*Nicoli*
Just keep smiling. Nicoli walked through the hall, doing his best to keep that crafted smile up as he passed more maids busy working on filling the vases. They smiled and greeted him pleasantly, but not without purpose. They had seen the exchange between him and his father—every gesture catalogued, every expression memorized. Among them, someone would carry tales back to his mother's ears. The knowledge sat like acid in his stomach.
This was all the more reason Nicoli had to stretch his smile across his face like a mask, hiding what was thrashing in his chest. The spring flowers that filled every vase seemed to mock him with their vibrant beauty. Lilacs and peonies, roses and jasmine—their perfume hung thick in the air, cloying and suffocating. The sweetness burned his nostrils and made his eyes water, but he couldn't let the tears fall. It would be too dangerous.
If he started, he was afraid he might not stop.
And then Mother will see the red and puffy eyes. She would worry, ask questions he couldn't answer because answers might hurt even more. She was suffering enough already. He couldn't do that to her.
He couldn't look anything but his best.
Be a good son. A perfect Prince, Nicoli. Don't make Mom any worse.
The mantra repeated in his mind as he pressed a trembling hand to his chest, trying to ease the ache that had taken root there like a poisonous vine. Each step away from his father felt like drowning in quicksand, the distance pulling him deeper into isolation.
It had nearly destroyed him to walk away. He could still feel the weight of his father's hand on his shoulder—warm, solid, achingly familiar. For one desperate moment, Nicoli had almost broken. Almost turned around and thrown himself into those strong arms, buried his face against his father's chest, and sobbed out all the loneliness and confusion that had been eating him alive.
He'd wanted to ask about the letters. About Ana. About why everything felt like it was falling apart.
Nicoli paused at the corner, his breath catching as memory crystallized into certainty. Those papers in his father's hand—he had seen them clearly. White parchment with crimson wax seals. The distinctive color and shape that had consumed him for years, in wanting and waiting, correspondence from Nochten.
But why did Dad hide them from him? Another question he could not get an answer to. More things he wouldn't because he had decided on this path. It burned in his throat like swallowed glass.
Unable to resist, Nicoli peered back around the corner. His father stood motionless in the flower-scented corridor, sapphire eyes vacant and staring at nothing. Alexander looked utterly lost—his dark hair disheveled as if he'd run anxious fingers through it countless times, his shirt wrinkled beneath his vest as though he'd dressed without thought or care. The strong, commanding presence Nicoli remembered from childhood had been replaced by something fragile and haunted.
The sight made Nicoli's chest constrict with unexpected pain. When had his father started looking so... broken? What battle was he fighting that Nicoli knew nothing about?
Part of him ached to go back, to close the distance that had grown between them like a canyon. He wanted to go up there right that moment and ask. Ask about the letters, what was happening, and–
But another part of him whispered that the time to do that was gone. His mother's cries resurfaced like a ghost to not just haunt but remind him in whispered notes that it was too late. The divide felt insurmountable now, built from too many unspoken words and avoided conversations.
In that moment, Johan was back to him, and whatever he said set his father's broad shoulders rigid, storm-heavy, burdened with something he would never get to ask. Once again, they marched off in the opposite direction, as if on some challenging mission. Something that Nicoli could be privy to. As much as he wished he could.
Nicoli clenched his hand around the panel with a soft creak. His mouth opened before he realized it.
"Dad—" The word escaped as barely a whisper, too soft and too late. His throat burned with all the questions he'd swallowed down—about Ana, about the letters, about why his family was slowly disintegrating.
The rustle of approaching footsteps made him straighten quickly. A young maid appeared carrying an armload of fresh lilacs, their purple blooms trembling with each step. She smiled at him politely, and Nicoli forced his practiced expression back into place—serene, composed, princely.
He couldn't keep them waiting.
Nicoli swallowed down the last of his feelings before pressing on with the smile again. By now, the expression had become almost second nature—a shield he could raise without conscious thought. And it was ready and up by the time he found the doors leading to the garden.
