The guard forced down his fear, his chin high, eyes sharp with smug pride. "Let me go," he sneered, voice bold. "You don't want the Emperor's wrath."
The imperial ministers' visits to the Red Light District were no secret. Hurting him would call down unnecessary imperial fire, scorching Lazira's empire to ash. She should have realized it.
Her silence, he thought, was her yielding to the crown's power. As it should be.
But Lazira glided closer, her steps silent like a snake, the Vyrnshade blossom's sweet, deadly scent trailing her like a ghost. She bent low, her masked face close to his, her icy blue eyes locking onto his, stopping his breath. Torchlight gleamed on her gown's silver threads, cold as frost on a grave.
Her voice hissed, low and sharp, venom in every word. "You think the Emperor's favor shields you," she murmured, her masked lips barely moving, the sound curling like smoke, a twinge of mockery to her tone. "But I weave shadows he'll never see. You'll die tonight, your screams a secret the stones will keep. No one can touch what's mine." Her words were venom, precise and lethal, sinking into his core.
The guard's face paled, his smirk gone, eyes wide with terror. Lazira rose, her kohl-rimmed eyes narrowing, a cruel smile hidden behind her mask. The Vyrnshade glowed, its red petals a promise of death.
She raised one hand, fingers snapping sharp. The eunuch in the shadows, huge and tense, lunged, his blade flashing. The guard's scream ripped the air, "Lazira! Spare me! I'll take the lashes!"
Lazira didn't move an inch. Even now, he didn't want to apologize to the woman he hurt. He was just scared to die. Pathetic!
The blade fell, silencing him, blood spilling dark on the stone.
Lazira turned, her black velvet hood swaying, rippling like night's tide, the Vyrnshade's poison lingering. The eunuchs stood frozen with their eyes down, their scarred hands trembling, fear in their eyes, dreading her next move.
She paused at the iron door, her silhouette stark in torchlight, a figure of ice and venom, her power a wall no one could breach.
Sylvia Ironvale met her at the door, her grin wide as she glanced inside. "Those screams are music," she said, eyes gleaming.
Lazira stepped into the dark corridor, the door clanging shut. She leaned against the damp wall, her breath steady, and reached for her mask. With a slow, deliberate pull, she tore it free, the leather glinting in the flickering torchlight.
Her face emerged—Lorraine, the Crown Princess Consort of Kaltharion. Her dull-golden hair spilled loose, catching fire in the dim glow, her blue eyes blazing with a queen's unyielding will. The Vyrnshade blossom fell from her hood, its petals crushing under her boot, a silent oath of her dual reign.
"I know you enjoy it," Lorraine said, her voice low, a faint smile for Sylvia's dark joy.
Sylvia closed her eyes, savoring the guard's last echo. At thirty-two, she was Lorraine's oldest maid, her face hard from years of pain. Born to a poor noble family in Vaeloria's mountains, she'd been sold young to wed a cruel butler in the Arvand house. His blows scarred her, body and soul, until his death freed her. When Lorraine married, Sylvia followed, her blunt words and sharp mind making her a trusted ally. She loathed men, finding joy in their pain, especially those who deserved it.
Lorraine let her have it. Sylvia earned her vengeance.
Lorraine watched Sylvia, her heart heavy. She didn't love screams like her maid. Punishing men who hurt her people brought peace, but the cries stirred jealousy.
Yes, jealousy.
Those men could scream. She couldn't. Her mute facade, her armor, had locked her voice even when death loomed. Last night, falling, she'd wanted to cry out but stayed silent. She couldn't scream to save herself. That realization chilled her.
"He could scream," Lorraine muttered, voice soft.
Sylvia turned, her eyes warm, seeing Lorraine's pain. She'd watched Lorraine endure abuse, her voice silenced by choice, a fire holding it back. "Milady," Sylvia said, bowing low. "Your strength built this empire."
Lorraine's lips curved into a faint smile, her fingers brushing Sylvia's shoulder, a gentle touch heavy with unspoken trust. Sylvia thought Lorraine mourned her past, but she was wrong. Lorraine carried no regret. Her pain, raw and brutal from years of silent suffering, had forged her strength. She'd endured cruel hands, vicious blows, without a single moan escaping her lips. That silence made her a vault for secrets; men, thinking her weak, spilled their truths before her, unaware she wove their words into her power.
This underworld, her dark empire, rose from those scars, every stone and shadow bending to her will.
"Let's go," Lorraine said, her voice low, stepping forward into the tunnel's gloom. Her hood slipped, falling to her shoulders, her dull-golden hair spilling free, glinting like pale fire in the torchlight. She didn't care. This dungeon was her fortress, every damp wall loyal, every flickering shadow hers to command. No one dared meet her icy blue eyes, not even her fiercest guards, their fear a silent vow of obedience.
Sylvia followed, her gaze sharp, catching angry red marks on Lorraine's neck, raw bruises that spoke of either passion or pain. She remembered the spot of blood on Lorraine's sheets that morning, a dark stain she prayed came from love, not a cruel need to dominate. Another stain, faint and troubling, lingered in her mind.
A child would lock in the Princess' title, but her quiet sorrow, her heavy eyes, spoke of hurt. Sylvia's chest tightened, thinking of the Prince, allowing his mistress to be bold and cruel to the Princess. She wanted to ask about the happenings of last night, if anything, but to comfort her, but Lorraine's voice cut through, firm.
"Keep this from Emma for now," Lorraine said, entering the tunnel's darkness. "Plan my departure from Vaeloria within a month."
Sylvia's breath stopped, shock hitting hard. Leave now?
She'd known the Princess longed to break Vaeloria's chains, but she was too excited for the Prince's return. And now with the Prince back, she thought the Princess would change her plans.
Then again, the Prince was flaunting his mistress, and the pain was fresh. Men always betrayed, Sylvia thought, her scars aching. It was fated for the noblewomen of Vaeloria to leave their husbands' houses only in the cold embrace of a hearse. But the Princess didn't have to be bound by that fate. Perhaps stepping away now was the wisest choice she could make.
"Should I leave room for your return, Your Highness?" she asked, voice low.
Lorraine halted, her back rigid, torchlight dancing on her face. Return?