[Western Wing — Ballroom
"My... visitors?" Emmelyne’s face went white, the heat of rage rushing to her head. "You dare? You treacherous little viper." She loomed over the girl, her voice dripping with the arrogance of her bloodline. "I am a Viremont. Do you truly believe a House of your standing can survive spreading falsehoods about me?"
Shuri crumpled, dropping into a bow so deep her forehead nearly struck the floor.
"I didn't lie! I tried to protect you!" Shuri wailed, her voice pitching up into a shriek. "I tried to hide your indiscretions, Emmelyne, but you make it so hard! You wear the proof of your fickleness for all to see!"
"You silence that lying tongue—"
"I know I’m beneath you!" Shuri screamed, looking up to make sure the back of the hall could hear. "I thought of you as my friend. But is this how you have seen me all along? A servant to clean up your mess?"
The question hung in the air, echoing off the vaulted ceiling.
Raising a sleeve, Shuri wiped the tears from her cheeks, glowering straight into Emmelyne’s eyes. "Is that all you have, My Lady?" Shuri whispered, soft enough that only Emmelyne could hear. "Empty threats?"
Emmelyne’s jaw tightened, the pulse in her neck beating a frantic rhythm against her collar. The air in her lungs felt suddenly hot, too thick to exhale. She realized, with a jolt of horror, that she had walked into a trap set by a girl she deemed invisible.
Masking her panic with cruelty, she sneered. Her eyes raked over the girl. Shuri was wearing a gown of pale yellow that had been fashionable two seasons ago, the lace at the hem clearly mended by an amateur hand.
'Does the fool not realize?' Emmelyne thought, desperation clawing at her. 'One word to my father, and the Cornwell name becomes dust.'
She closed her eyes and inhaled sharply. In her mind's eye, trust evaporated into venom as a loyal follower's image morphed into that of a viper. The betrayal coiled in her thoughts. She leaned in, eyes flashing with a dormant cruelty.
She plucked a goblet of red wine from a passing servant’s tray, the crystal cool against her heated palm. Her wrist flicked—a motion barely larger than a heartbeat.
The goblet tilted.
Crimson wine cascaded down. It splashed across the chest of Shuri’s pale yellow gown and dripped heavily onto her lap. The liquid soaked in instantly, blooming like a fresh wound.
Shuri froze, her breath hitching. She stared at the spreading stain, her fingers hovering over the fabric, trembling too violently to touch it.
"How clumsy of me," Emmelyne drawled, her voice carrying clearly to the corners of the room. "I do hope that stain lifts... though with fabric of that quality, I rather doubt it. Perhaps next time, you will remember your station."
Emmelyne watched the wine spread over the mended lace. She wondered idly if the girl’s family would have to skip a month of meals to replace such a "treasure," her mother’s last living keepsake—but now, under the dark, spreading soak of the vintage, it was merely a rag. The betrayal had cut deeper than any blade, leaving Emmelyne’s heart a cold, barren thing. She didn't pull the goblet away; she let the last few drops fall like a final insult.
From now on, she had no friend like her; the void Shuri left was filled only by the cold weight of the task ahead.
As Emmelyne was about to move, a voice—soft, melodic, and unnervingly calm—pierced through the tension.
"What commotion is this?"
Into the open space glided Consort Rosa, her movement so fluid the hem of her gown barely whispered against the floor. Trailing a step behind her was Princess Jenna, a sharper, younger reflection of her mother, possessing the same cascading rose-pink hair.
"Greetings, Imperial Consort Rosa. Greetings, Princess Jenna." The crowd split, bowing their heads.
Rosa ignored the obeisance. Her rose-pink eyes swept over the sobbing form of Shuri on the floor, lingering for a fraction of a second, before locking onto Emmelyne.
Only when the lace of her dress brushed against Emmelyne’s shadow did she stop.
"Lady Emmelyne," Rosa began, her tone pleasant, "and Lady..."
"It is Shuri Cornwell, my lady," the girl on the floor hiccupped, pressing her forehead against the carpet until her skin turned pale. Wine was still dripping from her clothes.
"I see." Rosa tilted her head, the diamonds in her hair catching the chandelier light. "Mind telling me what this commotion is about?"
Noble ladies held their breath. Straightening her spine, Emmelyne smoothed her expression into a mask of porcelain perfection. She attempted a dismissive smile, though the bamboo ribs of her fan groaned under her grip.
