Duke Nithercott eyed his wife, who wouldn't stop rambling about the queen's poorly concealed hatred.
Victoria might try to mask it, but anyone with eyes could see the loathing burning in her emerald gaze whenever she looked at her husband's daughter.
Everyone in Arthandica—even the dead—knew how deep Queen Victoria's hatred ran for Keket.
Duchess Arlay thought it was laughable.
"The queen is being a spoiled brat," she had said more than once.
Men—especially nobles—having mistresses, was practically an unspoken rule in the empire. More mistresses meant more illegitimate children. It was a norm, not a scandal.
Victoria, of all people, should understand that better than anyone.
Being a queen came with burdens.
And a proper queen was expected to carry them—whether she liked it or not.
Even the great empress wasn't immune. If the emperor took a mistress, she could only take solace in the fact that the woman would never bear him an heir.
It was a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.
Not that anyone would dare question the emperor.
From childhood, noblewomen were taught to control their emotions. To keep their heads high in every situation—even when staring death in the face.
Never show weakness.
It was a mantra drilled into them from the moment they could speak.
Everyone hated their rivals and their husband's bastards, but a wise woman knew when to react.
Victoria, however?
She was not wise.
She was the only child of the Duke and Duchess of Bloodfinger, spoiled to excess. Becoming the prince's lover had made her unbearable. Becoming the queen of Amber had turned her into something worse.
Once, in Arthandica, a woman who dared go against her husband could be charged with high treason, no matter her status.
Brutal beatings.
Public humiliation.
That was their fate.
But times had changed. The gods had forbidden men from harming delicate creatures—and women were considered delicate.
If their husbands permitted them to be.
---
Duke Nithercott sighed, rubbing his temples.
"Anika, I don't care about the queen's emotions. I care about you."
"I'm fine, my love." Anika let out a heavy sigh. "You worry too much." She forced a smile.
"I'm sorry about—"
"You don't have to be," she interrupted gently. "It's not a crime."
A crime? No.
But that didn't make it right.
Duke Nithercott already had two mistresses. Now he had taken a third—a younger one—behind his wife's back.
In Arthandica, taking mistresses wasn't illegal.
But it was expected that a husband would at least inform his wife. A mistress would always be a mistress, no matter how favoured.
Some forgot their place.
Some needed reminders.
And in the end, when the balance was broken, it was always the wife who suffered most.
---
The palace staff moved with careful precision, scrubbing every inch of the floors until they gleamed.
Perfection was mandatory.
The high priestess was more than a spiritual leader—she was a link to the gods.
Many considered her a goddess in her own right.
A single speck of dirt in her presence was not just disrespectful—it was an insult to the imperial family.
And an insult to the imperial family could cost you your head.
---
Akeeva sat in the royal garden, her white robes trailing over the lush grass. She never wore sandals.
The air was thick with the scent of lilies, jasmine, daffodils, and native Arthandican blooms.
The fragrance was soothing.
Not that she'd ever admit it.
Adira, seated across from her, studied her warily.
"What brings you here today, Akeeva?"
As always, the high priestess declined the tea.
"When is the prince coming home?"
Adira's lips thinned. "He didn't say. But he knows better. He will return before things get out of hand."
Quick to defend her son, as always.
Akeeva arched a brow, feigning ignorance. "Any news of his bride?"
Adira wasn't fooled.
Akeeva knew things. It was part of her nature—her cunning, her mischief.
The empress hesitated. "Arnold is still searching. We—"
She stopped mid-sentence.
Her husband's presence was unmistakable.
She hadn't noticed him approach—had been too focused on Akeeva.
But she didn't need to sense him.
The mark on her neck had already begun to burn.
The emperor had arrived.
And beside him?
King Arnold of Amber.
Akeeva's cold gaze flicked to them, assessing them like traitors.
"The more, the merrier."
Her voice was light, but her meaning was anything but.
Her attention landed on Arnold, her expression unreadable.
"When is the bride coming home?"
Arnold exhaled sharply, running a hand through his already-disheveled shoulder-length hair.
"She doesn't want to be found," he admitted, frustration lacing his voice. "Is there anything you can do to help? Do you know something we don't?"
