The night pressed heavily on the palace, thick with silence and unease. In the royal chamber, King Isis thrashed under his silken sheets, beads of sweat glistening across his brow.
Chains clinked, metallic, tight, biting into his flesh. The air in his nightmare was cold and sharp, stained with the iron scent of blood. His arms were pulled back unnaturally, the chains binding him to stone. His once-golden robes were torn, soaked in sweat and red. His body—bruised, beaten, powerless.
Then came the sound slow, deliberate footsteps echoing across stone.
A figure emerged from the dark, tall, composed, cruel.
"Hello, brother," the woman's voice oozed like poison into his ear, her tone playful yet laced with hatred. A scourging knife gleamed in her gloved hand, each step toward him a quiet threat.
"I hope my men are treating you well," she whispered, her breath hot and mocking.
Isis looked up at her, pain in his eyes, regret, anger, helplessness. He tried to speak, but no voice came, only silence.
She crouched beside him, smiling.
"I'm going to take your precious kingdom away from you," she hissed.
"You will lose everything."
Suddenly he awoke, His breath ragged, chest heaving. The room was dark, but real. He sat up quickly, wiping his damp face, heart still pounding like war drums.
Without a word, he rose, grabbed his robe from the carved stand, and walked barefoot to the balcony. The cold night air greeted him like a whispering ghost, wrapping around his bare chest.
He stared out into the moonlight, a heavy frown upon his face.
"This is my punishment…" he thought grimly, "…for abandoning you"
Baron Albert sat brooding in the dim glow of his study, the crackle of the hearth casting shifting shadows across the stone walls. His fingers tapped a slow, calculating rhythm on the dark oak desk, eyes narrowed with silent intent.
Across from him, Abigail his quiet, observant niece—stood pouring warm tea into his near-empty goblet, trying to mask the worry in her expression.
"You seem deep in thought, Milord," she said softly.
Albert's gaze lifted, sharp and cold, causing her to flinch under the weight of it. He didn't reply.
She hesitated, then tried again.
"It's been a while since you visited the old manor. Aunt worries... your son may forget you."
His lips curled in irritation. "Write to my mother. Tell her I'm busy, perhaps another time."
"But—" she began.
"Abigail," he said, low and dangerous.
She immediately bowed her head.
"Yes, Milord. I'll inform Aunt at once."
As she exited the room, her steps quick and silent, Albert leaned back in his chair, shadows dancing over his hardened face. His mind was fixed. The Duke of Viremont would learn humility, starting with the girl he treasured most.
He rang a small silver bell. A servant entered without a word.
"Send for a messenger," Albert said coldly. "I have a letter to deliver."
***
Sapphire rose quietly in the hazy light of mid-morning, the manor still wrapped in slumber. She slung a worn duffel bag over her shoulder, its contents clinking softly—soap, a coarse washcloth, and a pouch of salt. Her limbs ached, her hair felt heavy with grease, and the stale scent of sweat clung stubbornly to her skin. She needed a bath no matter the warnings.
She moved with careful steps, lighting a stub of beeswax to guide her path. The corridor creaked faintly beneath her, but the maids were still deep in sleep, and the few guards she passed gave her nothing more than disinterested glances. It was not unusual for servants to rise early.
Asahel had once caught her eyeing the secluded spring nestled beyond the groove and had warned her
"The water's unsafe, might be cursed for all we know." But she was desperate. One proper wash. Just one.
The cold morning air kissed her skin as she stepped outside. Wrapping her cloak tighter around her, Sapphire treaded silently along the narrow footpath that curved toward the groove's edge
She reached the spring without incident, its surface calm and steaming lightly beneath the morning chill. The trees surrounding it formed a natural barrier, cloaking the spot in quiet seclusion. Sapphire paused, eyes scanning the shadows, listening, no footsteps, no movement, just the gentle hum of nature.
Satisfied she was alone, she quickly undressed, folding her clothes beside the duffel bag. From within it, she retrieved the small pouch of salt and sprinkled it into the water, watching as it dissolved in soft ripples.
With care, she stepped in, the warmth enveloping her as her body slowly eased beneath the surface, and a sigh escaped her lips, soft and relieved. For the first time in weeks, the weight she carried seemed to lift slightly. Muscles relaxed, and her thoughts quieted. It was only a moment, but it was hers—and it was peace.
Unknown to her, not far off under the shade of a tall beech tree, a figure lay reclined, arms crossed behind his head, face drawn in a soft frown. Lord Typhon had come earlier, drawn by the quiet grove near the spring to feed, rabbits and mice mostly. The warmth in their blood soothed something primal in him, and the silence of the groove was a rare comfort.
But now that silence had been broken.
Footsteps—faint, careful, familiar.
He didn't need to open his eyes to know who it was. Her scent, the way her feet barely disturbed the earth—Sapphire. What in the world was she doing here at this hour?
He remained still, feigning sleep, even as he heard the telltale rustle of fabric—one layer, then another, then silence.
His breath caught.
She was bathing.
His jaw tensed. He prided himself on restraint, but something about her presence chipped away at that carefully forged control. She was a puzzle, fragile yet fierce, and now here she was, vulnerable, unaware, and completely within reach.
He exhaled through his nose, forcing his eyes to remain shut.
Principle, he reminded himself.
Still… he wasn't sure how much longer those principles would hold.