The oval table sat on the perfectly manicured lawn, flanked by beds of blooming flowers and trailing ivy. Crystal glasses caught the sunlight like captured stars, and delicate pastries were arranged on tiered silver platters that gleamed against white linen.
His mother and Hidi were already seated, their voices floating across the grass in melodic conversation. The familiar sound helped ease some of the tension coiled in Nicoli's chest—here was normalcy, comfort, the simple pleasure of tea like another day. Nothing extraordinary. Almost mundane in his life now. A welcomed reprieve for what seemed to keep darkening his mind when he thought of his father.
Hidi looked up first, her peridot eyes sparkling with genuine delight. "Nicoli! At last!" Her accent rolled thick as mountain honey, carrying warmth that felt like a balm against his raw nerves. She patted the empty chair between them with enthusiasm that seemed too large for her elegant frame. "Come, come!"
Despite everything, Nicoli found himself smiling—a real smile this time. Hidi's exuberance was infectious, and consistent. Her joy uncomplicated in a way that made him feel almost normal again. He quickened his pace across the soft grass, the sun warming his face as he took his seat.
Immediately, Hidi began loading his plate with an alarming array of pastries and sweets, her generous portions enough to feed a small army. The sight would have made him laugh on any other day—giants, he'd regretfully learned, had very different ideas about appropriate serving sizes.
But at the moment, Nicoli didn't have the heart to correct the giant. Hidi looked too happy, acting like she had been waiting all morning to have the chance to sit together. He moved to sit upright on his chair as the maid, not Julia, he noted with a slight pause, moved to serve him tea. He didn't see the oldest maid around.
This was peculiar, as Julia was always with his mother. But Nicoli tucked the thought aside, assuming she must have been on some errand.
He thanked the maid pleasantly when she finished and moved to take his cup. The taste of tea and milk mixed against his tongue as he swallowed. The tea was perfectly prepared, the warmth spreading through his chest and settling his nerves. This was better. Familiar. Safe.
"Here, try this one." Hidi lifted a golden scone toward him, her face glowing with pride. "It's blueberry. You like blueberries, ja?"
The smile on her face was almost as bright as the opal broach on pinned to the center of her bodice. A piece of jrewlery she seemed to like to wear. Didn't mom have one similar to it? Nicoli thought vaguely but dismissed it, his mother had a lot of jewelry. And Hidi seemed to be wearing it a lot.
Nicoli bit into the scone and his eyebrows rose in genuine surprise. The pastry was perfectly flaky, bursting with sweet fruit that melted on his tongue. "Wow, this is really good."
"I'm glad you like them." Hidi's cheeks flushed pink with pleasure, her blonde braid catching the light as she tossed it over her shoulder. "I made them myself."
"You did?" The surprise in his voice was unfeigned. "I didn't know you could bake." He'd always thought of Hidi as more sword than kitchen knife, more warrior than homemaker. "Kinda domestic for you, isn't it?"
Hidi giggled, the sound bright as silver bells. Across the table, his mother smiled indulgently.
"Nicoli, you would be quite surprised to discover how accomplished Hidi is in domestic arts." Belinda's voice carried warm approval as she regarded the younger woman. "Cooking, maintaining a household... I'm certain she'll make an excellent mother someday."
"Mother, you are too kind, ja?" Hidi's fingers drifted to her opal brooch, her smile turning secretive and pleased.
Nicoli frowned at the exchange; there it was again. That strange habit of Hidi calling his parents hers grated against his nerves. "Hidi—" Don't call my mother yours. It's weird, but the words fell off as approaching footsteps crunched across the grass.
A maid, not Julia, was at her mother's side, leaning down to whisper something in her ear. And whatever it was, it made her mother's pristine smile waver.
The maid retreated back inside before her mother moved to take her cup. But she didn't seem interested in drinking, rather just moving through the motions. Her arched brows lightly pinched together a moment as if lost to some unpleasant thought. A look of pain crossed her features in a slight waver of the light, a cloud falling over them, darkening her features. In that moment, it was like she was back in her study from that day, with pain drawn over her, making her something raw and wounded.
