The next morning, Eldenwilde awoke beneath a heavy sun, its light unforgiving, as though the sky itself bore witness to the whispers sweeping the realm.
By then, the palace had erupted in hush terror.
Not just the palace. The kingdom.
A maid had died. Not from age. Not from illness. But from poison.
And on the same day that a foreign proncr had come to offer his hand in marriage to princess Havynlee.
The timing was too cruel, too precise, too cursed. People called it a bad omen.
"It has never happened before," they whispered in the markets. "Not within the palace walls."
A royal proposal should be a day of light. But that day had ended in shadows.
Now, from kitchen hands to noblemen, even to high-ranking officials from Adverland who had arrived with prince Morven – none could deny the dread curling beneath their skin.
Whispered circled:
What if this marriage is cursed?
What if the gods are warning us?
Still, the prince – steadfast, silver-tongued, with eyes that lingered too long on Havynlee – did not waver.
He insisted the union must go forward.
His guards and councillors looked at one another but said nothing. They obeyed. But the doubt remained, sitting between them like fog.
.....
The carriage rolled to a halt beneath the towering arches of Eldenwilde's grand entrance. Havynlee stood still by the windows, her breath catching faintly as she watched the gold-trimmed door open. Out stepped the king of Adverland, adorned in navy and silver, followed by his queen – tall, slender, sharp-eyed – her expression carved in quiet disapproval. The morning light stuck her ivory skin like frost on marble.
She wore green.
A noble green, deep and cold, the shade of pine under snow. Her face was sharp and stern, her jaw clenched tight beneath her veil. And though no words were spoken, Havynlee could feel the cold ripple across the distance.
Havynlee stood draped in her deep crimson corset dress, the velvet fabric clinging to her frame with grace. A ribbon of the same tone laced the back, tied in a cross of elegance and restraint. Her hair was drawn into a soft upsold by Lia's skilled hands, with strands left loose enough to frame her face in gentle, wistful curves. Lia had chosen a natural palette for her makeup – rosy lips, flushed cheeks, and warm, muted tones that echoed the softness of her spirit...and disguised the weight she now bore in silence.
The queen….prince Morven's mother.
She did not smile. Not once. Havynlee noticed it.
Even before Lia entered her chamber with soft steps, Havynlee had already drawn her conclusions.
"They're here," Lia said.
She paused by the door, a slight stiffness in her voice. "Prince Morven's parents."
Havynlee didn't move.
Lia's voice remained soft as she glanced towards the window. "Her majesty did not seem pleased," she said, then added with a faint, hopeful smile. "But surely, once she meets you…..she will come to admire you, as all do."
Down in the hallway, Iridessa footsteps echoed harshly as she approached Ivy's room. Behind closed doors, voices rose.
"She was meant to drink it!" Ivy snapped, pacing. Her gold-trimmed slippers dragged against the rug. "That maid was our most trusted. She measures the poison exactly – I watched her prepare it…. I saw Lia carry the tray!"
Iridessa sat, expression tight. "The explain how our maud lies cold in the set shed quarters, her lips blackened and frothing like a beast."
"I don't know!" Ivy hissed. "But something is wrong. That girl….she didn't drink it. I know she didn't. Her eyes she looked at me during the meal like she knew."
"Don't be foolish."
"I'm not!" Ivy's eyes blazed. "Lia's hand trembled the whole time. And she looked at Havynlee like she was seeing something else. And now that prince….he still wants to marry her? After this?"
"She's bewitched him," Iridessa said coldly. "Just like her mother bewitched the king."
Ivy looked at her mother, unease creeping into their bones. "What if it wasn't Lia? What if it wasn't anyone?"
She froze. A beat passed. "You think it is true, don't you?" She whispered. "About Seraphielle."
"Don't speak that name in my presence," Iridessa gritted her teeth.
"Why mother?!" Ivy snapped. "Nothing makes sense anymore. When the prince arrived, when the screams came, she didn't flinch. She just stood there like….."
"Like what?" The queen demanded.
"Like she knew."
A knock came at the door, fast, eager, and annoyingly familiar.
Queen Iridessa exchanged a look with Ivy, who just sat by the mirror, adjusting a pearl pin in her hair.
