Helena walked into the guest room, with unhurried steps like the princess she was, dark wavy hair draped at both sides of her face, an emotionless countenance etched on her face.
Her mother Selena had sent for her and was standing at a corner in the room with a cup of wine in her hand.
Helena saw a man and a lady on the bed in the guest room, completely nude, in a sexual position.
"Mother, isn't this too much?" She asked, flattered by their nudity. Selena, however, gazed at them as though it was normal.
"You should feast your eyes on everything, Helena, learn the ways, and know how to make your husband stick to you like a magnet. If you are lucky, he won't take any concubines once he knows how good you are in bed." Selena commented, then clapped her hands twice.
The maids in the guest room filed out.
Selena signaled her daughter to probe forward until she stood beside the bedpost.
"You may start." Selena said, and the expert on the bed began.
Once they began, Helena's eyes were glued to the bed. Her pupils dilated with curiosity as she bit her lips and gasped at each action they did with their bodies.
Selena's eyes widened; as she swallowed the saliva in her mouth, she began to fan herself, trying to reduce the heat prickling on her skin.
Slap! Slam!
The voices of the experts sounded in the room.
Helena couldn't take her eyes off them; she clenched her legs together and snatched the fan in her mother's hand away, then began to fan herself.
"They are good…very good." Selena commended, and Helena nodded in agreement.
"Their actions…it arouses the senses." She said dryly, not breaking her gaze away.
The male and female experts were now moaning and groaning in ecstasy.
"How can I simply master all these complicated styles in bed with the few days I have in the castle?" Helena complained bluntly.
"You will have to learn, dear…the hard way."
...…
William swung the sword in his hands with belligerence, his skin dripping with sweat.
His hand tightened on the hilt of his wooden practice sword, knuckles whitening.
With a quick inhale, he lunged forward. Crack! The blade struck across the scarecrow's torso, right where a heart would be. He pulled back, shifted his footing, and drove the next strike to the side of the neck, the dull thud of wood against wood echoing across the grounds.
Each blow was deliberate and measured—point to the heart, slice to the throat, jab to the gut, sweep to the legs. Dust rose with every strike, circling him like a veil, but he did not falter.
His lips were set in a grim line, his eyes narrowed, as though every swing of his blade carved him closer to becoming the warrior he wanted to be so badly.
No one would look down on him when he mastered the act of swordsmanship, not even his own mother.
Yes! The very woman who had driven him to this madness. The craving to want to be better, to be respected, she rebuked him as though he were a plague.
The sun seared William's skin, dripping sweat into his eyes, but he welcomed the sting. To him it was proof of endurance, of resilience forged in heat.
The scarecrow leaned slightly to one side from the repeated punishment, straw bursting from its seams, yet he did not stop.
With a fierce shout, he spun, blade arcing downward in a final decisive strike that split the scarecrow's shoulder.
Breathing hard, he stepped back, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. The practice ground was silent again; the sword faltered from his hand.
He strode to the edge of the courtyard where there was a clay jar with a wooden cup beside it; he lifted the ladle and drank greedily from the jar directly.
Cool water spilled from the corners of his mouth, running down his chin and soaking into his already damp clothes.
As he set the ladle down, his eyes inadvertently drifted across the training yard; high above the stone arches, the long hallway stretched with its carved wooden railing.
There, half reclined against them in her usual grace, was his mother, the Johanna.
William froze for a moment, water still clinging to his lips.
Her gaze was steady, measuring, as though she weighed not the man he was trying to become.
Heat prickled his skin—not from the sun this time, but from the pressure of her silent scrutiny.
Slowly flashes of the words she had said to his face began to play in his head. The words stung his heart, and he finally looked away.
He felt nothing but brewing hatred. He walked up to the wooden stick and picked it up, then made his way to another scarecrow, which was still in good shape.
For a fleeting second his eyes darted to where Johanna was just a few moments ago, but she was…gone. William tried to clear his head and focus, but his mood was already ruined.
Out of frustration he threw the stick, and it landed on the grass ahead of him.
*************Flashback
The kitchen roared with clatter and steam. Pots hissed over the fire, knives struck chopping boards, and the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine thickened the air. Amid the rush, one maid stood apart at a long wooden counter, her hands hidden behind her apron. She drew out a tiny vial, its glass catching the flicker of the fire.
She uncorked it with a soft pop and tilted it over a golden wine cup already filled to the brim. A single drop—no more—fell into the deep red liquid. It vanished instantly, swallowed by the swirl of wine. Her eyes darted about; no one had noticed.
With a quiet breath, she slid the golden cup onto a wide silver tray where many identical goblets already gleamed. To the trained eye, its subtle placement—just a fraction to the left—marked it from the rest. To anyone else, it was simply one more vessel of drink.
She quickly set the cup apart from the rest—just slightly to the side.
Another maid, younger and unaware, bustled forward and lifted the tray with both hands. The weight of it forced her to walk carefully, her steps measured across the polished floor. The poisoned cup sat where it was placed—still discernible to the watchful eye, but indistinguishable to anyone else.
"Crooked. It looks sloppy," the girl muttered, and without waiting, her hands darted over the tray. She rearranged the cups with neat, practiced motions, sliding one here, shifting another there, and turning the golden goblet twice before tucking it back among the others in perfect order.
The golden goblet clinked softly against its neighbors, moved once, twice, and three times until its position was lost among the rest.
The tray now gleamed with perfect symmetry. The poisoned wine was there—yet nowhere certain.
The first maid, watching from the shadows, felt the color drain from her face. Her careful separation was gone. Even she could not tell which cup carried death anymore.
************
Linn blinked the tears in her eyes away as she jolted back from the journey through memory lane.
She peered at Jazell, whose eyes were shut firmly.
She shouldn't have done it… She shouldn't have added the poison to the wine. Now here she was mourning the fate of her mistress.
"Forgive me, my lady. I have failed you." Linn, Jazell's personal handmaid, cried out as her body trembled.
Jazell was wrapped up with a thick blanket from her neck down to her feet; only her face was in view, but it was pale…lifeless.
Yet she still lives. Her breath was steady.
"Crying won't bring her back." A lady in a green dress said as she walked in, eyes void of life. It was Jia.
Her dark eyes lingered on Jazell for a while. This was her first time visiting Jazell; the latter was indeed in a pathetic condition.
"Only the dead are mourned. Dry your tears; your mistress might still yet survive this." Jia's voice was like a harmonica flute, low and sonorous.
Her straight hair was parked in a low bun, her small pointed nose and thin lips complementing her Arabian beauty.
"You are a maid; do you have any knowledge of what might have transpired? Jia asked calmly, redrawing her gaze from Jazell and allowing it to rest firmly on Linn.
Linn's heart skipped a beat.
"No, my lady. I am as clueless as you are." She answered with a straight face, wiping her tears away. Jia allowed her eyes to scrutinize the maid's face for any traces of suspicion, but she found none.
For the last time, Jia traces her gaze to Jazell.
She couldn't begin to comprehend what Jazell was thinking by agreeing to drink the wine at the expense of her life.
It sounded foolish, but not to Jia.
Jia saw it as one of the little games the queen of tactics liked to play. But this game was quickly becoming sour, with Jazell still lying in bed after two days of the incident.
Jia finally took her leave, her aura disappearing as she exited the door. Linn swallowed hard, her red moistened eyes filled with fear.
Fear of the weight of the secret eating her up.
"What could be worse than a mistress drinking a cup of wine her personal handmaid poisoned?