Chapter 8

A throbbing pain lanced through Aurelia's head, pulling her back from the oblivion of unconsciousness. She gasped, blinking against the unfamiliar sight that greeted her. Gone were the austere surroundings of her aunt's manor. Instead, she found herself sprawled on a large, plush bed, flickering candles casting a glow against the room, the sun sinking down the horizon did little to lit up the room

Discomfort shot through her limbs as she attempted to sit up, a groan escaping her lips. Fragmented memories flickered back – the masquerade ball, the arrogant man, the horrifying realization that he wasn't the King… then, a terrifying fall. Panic surged through her as she remembered escaping through the window.

Where was she? This wasn't her room, not even close. The luxurious furnishings whispered of wealth and power, a stark contrast to her room in her aunt's manor. Fear and a gnawing sense of unease gnawed at her.

A wave of nausea washed over her, and she closed her eyes, willing it to pass. When she opened them again, a horrifying realization dawned on her. The events of the night before came rushing back in a torrent – her mission, the deception, the wrong target, the blood on her hands.

She had failed. Not only had she not killed the King, but she had stained her hands with the blood of an innocent man. Shame, heavy and suffocating, coiled around her heart. What would her aunt say? What would anyone say? Her sole purpose, her driving force for months, reduced to ashes in a single, disastrous night.

Gathering her wits, she surveyed her surroundings. A soft rug, thick enough to sink her bare feet into, stretched across the floor. The large window, draped in its elegant blue attire, offered a glimpse of manicured gardens bathed in the sinking sun ethereal glow. A stark contrast to the turmoil within her.

The creak of the door sent a jolt through her. Two young women, their faces etched with surprise, stood framed in the doorway. They were dressed in simple yet clean gowns, clearly identifiable as servants.

"My Lady," they bowed low, their voices laced with a hint of awe. "His Majesty, the King, has requested that we assist you in preparing for the night."

Aurelia's breath hitched. The King? She was in the very heart of the enemy's castle, a captive in the gilded cage of the man she had sworn to kill. A dark humor bubbled up within her, a desperate laugh escaping her lips. Here she was, under the same roof as the man who had destroyed her life. She, the would-be assassin, was being treated as a guest.

The absurdity of it all threatened to overwhelm her. A million questions clamored for answers – how did she end up here? Who had brought her in? Surely, the guards searching for the "murderer" wouldn't have placed her in such luxurious quarters.

The two servants, their pale faces now tinged with concern, exchanged a worried glance. Aurelia, sensing their discomfort, decided to hold off on questioning them. The answers, she knew, would come sooner or later.

One of the maids began preparing a bath, her movements gentle and efficient. The other moved to assist Aurelia with the ruined green gown, the emerald fabric a stark reminder of the disastrous night before. As they helped her out ov the dress, Aurelia stole a glance at her reflection in the polished surface of a nearby dresser. Her eyes, usually filled with a fiery determination, were now clouded with pain and confusion.

Aurelia sank deeper into the lukewarm water, the steam swirling around her like a shroud. Her eyes, devoid of their usual spark, stared sightlessly at the opposite wall. Each splash of water against her skin sent a fresh jolt of pain through her already battered body. The maids, moving with a practiced efficiency, scrubbed away the remnants of the night's events – the grime from the frantic escape, the cloying scent of the gardens. But no amount of scrubbing could cleanse the guilt that clung to her like a second skin.

Their ministrations, though gentle, only added another layer of discomfort. Here she was, being pampered by the servants of the man she had intended to kill, a stark contrast to the image of the vengeful assassin she envisioned herself as.

A choked sob escaped her lips, barely audible above the soft murmur of the servants. Shame burned in her throat, acrid and bitter. She had failed. Not only had she failed to kill the King, she had become a prisoner in his own castle, her carefully laid plans crumbling around her like dust.

The younger maid, sensing her distress, hesitated, her hand hovering over the washcloth. But before she could offer any words of comfort, the older maid shot her a sharp glance, a silent command to continue.

Aurelia closed her eyes, shutting out the world and the unwelcome touch. Images flickered behind her eyelids – the masquerade ball, the smug face of Lord Arnold, the sickening plunge from the window. Each image fueled a fresh wave of despair and a simmering rage.

The water grew cold, the steam dissipating, but Aurelia remained submerged, a lone island of despair in a sea of unwanted luxury. The silence stretched, broken only by the gentle lapping of the water and the faint rustle of fabric as the maids continued their work.

Finally, with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world, Aurelia emerged from the bath. The maids draped a soft white towel around her.

Wrapped in the towel, she stood before the mirror, her reflection a pale ghost of the fiery girl she once was. Her emerald eyes, usually filled with determination, were dull with exhaustion and defeat. The weight of her predicament bore down on her, a suffocating cloak that threatened to steal her breath.

But amidst the despair, a tiny ember of defiance flickered. She wouldn't give up. She couldn't. Her parents deserved justice, and she wouldn't let her mission end in this gilded cage.

As the maids dressed her in a simple yet elegant gown, Aurelia formulated a new plan, a desperate gamble born from the ashes of her previous failure.

