What in the world of evil is this? Rowan thought to herself, staring unblinkingly at the large spider in the corner of the ceiling. She strained her eyes at its forked tongue of flickering flames—only a torch craved out of wood. Had she not sensed there was no life magick pulsing through the being, instincts might have forced her to launch her claws at it.
“It is but one of the Master’s many eccentrics,” the butler she had come to know as Walter of House Cellarius, gestured to a feather duster dancing its way across the spider’s body before moving onto the next distorted statue. “The Keep is filled with his wooden creations, if it interest you, Your Highness.”
‘If’ was unnecessary. How could she not be intrigue?
Wooden furniture skittered about the place, all moved by invisible hands. She nodded to the butler’s words, trying not to gape too hard at a chair that had just passed them with a stiff bow. Another followed soon, a round table rolling sideways down the hall. The place was bustling with life, yet she could feel not a hint of life magick.
Thick roots protruded from the dark marble floor, leaving cracks across the smooth surface and nearly tripped her on several occasions. Statues of demons of hell with eyes that seemed to follow her every movement crowded shadowed corners above the pillars.
Unlike Lockhart’s Castle where Fulgel servants stood in attention every few steps, none filled the empty hallway of onyx black. Except for Walter and the two pages, she had not seen another soul—at least not one with pulse she could read.
She was beginning to wonder if the rumours had been inaccurate, that the Duke of Noxsidus had not bind himself to the devil but was instead Devil himself. If not ‘possessed’, it would be impossible for her to comprehend the state of the Keep. She was envious of Marie who seemed too distraught with the presence of the Nyphillie butler to notice the oddness of the Keep.
It occurred to her that she should pretend to feel threatened by the butler’s presence. After all, she was playing the part of a Fulgel princess, not Rowan Lockhart the cursed Nyphillie. But something about the butler felt strangely calming like his non-existence pulse. More than once she tried to shrug off the fog clouding her mind but each time it came back thicker and clung to her, unyieldingly persuading her to let her guards down. A slow acting poison that coursed through the air.
She was faintly aware of the danger her mind was putting her in but her body was too numb to reach for the dagger tucked into her corset. It was only when he came to a halt that the strange fog in her mind finally released its hold on her.
Rowan glanced at the butler who only dipped his head in return. Servant or not, he was a Nyphillie. She was wrong to let her attention wander, especially in front of one who had aged enough for it to show on his face. Despite her age, Rowan still looked the same as she did sixteen. It was hard for her to imagine how old the man was.
Had he been around during the Purge?
“This is the room His Grace had prepared for you, Your Highness,” Walter’s voice yanked her out of her thought.
As soon as Walter pried the double doors open, Rowan had to call upon her years of practice to keep her face placid. Unlike the hallway of dark and royal purple, the room prepared by her soon-to-be husband was the epitome of humour she could not comprehend.
The floor was covered in plush, pale purple rugs embroidered with tiny golden roses that matched the soft lavender walls. A cringe-worthy canopy bed with golden frame and white laces for curtains was placed in the heart of the room. Half a dozen of overstuffed lavender pink pillows crowded the head of it.
The wardrobe, vanity table and two armchairs placed side-by-side by the floor to ceiling stained glass windows were fashioned in the same way as the rest of the room—white and gold with tiny flower motifs etched onto wood carved by skilled hands.
Rowan’s senses were jolted awake. This is a princess’s room!
“His Grace prepared this for me?” she gasped, masking her shock with a mock fainting spell. She might be a princess in name but she was never one. She was raised as a warrior, a blood seeker, a slayer, a pawn…not royalty. This was not a room for her, it was for Anastasia.
“I was told all princesses would love a room like this.”
Rowan whirled around, her back instinctively straightened as she gazed upon the face at the end of the deep, throaty voice. Her mind seemed to fail her once again as her eyes took in the man’s features.
A pair of striking blue eyes trapped her the instant she met them. In the depth of his eyes, one held a thin, pale green rim while another held a golden one. Both glinted at the heart of the orbs of silver.
Never had she seen a clearer blue. Not that there were many Maguses left for blue eyes to exist. Only a handful of high ranked Fulgels had purple eyes pale enough to be mistaken as blue but never had she seen ones like his.
A face she thought she had long forgotten surfaced at the back of her mind.
“Is it not to your liking?” the Magus asked, barely a shift of muscle in his expressionless face.
“Of course not, Your Grace,” she dipped her head, attempting to clear her mind. She was frozen in place, from awe or fear, she was not sure. “I am merely…overwhelmed.”
The surprise in her voice was not entirely a lie. After a century of listening to rumours of the monster he was, she was not expecting the man who now stood before her. His eyes that were a stark contrast to his long, dark hair and his silvery white skin were all unnerving. Just as his height that towered over her by two heads intimated her.
Fulgel men would be mere dwarves before the Magus.
The Duke tilted his head slightly to one side as if he too was contemplating about her. She could sense no hint of displeasure in his face or the way he studied her. But if it truly was as the King claimed, how could he not knew she was not the princess he had asked for?
The Duke only nodded with a soft smile.
A brown wolf half her height manifested beside him at the same time. Instinctively, her fingers tingled with an ache to free her claws, ready to strike the creature down. But the wolf paid her no attention.
It took one glance at her before whipping its head around, unconcerned by the new face it found. It nuzzled against the Duke as if it was a tamed pet instead of a predatory beast of the night.
“This is Alfredo. He may be a hard block to chip at times, but I trust the both of you would get along well in due time,” the Duke who was all game face said as he stroked the head of the towering beast.
“I heard the court ladies love to keep dogs around as company. Does the gift pleases you, my lady?” the Duke added when he heard no voices of agreement.
Dog? Yet again, Rowan could not help but blink in disbelief. She would not be as surprised if he was to tell her it was a werewolf. But a dog?
