Ilaria swallowed hard, her throat dry as dust, her trembling hands still twisting the door handle that refused to budge. Fear consumed her, but she refused to let it buckle her down if only it might keep her safe. She knows what this is. That dreadful night is still fresh in her mind. The words whispered still haunted her.
Why won't it open?!
She rattled the door again, harder and harder to the point that her fingers started to hurt, her panic mounting with each futile shake. Adrenaline rushed her body, her tremoring fists struck against the door, sharp and desperate, the hollow thuds echoing through the chamber like a drumbeat of fear.
"Rocky! Ricky!" Her voice cracked, louder now as she pounded against the wood, calling for the guards stationed at her door. She wailed, "Please!"
But no answer came. Only the silence of the room, suffocating and heavy, as if her cries were swallowed whole before they could reach anyone beyond. It was happening again. And though she knew being terrified would only make it worse, her body betrayed her and she trembled vehemently.
Levan had warned her not to answer it; not to let it take root, but she was already raw, already fragile from her sorrow. And now the damned shadows were clawing at her mind again, twisting reality and playing their cruel tricks!
Her chest tightened as she slammed her palms harder, calling out louder, more frantic. Her fists scraped against the polished carvings of the wood, but she did not care. The sting of blood was nothing compared to the trepidation devouring her. "C-can you hear me? Please open the door!"
But the corridor beyond remained deathly still.
Her pulse hammered in her ears. With the door refusing her and no one was there to answer, she spun around, searching wildly for another way out. Her eyes then fell on the curtains, their fabric swaying as though stirred by a phantom breeze, and she stumbled toward them.
Every instinct screaming her not to, yet her shaky hands reached for it anyway, seizing the heavy drapes.
If I can just let the light in...the sun will drive it away...
And so, she desperately yanked them apart.
But instead of golden morning light spilling through, only darkness greeted her. An endless, choking void that stretched beyond the glass. The world she knew had vanished. The balcony was gone, the skies erased. All that remained was darkness so complete it seemed to breathe, curling toward her in coils of shadow, making her eyes widened in consternation.
Her throat constricted under the weight of impending doom. "W-what..." She staggered back, clutching the curtain as the glass distorted before her eyes, warping and rippling as if the very air had been undone. The chamber was no longer her familiar room. Reality itself seemed to twist, reshaping under the weight of something ancient and unseen.
She took a faltering step back until her legs could no longer bear the weight of her terror, buckling beneath her as she collapsed onto the floor. Her palms pressed against the marble, its unnatural chill biting into her skin. Tears blurred her vision as she drew in a frantic, shaky breath, desperate to steady the frantic pounding of her heart.
"W-what..." she stammered. "What is...t-this?"
Her breath caught as the shadows writhed, coiling up the walls like serpents. The thing she saw that night was not present, but the voice lingers, and now it came again, abrasive and inhumane, settling deep in her marrow.
"Daughter of Light..."
The lifeless lantern dangled overhead, rocking gently in the still air. Ilaria pressed her hands to her ears, but the whisper slithered inside her skull.
"N-no, stop..." she begged, her voice breaking, but the whispers pressed on. The words were in a tongue she had never heard, yet somehow she understood them, and the realization churned her stomach until nausea clawed at her throat.
"The crown will fall..."
She pressed her hands harder against her ears and closed her eyes tightly, as if doing so might chase the shadows away.
"...and she will with it."
It was only an illusion, nothing more!
She clung to the thought like a lifeline, repeating it over and over in her mind. The Blithe thrived on fear, twisting minds until madness was all that remained. She had to resist. She had to be stronger.
But her chest heaved ferociously, her pulse pounding so hard it felt like her ribs might crack beneath it. "P-please...stop..." she pleaded, her voice breaking, the syllables barely holding together.
"And you..."
The whisper coiled, dragging out the words like a claw raking down her spine. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, drowning everything else, sickening and loud.
"...you will—"
But before the words could finish, another sound pressed through the veil. At first it was faint like it was far away, then it felt closer.
"...Your Highness?" The voice tugged against the shadows, peeling them away in threads.
"...Princess!"
It was Melyn. Melyn was calling her, shaking her. But Ilaria did not feel the touch until a beat later, as if her body had been miles behind her soul. Her lashes fluttered and the world steadied. The suffocating dark receded, leaving only her handmaiden's worried face swimming into view.
When she did not respond, Melyn pressed, "...Aria!"
Ilaria blinked, dazed, her vision blurred by tears that clung stubbornly to her lashes as Melyn's voice anchored her back to the present. Her cheeks were streaked, damp with the evidence of her silent collapse.
Both her hands were still trembling as if the whispers were lodged beneath her skin; they were still pressed desperately against her ears. One of her hand was raw and bleeding where her frantic pounding against the carved door had scraped it open.
Her breath came in sharp gasps, her chest rising and falling too quickly like a bird that had nearly drowned. The blood on her palm smeared faintly on the side of her cheek, but still her fingers twitched as if she could claw the whispers away.
Melyn's voice grew steadier now, her hands tightening on the princess' trembling shoulders though the deep worry in her eyes never wavered. "Your Highness, look at me. It's me—Melyn."
Slowly and painfully, Ilaria's wide and tear-stained eyes found hers. Her lashes clung together, wet, her lips trembling as she forced out a whisper. "...Mel?" She swallowed hard, like a wanderer stumbling upon light after being lost in a tunnel of endless darkness.
