"Do you… do you even know what that is, Aysel?" Calista's voice was a harsh whisper, stripped of its usual mocking tone.
Aysel shook her head, her gaze fixed on the ominous object. "Elysara… Elysara gave it to me. She told me to hide it." Her voice was barely audible, a desperate plea for understanding. They were here. They saw her take me. They saw me return with it.
"Shut up, you imbecile!" Zeraphine snapped, her composure returning, replaced by a chilling fury. "That is the Heartwood Ward! It's one of the most powerful magical artifacts protecting our manor against intruders. It wards our home, fool!"
Calista's eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint returning. "What were you doing with it, Aysel? What evil scheme are you concocting now?" Her voice rose, thick with accusation.
"It was Elysara!" Aysel cried, her voice cracking, desperate and truthful. "She said she found it and she wanted me to hide it for her, please! I tried to refuse, but she wouldn't let me!"
Smack!
The blow was vicious, sending Aysel's head snapping to the side. Her ears rang, and a fresh wave of pain erupted across her cheek, joining the dull throb from where her head had hit the floor. Calista's eyes blazed with a manic intensity, her face contorted in a mask of pure rage.
"How dare you!" Calista shrieked, her voice echoing in the silent drawing-room. "How dare you implicate our innocent sister in your sordid little plots, you thieving bastard! Elysara is pure, she is sweet! You are a venomous viper!"
Behind Calista, just at the edge of Aysel's blurred vision, Elysara stood. Her blonde hair framed a face of angelic innocence, but her blue eyes, catching the light, held a chilling spark of triumph. A faint, almost imperceptible giggle escaped her lips.
Aysel swallowed, her throat tight with unshed tears. Innocent? Sweet? She just slapped me, and Elysara put this in my hand! They're all playing a game, and I'm the sacrificial lamb.
"How dare you steal the Heartwood Ward?" Calista continued, her voice rising to a fever pitch. "What did you intend to do with it? Did you plan to sell it and run away, like the coward you are? Or did you mean to turn its power against us, against your own family—you ungrateful wretch!"
Aysel could only stare, her mind reeling. Their faces, twisted with manufactured outrage, swam before her eyes. The injustice of it all was a suffocating weight. But you were there! Both of you! You saw Elysara drag me away, you saw me come back with this! Why are you pretending? Why are you doing this to me?
"I don't want to hear another word from her," Zeraphine said, her voice dangerously calm, cutting through Calista's tirade. She turned to Elysara, her expression hard. "Elysara, go. Gather everyone downstairs. Now. I want to finally rid this house of this thieving bastard. I want everyone to witness her punishment."
Elysara's smile widened, a fleeting, malicious thing. "As you wish, Zeraphine," she trilled, skipping out of the room with an eager bounce in her step.
Aysel's blood ran cold. Everyone? Punishment? No, no, no. This wasn't just a beating. This was public humiliation, a ritual of degradation. She had seen it happen to other servants who had displeased Velira or Lord Corvin. It was worse than death. It was the complete obliteration of spirit, leaving nothing but a hollow shell.
Zeraphine turned back to Aysel, her blue eyes devoid of warmth, filled with an icy resolve. "You will pay dearly for this, Aysel. You will regret the day you ever thought to cross us. What I am going to do to you will make you wish you were never born."
Aysel dropped to her knees, her hands clasped together. Her voice cracked, raw from screaming earlier. "Please…" Her voice fractured. "Don't do this. You know what this means. You know what they'll do in the hall. You saw her hand it to me—you saw it!" Her voice broke on the last word, a gasp of disbelief at the betrayal.
Zeraphine merely smirked, a cruel twist of her beautiful lips. Her hand rose, and a faint, sickly green aura emanated from her fingertips. Aysel felt an invisible vice grip her neck, tightening, choking her. She gasped, clawing at her throat, but there was nothing there. The air grew thin, her vision blurred at the edges. Zeraphine's power, the necromancy she wielded so effortlessly, was designed to control, to inflict agony without leaving a mark—except the terror in the victim's eyes.
