze bespoke years of careful tutelage.
“Welcome, welcome, honoured friends and allies,” intoned Lord Drosnik, raising a goblet of rich Burgundy. “May this evening’s company bring joy unmeasured and alliances unbroken.”
A ripple of polite applause unfurled like a silken banner throughout the hall as the orchestra’s strings swelled, signaling that the feast was prepared to commence.
Amidst the glittering throng, Crown Prince Evander approached Regina with swift, courtly grace, extending his hand in invitation, eyes glinting beneath his finely embroidered mask.
“Madam,” he murmured, ‘would you honour me with the first dance this evening?”
Regina’s gaze flickered with a cool spark of defiance as she accepted but with a pointed addendum. “I have come at the behest of Her Majesty the Empress,” she whispered, her voice low yet razor-sharp, “though she neglected to instruct how precisely I might avoid disgracing her royal personage.”
She allowed her fingers to entwine with Evander’s, the delicate tension between them electric beneath the tapestry-laden walls.
Turning gracefully from the Prince’s side, Regina approached the Drosnik heir. With a smile imbued with sovereign command, she inclined her head. “May I entreat you, noble sir, for a dance?”
A murmur stirred like a breeze through autumn leaves. Gazes shifted, eyebrows arched behind lace fans and polished visages.
“It would appear,” whispered a duke to his companion, “that our Archduchess dances quite freely this evening.”
“And with the very heir of Drosnik, no less,” replied the other, eyes narrowing. “Observe—the resemblance to young Lady Lillian—could the whispers hold truth? Might he be the hidden father, the secret shadow in the House of Vendreich?”
Laughter, half-hushed but sharp as a rapier’s thrust, rippled through discreet circles of nobles, as the scandalous implications fluttered like gilded butterflies.
From the opposite end of the hall, Jett’s boisterous chuckle cut through the whispers, drawing amused looks from Caspian and Damien. “Look at the Crown Prince, all but left speechless,” Jett exclaimed with a grin wide as the Danube. “A most satisfying revenge, wouldn’t you say?”
Caspian’s sapphire eyes danced with mirth, while Damien let loose a rare chuckle, the weight of courtly decorum momentarily broken by the spectacle.
As Regina and the Drosnik heir began their measured waltz beneath the glowing chandeliers, the hall buzzed anew—not just with music, but with the swirling eddies of rumor, intrigue, and the delicate politics of power entwined with whispered secrets.
Under the vaulted ceilings, amid gilded mirrors and flickering candelabra, the dance marked more than a passing entertainment—it was a subtle declaration that the game of hearts and crowns was well and truly underway.
The heir’s voice, rich and smooth, broke the hush that had fallen over the ballroom. “My, my,” he breathed, taking Regina’s hand with a gallant bow of his head as he led her toward the polished marble dance floor. “Isn’t this quite the pleasure?”
As the delicate strains of a minuet began, their bodies moved in measured cadence beneath the grand crystal chandeliers. Regina’s gaze, however, remained fixed not on her partner but on the intricate patterns woven into the gleaming parquet beneath their feet.
Without sparing him a glance, Regina’s gaze remained fixed on the polished, parquet floor beneath their feet, her countenance a portrait of regal detachment as they began their measured steps.
“Ah!” The heir’s voice cut through her cool aloofness, drawing her reluctant notice down to their feet.
“Why that outcry?” she inquired, her tone iced with disdain.
“You trod upon my foot,” he accused with affected wounded surprise.
“Nay,” Regina murmured, unwavering, “I did no such thing.”
“Then you say I lie?” he pressed, twisting her words like a serpent coiling.
“Indeed,” she replied with cold firmness.
With fluid motion, he spun her close, pressing his hand firmly at the small of her back. Their faces hovered a mere breath apart, the warmth of his breath teasing her cheek. “Leah,” he whispered, voice low and laden with promise, “are you not curious to know the name of the man who holds you thus?”
“No,” she answered coolly, stepping away from the intimacy with a swirl of her skirts.
Regina shrugged free with disdainful grace. “No,” she said simply, spinning away from the intimacy like a leaf caught in a chill draft.
“Oh, how icy,” he lamented theatrically. “Not even the courtesy to inquire of your partner’s name.”
“You are the one who compelled my presence here,” she shot back, voice sharp as a rapier.
He recovered with a sly grin, spinning her again. “Then tell me, what think you of my friendship with the Crown Prince?”
A wicked smile curved Regina’s lips as she shifted their steps with deliberate audacity, seizing his waist firmly this time and drawing him slightly downward in a bold dip that defied decorum.
Gasps rippled through the assembly like a silk gown catching on a hidden thorn.
A coy smirk curled her lips. “Oh, dear,” sneered Regina, changing the rhythm with a sudden shift, catching him by the waist and dipping him slightly forward in a bold, unorthodox move.
The ballroom gasped collectively—a scandalous break from decorum that echoed through the high arches and ornate tapestries like a clap of thunder.
Whispers swirled swiftly:
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“Such audacity! To dip him so—what familiarity lies between them?”
“Such a scandalous step—Lady Regina doth flaunt her familiarity with the heir like a favored courtesan.”
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“And all those shared glances with the Crown Prince—what secrets entwine them now?”
“Is this decorum? Or does she dare expose secrets through the language of the dance?”
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“Mark the Archduchess’s boldness. She dances not as a lady of court but as a tempest.”
“And the Crown Prince—did you see his countenance? White as marble, struck mute by her insolence.”
At the far side of the hall, the Crown Prince’s hand trembled imperceptibly, lips pressed tight in silent dismay.
At the far end, Jett’s incredulous chuckle broke through the murmuring, matched by Damien and Caspian’s stunned silence—comrades to the affronted royal.