"It is nothing the Consort needs to worry herself with," Emmelyne said, her voice dripping with forced sweetness. "I was simply assisting Lady Shuri with a lesson in decorum. It seems some families have... fallen behind in their private tutoring."
Rosa’s lips curled into a smirk.
"In my banquet?" Rosa asked. Taking a slow step forward, she lowered her voice. "How fascinating. I was under the impression that I issued the invitations to this evening. It is heartening to know the House of Viremont feels so... at home in my stead."
Emmelyne’s smile faltered, her stomach twisting as bile rose to her throat. This was getting dangerous, but retreating now would confirm every whispered rumor Shuri had already sown.
"I beg your understanding, Your Grace. I was merely pruning a weed before it could choke the garden. Slander against a Ducal house is, after all, a rot that must be excised quickly."
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Rosa nodded slowly, tapping a manicured finger against her fan. "A gardener, then? Defending one's honor is an acceptable action. However..." Narrowing her eyes slightly, she asked, "Who permitted you to turn my banquet into your personal courtroom?"
Emmelyne flinched. The courtly mask she had worn so carefully wasn't just slipping; it was shattered. This was going in a very wrong direction. Head lowering, she kept her jaw tight enough to snap, the taste of bitter humiliation more pungent than the spilled wine.
"My apologies. I overstepped, My Lady."
"Let us verify the cause, then." Rosa turned from Emmelyne to the wall of spectators. Projecting clearly to every corner of the room, she addressed the crowd. "Ladies and Lords. Did this young woman, Shuri Cornwell, spread rumors about Lady Emmelyne? Let us not consider the authenticity of the rumors—did she speak them?"
Lady Hena advanced, her silk sleeves flowing as she folded her hands into a perfect knot. "Never, Your Grace. Lady Shuri has consistently defended Emmelyne, even today. Rather excessively, I would say."
"It's true," another voice chimed in from the back. "Shuri has been nothing but loyal."
"Lady Shuri has been a saint of silence," Lady Ireen added, her lashes fluttering with a solemn weight. "To witness her solicitous efforts to shield a name so... frequently associated with misfortune is truly moving."
Emmelyne blinked, looking around. The faces that met hers held no fear. Only disgust. Pity. Hatred.
'No.' Emmelyne’s fingers twitched. 'This can't be happening. If not Shuri...'
"Then who?" she whispered, the confusion bleeding into her voice.
Rosa's pink eyes bored into Emmelyne.
"The air in here seems to have disagreed with your constitution," Rosa said, her voice soft yet commanding. "Perhaps the night breeze will help you regain your... composure."
Emmelyne blinked. "Your Grace?"
"I do not appreciate disruptions to my evening based on false premises," Rosa continued with a low suspiration, turning her gaze back to her daughter as if Emmelyne had already ceased to exist. "I believe you have a different place to be, Lady Emmelyne. You are excused."
Rosa’s smile failed to reach her eyes, remaining fixed on the exit.
Emmelyne stood frozen, the empty goblet still dangling from her fingers. 'Me? Retiring?' A Consort—the daughter of a Marquis—was ordering a Viremont out like a disobedient child?
But the weight of Imperial authority was crushing. To speak now would be treason.
Rosa’s departure left a vacuum that Princess Jenna was quick to fill, closing the distance until the scent of her perfume turned cloying in Emmelyne’s lungs. She leaned in, her lips inches from Emmelyne’s ear. "This is what you get," she breathed, the words a silken hiss that prickled the skin, "for clinging to a rotten rope."
With a sneer, Jenna spun on her heel and followed her mother.
As the princess passed, the room bowed in respect. The music did not restart. Everyone simply watched, waiting for the infection to leave the body of the party.
Emmelyne swung toward the doors just as Prince Jeremy swept into the hall. He cut her with a sharp, jagged sneer before looking straight through her, his path toward Rosa a deliberate erasure of her existence. Humiliation ignited into a white-hot fury as Emmelyne stormed out, her chest constricting. Behind her, Mina followed in a frantic scramble.
[Outside the Palace Gates — The Viremont Carriage
"Who," Emmelyne hissed, the sound tearing from her throat the moment the cold night air hit her skin. "Who dared spread such rumors about me? They will pay. All of them will. And Shuri... I will feed her to my dog."
First and foremost, she had to return and clarify her name, eradicating the venomous rumors that had been spread.