Nicoli's heart clenched at the sight. Something was wrong. "Mom, what is it?"
The sound of his voice suddenly pulled his mother back. Her features were composed again, perfect and beautiful as the painted lips on her features. She moved to sip her tea.
"Oh, it's nothing." She dismissed coolly as the cloud passed, her face bright and clean again in the sunlight. Her tone was neutral despite what Nicoli had just seen before. "Your Father has decided it's time he goes back for Nochten."
"For Nochten?" Nicoli sat up straight in his chair at the news. His mind raced back to those letters, to his father's haunted expression. "What? Now?"
The pieces clicked together with sickening clarity. The correspondence wasn't from Ana—it was about her. Something was wrong. Something serious enough to send his father racing across the kingdom without warning.
"Is Ana in trouble?" The words tumbled out before he could stop them, panic making his voice crack like a boy's. "Is she okay? What's happening?"
Nicoli pressed, urgency dripping in his voice as his stomach tightened. Suddenly, he regretted this stupid need to keep a distance between himself and his father. Why couldn't he just have asked right then and there? He had no idea what was happening.
And with Ana still not writing, he was even more in the dark. "What's going–"
"Your father is leaving, yes." His mother's voice cut through her smile, its finality ringing with annoyance, as if the topic irritated her. Something dark flickered across her features—an expression so foreign. Then it was gone, replaced by her practiced smile.
"But have no fear," Belinda reached across the table to pat his hand, her touch soft as silk and cold as marble. Her gold wedding ring caught the light, winking like a small laugh. "We will be fine without him. We still have each other, Nicoli."
Belinda's grey eyes seemed to stare down at him with a weight Nicoli could feel. "And as long as I have you. I am happy."
"Mom, that's not–" But the protest died on his tongue as her gaze softened, becoming warm and loving—the expression he'd grown up seeing, taken for granted, expected. The transformation was so complete it made him dizzy. Making it hard to speak against it less ruin the moment. Her small happiness.
"I... yes. We will." The words escaped before he could call them back. He looked down at his hands, teeth worrying his lower lip as conflict tore through his chest. He wanted answers about Ana and needed to know if she was safe. But the one person who could tell him was already gone, and his mother clearly had no intention of discussing it.
His own choices were again trapping him. Caught between the loyalty he'd shown his mother and the desperate need to understand what was happening. It was like he couldn't escape the teeth that seemed to turn around and bite back.
"Don't pout, my dear." Gentle fingers lifted his chin, forcing him to meet those grey eyes. For a moment, they held all the warmth and love he'd ever known—but underneath, he glimpsed something else. Shadows. Cracks in the foundation he could see even now as she smiled.
"It always makes me happy when you smile." Her fingers combed through his hair with practiced tenderness.
"Yes, Mama." The word came out small, defeated. He pulled his lips into the expected expression, moving to pull up that same grin again. The one that seemed to make her happiest.
"That's my good son." Belinda tucked his mess of hair back into place, shifting the pomade to be neat and orderly, taming it. And she was back to her tea as if all was normal.
Hidi, however, seemed to have picked up the little exchange and her face slightly softened with concern. She leaned in. "So Father is leaving then, Ja?" She asked.
She noticed. Nicoli's voice caught in his throat. For a moment, something shifted in his stomach.
Dad was leaving. Something was happening. But he didn't know why. But maybe Hidi knew.
"Yeah, Nicoli started, "Do you know why? Have you– has there been any word from Ana yet?" They had sent that letter weeks back. But still, she hadn't replied.
Hidi's green eyes grew slightly dark at the mention of it. "No, I've had nothing." Hidi let out a sharp sigh. "Your sister must really be busy. But I will see her soon enough."
"Soon?" Nicoli's heart skipped. "Wait, does that mean you're going to go see her soon–" But just as the words were about to lift his hope, a cool sensation was on his skin. He was being watched.