Suddenly, amidst the crescendo of strings, Regina’s ice-blue eyes caught sight of a shadowy figure moving across the hall. With a swift motion, she released the heir’s hand.
Caught unprepared, the young man stumbled, crashing gracefully onto the marble floor as the music came to an abrupt halt. Regina’s skirts whipped about her as she hurried through the murmuring crowd, her departure as abrupt as a stirring storm.
The heir, cheeks flushed with embarrassment, rose swiftly, casting a glare toward the retreating figure. The Crown Prince strode forward, lips barely murmuring beneath the tangle of swirling rumors erupting in their wake—a tempest of whispered scandal centered on Regina’s irreverent conduct.
As the heels of the Archduchess faded into the throng, young ladies queued at the dance floor’s edge—madams’ daughters and noble misses alike—each preparing to be the next to step into the gilded whirl of courtly intrigue.
Behind them, the heir and Crown Prince exchanged charged glances, both silently acknowledging that tonight, the game had shifted—and the stakes had grown far more perilous beneath the glittering chandeliers of House Drosnik.
A sharp cry broke the heavy silence. “What?” Layla’s voice was edged with disbelief as her delicate fingers fumbled, sending the tray — laden with Lady Lillian’s most treasured jewels, pearls glinting faintly in the candlelight — crashing to the polished marble floor. The soft clatter echoed like a death knell along the corridor.
Before her, the two maids who had attended the young ladies now trembled openly, tears tracking down their flushed cheeks, their embroidered bodices soaked with the dampness of grief and fear.
Layla seized one by the shoulders with fierce urgency, eyes blazing. “How in Heaven’s name could you lend ear to those assassins’ venom? And where are these wretches now that they threaten our Ladies’ very lives?”
One of the trembling maids, her voice barely above a broken sigh, stammered, “They… they threatened us, Lady Layla. Our own blood and bones if we did not comply. And… and as for the girls—they are illegitimate. Whether they live or perish, what difference would it make to those who hold power?”
The words landed like a dagger, sharp and cruel. Layla’s jaw clenched, nostrils flaring with hot, stifled rage. The scent of melting wax and polished oak filled the air, mingling with the cold bite of fear pressing against her heart.
Without hesitation, she spun on her heel, skirts billowing in her purposeful stride. The long corridor stretched before her—walls adorned with somber portraits of ancestors whose eyes seemed to weep for the peril shadowing their bloodline.
Her boots echoed against the ancient stones as she raced towards the girls’ chambers, a tempest in human form, furious and unwavering. No harm shall come to my charges—not while I draw breath, her mind thundered with iron resolve.
A sinister hiss slithered through the shadowed chamber. “Yess~ Someone is indeed present.”
A chill seized the two girls as a figure emerged from behind the heavy velvet curtains draped across the balcony doors—a man cloaked in sable black, his gloved hand gripping a cruel dagger, its blade slick with fresh, glistening blood. The flickering candlelight caught the crimson droplets as they fell like dark teardrops onto the polished floor.
Lillian’s small hand clutched Vivian’s frozen in terror, her violet eyes wide with dread.
“Oh, sweet darlings,” the intruder crooned, voice dripping with malicious delight. “Tonight, I shall sup upon your very blood.”
“Wh-why?” Lillian stammered, voice trembling like a fragile leaf in the tempest.
“Because,” he snarled, lips peeling back over sharpened teeth, “it is the command of Her Majesty—the EMPRESS herself.”
At the mention of the Empress, Vivian’s icy blue orbs ignited with fierce recognition. Without hesitation, she seized Lillian’s trembling hand, dragging her swiftly toward the ornate dressing table.
With urgent fingers, she pulled out a sturdy chair, seating Lillian firmly, then retrieved the damp towel left earlier by the maids. Draping it gently over Lillian’s head, she eased the chair back into place—effectively trapping her sister but shielding her from the danger looming near.
The man’s voice cracked with confusion. “What are you playing at, child?”
Vivian glanced back with a cunning smirk curling her lips, advancing with silent, deadly resolve.
“Ahahaha!” he bellowed, reveling in the devil’s play. “Prey marches boldly into the lion’s den—I relish the sport!”
Without warning, he lunged forward, blade aimed with lethal intent.
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Sudden crashing interrupted the grim tableau as the door burst open.
“MY LADIES!” Layla’s voice rang with fierce urgency as she entered, eyes widening in horror.
Blood pooled near the balcony where the door remained ajar, the curtains billowing like ghostly sails in the chill night breeze.
“My...ladies?” Layla gasped, breath shallow, terror clutching her heart.
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A scream tore through the heavy wooden panels.
“AHHHHHHH!” Elise’s terrified cry rang out as a shadowy attacker brandishing a sword advanced upon her in her chamber.
“Wh-wh-what do you want?” she stammered, collapsing backward onto the cool oak floor, hands fluttering helplessly.
“Your death,” the intruder growled coldly.
Suddenly, the heavy door flung open once more as Edouard stormed in, sword flashing in the candlelight like a silver comet. With practiced precision born of countless campaigns, he struck down the assailant in a swift, decisive blow.
Panting, blade at the fallen man’s throat, Edouard’s voice thundered with wrath. “Under whose orders do you serve?”
The man coughed, blood speckling his cracked lips. “The Empress—”
A final breath escaped as Edouard’s blade fell.
Silent and pale, Vivian witnessed the deadly confrontation from the shadowed doorway before turning quietly away.
Sigh…she thought, footsteps soft on the stone floor. This has become a daily routine now.
As she moved toward her chamber, she murmured bitterly, “When will Father repay his debts and restore peace in this house?”
The manor’s heavy tapestries fluttered faintly in the night breeze, while distant thunder muttered ominous warnings—echoes of a darkness tightening its grip on their fragile world.
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To be Continued....
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