She was dragged forward, her feet scraping against the polished floor, her body limp and unresponsive. Zeraphine led the way, her head held high, a queen leading her condemned subject. Calista followed, a triumphant smirk gracing her lips, her blue eyes shining with malicious glee.
Down the grand staircase they went, each step a descent deeper into Aysel's nightmare.
The hall swam before Aysel's blurred eyes, packed with silent faces and darting stares. She could feel the hush—the way people watched her not like a person, but like a condemned object. The air prickled against her raw skin, cold and too aware.
Among the gathering stood a familiar figure—Lord Kaelen Blackthorne, Corvin's nephew. A brute of a man, wide-shouldered and crude, with dark hair and pale blue eyes that always held a lecherous glint. He stood apart, arms crossed, an amused scowl on his face.
"What in the blazes is going on?" Kaelen growled, his voice rough, cutting through the murmurs. "I was having a rather… productive afternoon. Don't tell me this is about the bastard again." He gestured lazily toward Aysel. "I want nothing to do with her petty squabbles."
"Silence, Kaelen!" Zeraphine snapped, her voice cracking like a whip. "You will listen. This concerns the integrity of our home, and your future inheritance, nephew."
A low crack echoed from the hearth, where firelight cast flickering shadows across the marble. Servants shifted nervously, eyes darting between Kaelen and Zeraphine as though unsure who would strike next.
Kaelen scoffed. "If you weren't Father's favored daughter, Zeraphine, I'd make you regret that tone." His eyes slid to Aysel. "Not surprised," he sneered. "The bastard's always sniffing around like a starved mutt. Maybe she thought she could seduce the Ward into her blood—suck some power from it like a tick."
Just then, a voice, colder and sharper than Zeraphine's, sliced through the tension.
"Enough!"
Velira Blackthorne, Lord Corvin's legitimate wife and mother to the three sisters, entered the hall. Her mere presence hushed the crowd. Her blonde hair was impeccably coiffed, her blue eyes glacial, her mouth set in a line of permanent disdain. Her hatred for Aysel had always burned cold and steady.
"What is this commotion?" Velira demanded, her gaze sweeping over the crowd, finally settling on Aysel. "What has this… thing … done now?"
Calista sprang forward, her voice oozing with feigned sorrow. "Mother, Zeraphine and I caught Aysel with the Heartwood Ward! She tried to claim Elysara gave it to her, but we all know that's a ridiculous lie. She's a thief. A desperate, ungrateful thief who endangered our home."
Kaelen let out a low, humorless laugh. "Not surprised, honestly. The bastard can't help but cause trouble."
Velira's eyes flared with sudden rage. She stalked toward Aysel with precise, predatory grace. Aysel flinched, too slow to scramble back.
"You ungrateful wretch," Velira hissed. "We carved a place for you in this house from nothing. Fed you when you should've starved, cloaked your filth in silk stitched with sigils, and this is how you repay us? You'd poison the root to get at the fruit?"
Smack! Smack!
The blows came swift and sharp. Aysel curled in on herself, trying to shield her face, but Velira's fury was relentless. Each slap a sting, each word a poison.
Velira raised her hand again, when a quieter voice intervened.
"My Lady Velira," Mireth Duskwhisper said carefully, her tone calm but firm. "Perhaps we should wait for Lord Corvin's return. He should decide her punishment."
Velira turned on her servant with venom. "Silence, Mireth! Do not presume to tell me how to manage my household!" Her voice crackled like lightning. "This insolence will not stand!"
She turned back to Aysel, hand raised.
But then—
Creeeeak.
The grand hall's massive oak doors swung open, drawing every eye. A tall, gaunt figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the fading light. Robes black as raven's wings, eyes like twin shards of bone-pale ice.
Sylvaen the Wither.
The enforcer. The executioner. The bone mage of legend.
Aysel's blood turned to ice.
"Why wait for Corvin," Sylvaen drawled, his voice a dry whisper, "when I am already here?"