"That knock," Ivy said flatly. "It's Mila."
"Let her in," Iridessa sighed. "Quickly, before she scratches the paint off the door."
The door creaked open, and in slipped Mila – breathless as always, her apron slightly crooked.
Mila is the nosy, gossip-hungry, town-crier – type maid – always watching, always meddling, always the first to spread palace secrets.
"My queen. My lady Ivy," she curtsied – rushed, sloppy, more for show than respect.
"You were not summoned," Iridessa said cooly.
"I know, I know, forgive my intrusion. But I thought you should know…..the king and the queen of Adverland just passed through the palace gates."
Ivy straightened, turning swiftly. "Already?"
Mila nodded eagerly, eyes glinting with the kind of delight only palace gossip could birth. "The queen…..she didn't look pleased. She barely looked at anyone. Just stepped down in her green robes with a scowl like thunderclouds. I heard she barely smiled. Didn't even greet the guards properly.
Ivy frowned, taken aback. "What?"
"That one didn't look pleased. She scanned the palace walls like she was searching for dirt." Mila continued, strutting further in the room like she lived there.
"Mila," queen Iridessa said sharply, though not unkindly, "breathe."
"Oh, I'm breathing, your majesty," Mila said, lifting her chin, "but the palace isn't. Word's already out. Everyone's whispering that this union is cursed. A maid drops dead the moment a prince proposes? Bad omen."
Iridessa's arched brow lifted, but her tone stayed cool. "That's enough, Mila. You may go."
Mila bowed, biting back the urge to say more. She lingered for a second too – long – perhaps hoping for another morsel of gossip – before shuffling out of the room like an unwanted shadow."
Once the door clicked shut, the air in the room changed. Ivy turned back toward her mother, her expression shifting from curiosity to calculation.
"She looked displeased?" Ivy echoed softly, more to herself than anyone else.
Iridessa approached Ivy's grand wardrobe. She pulled it open with a decisive sweep, revealing rows of gowns in jewel tones – gowns meant to impress, seduce, and conquer.
"Of course she's displeased," the queen said, running her fingers over the silks. "Her son – her heir – came to propose to a girl born of a maid. A commoner draped in royal silk."
Ivy's gaze darkened slightly, "she doesn't even know about the poison. About the maid who died."
"Shhh. No one knows about the poison, and they'll never find out." She turned to Ivy, holding up a sapphire gown with golden embroidery that shimmered like candlelight. "You'll be the one to tell her."
There was a pause – measured and thick with meaning.
Ivy's lips curved, "I thought you'd say that."
"You'll find a moment," Iridessa said smoothly.
"Some private exchange. A word slipped between greetings. Just enough to plant doubt, not too much to seem desperate."
"She will believe me."
"She will," Iridessa confirmed, stepping closer. "Because you're of royal blood. You have the bearing. The name. The legacy. And most importantly, you're not her. You're not Havynlee."
Ivy said nothing, but the corner of her mouth twitched.
"Wear your best dress," Iridessa added, handling her the dress. "The one that makes you look untouchable. Regal. Like the future she wants for her son."
"She'll see me and remember what a Queen-in-waiting is meant to look like."
Iridessa smirked faintly, "exactly."
Ivy walked to the mirror and held the gown up against her frame. The deep blue flattered her pale skin, and the golden threads caught the dim light like fireflies in moonlight.
"She'll adore you," Iridessa said, her voice low and velvety.
"You'll speak gently. Nothing harsh. Just a whisper of concern. The kind of concern only someone who cares would express."
"A proposal should never be shadowed by death," Ivy rehearsed softly, watching herself in the mirror. "Is that not a sign from the heavens, your majesty?"
"Precisely," Iridessa whispered, proud.
Ivy turned back to her mother, the dress still pressed against her chest.
"And Morven?" She asked. "Will he not be angered?"
"He listens to his mother," Iridessa replied. "And she will listen to you."
There was silence again, but it no longer felt empty. It felt loaded, like a still lake before a storm.
"I will do it," Ivy said finally, her voice laced with quiet ambition. "By the end of the day, I'll have her heart. And once I have hers, Morven will follow."
"Yes, she will," Iridessa said simply. "A queen will always choose legacy over sentiment."