Alaric set down his glass, his smirk fading as a different thought settled over him. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the flicker of candlelight catching his pale eyes.
"There's something else," he murmured.
Evelyn arched a brow, intrigued. "Oh?"
"The Earl of D'Amaro daughter. Isadora." He let the name linger in the air like smoke. "There's something about her. She's… different. I want her."
Evelyn's expression didn't flicker, though a faint gleam sparked in her gaze. She reached out, brushing a loose curl from his brow like a mother indulging a child.
"Desire is a useful thing," she said softly. "And it can be made to serve greater purposes."
Alaric's jaw clenched. "I mean it, Mother. I don't care what game the council thinks she's meant for. She won't end up on anyone else's arm. Not Lucien's. Not some witless court fools. Mine."
Evelyn gave a light, effortless laugh. "Darling, you worry far too much. Leave the girl to me. You'll have her, one way or another."
She rose from her seat, crossing to the tall window overlooking the palace gardens bathed in moonlight.
"The kingdom bends to those who take what they want," she murmured. "And you, my son, were born to claim it all."
Alaric grinned, the tension in his shoulders easing. He lifted his glass in a silent toast. "To bloodlines, fate… and taking what's ours."
Evelyn's smile reflected faintly in the glass, was sharper than any dagger.
The skies above D'Aragon Hall were a dull, unbroken gray. The once proud estate, with its towering spires and polished glass windows, felt unnervingly still — as if the very walls were holding their breath.
Inside, the sound of something shattering echoed through the main corridor.
"Get out!" Lucien's voice, hoarse and ragged, roared from the chamber at the end of the hall.
Lady Evelyn flinched as a vase crashed against the far wall, shards of porcelain scattering across the floor like glass rain. She clutched her shawl tighter around her shoulders, her face pale as she backed against the doorway.
The royal physician, Master Carrow, stood nearby, sweat beading on his brow. "Your Grace, please — you must stay still. I cannot ease the pain if you—"
Another crash. A chair this time.
Lucien's crimson eyes blazed like twin embers as he staggered, sweat-slicked and trembling. His shirt clung to him, torn at the collar, and deep crimson veins pulsed along his neck. His hands were raw from where he'd struck the stone hearth.
"Do something, damn you!" Evelyn cried, desperate, glancing between the physician and her cousin as he gripped his temples in torment.
"I warned you," Carrow said grimly. "The toxin's pattern is clear now. It seizes him once a week, tearing through his body like wildfire. And there's no antidote. Only time… or death."
Lucien let out a strangled growl, dropping to one knee as another wave of searing agony tore through him. The room blurred, figures distorting, until all he could see was red.
"Hold him down!" Carrow barked to the guards nearby.
Two men rushed forward, but Lucien knocked one aside with a single, instinctive swing. The man hit the wall with a grunt.
Evelyn turned away, tears stinging her eyes. She hated this. Hated how helpless they were.
"I… I can't watch this anymore," she whispered, hurrying from the room.
Behind her, Lucien's voice was a mixture of a man's fury and a beast's snarl.
It had been a quiet morning. The last of the debut parties had passed, and though the halls of the estate still hummed with gossip, Isadora found herself growing restless. She wandered through the gardens, unsure of what came next for a girl like her in a world like this.
That's when a note arrived — delicate, scrawled in a neat, unfamiliar hand.
Lady Isadora,
If you find yourself unoccupied this afternoon, I would be grateful for your company at D'Aragon Hall. The estate is quiet, and conversation would be a welcome distraction.
— Lady Evelyn D'Aragon
Isadora frowned slightly. She hadn't expected an invitation from Lucien's cousin, let alone so soon after the swirling rumors of his condition. Curiosity piqued, and she accepted.
*By the time she arrived, the vast estate felt heavy, and thick with old stone and older secrets. The air was cooler here. A storm threatened the sky. Evelyn greeted her warmly enough, but there was tension behind her smile.
"I'm glad you came," Evelyn said, linking her arm with Isadora's as she led her through the halls. "I needed to speak with someone… and there are things about this place you'll never hear at court."
Before Isadora could ask what she meant, a loud crash echoed from somewhere deep in the house.
Isadora startled. Evelyn's hand tensed.
"It's him," Evelyn whispered. "When the pain comes, he—he loses himself. I've never seen a man suffer like this."
A pause. Then, perhaps foolishly, Isadora asked, "Why is he still here? Shouldn't he be at the palace?"
Evelyn's gaze met hers, sharp and weary. "He won't go. He says if he dies, it won't be in their walls."
And then, unexpectedly, a door at the end of the corridor opened.
Lucien stood there — pale, disheveled, his crimson eyes sunken but alert. He wasn't what Isadora imagined: not a beast, not a villain. Just a man marked by pain.
Their eyes met. Neither spoke.
Evelyn cleared her throat. "Lucien… this is Lady Isadora."
A beat of silence. Lucien gave a small, grim nod before retreating into the room, the door closing behind him.
Unexpected. Uneasy. And somehow, Isadora thought, not the last time they'd cross paths.