Lyle and I ambled slowly along the moonlit path toward the carriage, the night air cool against my cheeks and the cobblestones echoing each careful step. Every gentle footfall melded with my turbulent thoughts, while Lyle's silence felt like an unspoken warning amid the distant hum of nocturnal life.
I broke the quiet with a hushed inquiry, my voice nearly lost in the soft rustle of fabrics and night breezes: "Do you know that man?"
Gazing ahead, Lyle shifted his attention to the stranger—a figure whose measured stride and refined dress set him apart from the mundane world around us. "No," he said in a low tone, "but the cut of his attire and that unusual accent suggest he must be from another country... surely from the Vaticum."
The name lingered on my tongue like a half-remembered prayer—vaguely ominous yet strangely familiar. "He must be a priest in training," Lyle added, his voice bridging the gap between suspicion and wonder.
There was a peculiar aura about the man: his garments, echoing those of the temple's priests, appeared to carry an almost sacred weight—each fold and stitch steeped in quiet divinity that contrasted sharply with my own scattered faith.
My heart pounded with uneasy questions. How could this stranger peer so deeply into the recesses of my soul—a feat that even the Highest Priest at the Temple had never managed? His presence stirred in me both dread and an inexplicable yearning to know too much. Was he truly a priest? Or was his insight merely an artifice cloaked in borrowed sanctity?
As we neared the carriage under flickering lantern light, fate intervened. Out of the half-light, my gaze was caught by a sudden movement: our eyes locked and, in a heartbeat, a woman dashed toward me.
In that charged moment, she wrapped her arms around me with a fierce, unrelenting embrace. Her warmth and the soft, floral scent of her perfume clashed with the cool night air—each element betraying the turbulent history between us. "Oh my! Who would have thought we would meet again here, my dear sister!" she exclaimed, her voice quivering with an excitement mixed with sorrow and nostalgia.
Internally, I rolled my eyes and shrank away from the overt familiarity that threatened to smother me.
Anger and disbelief warred within me. How was it that this insufferable person now roamed our path without any housekeepers or guards to restrain her presence? Even as I fumed silently, my attention was drawn to another figure near Lyle—one whose presence was impossible to ignore. Standing quietly next to him was a man who exuded an extraordinary blend of danger and allure. Taller than Lyle by a mere inch, his skin carried a subtle warmth that contrasted with the cool night, and his hair shone like deep emerald silk in the dim light.
The mirror of his eyes captured that same striking green, their intense gaze hinting at secrets and desires beyond mortal ken. His sharply chiseled jawline and deliberately sculpted physique declared not just strength but an elegance steeped in raw, magnetic attraction. In that suspended moment, I found myself dumbfounded by the delicious allure of this mysterious stranger.
Then, as if to tether me back to the present, I heard Laura's trembling voice cut through the charged atmosphere. "Did you know how heartbroken I was when I heard that you left the Palace and ran off to your Grandparents' house? You realize Father must be utterly distressed…" Her words, dripping with self-pity and accusation, crashed into my psyche like icy water.
I tangled my body away from her clinging embrace, crafting a dismissive yet measured smile. "Really, dear? I never fathomed that His Majesty and Your Highness would worry, when it was the Emperor himself who abandoned me in the Emerald Palace." I let my words hang in the air as I noted, with a trace of satisfaction, the glistening tears streaming down her cheeks—a desperate testament to her need for attention.
Her voice faltered, a mix of anger and sorrow as she stammered through her grievances about my temper and neglect.
Unable to contain my disdain any longer, I leaned in close, speaking in a low, cold whisper meant solely for her ears: "Laura… Your endless act of playing the victim paints me as the ruthless tormentor, even though I have never raised my hand against you. The moment I left the Palace, I set in motion the reclamation of what is rightfully mine—no one, not even your 'Great Father,' can change that." Her slight flinch as my words reached her was almost palpable, the sound of my voice echoing like a dark promise in the quiet night.
Just as I turned to distance myself further, her voice rose again with a fervor that bordered on desperation. "Whatever you do, I will stop you! I will not let you ruin this Empire!" Her cry resonated amidst the murmuring crowd that had begun to take notice—an audience eager for drama.
I crossed my arms, my expression one of mocking incredulity as I asked sharply, "And what power do you truly have, Laura? A crown is not enough to prove superiority when your so-called charitable deeds offer nothing more than fleeting comfort. Have you truly accomplished anything that changes a life permanently?" I sneered, watching as her eyes trembled wildly—not solely from impending tears, but from a burning fury that spoke of deeply buried ambition.
The whispered buzz of the onlookers grew louder as I turned and walked back to Lyle, my tone softened only slightly as I confessed, "I have encountered some serious troubles today."
