"Lady Laporte?" one of the guards asked, turning back toward her.
"Nothing," Beatrice said quickly. "I'm fine."
It was a lie. Her pulse was hammering so hard she could feel it in her throat.
She followed them in silence through several more turns and a long hallway trimmed in gold, until they finally reached a set of grand double doors at the end of the corridor. The doors were carved from dark polished wood — roses blooming across the panels, phoenix wings spreading wide at the center, every detail chiseled with extraordinary care.
One guard knocked firmly.
Silence.
He knocked again.
Still nothing.
"Her Majesty must truly be in the throne room," he said, bowing his head slightly. "Please make yourself comfortable inside, Lady Laporte. We'll remain stationed here until she returns."
He pushed the doors open for her.
Beatrice stepped inside.
The Empress's chamber was stunning.
Soft pastel drapes hung from ceiling to floor, catching the light in gentle waves of cream and blush. The air was warm with the scent of rare incense — something sweet and woody that Beatrice couldn't quite name. Every piece of furniture was upholstered in rich fabric embroidered with fine patterns: tiny flowers, winding vines, golden threads so delicate they looked like they'd been painted on by hand.
Only empresses had ever lived within these walls. The room made sure you knew it.
But Beatrice barely took any of it in.
Her attention had been pulled — almost magnetically — to the far left side of the room, where a large, heavy book rested on a display stand.
She crossed to it slowly.
The cover alone was remarkable. Two golden lions with wings stood on either side of a royal crown, their postures proud and watchful, encircled by a ring of carved stars. Every line was crisp, every detail deliberate. It was the royal crest of the Avelangia Empire — and whoever had crafted this cover had clearly poured everything they had into it.
Beatrice picked it up carefully and carried it to a nearby chair.
It was the full history of Avelangia — or at least, it was supposed to be. From the empire's founding to its current rulers, every chapter, every reign, every great event was documented within its pages.
She began to read.
But something nagged at her. A quiet, persistent feeling she couldn't shake.
Something is missing.
She flipped through the pages more carefully this time, running her eyes along the edges, the chapters, the transitions between sections. And then she saw it.
A gap.
Several pages in one particular section had been removed. Not torn roughly or hastily — cut cleanly, so neatly that you'd miss it entirely at a casual glance. The seam was almost invisible. Someone had gone to great lengths to make the removal look like nothing had ever been there at all.
As if they wanted to erase a piece of history entirely.
Beatrice frowned, leaning closer.
Who would do this? And why?
....Beatrice.
She shot to her feet.
The book tumbled from her hands and hit the floor with a heavy thud. Her heart lurched violently. She spun around, eyes sweeping every corner of the room.
No one.
"W-who's there?" she breathed.
Silence answered her.
Then, softer this time — almost tender:
"My Beatrice…."
Her throat tightened. "Who — who are you?"
Nothing. No response. The voice had gone as suddenly as it had come, leaving only the sound of her own ragged breathing and the frantic rhythm of her heartbeat filling the quiet room.
Beatrice pressed a hand to her chest and forced herself to breathe slowly. In. Out. You're imagining things. But even as she thought it, she knew it wasn't true. The voice had been real. She'd felt it as much as heard it — warm and achingly familiar in a way she couldn't explain.
She knelt to pick up the fallen book.
And stopped.
The page it had fallen open to was different from the one she'd been reading. She hadn't touched it. There was no breeze, no open window, no one else in the room.
But the page had turned on its own.
She picked the book up slowly, hands unsteady, and looked at the newly exposed page.
It was blank.
Completely blank.
Except for one small detail: a single ink blot near the center of the page, dark and wet — glistening as though a quill had touched it only seconds ago.
Beatrice stared at it.
Her mouth had gone completely dry.
....Beatrice.
This time the voice didn't come from any one direction. It seemed to come from everywhere at once — from the walls, the floor, the air itself. As if the room was the one speaking.
She spun around sharply, skirts swirling.
Nothing. The incense smoke curled upward in a slow, undisturbed spiral. Every cushion, every drape, every piece of furniture sat exactly as it had been. Still. Untouched. Silent.
"I know that voice," she whispered without meaning to.
Her hand rose slowly to press against her chest, right over her heart.
"Why do I feel like I know you?"
She took one careful step toward the center of the room.
The floor trembled.
Just once. Just barely — a soft, brief shiver that moved through the marble under her feet and disappeared just as quickly. She looked around for the source. An explanation. Anything.
But everything had settled back to normal, as though none of it had happened. As if the voice and the tremor and the impossible ink blot had all been nothing more than tricks of an exhausted, overwrought mind.
Except that her hands were still shaking. And her heart was still racing.
Beatrice stood in the center of the room, taking slow and deliberate breaths. Calm down. Compose yourself.
"Welcome back, Your Majesty."
The voice came from just outside the doors — one of the guards, his tone respectful and formal. She heard the metallic sound of armor shifting as they bowed.
Beatrice went still.
A moment later, measured footsteps approached from the corridor outside. They were unhurried, composed, and carried a quiet authority that was impossible to mistake.
The incense smoke drifted toward the entrance as if the room itself was greeting its mistress.
The double doors swung open.
Empress Isabella von Devereux stepped inside.
She was tall and graceful, draped in flowing gold silk that shimmered with every movement like sunlight on water. Her dark hair was pinned back with quiet elegance, and her features were refined and striking — the kind of beauty that had aged into something sharper and more commanding than simple prettiness. Her eyes were jade green with faint flecks of brown, and they were, at this moment, completely calm.
Until they landed on Beatrice.
Something changed in her expression — fast, and almost imperceptible. Her polished smile appeared as expected, but behind it was something else entirely. Something knowing. Something careful.
"Lady Laporte," she said, her voice smooth and warm as honey poured over stone. "You look rather pale. Did something happen while you were waiting?"
"No — no, Your Majesty." Beatrice forced a light smile and steadied her voice. "I was simply absorbed in reading. The history of the empire is quite fascinating."
A half-truth wrapped around a lie.
She couldn't very well tell an empress she'd been frightened by a disembodied voice whispering her name in an empty room. She'd sound unhinged.
"The history of the empire," Empress Isabella repeated slowly.
Her eyes moved from Beatrice's face to the book still held in Beatrice's hands — and something in her gaze sharpened. It was a subtle shift, like a teacher who has just spotted something she wasn't meant to see, but who has no intention of letting on just yet.
She studied Beatrice the way one studies a puzzle they've seen before.
"How interesting," the Empress said softly.
And she smiled.