Camilla stood in the doorway, her face pale but her back straight.
The humid air from the chamber, thick with steam and the cloying scent of oils, curled around her like an unwelcome touch. She ignored it, her focus narrowing to the scene before her: the three nude women, their skin glistening, and him—Tenebrarum—reclined and unmoving in their midst.
"Leave us," she told the women. The command was clear, though her voice trembled only slightly, betraying the storm of humiliation and fury tightening her throat.
Tenebrarum didn't even open his eyes. "You overstep, princess."
The low rumble of his voice cut through the haze. The women, caught between the order and his lack of one, hesitated, their movements stilling.
"Do I?" Camilla stepped closer, the damp tile cold beneath her slippers. Her gaze, sharp and unwavering, fixed on the unyielding gold of his masked face. "Or am I simply reminding you that I am still here?"
The ladies paused, their eyes shifting to her. One of them still had traces of a white substance at the corner of her lips. The sight sent a fresh, acidic wave of disgust through Camilla's chest.
"I said leave!"
Her voice ragged out this time, raw and sharp enough to crack the tense atmosphere. It held the edge of a scream barely contained. The women moved instinctively then, scrambling with a rustle of limbs and a shuffle of bare feet, flowing past her out of the chamber without a backward glance. The heavy door sighed shut behind them, leaving a silence that felt louder than their presence.
In the new quiet, the only sounds were the soft drip of water from the ceiling and the ragged pull of Camilla's own breath.
Tenebrarum finally moved. He turned his head, his movements languid and unconcerned, as if she were a minor distraction. He reached for the linen towel discarded nearby and drew it across his lap, covering his nakedness with a slow, deliberate motion that felt like another dismissal.
"Yes," he said, his voice a flat, chilling monotone. "You should leave too."
The finality in his tone was a blade. It cleaved through the last of her composure.
"Why do you break me so much, Tenebrarum?" The words spilt out, soft and shattered. She took another step into the room, the steam clinging to her gown. "I love you. First it's with Aurelia… and now with these cheap whores."
"Love," he repeated, the word hollow. "Is that what you call it?"
"What else should I call it?" Her voice broke. The sound was small, fractured, lost in the humid air. "I am your betrothed. I have waited. I have endured your silence, your cruelty, your… distractions." Her eyes flickered down to the damp tiles where one of the women had knelt moments before, a phantom outline of submission still pressed into the gleaming stone. "But this—"
"This is not about you, Camilla."
"It is always about me!" she cried, the sound suddenly sharp, echoing off the wet walls of the hollow room. "Every time you take another to your bed, every time you let another woman's hands roam your skin, it is a message. To her, to them, to the whispering court. That I am nothing. That our union means nothing."
Tenebrarum took a single step toward her. She did not retreat, but her knuckles bleached white where they gripped the carved wood of the doorframe, her only anchor in the rising steam.
"Our union," he said slowly, each word measured and cold, "is a contract. Written in ink, not in blood. Do not confuse politics with passion."
"And Aurelia?" The name tore from her, sharp as shattering glass. She hurled it like a weapon. "Is she politics too? Or is she passion?"
For the first time, he went utterly still. Not the lazy stillness of boredom, but the coiled, watchful stillness of a predator whose territory has been named. The steam seemed to pause around him.
"Aurelia," he said, the name a quiet, absolute decree in the dripping silence, "is mine."
The words were not loud, but they landed like a physical blow. Camilla felt them like a slap, the possessive finality of them stealing the air from her lungs.
"Yours," she whispered, the word ash in her mouth. "And what am I?"
He looked at her then—really looked—and she searched the visible gold of his face, the unyielding line of his jaw below the mask, for any warmth, any pity.
But found nothing. Only a chill, assessing gaze, as if she were a ledger entry to be reviewed.
"You are the future queen," he stated, his voice devoid of inflection. "That is all you need to be."
The words hung in the damp air, an unyielding decree that sliced through the last of her delusions.
A single tear, hot and humiliating, traced a path down the cool plane of her cheek. She did not wipe it away. Let it fall. Let him see the tangible proof of the desolation he wrought.