Grey eyes were watching them very closely.
"Don't you two look so cute whispering together?" Belinda sipped her tea. "You remind me of back when we were engaged. Those happy times."
"Still happy, I assume?" Hidi didn't miss a beat to pull up, her smile wide with her teeth. Cheerful.
His mother seemed to pause at that before moving to pick up a cookie. Breaking it in half, and half again. "Well, we have our days." It may have flown over Hidi's notice, but Nicoli could see the change in his Mother. Her grey eyes unfocused as a slight turn of her lips frowned. And a darkness spread over her face. It was so unfamiliar and cold.
"Nicoli?" Hidi's voice came again, light and laced with sugar."You were saying something?"
"It—" The words were there, but Nicoli was again stopped by seeing something else coming her way. It was Julia. She was finally making her appearance after this whole thing, but something was… different.
No. Wrong.
Why was she being escorted by two guards? The air thinned in Nicoli's chest as he took her in, flanked by two guards, her steps slow, spine rigid. Her expression wasn't afraid exactly… it was resigned like the breath had been knocked out of her long before she even arrived.
Nicoli felt his breath still at the sight. The expression on their faces was almost as dire and solemn as on Julia's, which wasn't like them at all. Nicoli knew them. It was Medais and Toby. Toby, who always grinned like it was a game. Medais, whose laughter often preceded him like perfume.
Neither of them smiled now. They looked like tombstones in uniform, faces hollowed by duty. The two looked as serious today as they did the day Ana had her first blood.
Behind them came another maid, younger, her expression unreadable as she carried something that made Nicoli's breath stop in his throat.
A whip. Leather braided tight as a serpent, coiled and waiting.
The sight of the weapon made his blood turn to ice water in his veins. Cold sweat beaded along his hairline as his fingers went numb around his teacup. Nicoli turned to his mother, about to ask what was happening, just as Hidi chirped up first.
"Are we having a lashing this afternoon?" Her voice was surprisingly light as she moved to bite the head off a rabbit cookie, crumbs scattering like dust. Nicoli's eyes widened at the word, his stomach dropping like a stone into dark water.
"Indeed, I must see to it that someone is held accountable for their mistakes." His mother kept her face oddly composed as she moved to break up more of the cookies. Crumbles and bits scattered onto the floral plate with tiny, violent sounds. "I hope that won't put you off your tea, dear?" His mother flicked a glance up to Hidi, asking.
"Of course it will—" Why would Julia be punished? This wasn't right. No, his mother would never—Nicoli was already speaking, his voice cracking like thin ice, as Hidi cut him off with a light laugh.
"Oh, no. Not at all." Hidi interrupted with a giggle, brushing her fingers on her skirt with theatrical delight. "I enjoy seeing servants put in their place."
The words hit Nicoli like a physical blow, stealing the air from his lungs. His vision tunneled, the edges going dark as bile rose in his throat. This couldn't be happening. His mother would never—
"But Mother, this isn't—" His voice shattered completely, the protest dying as the guards took Julia by the arms with the efficiency of men who had done this before.
She didn't resist. Didn't plead. Just stood with the quiet dignity of someone who had served faithfully for decades and now faced punishment. Her weathered hands trembled once, then stilled.
The maid with the whip stepped forward, leather uncoiling with a sound like a snake's hiss. The braided weapon seemed to writhe in the afternoon light filtering through the windows. Nicoli's hands began to shake so violently that his teacup rattled against its saucer.
"Why?" The word tore from his throat like a strangled sob, raw and desperate. "Why are you doing this?"
Belinda's face softened with what looked like genuine regret, though her voice remained steady as carved marble. She reached across the small space between them, her fingers cool against his fevered wrist. "Oh, my darling boy." Her grey eyes held a flicker of something—disappointment, perhaps. "Julia made a grave mistake against your father. It was just an accident, but he insisted she was held accountable."
