Velloria was a city holding its breath, unaware that the storm was not coming from the skies, but from within its own walls. At the Everhart Mansion, the silence of the night was shattered by the heavy groan of iron hinges.
Jesta stood at the top of the basement stairs. The darkness below seemed to pulse, a living thing waiting to be fed. She glanced back at the corridor. The guards she had passed were slumped against the walls, their necks twisted at odd angles, their chests still. She had killed every single one of the misters of the royals on her way down. She was efficient, silent, and deadly—a wolf in the skin of a maid.
She descended the stairs, her boots making no sound on the damp stone. At the very bottom, in the darkest cell, a figure sat chained to the wall.
Arthur looked up. His face was bruised, his clothes tattered, but his eyes were sharp. When he saw Jesta, he smiled—a crooked, tired smile.
"Took you long enough," Arthur rasped.
He lifted his arms, the heavy iron shackles clanking together. He showed them to her, expectant. "Well? Are you going to break them?"
Jesta didn't move immediately. She stood just out of reach, her hand hovering over the lockpicks in her pocket. She looked at him, her expression unreadable. She signaled him to wait.
She gave him a sweet, chilling smile. "Can't you wait longer, honey? I'm setting up something."
Arthur frowned. He watched her hand drift not to the lock, but to the fold of her apron.
Suddenly, a metallic clatter echoed through the cell. A knife—the one she had brought to pick the lock—slipped from her fingers and clattered onto the stone floor between them.
Arthur's instincts flared. The fall wasn't an accident. It was a bait.
He lunged forward, his chains rattling, reaching for the blade to defend himself. But Jesta was faster. With a swift, violent motion, she flipped the front of her apron. It wasn't fabric underneath; it was a leather harness strapped with a variety of knives, gleaming in the dim light.
She drew a long, slender dagger and pointed it at Arthur's throat as he scrambled for the fallen knife.
"Remember me?" she whispered, her voice laced with venom. "Or at least... some of me?"
Arthur froze, his hand inches from the blade. He looked up at her, his eyes narrowing. He saw the shape of her jaw, the color of her eyes. A ghost from the past flickered in his memory.
"Who are you?" he asked, his voice low.
She tilted her head, the firelight casting harsh shadows on her face. She spoke one word, a name that hit Arthur like a physical blow.
"Ramni."
Arthur stopped breathing. The air left the room. Ramni. The girl from the village, the one who had smiled too much, the one who had screamed too loud.
"Ramni," Arthur whispered, the name tasting like ash. "The girl who took her own life..."
He looked at Jesta, realization dawning on him. He sighed, shaking his head as if he were tired of ghosts returning to haunt him. "Oh, well. Are you her daughter or something?"
Jesta didn't flinch. She gave him a look that spanned a century, a look of pure, inherited hatred.
"I am not the daughter," she said coldly. "I am the sister."
She pressed the dagger forward, the tip pricking the skin of his neck. "Why did you kill her?"
Arthur chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. He didn't deny it. "Protecting myself. Because I had to. It's like a thing you don't know, little girl."
With a sudden burst of strength, Arthur grabbed her wrist, twisting it. He slammed her against the wall, pinning her. He managed to wrestle the knife from her grip, turning the blade toward her.
But Jesta was a soldier. She brought her knee up with violent force, kicking him squarely in the groin. Arthur gasped, his grip loosening, staggering back.
"What do you mean?" she screamed, tears mixing with the dust on her face. "What do you mean you 'had to'?"
Arthur coughed, straightening up, the knife now in his hand. He looked at her with a cold, detached pity.
"Well," he sneered. "I had to impress the seniors with her. She was quite the beautiful lady, your sister. Perfect for the job. But then suddenly... she started saying she had a child. Or something. A complication. A loose end."
Jesta stared at him, her eyes wide. The tears spilled over, hot and fast.
Arthur saw the devastation in her eyes. He saw the moment she realized her sister hadn't just been a victim—she had been a mother. He saw the weakness.
He didn't hesitate.
Arthur surged forward, driving the knife into her chest. Jesta gasped, a wet, choking sound. She slumped against him, the light fading from her eyes.
Arthur caught her body, lowering it to the ground. He was a little shocked—the ease of it, the sudden stillness. But he had no time for guilt.
He stepped over her body, the shackles still dangling from his wrists. He had to get out of there. The basement door was open. The guards were dead.
And now, he was free.
To be continued.