"I could make you happy," she said, but the words sounded feeble, childish, even to her own ears.
Desperation propelled her forward.
Closing the small distance between them, her hand rising, trembling, to touch the cold, ornate gold of his mask. "If you let me. If you stopped chasing that stupid girl, stop caring for that nobody."
His head tilted slightly, a minute movement that pushed her hand away without any real force, yet it felt like a rejection of monumental violence. "You think that's what this was?" he asked, a dangerous softness in his tone. "Caring for her?"
"I know it was."
He let out a low breath—a sound that was almost a laugh but held no humor, only a profound, weary contempt. "Then you understand nothing."
He moved then, past her, toward the door. His shoulder brushed against hers—a casual, incidental contact that felt like a devastating dismissal, an erasure. He was leaving, and her confrontation was already a forgotten echo in the steam.
"Tenebrarum."
He paused. Just a little. Just a hesitation in his stride, but she clung to it.
"If you shame me again," Camilla said, her voice trembling but carving each word with glacial clarity, "I will not weep in silence. I have allies. My family's name is older and darker than you think. Remember, Prince. You wear the circlet, but you are not yet king." She let the reminder hang, a blade balanced on the edge of obedience and rebellion. "And I will remind you—and everyone else in this gilded court—exactly what that means."
He glanced back. For a second, through the slits of the mask, she thought she saw something flicker in his eyes. Not affection. Not fear.
Interest.
"Is that a threat, Camilla?" His voice was a low rumble, a cold whisper in the vapor.
"No," she said, meeting that hidden gaze without flinching. "It is a promise."
He held her gaze for a long, silent moment, the damp air thickening between them. Then he gave a faint, almost imperceptible nod.
"Good."
And then he was gone.
The heavy door sealed shut behind him with a final, hollow sound that seemed to swallow the last of the steam's warmth.
Camilla stood motionless in the center of the chamber, the ghostly imprint of his shoulder against hers still burning through the fabric of her gown.
The air was thick, stagnant. It carried the fading scent of exotic oils, of sweat, of sex. Of her defeat.
A single, traitorous tear had traced a path to her chin. She let it fall.
Let it hit the damp tile at her feet, a tiny, soundless surrender.
Then, she took a breath—deep, slow, deliberate—pulling the humid air into her lungs until they ached. She held it, feeling the frantic flutter of her heart against her ribs. And then she released it, exhaling the tremor, the panic, the raw, weeping girl she had almost been.
Her gaze swept the room. The discarded towels. The wet footprints leading to the door. The spot on the floor where the hallot had knelt.
Aurelia is mine.
The words echoed, not as a wound now, but as a revelation. A line drawn in stone.
He had claimed a stray, a violet-eyed shadow, with a possession he had never once offered her. He had given that creature his obsession, and left his future queen with a contract.
A slow, cold clarity settled over her, crystallizing in the silence. Love was a weakness. She had offered it freely, and he had used it to break her.
NO MORE!
Her hand rose, not to wipe away any remaining tears, but to smooth the front of her gown.
She straightened the embroidered collar, ran her palms down the rich fabric, erasing the wrinkles of distress. Each motion was precise, controlled.
She turned and walked toward the door. Her steps were measured, her posture regal. The soft slap of her slippers on the wet tile was the only sound, a quiet metronome marking her transformation.
As she reached for the handle, her eyes caught her reflection in a polished bronze basin. Pale face, sharp eyes, a mouth set in a hard, uncompromising line.
Not the face of a heartbroken girl. The face of a princess who had just learned the true nature of her court.
Power was not given. It was taken. And alliances were not forged in love, but in mutual interest.
She opened the door and stepped into the cooler air of the corridor, leaving the steam and the shame behind.
The hall was empty, but she felt the unseen eyes of the palace, always watching.
Let them watch.
She lifted her chin higher and began the long walk back to her apartments. Every step was a declaration, a silent vow etched into the very stone beneath her feet.
You want a queen, Tenebrarum? she thought, the ghost of a cold smile touching her lips.
You will get one.
And you will learn that thrones built on sand can still draw blood.
----------------------------------
To be continued...