The world tilted beneath Nicoli like a ship in a storm. His father? His father asked for this? No, things may not have been going well between them, his father may have hurt his mother, but Nicoli never knew his own father to be cruel. Want violence? No, his father would reslove probelms with laughter, jokes, smiles.
Not–
"He wouldn't—" Nicoli's voice cracked. "Father would never—"
"Your father demanded justice, love." Belinda's thumb traced a gentle circle on his skin, the tenderness at odds with her words. "You'll find your Father is a rather cold and heartless man when he wants to be."
She didn't need to finish. The unspoken truth hung in the air like smoke from a funeral pyre.
Nicoli's chest constricted, each breath a struggle against the weight pressing down on his ribs. The memory of his mother in tears. The smell of burning parchment filled his nose among the ashes of that day. The day his father hurt her, His eyes grew wider as something dawned on him. How much did he really know about his own father?
The secrets seemed to start piling up as the divide grew.
Crack.
The sound split the air like the world breaking in half. Julia's body jerked forward, a sharp exhale forced from her lips as agony blazed across her weathered features. The sound that escaped her—not quite a cry, more like the last breath of something dying—sent ice through Nicoli's veins.
Her knees buckled, but she didn't fall, held upright by the guards' iron grip. Blood began to seep through the fabric of her dress, dark and accusing. Her mouth pressed into a thin line, jaw clenched with the kind of stubborn dignity that had made her a mother to him when his own had been too busy with courtly games.
Nicoli nearly fell from his chair, his entire body convulsing as if he'd been the one struck. His chest felt caved in, ribs crushing his lungs as air came in short, panicked gasps that tasted of copper and shame.
Swish. Crack. The second strike landed with a wet sound that made Nicoli's stomach lurch. His vision blurred, tears he hadn't realized were falling now streaming down his cheeks in hot, shameful tracks.
He turned to his mother, expecting—hoping—to see some mirror of his own horror. But Belinda sat composed as a marble statue, not even looking at the woman who had served their family for decades. Instead, her grey eyes flicked casually back to Hidi as if they were discussing the weather rather than watching flesh tear from bone.
The sight of their indifference hit him like a second blow. Neither woman flinched. Neither showed the slightest discomfort at Julia's suffering. They sat there, sipping tea and discussing fashion, as if brutality was as common as breathing.
This is normal to them, the realization crashed over him like ice water. This is what rulers do.
Nicoli forced his shoulders to straighten, his breathing to steady. If his mother—if Hidi—could sit through this without batting an eye, then he had to as well. He was going to be king someday. This was part of it, wasn't it? The hard choices. The necessary cruelties.
He tried to make his face blank, tried to school his expression into something resembling their calm composure. But his hands still shook, and each crack of the whip sent fresh tremors through his carefully constructed mask.
"Anyways, Hidi, I didn't mention how lovely your dress is. Who designed it?" Her voice was silk over steel, smooth and untroubled as another strike fell and Julia's bitten-off whimper filled the air.
The casual cruelty of it—the way his mother could sip tea while Julia bled—sent something sharp and jagged through Nicoli's chest. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think past the roaring in his ears and the way his hands shook like autumn leaves.
Hidi delicately bit into another cookie, savoring the sweetness as Julia's blood continued to stain her dress. "Oh, I'm so glad you asked. It's someone new. They have quite an eye for design. If you like, I could show you some of the sketches they sent."
"That would be lovely," Belinda purred, her ring clicking against the delicate teacup with each measured sip. The sound was obscenely cheerful against the backdrop of muffled cries. "Nicoli, dear, take your tea." Her hand shot out to grip his wrist—not gentle now, but firm with warning. "It won't taste good cold."
The touch burned against his clammy skin like a brand. "I…yes." The word scraped from his throat like broken glass. His hands trembled so violently he could barely lift the cup, the delicate china chattering against his teeth.
As the rim touched his mouth, his eyes drifted—betraying him—back to Julia. The tea turned to ash on his tongue.
