vera_anne_wolf
patreon
{CoRW: Book 3} Chapter 102 [Part One]: The Splendor of Grief *Rough Draft*
🕑 Added 2023-02-27 18:28:00 +0000 UTC♝♝♝♝♝♝♝♝♝♝
Chapter 102 [Part One]: The Splendor of Grief
The harsh morning light struck the towering walls of the palace-fortress with near clinical precision, outlining each crack in the mortar that held the stone formation of the defensive wall, at least 12 feet thick on the exterior side. The pale defensive structure loomed over the Duchess’s carriage as they inched closer, flanked on all sides by three Bastiallano knights.
Carina pushed aside the suffocating feeling of dread as she touched the enchanted floral, chandelier aquamarine earring that grazed against her right cheek. Golden butterflies adorned her snow-white hair; the top half braided in the shape of a crown, the bottom loosely entwined with silver-blue and gold ribbons from her neck to her waist. Her gown, a satin blue dress layered beneath a light silver chiffon embroidered with golden flowers and butterflies at the hem and sleeves, was further embellished by a decorative corset of witch-steel that covered her from neck to waist. The armor had been decorated with diamonds and sapphires, each uniquely enchanted by the Ice Coven elders—currently away escorting Eleanora to safety—along with a few elemental gems crafted by Carina herself.
The youngest elder, and leader of the Ice Coven, Viscount Dax Linby, sat across from the Duchess, his bloodied witch-knight uniform replaced by elaborate formal wear that matched his partner’s colors. The zircon jewel ring on his right hand had transformed his white hair to a familiar ash-brown shade.
‘He could almost pass as a family relative to Maura,’Carina mused before testing her earring to confirm she could still communicate with Percy.
“Your Grace.” The Duchess flinched slightly as the Earl’s voice whispered in her ear. “We just passed through the gate ahead of you. Witch Hunters have joined the security checkpoint but don’t appear to be detaining anyone from entering.”
“Did they search your carriage?” Carina whispered back, drawing Linby’s attention.
“No. But then they never do,” Percy replied with faint smugness. “In any case, the carriages will drop off guests in front of Lily Palace and then park around the Royal Garden. If we have to retreat, they’ll provide sufficient cover from any muskets or ranged attacks—although artillery fire would be another matter.”
“But the cannons on the fortress walls face outwards.”
“Take another look, your Grace. They’ve been moved recently.”
It took Carina only a moment to summon a small scriva in the shape of a sparrow to fly up closer to the fortress battlements. Through the tiny elementals’ eyes, she confirmed the cannons now pointed toward the inner palace grounds. The number of Witch Hunters who manned the heavy artillery along with the Royal Knights was even more concerning.
“Seizing control of Peony Palace is one thing,” Carina muttered darkly. “But for the Pope to have taken complete command of Lafeara’s Palace Fortress in a single night?”
“Not as impossible as you might think if the man who controls half the kingdom’s army, including the royal and capital knights, just happened to form an alliance with the Pope.”
“What you’re saying. Do you mean that Duke Stryker betrayed the King?”
“Perhaps not,” Percy replied, his voice crackling faintly. “After all, Lady Priscilla is his niece. The Duke may have just joined hands temp—”
A sharp ring pierced through the Duchess’s right ear as she flinched away in surprise. Across from her, Viscount Linby narrowed his ice-blue eyes in concern before touching the gold stud in his right ear.
“Percy?” Carina called out tentatively as the broken traces of the pureblood’s voice faded beneath the distorted crackling noise. “Something’s interfering.”
“I can still communicate with the Coven,” Linby replied. “It must be something around the fortress, likely meant to prevent communication from the inside.”
“That makes sense.” The Duchess sighed and crossed her arms as the mouth of the wolves’ den loomed closer. “Has Lady Larissa returned?”
Linby touched the ruby stud in his left ear and whispered a short inquiry before responding with a shake of his head. “No. It seems she’s still in Strugna.”
“I suppose that means things have gotten complicated on Prince Llyr’s end as well,” Carina mused as she rubbed Viktor’s diamond bracelet. “It’s good that Larissa is with him then. They’ll need to hold out until I’ve settled things here.”
The Viscount frowned and touched the gold stud again briefly. “The Ice Covens have delivered the Crown Princess to the members of the Burning Blade. They are on their way back now as we speak.”
“Good. Warn them about the break in communication and—”
“Argh!” Linby hissed as he clamped a hand over his right ear. “Damn it!”
“What happened? Did we—” Carina cut off sharply as the carriage came to a sudden jarring halt, followed by urgent pounding on the exterior of their door.
***
Nicholas nursed his overwhelming sense of guilt and disappointment the only way he knew how, with a glass of Coldwell wine. The bottle had been a gift from the Earl, who now stood surrounded by members of the Royal faction, the laughing, traitorous dogs who had sold Nicholas’s crown, his country, to the Holy City of Zarus.
