The pearl moon hung heavy over the lake, casting June and Wilson in a silver glow. But in Windmere, the moonlight was cold, falling harshly on the stone floors of the royal wing.
Isabelle entered her chambers, her movements sharp and precise. She walked to her vanity, but before she began to unbraid her hair, her eyes caught the corner of a small, intricately carved wooden box sitting on the table. It hadn't been there this morning.
She didn't open it. She didn't hesitate. With a swift, sweeping motion, she grabbed the box and tossed it underneath the large four-poster bed, sliding it deep into the shadows where the light didn't reach. She stood up, smoothed her skirts, and walked out of the room as if nothing had happened, leaving the box to gather dust in the dark.
In the King's study, the fire had burned low, casting long shadows against the bookshelves. Colden sat behind his desk, his head in his hands. The trade disputes with Clamptous and the Western Nations were escalating. The treaty was a mess, and every passing hour saw Windmere losing ground.
Francis stood by the window, looking out into the night. He turned, his face grave.
"There is someone who could help with settling these disputes with Clamptous," Francis said quietly.
Colden looked up, hopeful. "Who?"
Francis shifted uncomfortably. "He is... a man of particular talents. No one would know about debauchery, secrets, and backdoor dealings more than him. If Clamptous is playing dirty, this man knows where the bodies are buried, metaphorically and perhaps literally."
"Then arrange a meeting with him," Colden said, standing up. "Immediately."
Francis held up a hand, shaking his head vigorously. "Oh god, no. He can't ever come here. He is... sketchy. His presence in Windmere would cause a scandal that would make the coronation look like a tea party. He operates in the shadows. If we want his help, I think it would be good if we go there and talk about it."
Colden frowned. "Go there? Where is he stationed?"
Francis took a deep breath, his chest tightening. He looked at Colden, seeing the scar on the boy's heart that had barely begun to scab over.
"Velloria," Francis said softly.
The word fell like a hammer in the silent room. Colden went rigid. Velloria. The place of forced engagements, of jeering crowds, of running and hiding. The place where he had almost lost Marco.
"Velloria," Colden repeated, his voice hollow. He sat back down slowly, the memory of that city choking him. Speechless.
Upstairs, the bedroom was dark. Marco stirred, the heavy fog of sleep lifting from his mind. He had been running in his dreams again, running from ghosts that wouldn't stop screaming.
His eyes fluttered open. The first thing he saw wasn't a ghost. It was Colden.
The King was sitting on the edge of the bed, still in his formal tunic, his face illuminated by the moonlight. He wasn't sleeping. He was just watching Marco, his expression unreadable, a mix of love and terrifying seriousness.
Marco sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He felt a shift in the air, a heaviness that hadn't been there when he closed his eyes.
"Colden?" Marco whispered, his voice hoarse. "What is it?"
Colden didn't reach out to touch him. He didn't smile. He just looked Marco dead in the eye.
"We need to talk," Colden said.
To be continued....