The days after the funeral passed with a strange monotony, as though time itself had slowed to a weary crawl within the stone walls of the estate. Each soul in the castle seemed to drift into a private solitude, retreating behind closed doors and unspoken thoughts. Life continued, yes—but in a hushed, fractured manner, as though a shadow had settled over the household, dimming every corner.
Olivia, in particular, bore the change most visibly. She moved with a chilling calm, the kind that unsettled more than it soothed. She buried herself in endless paperwork, scrutinizing every document that crossed the threshold, as if the ink upon the pages could grant her control over the chaos that threatened to consume her. Her body, however, betrayed her resolve; she grew paler, weaker with each passing day, as though the very weight of her silence was eroding her strength. Since the funeral, she had not once crossed paths with the Duke. Or perhaps they had deliberately avoided each other, orbiting in the same house but never colliding, like estranged stars circling in opposite skies.
Isabella, ever patient, found her curiosity gnawing at her, restless and unrelenting. She remembered how, not long ago, the Duke and Olivia had begun—tentatively, awkwardly—to resemble husband and wife, sharing fleeting moments that hinted at something warmer, something real. But now, it was as though an impenetrable wall of ice had risen between them, cold and forbidding.
That afternoon, Olivia suddenly cast her pen aside, the sharp clatter startling in the stillness. She turned her gaze on Isabella, her eyes hard yet weary.
"You are staring holes into me," she said, her voice low, almost brittle. "Spit out whatever words are choking you."
Isabella did not hesitate; her heart leapt at the chance. Her eyes burned with a mixture of longing and desperation.
"Since the funeral," she began, "you and the Duke have become strangers. You no longer dine together, you no longer speak—nothing. Has something happened between you?"
Olivia sighed, a sound heavy with exhaustion, as though her soul itself carried the burden of centuries.
"I cannot recall us ever being close enough for me to share such matters with you."
The words struck Isabella with a quiet sting. She adjusted her posture, bowed her head, and returned to her work with studied composure.
"Forgive me, Your Grace. I did not mean to intrude."
And just like that, another wall rose, this time between Olivia and Isabella. The room sank into silence once more, the kind of silence that echoed louder than any words.
It was then that Keira entered, her steps quick, her arms straining under the weight of a wooden box. She bent immediately into a bow, her breath hurried.
"Forgive me, Your Grace. A parcel has arrived for you."
"Leave it there. I'll open it later."
Olivia's tone was calm, almost dismissive, though there lingered a faint hesitation in her voice.
"Your Grace…" Keira shifted uneasily, the box heavy in her hands. She lowered her eyes before speaking again. "It is from Lady Elvira. The servant who delivered it insisted you open it at once. He said it contains something fresh, something that will soon spoil… perhaps even rot."
For the briefest moment, Olivia's composure cracked. Her eyes widened—barely, yet enough for Isabella to notice the flicker of tension. She rose abruptly, her chair scraping across the polished floor.
"Leave us, Keira. Now."
The young maid obeyed at once, bowing before hurrying out, though her steps betrayed her curiosity.
Isabella's gaze lingered on Olivia, suspicious. She moved closer to the parcel, her voice sharp with unspoken questions.
"Why dismiss her merely because you intend to open the box? What is it you don't want her to see?"
Olivia ignored her. Her fingers moved swiftly, untying the ribbon, pulling apart the neat bow with practiced hands. The lid gave way with a reluctant creak.
The stench hit them first—metallic, raw, unmistakable. Isabella leaned forward, and her eyes fell upon what lay within. A strangled cry rose to her lips, but before the sound could escape, Olivia's hand clamped firmly over her mouth.
"Be silent," she hissed, her breath hot against Isabella's ear. "Do you wish to expose us all?"
Isabella's heart thundered, horror twisting her features. She forced the words past Olivia's hand.
"Th-there's so much blood… Is that—dear God, is that a man's head?"
Olivia's eyes narrowed, but there was no fear in them. She reached into the box, her sleeve shielding her from the stench as she turned the head slightly, studying it with a detached precision that made Isabella shudder.
"What a pitiful failure," Olivia murmured, her voice edged with disgust. "Unmasked in less than a month."
Isabella's knees nearly buckled. She clutched at the table for support, staring at Olivia as though seeing her for the first time.
"Who was he? Who would do such a thing?"
Olivia lifted her gaze, disdain curling her lips.