With a deflated sigh, the young monarch tipped back his chalice and frowned as the remaining drops caught between his teeth. The king’s reddened eyes turned to the empty bottle beside him, a cynical smile curling at his lips before he gestured to Captain Norley. “My good captain, your King has run out of wine. Fetch another bottle from my chambers.”
“Your Majesty.”
Nicholas frowned at the Royal Consort seated beside him. The worried expression in her chartreuse-green eyes—the eyes of a traitor—was as false as the crown he wore. His knuckles clenched around the chalice as the knot in his empty stomach tightened painfully. “Must I repeat myself, Captain?”
The knight silently bowed and disappeared to fulfill the King’s request. Nicholas might have felt more at ease—the man’s presence was a constant reminder of Beaumont’s absence and all that had happened the night before—were it not for the two Witch Hunters who remained behind.
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” Priscilla whispered as she reached over to touch his hand gently. “The celebration has yet to begin—"
“Celebration? What celebration?” He snorted as he tossed the empty bottle behind his chair. It clattered loudly to the floor but didn’t break, much to his disappointment. “Not even one day into my reign, and Lafeara has lost its independence all thanks to the backstabbing members of the Royal Faction.”
“You speak as if we had any independence before,” she retorted, “I seem to recall your rather forthright objections to being forced to marry Eleanora.”
“I did what was necessary to ensure the peace and safety of the kingdom. In much the same way as I married you to appease the Royal Party—not that they showed any gratitude.”
“Yes. And it seems Marchioness Serilda was your next target. It must be quite a sacrifice, building a harem of beautiful women to pacify your allies and enemies.” The Royal Consort appeared to take note of his miserable complexion and softened her voice before continuing, “The Pope only wants what is best for us, Nicholas. The witches have been moving into positions of power for years. Someone had to stop them.”
The King scoffed and straightened in his chair as Captain Norley returned, looking rather winded, with the requested bottle of wine. Nicholas eyed the label and gestured vaguely for the knight to open it, which Norley did after moving to the side.
“Before you drink anymore,” Priscilla rushed out hesitantly. “Perhaps we might dance? It is a ball, after all.”
The King turned his bleary gaze toward her, then belted out a mocking laugh, drawing the looks of a few concerned nobles.
“Please, your Majesty!” The Royal Consort protested, cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
“Honestly, I forgot how naive and childish you were,” Nicholas retorted as he flicked a tear from the corner of his eye. “It’s not that kind of ball.” He gestured towards the purple carpet, which split the ballroom in two, and the knights who lined the perimeter wall, evenly spaced apart at six feet. “Notice the difference in decoration? The nobles will present themselves to me by rank in the hierarchy to pledge an oath of loyalty. A long and arduous process that will take several hours to complete. Once the main households have finished, most guests will leave, yourself included. Normally a Prime Minister would take over and witness the oaths of the lower houses on the King’s behalf, but as that position remains empty, I will be stuck here until dusk when the last head of households name and oath are recorded by the royal historians.”
“I see,” Priscilla murmured, a bit deflated, as she sank back into her chair. “Perhaps I could remain with you—”
“No!” Nicholas cut in sharply as he took the opened bottle Captain Norley brought to him. “Once the heads of state finish giving their oaths, you will return to Iris Palace to ensure that Lady Rosamund has everything she needs. That is your sole responsibility as my Royal Consort.” He set his chalice aside, opting to drink directly from the bottle, before leaning closer to grace her with his fragrant breath. “Don’t even think about sharing a bed with me again until Rosamund’s child is born, safe and healthy.”
Priscilla’s brows furrowed even as she flinched away. “I assure you, your Majesty. My ladies are watching over her with the greatest care.”
“The same ladies who watched over Eleanora when she fell mysteriously ill?” Nicholas retorted mockingly. “I am not as forgiving as you, my Lady.”
The Royal Consort’s expression tightened, and her bottom lip quivered slightly before she turned towards him with a smile. “I need some air. Please excuse me, your Majesty.”
“Go,” Nicholas grunted with a dismissive wave of his hand. “It’s probably best you don’t come back, given what the Pope has planned for today.”
Priscilla gave no response, and he returned to ignoring her, along with the knight lieutenant who trailed behind his new bride as the Royal Consort made her way towards the Balcony windows. A loud belch worked its way up from King’s disgruntled gut, drawing more than a few confused looks in his direction. Nicholas met them all blankly as he continued to drink from the bottle, desperately aching for the day—and the nightmare yet to unfold—to end.
***
“Archie, don’t you think the King looks rather unwell?” Lucie murmured from beneath her veil as she followed her son through the crowd.
“Please, mother,” Acheron groaned softly as he secured her straying hand around his arm again, then led the way to the balcony windows. “The King probably had one too many glasses of wine last night in celebration of his coronation and marriage.”
“That was rather quick,” Lucie mumbled as she snagged a glass from a passing waiter. “Then again, they were engaged for most of their childhood.”