Blood now painted stripes across her back, seeping through torn fabric like accusation made manifest. Her shoulders trembled with each ragged breath, but she stood. Not defiant—Julia had never been defiant.
Just… enduring. As she always had. As she always would, until this broke her completely.
The sight of her pain twisted something deep in Nicoli's chest, something primal and protective that screamed against every attempt at composure. This was Julia. Julia, who was like a constant figure besides his mother, someone Nicoli always remembered. She was like his mother's shadow. Never loud, never outspoken, but loyal to his mother. And once in a while, she would smile at him with those tired eyes.
His father wanted this?
He lowered his cup with nerveless fingers, the porcelain chattering against the saucer. Around him, his mother and Hidi continued their pleasant conversation, their voices a grotesque counterpoint to Julia's labored breathing. They made it look so easy—this casual dismissal of suffering, this comfortable cruelty.
Nicoli tried to mirror their composure, tried to pretend the sight of Julia's blood didn't make him want to vomit. He straightened his spine and schooled his features into what he hoped looked like regal indifference. But inside, something fundamental was fracturing.
The whip fell again; with it, another piece fell away from the image of the man he'd called father. Each strike revealed more of the stranger wearing his father's face—cold, calculating, willing to make his mother cry. Now, hurting someone else because he demanded it.
What kind of man did that make his father? Who was the man with the same blue eyes as his? It was like…he never really knew him at all.
*Julia*
One.
The first lash landed like molten metal poured across her spine. It didn't just strike—it branded, searing through fabric and flesh with the cruel precision of lightning finding its mark. The pain bloomed outward in waves, white-hot tendrils that crawled up her neck and down to her fingertips. Her knees buckled, bones turning to water, but the guards' iron grip bit into her arms, hauling her upright like a marionette.
Her fingernails carved crescents into her palms, drawing her own blood to ground herself against the fire consuming her back. The metallic tang filled her mouth where she'd bitten her tongue.
Do not cry. Not in front of the Queen. It would upset her. Belinda had made it clear long ago—tears during punishment were a discourtesy, an imposition on her delicate sensibilities.
Two.
The whip struck higher this time, carving through the already-weakened threads of her uniform with a sound like tearing silk. Air rushed across the fresh wound like winter wind on exposed bone, making her skin crawl and contract. A strangled breath escaped her lips—harsh, ragged, tasting of copper and shame—but she swallowed the cry that tried to follow.
Julia bit down hard on the inside of her cheek until she tasted fresh blood, using the sharp, familiar pain to anchor herself. Her vision wavered, edges going dark and bright in nauseating waves.
She had known there would be consequences. Had accepted that discovery meant this moment—her body paying the price for Belinda's choices. But knowing and enduring were different beasts entirely. Knowledge couldn't dull the way agony crawled up her spine like a living thing, couldn't stop her muscles from screaming in protest.
Three.
Through the roaring in her ears, Julia could hear the obscene normalcy continuing behind her. The delicate clink of porcelain against porcelain, the soft rustle of silk napkins, the musical tinkle of Hidi's laughter floating across the garden like birdsong.
Belinda's voice drifted over—low, serene, utterly untouched by the violence unfolding mere steps away. She was discussing dress patterns, her tone as warm and engaged as if they were alone in some cozy parlor instead of presiding over a servant's destruction.
And then Hidi's laugh again—too light, too sweet, like sugar dissolving on the tongue. It came wreathed in the scent of bergamot tea and rose petals from the garden, a sickening contrast to the copper-thick smell of her own blood now soaking through her uniform. The sound scraped against Julia's bones like fingernails on slate.
Four.
The world tilted sideways. Sunlight fractured through her vision in painful shards, too bright, too sharp. Or maybe she was fading—her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird, each beat sending fresh pulses of fire down her ruined back.
Still, she did not fall. Could not. Belinda would disapprove of the disruption.
From the corner of her swimming vision, she could see the Queen—or rather, she could see how pointedly Belinda wasn't looking at her. Those grey eyes remained fixed on Hidi with laser focus, on the delicate embroidery of her guest's dress, on the precise way she held her teacup. Anywhere but on the woman bleeding for her sake.
