The questioning was still ongoing when the doors creaked open and Princess Vivienne swept into the room, the soft rustle of her gown echoing off the marble floors. Behind her followed Agatha, the young maid whose pale face betrayed her reluctance. Heads turned as the princess joined the commotion, her chin held high and her gaze unwavering. Without waiting for permission, she strode into the room where the questioning was taking place.
King Alexander, seated with a stern expression, narrowed his eyes at the interruption. "This matter does not concern you, Vivienne," he said coldly, his voice cutting through the tense air. But the princess remained undeterred. She lifted her hand and declared, "It very much does, Your Majesty. That girl—Theresa—is a witch!"
A murmur of surprise rippled through the room. The two regents exchanged wary glances, while Duke William, standing beside them with his arms crossed, raised one dark brow in interest. "That is a serious accusation, Princess," one of the regents said calmly. "We will need proof." Vivienne's lips curled into a determined smile as she motioned Agatha forward. "Then let her speak." All eyes shifted to the maid as she was gently urged into the center. Agatha's hands trembled as she clutched the edge of her apron, her gaze flickering nervously from one face to another—the nobles, the regents, and most terrifyingly, the King of Carthage himself. She took a shaky breath, clearly overwhelmed by the weight of their attention.
"I… I don't know much," Agatha began, her voice barely above a whisper. "But Theresa… she's very good with plants. She talks to them. Knows things about them I've never seen in any normal person. People say it's just gardening, but it… it felt strange. Like magic." Her words came out rushed, and her voice cracked. She continued, "One night, I saw her leaving the servant's quarters. It was late. I didn't ask where she was going, but she looked… different. Quiet. Like she was hiding something." One of the regents leaned forward and asked for the exact date. Agatha blinked, then gave it to them with hesitance. They nodded, scribbling something down, but said nothing more for the moment.
As the questioning continued, Vivienne's frustration boiled over. Her cheeks flushed with anger, and her voice resonated through the courtroom. "Her very presence was enough to ruin my celebration! My night is forever poisoned by a servant who hides in the dark and whispers to leaves!" She directed a sharp point at Agatha, then towards the door. "You've heard the accusations. Surely there's enough suspicion to warrant action. What if her next act is a curse? Or something even more terrible? How can we tolerate a witch living among us, especially in the palace? Everyone knows witches are known for their gardening skills. After all, they use plants and flowers in their potions." The hall fell into a tense silence at her outburst. King Alexander's jaw tightened, while the regents exchanged unreadable glances. Duke William shifted slightly but said nothing.
Princess Vivienne stood at the center of the chamber, her expression a mix of fury and disbelief. "I saw it myself," she insisted, her voice tinged now with unease rather than accusation. "Theresa… she tended to my plants personally. I asked the head maid to assign someone, and she was chosen. Every time she entered my chambers, the wilting flowers would bloom overnight. Even the orchids that refused to blossom opened under her care. I thought she was simply skilled. But now…" Her voice faltered, and her hands trembled slightly as the weight of her words settled in. "I trusted her. I let a witch into my room without even knowing it. Dark wolves and now a witch, I don't know what is happening now in Aurelia." The anger in her tone was slowly replaced by something else—fear, and perhaps a hint of guilt. The court listened in silence, some still skeptical, others growing wary.
The grand hall, once filled with laughter and music, now echoed with the hushed voices of fearful testimonies. One by one, the palace staff were summoned and questioned, their words weighed heavily under the watchful eyes of the regents and King Alexander himself. Barry, the long-time butler with graying hair and a stoic expression, offered a cautious yet fair response. "Theresa… she was quiet, respectful. Knew her duties well. Never once gave me reason to suspect anything, Your Majesty." Next came Emilia, the head servant, who crossed her arms tightly as she spoke. "She was efficient. Too efficient. Plants blooming overnight, herbs arranged as if by instinct… it isn't normal. She never needed help, and she rarely spoke unless spoken to. I can't say she's a witch, but I can't say she isn't, either."
Then came the high-level maids, all of whom shared a common thread in their testimonies: resentment masked as suspicion. "She was always different," one of them said sharply. "Too pretty for a lowly servant. Always with her hands in the dirt, whispering to flowers." another one nodded along, adding, "She walked past us like she didn't even notice we were there. Like she thought herself better." Another high-level maid took it even further. "She would hum strange songs when alone in the gardens. And I swear, once, I saw a flower turn to her—like it listened."
Their words were dripping with envy and disdain, their minds already convinced of Theresa's guilt before any proof was presented. In their eyes, her talent was unnatural, her beauty suspicious, and her silence damning. But not everyone was quick to condemn. Sarah stood straight when her turn came, her voice trembling but firm. "Theresa is kind. She helped me when I was sick, brewed something that made me feel better the next day. She's gentle. I've never seen her hurt anyone or even speak ill of anyone." Beside her, Russel, a young guard known for his blunt honesty, added, "She once stopped me from stepping on a thorned vine while I patrolled the garden. Said it would cause infection. She's just knowledgeable about plants, that's all."
Yet their support was nearly drowned by the gossip of others. Another mid-level maid enters the room and with a cruel glint in her eyes, tattling eagerly. "Theresa had friends. Sarah, Emily, and that strange girl, Madeline. Always whispering together, always keeping to themselves," she added. Another maid also claimed, "Maybe they're witches too. It would explain a lot." Gasps and murmurs rippled through the room as the seed of doubt was planted—not just about Theresa, but now about the girls who dared to befriend her.
As the day wore on, the questioning intensified. Every servant, from kitchen workers to stable hands, was brought forward. The guards at the palace gates were interrogated. Most had little to say, but some—especially a handful of envious maids—spoke in hushed tones about Theresa's strange talents. They claimed she never needed help with herbs or flowers, knew remedies that not even the healers did, and often wandered the grounds late at night. Though their testimonies lacked evidence, the accumulation of suspicion cast a heavy shadow over Theresa's name. With each whispered story and exaggerated memory, the fear in the room grew thicker, and the once-innocent maid found herself buried beneath layers of doubt and superstition.
Elsewhere in the palace, as the sun began its descent, Emily and Sarah were putting their own plan into motion. The two girls, aware of the rising tension and danger, knew they needed to act quickly. Emily managed to slip away from her assigned task by pretending to be ill, and once unnoticed, she moved cautiously through the stone corridors. Her heart pounded as she searched for a way out, noting where guards were stationed and which halls remained quiet. Eventually, she found herself in a dimly lit corridor, where no footsteps echoed and silence clung to the walls. She moved slowly, cautious not to draw attention—until a faint murmur stopped her in her tracks. Voices. She ducked behind a column, pressing her back to the wall.
Peering around the corner, Emily spotted Duke William standing close to Sir Roland. Their tones were hushed, conspiratorial. "Are all the preparations ready?" Roland asked. "Yes, but there's a problem," the duke replied, stepping closer. "We can't ensure that he'll join the ambush." "You don't have to worry about that," Roland said smoothly. "If the plan goes the way we want it, everything will run smoothly." Emily strained to hear more, but the words grew softer, and her nose began to twitch. The corner she had hidden in was thick with dust, and despite her efforts to hold it back, a soft sneeze escaped her. The two men immediately paused, and Duke William turned sharply toward the sound. "Who's there?" he barked, already moving toward her hiding place. Emily froze, her breath caught in her throat, as heavy footsteps began to close in—closer and closer.