Chapter Fourteen: The Mark
Eva did not resist as the guards dragged her across the cold, polished marble floor. What was the point? The banquet hall was heavy with silence, the sound of her boots scraping against the stone the only thing that broke it. Her heart beat loudly in her chest, drowning out everything else.
The nobles, seated at their extravagant tables, said not a word. But their eyes burned. Dozens of them, their stares sharp and cruel. A spilled goblet of bloodwine. A ruined sleeve. And now, perhaps, a public execution? The thought danced like a specter at the edge of her mind.Disrespecting a noble was an offense punishable by death in most circles, and she had done far worse,she had insulted the Duke.
The doors loomed ahead, heavy and foreboding.
"Stop."
The command was short, sharp and icy.
The guards halted mid-step, their hands still gripping her arms. Eva's knees buckled for a fleeting moment, but she managed to steady herself, her pulse a frantic rhythm in her ears.She turned her head just slightly, her gaze lifting to him.
He remained seated at the high table, his presence filling the room with an oppressive weight. His expression was unreadable, cold, a perfect mask of aristocratic restraint. His eyes, however, seemed to pierce through her very soul. And then, with a subtle gesture of his hand, he dismissed the guards.
They stepped back, bowing low, as if releasing her from the noose that had just barely escaped tightening around her neck.Not a word.The air in the room grew thick with tension. Even the nobles held their breath, unsure of what had just transpired.
Mira, ever quick-witted, seized the moment. She slipped past the startled guests, her hand gripping Eva's arm as if to anchor her to reality.
"Come," she whispered, her voice urgent, though a quiet fear laced her words. "Before he changes his mind."
They moved swiftly, heads down, hearts pounding in their chests.
---
The moment they crossed the threshold into the kitchen, everything came to a sudden, sharp halt. The clang of knives, the hiss of the fire, the bustling of busy hands—all of it stuttered, as if the manor itself were holding its breath. Servants froze mid-action, trays held suspended in midair, eyes darting toward Eva.
And then, just as quickly, the normal rhythm resumed, but slower. More cautious. Tense.
No one spoke directly. But the glances ,the furtive looks, the whispers just below the threshold of hearing told Eva everything she needed to know.Mira shoved a stool toward Eva with an almost impatient motion. "Sit," she urged. "Breathe."
"I am fine," Eva replied, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her. Her hands still shook, betraying the calm she tried to project.
Lira, as composed as ever, appeared from the shadowed corner of the room. Her eyes flicked to Eva with something between amusement and suspicion. "Well. I didn't expect to see you again tonight."
Eva forced a tight-lipped smile. "You and me both."
Then a voice, low and raspy, cut through the stillness. "Marked."
Eva froze. Her breath caught in her throat as she turned, trying to make sense of what she had just heard.
"Pardon?" Her voice was a mere whisper, but it felt as though the room had gone deafeningly quiet.
The servant who had spoken, a middle-aged maid, pretended not to hear, her hands busying themselves with the monotonous task of peeling potatoes. But another, a young girl who had been listening nearby, leaned in close, her voice trembling with fear and excitement.
"They say he marks the ones he plans to drain," the girl whispered, her wide eyes filled with something like awe. "Spare them in public, then finish them in private."
Eva's blood ran cold. Her hands gripped the counter, knuckles turning white, as the words repeated through her mind. Marked. The idea, absurd as it sounded, came with an undeniable weight.
Mira scoffed, shaking her head. "Ridiculous. Don't listen to such foolishness."
But the whispers continued.
"She's not wrong," came another voice, soft and resigned. "There are rumors... servants gone missing after a misstep. Or worse, a little too much curiosity. Never seen again."
Lira, ever skeptical, crossed her arms. "Just a rumor," she muttered. But even her tone was uncertain, a fleeting doubt passing through her otherwise impassive gaze.
Eva's mind reeled. The possibility—the terrifying truth that she might be marked, that the Duke's silence meant far more than mercy,gripped her with icy fingers.
The weight of the Duke's eyes, so cold and calculating, settled heavily on her chest. Had she been spared for some darker purpose? Was she now a pawn in a game far beyond her understanding?
The word marked echoed in her mind, a constant, insistent refrain. It was all she could hear.
---
Later That Night...
The servants' quarters were still, save for the occasional rustle of a blanket or a soft breath from Mira's bed. The only light in the room came from the faintest sliver of moonlight through the curtains, casting a pale glow on the stone walls.
Mira, of course, had already succumbed to sleep, her body curled in a tight ball beneath her threadbare blankets. Lira, ever the watchful sentinel, lay unmoving on her cot. Her eyes were closed, but Eva knew she wasn't truly asleep. Lira never slept when there was danger near.
But Eva lay wide awake, the weight of the night pressing down on her like a suffocating blanket.
She couldn't stop seeing it.
The bloodwine spilling. The way the Duke's eyes had held hers, cold and unreadable. The chill in the air that had followed his every movement. The dreadful silence that stretched on, thick with a tension she couldn't escape.
The Duke's gaze hadn't left her, not truly. Even now, in the dark silence of the quarters, she could still feel it, the weight of it. He had let her go, yes,but only for now. His decision hadn't been mercy. No, it had been something far worse. It had been control.
Every creak of the manor sounded like footsteps. Every gust of wind under the door made her flinch, as though he were here, waiting, watching.
Her pulse quickened. The fear grew, a tight knot in her chest that she couldn't undo.Maybe it was over. Or perhaps, in the darkest corners of the manor, the Duke was simply waiting. Watching. Preparing for the moment when she would be alone.