Rowan was beginning to wonder if the Duke was as blind as his eyes were clear. But wonders aside, she had enough years of acting the hostage to know her thoughts should be kept to herself. Her face broke into a saccharine-laced smile instead.
“Yes, Your Grace. Very pleased.”
Though the Duke seemed satisfied with her answer, Alfredo casted her a dubious glare. Like the rest of the bodies that roamed the hall, she could not read its pulse but the dead did not have emotions. She could read its hostility clearer than she could its life magick.
Could they all be demons? She had read that the creatures of hell thrive on a different magick but she have yet to encounter one to be sure if they had readable pulses in the first place.
As sure as she was with her skills to maim, she was not sure she could execute them as flawlessly under the pretence of a weak Fulgel princess. Her immediate future was stretched out before her. Either she dies under the creature’s claws—or its master’s hands after she kills it—or she would wither away from the lack of life magick before any of them thought of disposing her.
Walter brought their attention back to him with the soft click of his pocket watch. It was a delicate little object. Though it shone with a silvery hue, she could tell it was carved out of wood. “Your Highness…” he addressed Rowan but the Duke stopped him.
“Not Your Highness,” the Duke corrected while Rowan stared at him, puzzled. She clenched her fists behind her back, ready to defend herself. She knew she would not pass for Anastasia. Rumours had it, he had been watching her for years after all. It was a miracle she had survived this long within the beast’s walls.
Yet, his next words surprised her.
“The princess belongs to the Darkwoods Household now,” the Duke continued without a moment of hesitation. “It should be ‘my lady’, remember that.”
For seconds after that, Rowan doubted her ears, the same pair she had relied on to survive the years. She blinked at him. A strange sound escaped her throat as she resisted asking him to repeat himself. The notorious Duke of Noxsidus of all people could not differentiate between a Fulgel princess and a Nyphillie slayer? Had the Duke always been this slow?
Cornelius Darkwoods only laughed in response. A small smile found its way to Walter’s lips. “Yes, Your Grace.” Walter bowed to her once again, “My lady,” he began with a nod of approval from the Duke, “dinner is served.”
********
Over the course of the night, Rowan’s mind and soul were in a mess of nervousness.
The soft smile that unnerved her never left the Duke’s lips. He seemed to be in a good mood even as he nodded to the servants to clear her half-eaten steak. It was barely cooked but the life magick in it was so little, she could not bring herself to swallow the vile object. The Duke did not appear offended in the least but she could not help wondering if he was secretly enjoying her torture.
She forced herself to take a sip out of the glass of deer’s blood Marie had poured her. The taste of iron was not pleasant but it was more tolerable than the bland taste of Fulgels’ food. She savoured the scarce trace of life magick the concoction that smelled of rosemary afforded her. A scent that would soon become a luxury when she drained what little they had brought with them from Lucidus.
Though she had the slightest idea where she could hunt in the forest of dead, the lavishing spread of red meat before her gave her a sense of hope. Surely, a Keep filled with Nyphillie servants would have its fair share of livestock—however impossible it appeared. She just have to search hard enough.
Another part of her mind pondered on topics normally discussed over dinner—of which she came to her wits’ end.
She had survived her days as a seductress, not a duchess. If by any slim chance of luck that the Duke had really taken her to be Anastasia, she would have to put her heart into acting the part of a born and raised princess. It was her greatest challenge yet.
For the first time in her life, she was glad to have stayed in her cousin’s shadows long enough to know how a wilful princess would act. Tantrums were decidedly easier than forcing herself to smile at lecherous nobles.
The double doors to the dining hall swung open again just as she set her glass down. Her insides churned at a sickening pace. Apparently, it was too early to judge playing the part of a princess was her greatest challenge.
Heaps of cakes and pies waltzed in in a straight line on wooden trays that floated in by themselves. Just as it had before, the long table of oak between them was stacked with mountains of dessert of rich butter and sugar coated berries in the blink of an eye.
“This is…?” Rowan was baffled. As much as she was not sure how it was possible for them to have a table of fresh fruits in the land of death, she was even more curious about the Magus who needed to feed on mortal’s food.
Though there was no more than a scroll worth of facts left on the strongest of the three Medeis kinds, she knew for a fact that the Maguses do not feed. Just as the Nyphilles happened to have the thickest blood of fallen angels in them, the Magus have more of Elementalist’s. They thrived on the energy of the elements they have affinity with and needed nothing else.
As a Nyphillie, it was no more than a torture to swallow something that did nothing to aid her survival. How could the Magus possibly be enjoying a Fulgel meal?
Is that what he planned? Taking joy in her suffering? Letting her act her role, waiting for her to give up?
The Duke merely looked at her as he lifted a crystal goblet to his lips and sipped the red wine in it. “I do not know which was to your liking so I had them made everything they knew.”
With deliberately slow movement, Rowan dabbled the corners of her lips with a silk napkin off the table.
They? The Nyphilles or the animated furniture? Rowan shook her head at the thought. Of all the rumours surrounding the Duke she had yet to confirm, she knew now that he was as eccentric as they depicted him to be—maybe more.
“I am grateful for your hospitality, Your Grace.” She rose from her seat with a slight curtsy. “Though I am afraid, the journey had rendered me quite fatigue. If I may have your permission to retire for the night?”
The Duke’s expressionless face twitched for the briefest moments. She thought he was finally going to lose the mask of a welcoming host. But in the end, he only closed his eyes and nodded. Whatever storm she thought coming her way, ceased before it could take form.
“Of course. I shall see you again on the morrow.”
With another rusty curtsy, she straightened her back and sashayed out of the hall of torture. The image of his thick lashes quivering against his pale cheeks lingered in her mind long after the doors closed behind her.
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