Akeeva tilted her head slightly.
"Am I supposed to know the whereabouts of your daughter?"
Arnold opened his mouth, but she cut him off with a single sentence:
"I want both the bride and the groom in Arthandica before the moon is over."
Arnold's shoulders tensed.
He had tried everything.
It was like Ambrosia had become one with the wind.
Before he could respond, Akeeva's gaze sharpened.
"You should be careful of your wife."
Silence fell.
Every pair of eyes turned to her.
Arnold's amber gaze darkened with confusion.
"What does Victoria have to do with this?"
Akeeva met his stare without blinking.
"If you don't put her in her place soon, she will be the death of you."
A pause.
"And before that happens, she will take from you the thing you love most."
Arnold stiffened.
He was a good king. A competent ruler.
Feared. Respected. Worshipped.
But even great men had weaknesses.
And his weakness was Victoria.
The emperor had warned him countless times.
But he had ignored it.
He couldn't ignore Akeeva.
He had to act.
And he had to do it quickly.
"You have until the end of the moon," Akeeva said. "Do not disappoint me."
And then—
She was gone.
No scent.
No sound.
No lingering presence.
As if she had never been there at all.
Arnold let out a shaky breath.
Beside him, Dante shook his head.
"I think," the emperor said flatly, "you've given her too much freedom."
Arnold said nothing.
But his silence spoke volumes.
---
Alaric stared at the breathtaking woman before him. In all his life, he had never seen anyone as beautiful as she was.
Her skin was flawless and unblemished, and from the last time he had touched her, he knew it was as soft as it looked—silken and inviting.
Not even his mother, once hailed as the most beautiful woman in the empire—until that illegitimate child was born—could compare to the vision seated before him.
Keket was a rare sight in crowded places, her presence almost mythical. Yet, on the rare occasions she was seen, whispers of her otherworldly beauty spread like wildfire.
Alaric himself had never laid eyes on her—until now. And from this day forward, he would be seeing her face every single day for the rest of his life.
If he were being honest, he was furious with his parents. But Alaric was not one to act on impulse. He would wait, return home, and assess the situation properly before deciding his next move.
Matred sat before him, an image of effortless elegance. She wore a floor-length, long-sleeved red gown that clung to her curves in all the right places, paired with six-inch red stilettos. Her makeup was light, except for the bold, blood-red paint staining her lips. A Sardis limited-edition diamond-encrusted purse rested beside her.
She wore no jewellery, the high neckline of her dress leaving little room for adornment. Instead, she styled her thick strawberry-blonde locks in a simple updo, allowing her regal features to shine.
Alaric observed her keenly.
She had a clear affinity for the colour red. And she dressed modestly. Yet there was nothing simple about her presence—she exuded confidence, a quiet power that demanded attention.
She looked like a blood angel.
And though he had no intention of admitting it, he found her utterly mesmerizing.
Of course, the man himself did not disappoint.
Alaric was impeccably dressed in a custom-tailored four-piece tuxedo, paired with well-fitted dress shoes and a Luxene diamond watch. His silver locks, gelled to perfection, were gathered into a sleek man's bun—a final touch that elevated his commanding presence.
Luxene. A rival brand of Sardis.
Different taste. Already at odds.
Matred observed with a slight, unladylike snicker. Clearly, we are not compatible. The thought amused her more than it should, a glint of mischief flickering in her eyes.
"Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are?" Alaric asked, his tone unreadable. Though he was undoubtedly captivated by her beauty, his icy gaze remained emotionless—years of practice, ensuring nothing slipped through the cracks.
"Has anyone ever told you how annoying you are?" she shot back without missing a beat.
A dry, humourless chuckle escaped his throat. "Nice sense of humour," he remarked. "But, unfortunately, I hear that a lot. I'd rather you say something else."
Matred rolled her eyes at the insufferable man before her. "I do own a mirror, you know."
"Do you live alone?"
She lifted her gaze from the menu, arching a brow. "That's a rather personal question. You shouldn't ask strangers things like that."
"Hell-bent on keeping us strangers, aren't you?" He smirked, amusement flickering across his usually impassive face.