“Yes, as King, Nicholas certainly has his pick of the ladies.”
‘Though I never imagined he’d pick the daughter of a traitor.’
Viscountess Hargreve smiled as she watched her son, dressed in subdued mourning colors, scan the room fervently. “Are you looking for someone? A lady, perhaps?”
Acheron’s grip on her hand tightened before he turned to flash the charming smile that had made him famous as a heart-melting rogue. “The only woman I need by my side tonight is you, my dear Mother.”
“Where did I go wrong?” Lucie lamented, smacking his hand lightly with her fan. “You were such a sweet innocent child.”
“I was being honest!”
The Viscountess regarded him with a frown. “I’m more worried that you believe that.”
“Who could I possibly be looking for then? I’m engaged, remember.”
“Archie—”
“No, Father was right. What happened to Lady Evelynn is my fault. If I had been more responsible—” He ran a hand through his cinnamon-brown hair with a frustrated sigh, “Even if someone set a trap for us, it only worked because of the reputation I built for myself.”
Lucie smiled gently as she reached up to caress his cheek. “Your father and I had an arranged marriage, and we made the most of it. You and Evelynn need time to figure out one another and the experience that will teach you when to compromise and when to lead.”
“Lady Hargreve! Lord Acheron!”
Mother and son both turned stiffly to face the glittering image of Priscilla, dressed in a regal gown of white and gold, accessorized by emerald jewels and a tiara encased in gold.
“L-lady Borghese,” Lucie forced out with a feeble smile.
“Oh my!” Priscilla laughed as she glanced toward Lieutenant Olund, positioned at her side. “Perhaps you haven’t heard, Viscountess. I am married to the King.”
“O-of course. Your Highness—” Lucie bobbed a low curtsey, to which Acheron added his silent bow.
“You are still in mourning, so, of course, I will forgive you,” Priscilla continued with a benevolent smile as she brushed past them. “But let's not let it happen again.”
Acheron’s trembling hands clenched into fists as he glared after her. He flinched as the knight lieutenant gripped his shoulder suddenly before leaning towards the nobleman’s bowed head.
“If you cannot control your expression, then keep your eyes on the floor, Viscount. The next time I see you staring at her Highness with such flagrant disrespect, I will challenge you to a duel on the spot, and we both know how capable you are with a blade.” Acheron clenched his jaw as the knight’s grip tightened painfully. “Your father can’t protect you anymore, and your Mother doesn’t look like she could survive another loss. So why don’t you continue to keep your head down and focus on your upcoming nuptials.”
The Viscount could barely contain the pain and fury burning through his veins as the knight relinquished his grip. Before he could stop himself, Acheron had caught hold of Olund’s wrist and stepped in close, meeting the knight’s gaze squarely as he offered a mastered smile of superiority. “My father has a brother. You might recall his name. I believe he is your superior.” The Lieutenant’s olive-green eyes narrowed slightly as the Viscount leaned in closer still to add. “I also have a cousin. I’m sure you’re familiar with his name as well. There’s not a single knight who could beat him in hand-to-hand combat, including the Lord Commander.”
Olund scoffed and shook his head as he broke free from the Viscount’s grip. “Which bastard would you be referring to, my Lord? There are so many to keep track of.”
“You—”
“Acheron!” Lucie interjected, moving protectively between them. “Please, my son.”
Acheron sucked in a breath, but Olund had already spun around and was now heading toward the open balcony door through which Priscilla had gone.
“We mustn’t—entangle ourselves—with these kinds of people,” Lucie whispered, clinging to her son’s arms as she rested her forehead against his chest.
“How can you stand it?” Acheron responded hoarsely. “I can’t bare the sight of her—or Nicholas. What kind of King rewards the family of a Traitor? What kind of friend marries the daughter of the man who killed your husband and my father?”
“Hush, hush!” The Viscountess murmured as she wrapped her arms around him. “We must play our part. You must carry on your father’s name and title. It’s what—Attwood would have wanted.”
“I know, Mother. I know.” He shook his head, blinking back the angry tears that blurred his vision. “But as soon as I’ve said the words, I’m leaving—and we are never coming back.”
Lucie raised her head with a worried smile as she wiped the damp trail from his cheek. “That may be more difficult than you realize, my son.”
“What do you—”
“Announcing his Lordship, Earl Percy Hawthorne!”
It wasn’t so much the page’s loud announcement—the man had been rather busy announcing the arrival of each noble from lowly Barron to the Duke himself—but the tangible stir in the air that followed which pulled Acheron’s gaze to the door. The leader of the Noble Faction faced the assembled nobles looking magnificent in a black velvet jacket and trousers, with a red satin waistcoat adorned by onyx gemstone buttons beneath that matched the rubies gleaming from his cuffs, neck scarf and embedded in the silver crow-head of his staff.
‘If Percy is here, Seri can’t be far behind.’ Acheron hastily smoothed out his jacket as he watched the entryway with dread and anticipation.