Melyn was in frenzy. "Princess, your hand—"
"...W-where were you?" Ilaria choked out. Her brows drew together, the inner corners tilting upward in a pitiful frown as fresh tears welled to the surface.
Before Melyn could answer, Ilaria suddenly lunged forward, arms wrapping around her in a desperate embrace. She buried her face into the other woman's shoulder, muffling a broken sob, her body shaking so hard it nearly knocked the both of them off balance.
Melyn parted her lips to ask what had happened, but the sight of the princess convulsing so pitifully made her relent. Instead, she only lifted a hand and gently tapped Ilaria's back in soothing circles, offering comfort in silence despite not knowing what had transpired.
After a long while, Ilaria eventually calmed down and drifted into an uneasy sleep. Melyn worked quietly, bandaging the princess' scraped hand, her eyes never leaving the gentle rise and fall of her chest, watching how she was clutching her pillow tightly.
The Blithe...Melyn thought grimly, recalling the countless others she had seen affected by its whispers. She could be wrong, but what else could explain the tremor coiling down her body if not because of The Blithe? Since Ilaria already got 'touched' by it once, she had to ensure the princess remained safe tonight.
Once the hand was wrapped and secured, Melyn instructed the newly assigned maids to stay watchful at the princess' side. Only then did she dared to step out, her mind already turning to Levan. She could already somehow foresee his reaction, but he needed to know what shadows were stalking his wife and why no ordinary vigilance would be enough.
Melyn arrived at the prince's chamber in no time, her steps brisk and purposeful. She calmly approached the guards posted outside. She demanded, "Inform the Crown Prince that Melyn Rosenborne requests an audience."
The guards exchanged uncertain glances, wary of the maid's boldness. The bulky one answered gruffly, "His Highness does not accept visitors at the moment, ma'am."
For a heartbeat, Melyn hesitated, not out of fear, but calculation. Then she stepped forward, attempting to just break through, but the guards instinctively raised their spears, cautious of her audacity.
"Stand back," one of them warned. "A maid like you should know better than to disturb the prince. You cannot enter without His Highness permission."
Unfazed, Melyn met their gaze daringly. "Tell him it was urgent. Surely, he will make time."
Before the guards could react further, the Chamberlain emerged from behind the doors. Melyn straightened and offered a measured bow. He had clearly heard the commotion and stepped out without being summoned. His silvered gaze, old yet unyielding, swept over her like a blade testing its edge, weighing every thought and intention.
But no words were exchanged between them, because the recognition in his eyes already spoke volumes. With a subtle nod, he stepped aside, clearing the path for her, not minding the sceptical glances between the guards. Melyn did not even think twice before stepping inside.
Levan was leaning back against his chair, his eyes closed, his head resting lightly against the worn leather in ease, already tired even though it has not been a day. Reports lay scattered across the table, and his glass of wine remain untouched beside it. The moment Melyn crossed the threshold, his voice cut through the air.
"I made it clear I do not want audiences," he said, eyes still closed, his tone smooth but edged with warning.
Melyn stepped closer anyway, almost too casually considering their difference in stature. "Then forgive my boldness, Your Highness, but I need to tell you something," she replied, unconcerned by his words.
Levan opened one eye lazily, golden gaze sharp and unyielding. "I assume this isn't about trivial matters."
"Not at all," Melyn promised steadily. "It's about the princess."
A sigh. His eye twitched in annoyance before she could even explain anything. "What of her?"
Melyn was about to say her piece when her gaze swept the scattered reports on the table, brows knitting in immediate concern. "...I thought the southern provinces were the only ones affected. Why are there reports coming from the eastern and northern territories as well?"
Levan's gaze slowly drifted over the papers. He spoke measuredly, "The Blithe is not constrained by geography. What once seemed confined now spreads like a shroud across the kingdom. It seemed the ward set by Caelwyn couldn't hold for long. At most, four or five months."
He listlessly flicked a hand toward the reports, dismissive, but his expression held nothing but disdain. "Ravenmoor," he said. "The village that reportedly 'vanished' six months ago reappeared, though not as it was. The sightings have been peculiar."
Melyn's eyes widened, unease threading through her already concerned facade, watching as Levan raised a sheet between his fingers, punctuating the horror it contained. "And in just twenty-four hours after it reappeared, we've already recorded fifty-seven deaths, eighty more gravely injured with many unlikely to survive."
Melyn's mouth fell open. "The villagers?"
"Either dead, hysterical, or sick. No survivors," he said without hesitation, placing the paper back on the table. "No one remained sane enough to be interrogated."
Melyn clenched her fists. Hearing the report only hardened her resolve even more. She spoke urgently, "Which is why I brought this to you immediately. I think the princess was affected earlier."
That earned a frown from the prince, disbelief flickering across his otherwise calm features. "In mid-day?"
Levan's gaze shifted toward the scattered reports, his mind racing over every detail and every pattern they had collected. The distribution, the timing, the accounts from the past years cases. It only happened on the most vulnerable time of the day, which is after nightfall.
He tapped a finger on the table, voice low but edged with suspicion. "That sounds unlikely. If these incidents follow the same pattern, it shouldn't reach anyone in the middle of the day."
But even as he said that, doubt inevitably bloomed in his chest. His gaze flickered instinctively toward the door. Outside the chamber, a faint whisper curled through the corridors, almost imperceptible, yet enough to make even the prince feel uneasy.