She merely rolled her eyes again and returned to studying the menu.
They ordered dinner, eating in polite silence, their movements refined, their table manners impeccable. But, of course, someone was bound to break the unspoken rules.
"Tell me about yourself," Alaric said.
"What do you want to know?"
"Everything you think I don't know about you."
Matred smirked. "And what exactly do you think you already know?"
"I know your name. I know you love the colour red. And I know you're beautiful yet incredibly annoying."
He added a wink for good measure.
Matred's expression darkened. A dangerous growl rumbled in her throat.
Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Matred shot him a withering glare before speaking.
"I don't know what to tell you. Ask your questions, and I'll answer the ones I can."
Alaric tilted his head slightly, studying her. "What's your family name?"
"Hall." She kept it short and vague.
"Matred Hall. Nice name… Do you have siblings?"
"None that I know of."
"Hmm… You know, you can ask me questions too," he pointed out, sensing her deliberate effort to reveal as little as possible.
"I know," she said with a smirk, "I'm just not interested in getting to know you."
Alaric only chuckled, unbothered. The conversation continued, a back-and-forth exchange of questions—some met with reluctance, others with teasing remarks—until they grew tired of it and moved on.
Matred, however, was furious with herself.
She had enjoyed the dinner. More than she should have.
Before she even realized it, she had been smiling, laughing—laughing at his lame jokes like some foolish girl in love.
---
Elisabeta paced the corridor outside her father's office, her nails between her teeth—a nervous habit she had never quite outgrown.
When things didn't go her way, the entire palace knew to tread carefully.
She had been waiting for nearly two hours, only to learn from the servants that her father was at the castle.
Avoiding her mother's wing again.
Elisabeta noticed things.
The shift in her father's presence. The way he lingered elsewhere, absent from the rooms he once filled.
She had made up her mind to return to her chambers when she caught his scent.
She turned sharply.
~~~~
"Elisa?"
"Father… I need to talk to you," she greeted, her voice composed but urgent.
Arnold hesitated. He didn't want to, but as her father, he had to hear what was troubling her.
He had spoiled her over the years, indulging her every whim because it pleased Victoria. But now, looking at her, he realized—he had shaped her into what she was today.
With a sigh, he gestured toward his office.
"Get in."
Elisabeta stepped inside, her sharp eyes scanning his face for familiarity. But it wasn't there.
No warmth. No fond smile. No fatherly teasing.
No ruffling of her hair. No affectionate inquiries about how she was.
Not even a simple 'I've missed you.'
Alarm bells rang in her head.
Was her father disappointed in her?
Had he withdrawn his love?
Her chest tightened, but she masked the growing panic with a calm expression.
She would fix this.
She would make him proud again.
She would become Empress. And to do that, she would kill her sister.
Arnold sat behind his desk, his amber eyes devoid of warmth—cold and unforgiving, like the frozen surface of Arthanber Lake. He regarded his daughter the way he would an unworthy subject.
"Father, I want to discuss what is happening in the empire."
He leaned back in his chair, unimpressed. "What is there to discuss? Is everything not clear enough?"
The indifference in his voice sent a chill down her spine, but she pressed on.
"Father, you know we can't let that bastard become Empress—"
Arnold's gaze darkened. "Mind your words, Elisabeta. You will not speak such disrespect before me."
"But, Father—"
"How dare you interrupt your King?" His voice was razor-sharp, each syllable cutting through the air like a blade. "You will never do this again. Am I understood?"
Her lips parted, but the force of his dominance pressed against her, suffocating her words before they could form.
She tried to resist. She failed.
Her body betrayed her, instincts forcing her to submit.
With a clenched jaw, she bared her neck in obedience.
"…Yes, Your Highness."
His stare remained cold. Unmoved.
"If you have nothing of real importance to discuss—beyond your bruised ego—you are free to leave."
Elisabeta fled as though the devil himself had declared a bounty on her head.
Tears stung her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.
Shock. Pain. Disappointment.
And then—hatred.
Her heart burned with it, the flame fueled by her father's rejection.
'I'm going to kill you, Ambrosia…' she swore.
Trust me.