"I'm the most serious person in the kingdom," Zarathys said, voice deep with certainty.
Prudielle scoffed, rising from her seat and pointing toward the exit.
"Get out."
Lord Michaelson felt his heart plummet. His daughter's boldness had crossed the line. Alena, frozen in her corner, could only stare with wide, horrified eyes.
But Zarathys? He was entertained.
There was something strangely exhilarating about her defiance. Like a kitten clawing at a predator, fearless and reckless. She wasn't afraid of the heat he radiated, and that fascinated him.
"Prudielle!" Lord Michaelson's voice thundered through the hall, but it bounced off her unmoved stance.
Her eyes never left Zarathys. His ember gaze flickered, amused, curious… and something more.
"Your Majesty, I apologize for her rash behavior. My daughter has a reputation for—"
"I'll skin everyone in this mansion alive if you defy this order."
Zarathys' voice cut sharp through the air, leaving no room for misunderstanding. The weight of his words slammed into Lord Michaelson, who clenched his fists in silence.
"As you deem it fit." Her words were hollow, emotionless.
Both Alena and Lord Michaelson turned to her in shock, but Prudielle didn't flinch. She didn't care. If Zarathys truly meant what he said, there was no winning this. What she didn't expect was the half-smile curling on his lips aimed at her.
And she hated it.
"Are we really going to do this?" he asked, leaning forward, voice laced in honeyed threat that made her stomach twist. Still, she held her ground, face unchanging.
"That won't be necessary, Your Majesty. In fact, she'll be going with you," Lord Michaelson declared.
Silence.
Prudielle's head snapped toward him, her jaw tightening. "Father."
There was a warning in her voice. Sharp, betrayed. He didn't meet her gaze.
He couldn't. Not when his decision weighed so heavily.
"There's nothing left for you here," he said, more to convince himself. "No movement from powerful demons yet. We'd be foolish not to use this lull to our advantage."
"You're giving me away. To the King, no less." Her voice cracked with betrayal. "What happened to being immune to his power?"
It hung in the air, raw and jagged.
Lord Michaelson flinched inwardly but stayed firm. He could stomach her hate. What he couldn't stomach was the thought of countless innocents dying because of her defiance.
"You'll be safer with him." His words were flat. Final.
Safer. As if that justified everything.
"Safer?" Prudielle laughed, a sound sharp and hollow. She straightened, facing Zarathys like he was her executioner.
"It's not enough that I've become a walking target. I don't even have a family now. Are you happy?"
Zarathys leaned in slowly, her fury reflected in his gaze. But something in her words—maybe the loneliness she didn't mean to show—tugged at something buried beneath his inferno.
Still, a ghost of a smirk teased his lips.
"Far more than that," he murmured.
Prudielle stormed out of the dining hall, her steps loud with fury. Alena watched her disappear down the corridor, worry etched into every line of her face. She turned back to the room only to meet Zarathys' burning stare.
Her breath hitched. Silently, her feet moved, compelled by an unspoken command.
"I apologize, Your Majesty." Lord Michaelson's voice was low, regret woven between each word. "A child who wishes to be better... will be. I've failed her."
Zarathys tilted his head, eyes simmering. "Ah. You did do better."
And just like that, his form dissolved into ember dust, vanishing with a lingering heat that made the air too thick to breathe.
Lord Michaelson exhaled slowly, only now realizing how long he'd been holding his breath. He collapsed into his seat, rubbing the furrow between his brows.
But Zarathys' last words echoed back, curling in his mind like smoke.
"…Eh?"
****
"The betrayal!" Prudielle hissed, pacing her room like a storm trapped in a bottle. Arms crossed, eyes wild.
Alena packed in silence, her focus fixed on the folding of garments, not the fire building in her Lady's voice.
Still, Prudielle ranted on. "He was worried about how close I'd gotten to the King and now, he thinks sending me to the castle is wise? How does no one find it strange? King Zarathys, of all people, requesting my company?"
Silence.
Not a word from Alena.
Prudielle halted mid-step, blinking. "I'm not talking to myself, am I?"
Alena stayed focused, folding garments with mechanical precision, as though invisible walls had sprung up between them, shutting her out completely.
"Alena." Prudielle's voice sharpened as she approached. Her composed face cracked with rising anger, hurt swimming just beneath.
She reached for her maid's hand, gripping it tightly. Her other hand swiped the carefully arranged clothes from the bed in one swift motion.
A storm brewed in her eyes.
Alena lifted her gaze, vacant and hollow.
Prudielle froze. Disbelief wrapped around her like a tightening noose as she watched her maid slowly sink to the floor wordlessly. The silence was deafening, a mirror of the chaos storming inside her.
Without protest, Alena began folding again. The same clothes that had been flung aside moments ago. She moved like a broken machine, obeying a command that no longer needed giving.
Prudielle's breath hitched. Her frustration boiled over. With a sharp kick, she sent the suitcase tumbling down the small stairs beside her bed. Dresses, robes, and scattered jewelry fanned across the crimson carpet.
Still, Alena rose.
Still, she followed.
She gathered the fallen pieces like nothing had happened. Kneeling once again, hands steady as if untouched by the storm around her.
It was too much.
Prudielle stomped forward, seized her by the arm, and yanked her to her feet. Their eyes locked.
"This isn't you, Alena. You're—"
She paused. Something flickered behind her eyes.
Her voice caught in her throat.
There was something wrong with Alena's eyes.
Gone was the brilliant lime-green she always knew. No sharpness. No trace of that ever-watchful strictness.
Instead… a lifeless hue. Faded green, dimmed like a dying ember. And beneath it—faint specks of crimson, glinting like hidden flames.
Prudielle's breath caught. Her chest heaved as the realization settled like lead in her stomach.
"Unbelievable," she whispered, rage trembling beneath her tongue.
Then in a sharp, louder tone: "That son of a cünt."