Storming toward the waiting carriage, she balled her hands into fists so tight her nails bit into her palms. Mina followed in stricken silence, fearful even to breathe too loudly.
They reached the purple carriage—gleaming lacquer, silver trims, and the Viremont crest catching the moonlight.
But someone stood at its edge.
Emmelyne stopped dead.
A figure blocked her path to the door. Slumped shoulders, disheveled hair, eyes rimmed with red.
Cedric Devon.
A lurch of nausea hit Emmelyne’s stomach. The sickness that started in the ballroom surged up her throat. It was him, the source of the rot, the reason she stood in the cold instead of the ballroom.
Cedric straightened, his posture rigid. His eyes lit up at the sight of her, only to dim as he took in the scowl etched upon her face. Recoiling, Emmelyne stepped back sharply.
"My lady," Cedric faltered, stepping forward. "There is something I must ask."
"Do not come near me," Emmelyne spat. The mere sight of him now made her skin crawl. She couldn’t let her name be associated with him any further. If the scandal reached the Prince’s ears—Emmelyne shivered, the thought of his disfavor more terrifying than any physical threat. She swerved wide, pressing against the carriage wheel to avoid his sleeve brushing hers.
Cedric unexpectedly stepped into her path, his hand stretched out only to tremble and hover, his head slightly lowered.
"My lady, please!" he breathed, the word a fragile plea. "I just need a moment—"
"Move," Emmelyne commanded, not deigning to look him in the eye. "Before I have you removed like the refuse you are."
She reached for the door handle. It ended here. He was nothing.
But Cedric didn't retreat.
Instead, his hand shot out, anchoring her by the wrist. His fingers clamped with a trembling, desperate strength, his palm damp with a cold, slick sweat.
Emmelyne’s breath hitched, her body locking into a rigid statue. The warmth of his skin against hers felt like a searing brand, a violation that made the very air in her lungs turn to ice.
A muffled squeak escaped Mina, but the sound was distant, muffled by the pounding of blood in Emmelyne’s ears.
"Is it a joke to you, Emmelyne?" he demanded, his voice fraying at the edges. He leaned closer, his eyes bloodshot and searching, as if trying to find a trace of the woman he once knew. "Am I just a plaything? Do my feelings mean nothing to you?"
"Get off!" Emmelyne shrieked, struggling to pull her hand free, outrage flaring into a searing coal in her chest. "Let go of me!"
His grip remained firm despite the tremor in his limbs. His eyes—wide and bloodshot—were pinned to the necklace resting against her collarbone as if it were a physical wound.
"You took it too?" he rasped, the words spilling out in a hectic, breathless rush. "That night... you let me believe we had a future. Was I just a diversion? A way to pass the hour until someone better came along?"
His gaze snapped up from the jewelry to her face, burning with a frantic betrayal. "You wear his colors now, but you held my hand then!"
Emmelyne noticed a circle of nobles leaving the palace drawing closer. Gasps erupted, a fan snapped shut, and whispers followed.
'One mistake. I allowed him one moment of weakness, and now he hangs around my neck like a millstone.'
The heat in her chest surged, constricting her throat until the world beyond Cedric’s sweating face bled away. First the Consort had stripped her of her dignity, and now this parasite was feasting on the remains.
"You dare?" Lashing out, Emmelyne's free hand struck.
The slap landed loud enough to echo against the marble walls, sending Cedric's head snapping to the side.
"How dare you, son of a count," Emmelyne hissed, her voice cracking. "You dare humiliate a duke's daughter? Are you insane?"
She jerked her hand free with a violent snap, her fingers scrubbing frantically at her wrist as if to peel away the very skin he had defiled.
A low, tectonic rumble vibrated from the shadows beneath the carriage, a sound that instantly stilled the whispers of the gathering nobles. Emmelyne’s eyes widened, her rage crystallizing into a sharp, lethal clarity. She had forgotten the one soul whose loyalty was unshakeable.
Her gaze snapped toward the darkness under the chassis. A weapon. She finally remembered her weapon.
"Nero."
From the darkness, a massive shape detached itself from the chassis. Her loyal Mastiff emerged, muscles coiling like thick cable under a heavy, spiked collar. The beast stepped into the torchlight, its heavy jowls parting to reveal wet, glistening teeth and a low, rhythmic snarl that rumbled through the cobblestones.
Emmelyne didn't scream. She didn't even blink. She raised a gloved finger, the gesture slight, almost bored.
"Take those hands."