The deliberate blindness cut deeper than the whip.
Five.
Julia's jaw began to tremble, muscles betraying her resolve. She clenched it shut until her teeth ached, grinding them together to keep any sound trapped in her throat. Her vision blurred with unshed tears, and she blinked away furiously.
No sound. No sound, or it would ruin the Queen's tea.
This was necessary, she told herself with desperate conviction. Belinda had no choice—appearances had to be maintained, order preserved. There was meaning in this suffering, purpose in her pain. She repeated the mantra in her head like a prayer, counting each strike like rosary beads.
Six.
A single tear escaped despite her efforts, hot and shameful on her cheek. She crushed it against her shoulder before it could fall, before anyone could see her weakness. The movement sent fresh agony lancing through her back, where blood now soaked through her uniform in spreading stains.
Julia was loyal. She understood sacrifice in ways others couldn't fathom. She saw the bigger picture, grasped the necessity of her position. Devotion didn't require gratitude, didn't demand acknowledgment.
But the sight of that damn giant having to be here, having to see her like this, to get to laugh and mock her as if she wasn't standing here–
Seven.
The lash curved around her shoulder blade like a serpent, finding new flesh to tear. Bile flooded her mouth, acid and bitter. The pain had found its rhythm now—methodical, relentless, each strike timed to the casual conversation behind her.
She wanted to scream until her throat bled, wanted to collapse and beg for mercy. But screaming would disrupt the tea service. It would force Belinda to break away from entertaining the giant. Something she knew would instantly be the wrong thing to do. She would be annoyed.
No. Julia couldn't do that to her. Not to her Queen. She was the one who would stand with Belidna till the very end. She knew Belinda best.
Eight.
Her breath came in sharp, shallow gasps that tasted of iron and desperation. Her legs trembled beneath her like saplings in a storm, muscles threatening to give out entirely. The guards' grip tightened, sensing her weakness.
Still, she held. Still, she endured.
Julia had always known that her place beside the Queen was sacred, earned through years of silent devotion and unquestioning service. Their bond was built on understanding—she gave everything, asked for nothing, and found meaning in that sacrifice.
But the sound of easy laughter behind her was becoming harder to bear.
Nine.
The next strike sent fire racing down her spine, but it was nothing compared to the sharper, more vicious pain of watching Hidi make Belinda smile. The way the Queen leaned forward with genuine interest, the gentle touch of her fingers on Hidi's wrist, and the warmth in her voice as she complimented her guest's dress.
There was something unbearable in how naturally they shared this moment—how the sunlight caught in Belinda's dark hair as she laughed, how comfortable they looked in their bubble of civilized cruelty. How utterly removed they seemed from Julia's suffering.
She had bled for Belinda. Had carried the Queen's secrets like burning coals in her mouth, had stood vigil through dark hours, hoping for even the smallest acknowledgment. And here sat Hidi—untouched, unmarked, basking in the very warmth Julia had spent decades earning.
The unfairness of it was a knife between her ribs.
Ten.
Halfway through her sentence, Julia almost wept—not from the physical agony tearing through her back, but from the cruel arithmetic of it all.
Twenty lashes. As if her decades of service, her unwavering loyalty, and her willingness to take any punishment could be measured in neat, round numbers. As if the letters she'd written—desperate attempts to protect what she loved most—could be answered with precise brutality.
She had bled for Belinda in ways that went far beyond flesh. She had sacrificed pieces of her soul, had stood as guardian and confessor and shadow. She had waited through endless years for scraps of affection, for moments when those grey eyes would soften with something approaching tenderness.
But watching Hidi now—watching how easily she commanded the Queen's attention, how effortlessly she earned smiles that Julia had to bleed for—something dark and poisonous unfurled in her chest.
She would survive this—she always had. But as each strike of the whip contained, something shifted—harder to swallow back. And it tasted like golden blond hair.