His concerned eyes met mine as he urged, "My Lady, you must rest when we return. Let us postpone the sword training." His gentle command contrasted with the storm inside me, yet I only afforded him a tired, knowing smile.
Then came a moment that silenced all in our wake. An extremely low and deep voice—both rich and sonorous—pierced through my thoughts: "I am looking forward to your succession ceremony."
My gaze darted toward the origin of the sound, and there he stood—the man whose mere presence bent time and space around him. "Oh, I am glad to hear that..." I murmured with a mix of awe and reluctance, already aware that my inner world had been irrevocably disturbed.
"As I introduce myself," he said gracefully, "I am Anwyl Aziel, from the House of Dewei." In that instant, my eyes widened, and I gasped as if the words themselves carried a spark of destiny.
Internally, I raged silently—how could such a magnificent man, so strikingly handsome and formidable, be so entangled with Laura? My heart pounded fiercely in defiance of my own whispered thoughts. "Forgive my rudeness, Your Grace," I managed, my voice calm despite the rising tempest within.
His smile, rendered in the soft glow of the lantern light, sent a sudden jolt through me. My heartbeat thundered in my ears, and I felt an unusual tingle radiate from deep within, as though his mere glance lit fuses of hidden passion and unspoken purpose.
Then, with the fluid ease of a practiced dancer, Anwyl excused himself. "I shall take my leave, Lady Madeleine."
I turned to Lyle, my voice barely above a whisper as I asked, "Lyle… why does he captivate me so?" His teasing response came with a warm chuckle,
"My Lady, do you find him attractive?" The admission forced me into a reverie that I could no longer hide.
"I got distracted," I sighed, the admission heavy with a mix of excitement and regret, as I stepped into the carriage. Lyle remained silent the entire ride, his demeanor a stark reminder that distraction could be a dangerous luxury.
Upon returning to the manor, I walked through the cool, echoing corridors until I reached my private office—a sanctuary illuminated by the soft amber light of a solitary lamp.
There, amidst the scrolls and documents chronicling my every plan, lay my battered notebook. Its pages held the details of this world and every secret I had gathered over the years. With deliberate care, I began to record the events of the day, ensuring no detail was lost.
First, I scrawled the name Gioffre Borgia—a Duke whose background was marred by scandal and bloodlines as dangerous as they were mysterious, the illegitimate son of the fallen head of the Borgia House.
I paused to reflect on the dangerous aura that clung to him, as if his very existence was a stepping stone to disaster. Next came Samael, a name that sent shivers down my spine—a force more dangerous than anyone I had ever known.
The moment just knowing his identity threatened to upset the balance of my carefully constructed plans. And finally, Anwyl—his striking visage and effortless charisma had left me both mesmerized and enraged.
In a cruel twist of fate and in defiance of every reason, I resolved that the union between him and Laura must be undone. I would ensure that such a partnership crumbles, that the very prospect of their happiness is doomed to fail.
A dark laugh escaped me as I penned my cold resolve: Anwyl did not deserve her, and I would orchestrate their separation with surgical precision. I could almost hear the whispers of the onlookers, their murmurs anticipating my inevitable triumph.
A measured knock at my door then interrupted my brooding. My grandfather entered slowly, his eyes heavy with age and caution. I rose to greet him until his raised hand stopped me. "How was the meeting? Were there complications?" he asked, settling onto the timeworn couch in the room.
I offered a wry smile and replied, "There were minor issues, but ultimately we obtained their approval seal." Relief briefly softened his features, though a shadow of concern remained on his brow.
After a heavy pause, he leaned forward and sighed deeply before adding in a voice tempered by worry and paternal care, "Be careful, Madeleine. Trust no one—even if it seems you have everything you desire. Do not let your heart be so easily swayed, for in this relentless struggle for the crown, one false step might cost you more than you can bear." His warning, though gentle, carried the weight of years of regret and battle-hardened wisdom.
I responded with a warm, though resolute smile. I knew well that death was never if, but when—each step I took led me further into a labyrinth of treachery and ambition.
This was not a mere skirmish but a relentless war for rightful power, a contest where every precious drop of blood and every whispered secret bore the taste of both ruin and hope. I had spent my life immersed in conflict, the metallic tang of blood providing both sustenance and validation. And if I could not vanquish even a single character from this tangled narrative, then what purpose did my own existence truly serve?
In that somber, echoing silence of my study, I vowed with a quiet ferocity born of years spent in darkness, "Just wait and see, Laura—I will hang your head one day."
Each word resonated like the final note of a dirge, weaving into the tapestry of my destiny—a destiny not dictated by fate but by my unyielding will, no matter how steep the cost.
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