"Do not mock me with such questions. Have you forgotten already? The parcel came from Elvira. Who else could dare to send this?"
She let the lid fall back over the gruesome trophy and dropped onto the couch with an exasperated sigh, the weight of annoyance, not grief, pressing upon her.
"Damn him," she muttered, almost to herself. "I thought he would last longer than this."
Isabella could not bear the sight any longer. With trembling hands she pulled the lid of the box back into place, shutting away the grotesque contents before her stomach betrayed her. She sank onto the seat beside Olivia, her heart hammering.
"I know you asked me not to overstep my place," she began, her voice strained but steady, "but this concerns the Tharon family. Do not forget—we are bound together in this, partners as you once told me."
Olivia's eyes lingered on her for a long moment. Then, with a weary exhale, she spoke.
"That man was one of the mercenaries I hired. His task was simple: watch my father, keep close to my sister. And yet—" her lips twisted into a cold smile as she gestured dismissively toward the box—"here lies the proof of his incompetence. Unmasked in less than a month, and now he returns to me… in pieces."
Her words carried no grief, no remorse—only derision. Isabella fell into silence, shaken. It was as though she were staring at a different Olivia—the old Olivia, the ruthless one whose name had once been whispered with fear. The way she spoke of the man's severed head, as if he were nothing more than a hound too stupid to serve, chilled Isabella to the marrow.
Olivia rose suddenly and took the sealed envelope that had accompanied the grisly gift. She turned, her gaze sharp.
"Isabella. Follow me."
Isabella obeyed, though her legs carried her with reluctance. They descended the winding staircase into the bowels of the estate, each step colder than the last, until they reached the cellar. The air was damp, the stones stained with soot. Olivia stopped before the great iron furnace, its fire still alive, crackling faintly as if eager for more fuel.
She set the box atop a bench, then looked at Isabella with a sly, almost playful smile.
"The best way to erase a crime," she said softly, "is to burn it from existence."
Horror rooted Isabella where she stood. Her hands trembled despite her effort to hide it.
"But… Olivia, he was a man. A life. Does he not deserve at least a burial? He served you. Surely his soul—"
"His soul," Olivia cut in, voice dripping with contempt, "is stained with failure. And failure does not deserve honor." She lifted the box, pried it open once more, and with a flick of her wrist, hurled the head into the hungry flames. The fire roared as if delighted by the offering. "Let him carry the shame of his weakness into death. May the inferno of hell grant him better company than we ever could."
Isabella shut her eyes against the sight, but the crackle of fire and the stench of burning flesh seared themselves into her memory. A sickness churned within her, but she swallowed it down and forced her feet to move, trailing after Olivia as the other woman strode back upstairs without so much as a backward glance.
By the time they returned to the study, an hour had slipped away. Olivia pushed open the door—and froze.
A voice, smooth and silken, greeted her from within.
"Dearest sister."
There, perched gracefully with a cup of tea in her hand, sat Elvira. A smile curved her lips, though her eyes glittered with something sharp and dangerous.
"I trust my little gift arrived safely? I do hope you enjoyed it."
Olivia did not falter. She entered with unshaken poise, her expression the very mask of indifference.
"Oh, it was delightful," she replied, her tone edged with venomous irony. "Thank you for relieving me of such garbage. I assure you, sister, I shall return the favor very soon."
Isabella watched, frozen, as the exchange unfolded—a duel fought not with blades but with words, every phrase barbed, every smile a weapon. Yet Elvira's attention soon shifted, her gaze landing on Isabella with unsettling intensity, studying her as one studies a pawn yet to be moved.
At last Elvira set down her cup and rose, smoothing her gown with practiced grace.
"Since this is my first visit here," she said lightly, "would you mind if I borrowed Lady Isabella to show me around the castle?"
Isabella opened her mouth to reply, but Olivia stepped between them, her figure a barrier.
"I have time to spare, dear sister. Allow me the pleasure of showing you myself."
The sisters moved toward the door together, their words veiled but their eyes flashing with old wars. As they reached the threshold, Olivia paused, her hand brushing Isabella's shoulder. With a motion swift and unseen, she slipped a folded note into the folds of Isabella's gown.
Only after they departed did Isabella dare unfold it. Her eyes raced across the words, her breath catching at the command written in Olivia's hand:
Bring the Duke to me, NOW.