Lucia's chambers smelled of roses and dread.
Two years had passed since her return. Two years of Ezra's obsessive love. He shared *his* bed with her, not the queens'. He bathed her in moonlit pools, kissing the silver stretch marks on her swollen belly – proof of the son growing inside her. His hands trembled as he felt the child kick. *"My heir,"* he'd murmur against her skin. *"Our second chance."*
The six queens watched from the shadows. Their hatred was a living thing, coiling through palace corridors.
**The Poison:**
It came in a cup of spiced wine – a "gift" from Queen Eleanor, delivered by a trembling maid. *"For the babe's strength, Concubine."*
Lucia hesitated. Ezra intercepted it, sniffed. *"Pomegranate and clove. Safe."* He kissed her, guiding the cup to her lips. *"Drink, my heart. For our son."*
The pain began at midnight.
Not labor pains. *Tearing*. As if wolves gnawed her womb from within. Lucia woke screaming, clutching her belly. Blood stained the sheets – thick, black, reeking of spoiled metal.
Midwives fled the stench. Only Ezra remained, holding Lucia's hand as her screams turned to guttural rasps.
*"PUSH!"* a healer begged.
Lucia pushed. A gush of **pus-yellow fluid** mixed with **coagulated blood clots** erupted. The stench choked the room.
A tiny foot emerged. Purple. Lifeless. Then another. Ezra roared, ripping the child free himself.
**The Son:**
A boy. Perfectly formed. Silent. Skin blue-white. Ezra cradled him, shaking. *"Breathe! PLEASE!"* He rubbed the tiny chest. Blew air into the slack mouth. Nothing.
Ezra turn to Lucia, holding her hand tightly with a pleading voice please don't leave again please
She bled out. Great arterial gouts soaking the mattress. Her eyes fixed on Ezra, love and terror warring. *"L… Linda…"* she choked. *"Protect… our moon…"*
Her head lolled. The light fled her eyes.
Ezra howled. A sound of purest desolation. He clutched Lucia's corpse and his dead son, rocking back and forth in a lake of blood and afterbirth, weeping tears of crimson grief.
---
Three days of mourning. Ezra locked in darkness with his dead.
Queen Eleanor moved. She summoned the Fairy Witch – a wizened crone paid in dragon scales.
*"Make him forget,"* Eleanor commanded, gesturing to Linda, who huddled, silent and ghost-pale, outside her mother's sealed chambers. *"Forget his *love* for the slum rat's spawn. Let him only see a servant."*
The witch brewed the potion in a skull. Bubbling green-black malice. Sprinkled in Ezra's wine as he slept.
He woke. Eyes hollow. Soul scoured.
He saw Linda sweeping ashes from the hearth.
*"You,"* he said, voice flat as stone. *"The maid's child. Linda. Yes?"*
Linda flinched. *"Yes, Father— Your Grace."*
*"Stay out of the royal wing,"* he ordered, turning away. *"Your place is the scullery now."*
The spell was deep way deeper the sea itself
Linda's silver hair was hidden under scarves. Her sea-blue eyes downcast.
- **The Scullery:** Hands raw in icy water, scrubbing nobles' filth.
- **The Insults:** Princess Seraphina's "accidental" spills of boiling tea on Linda's arms. *"Clumsy slum rat!"*
- **The Hunger:** Forgotten meals. Scraps stolen from the hounds.
- **The Cold:** Sleeping in a damp closet near the coal chute.
- **The Only Kindness:** Prince Raphael, sneaking her honey cakes. *"You saved me, Silver,"* he'd whisper. *"I remember."*
On her 14th birthday, Linda found a rusted locket in the coal dust. Inside, a faded portrait: Lucia young, Ezra smiling, his arm around her waist – his thumb resting on her **Marked wrist**.
Linda touched her own smooth wrist. Nothing. Had her father ever truly loved them? The spell squeezed her heart. She buried the locket. Buried the hope.
---
Linda knelt, scrubbing vomit from Princess Seraphina's floor (too much wine, too much spite). Her dress was threadbare, patched with burlap.
Seraphina kicked the bucket. Foul water soaked Linda.
*"Useless creature! Can't even clean properly! No wonder Father forgets you exist!"*
Linda said nothing. Wiped her face. Sea-blue eyes held no tears. Only a deep, frozen sea.
Deep beneath the palace, the black sludge pooling around the mirror ball **quivered**. As if tasting her despair.