The feast had settled into a strange rhythm — laughter that felt too sharp, wine that tasted too sweet, and eyes that lingered too long. Hazel sat beside Prince Balthazar, her plate barely touched, her senses overwhelmed by the weight of the room.
Then the doors opened again.
The sound of chains dragging across stone silenced the hall.
Hazel turned.
The young maid — the one who had brought her the black dress — was being led forward by two guards in armor etched with bone. Her thin blonde hair clung to her face, and her white eye patch had been torn away, revealing a hollow, scarred socket. Her dress hung in tatters, and her bare feet left faint smears of blood on the marble floor.
She was trembling.
Hazel stood instinctively, but Balthazar raised a hand — not to her, but to the room. The silence deepened.
From the far end of the hall, Lysithea stepped forward.
Her form shimmered.
In a blink, she dissolved into a swarm of wasps — pale and spectral — that buzzed through the air in a spiral of light. The swarm darted toward the maid, and one wasp broke from the rest, stinging her neck.
The girl cried out.
The swarm reformed, folding in on itself until Lysithea stood once more in her black dress, her pastel pink eyes glowing faintly.
She bowed.
"This woman," she said, her voice calm and cold, "ten years ago betrayed us."
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
"I am amazed she is still alive," Lysithea continued. "To this day, after the tragedy that was released upon this kingdom… and our beloved prince…"
She turned her head slightly toward Balthazar, who remained still as stone.
"She shall be rewarded with public execution. Our citizens and our two partnered kingdoms have agreed on fire for her death."
She bowed again.
The maid collapsed to her knees, chains clattering.
"No—please—please, I didn't mean—" Her voice cracked. "I was young—I didn't know what she planned—I didn't know—"
Her words dissolved into sobs.
Hazel's heart pounded. She looked to Balthazar, expecting hesitation, mercy, anything.
He nodded once.
Lysithea raised her hands.
From her palms, white moths emerged — dozens of them, delicate and glowing like moonlight. They fluttered into the air, circling the maid in a slow, spiraling dance.
Hazel stepped forward. "Wait—"
Hex's hand caught her wrist.
"Don't," he whispered.
The moths landed on the maid's body — her shoulders, her arms, her face. She sobbed, whispering apologies, her voice hoarse and broken.
Then the moths ignited.
Flames bloomed across her skin, white and silent at first — then red, then orange, then screaming.
The girl writhed, her chains rattling, her voice rising in a shriek that echoed through the hall. She begged for forgiveness, for mercy, for someone to stop it.
No one moved.
Hazel stood frozen, her breath caught in her throat, her eyes wide with horror.
The fire consumed the girl in seconds.
When it was over, nothing remained but a pile of ash and the faint scent of scorched silk.
Two servants stepped forward with silver brushes and quietly swept the ashes away.
The hall was silent.
Then laughter erupted — sharp, cruel, delighted. Nobles from Viremont clapped. Mages from Hollow Vale raised their goblets. Even some of the Lysorian guests chuckled behind their hands.
Hazel stared at them, stunned.
Only four faces remained still: Lysithea, who watched the ashes with unreadable eyes; Hex, who stood beside Hazel with his jaw clenched; Balthazar, who had not moved since the execution began; and Hazel herself, who felt the room tilt beneath her feet.
She turned to Balthazar.
"Why?" she whispered.
He did not answer.
The feast continued.
But Hazel no longer felt like a guest.
She felt like a witness.
And the Vale had shown her its teeth.
The laughter had faded. The ashes had been swept away.
Hazel sat stiffly beside Balthazar, her hands clenched in her lap, her breath shallow. The taste of wine lingered on her tongue, bitter now. The scent of scorched silk still clung to the air, no matter how many candles flickered.
She turned to him.
"You let her burn," Hazel said, voice low but sharp. "You watched her scream and did nothing."
Balthazar didn't look at her. He reached for his goblet, lifted it, and drank.
Hazel's heart pounded.
"She was a child when it happened," she continued. "She was scared. She didn't know what she was doing."
"She knew enough to betray," Balthazar said, setting the goblet down.
"She was starving," Hazel snapped. "She was punished for ten years. And you—"
"She was alive for ten years," he interrupted. "That was mercy."
Hazel stood.
The room fell silent.
Guests turned, forks paused mid-air, goblets hovered. Hex stepped forward from the shadows, his white eyes narrowing. Lysithea tilted her head, watching.
Hazel's voice rose. "Mercy isn't silence. Mercy isn't letting someone rot until they beg for death. That's cruelty."
Balthazar turned to her slowly.
His eyes — olive green, flecked with hazel — were colder than ice.
"You speak of mercy," he said, "as if it's owed."
"She was human," Hazel said. "She made a mistake."
"She made a choice," Balthazar replied. "And choices have weight."
Hazel's fists clenched. "You think killing her in front of everyone was justice?"
"I think letting her live was weakness."
A few guests stood, stepping forward — nobles from Hollow Vale, mages from Viremont. Their hands hovered near their belts, where blades and wands rested. One of them, a tall man with silver tattoos, narrowed his eyes at Hazel.
"She insults the prince," he said.
"She questions our law," another murmured.
Hazel didn't flinch.
"I question your heart," she said to Balthazar. "If you even have one."
The room gasped.
Balthazar stood.
He moved faster than Hazel could react — one hand reaching out, gripping her chin with cold, sharp fingers. His touch was not gentle. It was command.
He leaned in, his face inches from hers.
"Showing sympathy to those who have done wrong is pathetic," he said, voice like frost over steel. "People who commit cruelty should not be rewarded. They should not be free."
Hazel's eyes filled with tears.
But she didn't look away.
She reached up and gripped his wrist, her fingers trembling, her nails digging into his skin.
"She was punished," Hazel whispered. "She paid. And you still burned her."
Balthazar's eyes flickered — not with rage, but something deeper. Something buried.
Hazel's tears spilled over.
"You think you're protecting this kingdom," she said. "But you're just feeding its ghosts."
The room was silent.
Even the candles seemed to dim.
Balthazar released her chin.
Hazel stepped back, her breath shaking, her heart thudding like a drum.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
And in that silence, Hazel stood — small, trembling, but unbroken.