The carriage jolted along the cobblestone path, each bump a cruel reminder of the reality awaiting me. Beyond its walls, the world seemed intact, yet the distant villages pierced my mind like invisible blades: children far too thin, women carrying children who seemed little more than skin stretched over bones, men with shoulders bowed under the weight of hunger. I breathed against the cold wind, trying to contain the disgust, the fury, the fire that coursed through my veins. Every inhale reminded me of the luxury awaiting at the journey's end: the castle, a monument to arrogance and indifference, gleaming, opulent, built upon pain and blood.
For ten days I had languished in a damp, dark cell, where the absence of light and warmth was merely a prelude to the cruelty that awaited. Each night, my thoughts battled despair; hunger was not sudden but a ritual, a habit, punishing every muscle, every bone. I thought of my mother, consumed by the same misery, and felt the fire of rage and impotence burn even hotter.
When the carriage doors opened, I was dragged through the palace corridors. Each step echoed against marble like a drum of judgment. My body still ached from the shackles, the chains that had marked my skin for ten days. The cuts and pressure left scars that burned at every contact with the cold, reminding me constantly of my vulnerability. My mind flared with fury, and each step down the corridor was a battle between the urge to scream and the need to remain intact, if only physically.
The throne room appeared, grand and suffocating. Polished marble columns soared to impossible heights, reflecting the light of crystal chandeliers suspended from the ceiling, each golden candle casting shadows that danced over tapestries depicting tales of distant glories. The floor gleamed like a mirror, polished to excess, emphasizing the contrast between this opulence and the crumbling world outside. The furniture, covered in brocades and gold, with delicate carvings of mythological scenes, almost made me retch. Everything was a spectacle, a lie, a theater. Nothing belonged to truth; nothing acknowledged the hunger, the pain, the life that pulsed beyond these walls.
Soldiers shoved me to the ground before Queen Ravenna. Her perfume, a sickly blend of flowers and power, burned my nostrils and ignited the fury inside me. She looked at me as one observes a disposable piece, measuring my worth only by the effect I could produce. King Thaddeus stood beside her, unmoving, far too still, nothing more than a human ornament, incapable of thought. At that moment, he epitomized all I despised: beauty without essence, power without will.
— Elisabeth Armand — her voice was ice — you will be the teacher of my third son. Refuse, and your younger brother will be sent to the front lines of my personal guard.
I nodded, the anger burning through my skin like invisible fire. Every word she spoke cut not only my pride but also my safety, my principles. I hated her with a force that made me wish to tear each strand of gold from her hair and crush her smile. Yet survival demanded strategy. I was not naive.
The soldiers lifted me and led me to my quarters. Each step hurt: aching muscles, the sores from the shackles throbbing, exhaustion consuming my mind. The servants awaited, ready to prepare my bath. Beth, a woman with a calm demeanor and firm hands, attended me as hot water ran over my marked skin. The pain of water hitting my wounds was nearly unbearable, burning like the memory of the dungeon, yet there was a painful relief, a cleansing that made me close my eyes and draw a deep breath.
While Beth tended my injuries with gentle hands, I observed every detail of the room: deep red velvet curtains, furniture carved with gold, a grand bed with sheets scented with lavender and beeswax. An absurd luxury, an insult. But my anger did not waver; I felt it in every breath, burning like poison beneath my skin. It was fury at the injustice, the exploitation, the lie that a salary, a comfortable room, could redeem the ruin of a life I knew all too well.
When the bath ended, Beth handed me a noble outfit that seemed lifted from impossible dreams. Every fold, every embroidery, every thread exuded wealth and opulence. The delicate lace adorning the bodice, the heavy velvet brushing my skin, the golden ornaments reflecting the candlelight… I had never imagined a human could wear such a thing. I dressed slowly, feeling every texture, every weight, every detail, aware of each movement, each sigh. Seeing myself in the mirror, I felt a mixture of disbelief and rage: the luxury did not erase my pain; it intensified it, reminding me of my position on the Queen's chessboard.
I wandered through the castle, taking in each corridor with the weary eyes of a foreigner, exploring the space like an intruder in the world of the rich and corrupt. Every tapestry seemed to mock me, every ornament laughed at my hunger and misery. I breathed against the weight of hatred, mind ablaze, skin burning with fury.
And then, he appeared.
A young man stood in the corridor as if he were both darkness and light simultaneously. Pale skin, delicate Asian features, cat-like slanted eyes, pupils blue as the deepest ocean, black hair falling in gentle waves across his forehead. Every step was grace, every movement wild and natural. He was a black cat, elegant and dangerous, radiating peril and beauty, and my heart froze in fascination.
My body reacted before my mind: breath caught, heart racing, skin sensitized. I had never seen anything like him. Every detail of him was a living masterpiece, and despite the hatred I felt for the system and monarchy, I could not look away. He was a fallen angel, living desire, burning poison, and the intensity of his presence suffocated my reason.
The world seemed to narrow around him. Each corridor, each tapestry, each chandelier vanished. And I was lost in his image, hypnotized, trembling with a fascination I had never known.
Then, a male voice called down the corridor, clear and firm:
— Yukihiro!
The young man turned. The simple sound of his name shattered the illusion like glass breaking. My heart faltered, my breath caught, and reality hit me like a bucket of ice. He was the third prince. My student. Yukihiro Kael Valenrois.
My body recoiled, and a wave of hatred surged through me: hatred for his perfection, for the way his very being seemed to corrupt everything I believed just and true. The lust and fascination that had consumed me were swiftly replaced by fury. That boy — that young man who was meant to be merely a student — was the living embodiment of the corruption of the system I despised.
And there, in the golden corridor of the palace, I realized that my arrival at the castle would not be merely a mission of instruction. It would be the beginning of a silent, suffocating game, where desire, power, and hatred intertwined in ways impossible to untangle. And I, Elisabeth Armand, hardened, furious, yet still captivated, knew nothing within me would remain intact.