---------------------------------------------------

The sun bled onto the horizon, painting the sky with streaks of orange and purple. Its fading light barely penetrated the thick stone walls of the castle, leaving the hallways cloaked in shadow. But the silence was abruptly shattered by the frantic pounding of footsteps.

The double doors of the grand hall burst open, revealing a tall, broad-shouldered figure. His silhouette was stark against the dying embers in the massive fireplace, flames dancing in his golden eyes and casting flickering shadows on his face. Sir Rayden, the King's ever-persistent courtier, stumbled through the doorway, gasping for breath.

A stoic figure, Malcolm the butler, stood a few paces from the fireplace, his face as impassive as ever. His mid-sentence recitation of a scroll was cut short by the frantic arrival. A third man, Lord Leviathan, Lord over the South, sat languidly on a plush armchair, absently twirling a dagger in his hand, a sardonic smile playing on his lips.

Malcolm, ever the picture of composure, cleared his throat. "Your Majesty," he announced, his voice a low rumble.

Sir Rayden, finally catching his breath, bowed so deeply his head nearly touched the floor. "Your Majesty," he wheezed out, "is it… is it true? About Lord Arnold?"

Samael remained silent, his gaze fixed on the dying flames. A flicker of something, amusement perhaps, crossed his features.

Rayden continued, his voice trembling slightly. "Such a terrible loss, Your Majesty. Especially during the first ball you've hosted in years. A bad omen, some are saying." He paused, then blurted out, "Have they apprehended the… the murderer?"

A hint of a smile played on Samael's lips, a chilling echo of the firelight in his eyes. The "murderer," with eyes the emerald green who hadn't failed to amuse him in the ball, was currently a guest in his castle, unaware of the storm brewing around her.

Lord Leviathan, ever the opportunist spoke "Apprehended," he drawled, his voice laced with amusement. He didn't elaborate further, leaving a tantalizing hint of mystery and curiousity hanging in the air.

Sir Rayden, never one to miss a chance for advancement, turned to Samael. "With Lord Arnold gone, Your Majesty," he began, his voice dripping with false sincerity, "a position of great responsibility has opened up. The East needs a strong, loyal leader, perhaps…"

Rayden's words were cut short by Leviathan's sardonic chuckle. "Perhaps," he interjected, his voice laced with amusement, "in your wildest dreams, Rayden."

This was a familiar dance, a desperate plea for a Lordship Rayden had coveted for years. Lord Leviathan, however, had always enjoyed dashing his hopes with a witty remark or a cryptic comment from Samael.

Samael, meanwhile, obvious to Rayden's veiled ambition. He leaned back against the mantle, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous light. "The East," he murmured, his voice low, "Yes, the East will need a new Lord. But who is worthy of such a burden, hmm, Rayden? Someone with… experience, perhaps? Someone whose loyalty is beyond question?"

Rayden puffed up his chest, a flicker of hope igniting in his eyes. He opened his mouth, ready to launch into a self-serving tirade about his unwavering devotion, but Samael cut him off with a sharp gesture.

"Or perhaps," Samael continued "someone with a thirst for knowledge, someone who might benefit from a few… tests."

A tense silence descended upon the room. Rayden's face flushed with a mix of anger and confusion. Leviathan watched with a smirk, clearly enjoying the King's game. Samael, his golden eyes glinting with an unknown emotion, turned his gaze back to the fire.

Rayden, his ambitions momentarily deflated, cleared his throat again. "Your Majesty," he stammered, a touch of desperation edging into his voice, "there have been… whispers… among the servants."

Samael tilted his head, a silent invitation for Rayden to elaborate.

"It seems," Rayden continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "there is a… a female guest… residing in the castle." His eyes darted around the room, searching for any sign of reaction.

Leviathan snorted, a single, dismissive sound. "A guest, Rayden," he drawled, his voice laced with amusement. "The King is permitted such luxuries, wouldn't you agree?"

Rayden's face flushed. He wasn't stupid. Leviathan's casual dismissal was a clear message – the guest was none of his concern. "Of course, Your Majesty," he stammered, backtracking. "Forgive me, I didn't mean to pry."

A tense silence settled in the room once more. Samael remained silent, his gaze fixed on the dancing flames. Rayden, sensing his dismissal, bowed low. "If there's nothing further, Your Majesty…"

"There is," Samael interrupted, his voice sharp as a whip. "Discretion, Rayden. A quality you seem to be lacking."

Rayden's face paled. He bowed again, deeper this time, and practically scurried out of the room. The door slammed shut behind him, leaving an uncomfortable silence in its wake.

Leviathan chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "Always the inquisitive one, isn't he?"

Samael's eyes narrowed as he finally addressed Malcolm, the stoic butler standing ramrod straight beside the hearth. "And my guest, Malcolm," he began, "how fares she? Any… attempts at escape?"

Malcolm, the very picture of composure, met the King's gaze unflinchingly. "No, Your Majesty," he replied, his voice devoid of emotion. "She has settled in comfortably." A barely perceptible pause followed. "I have instructed the maidservants to prepare her for the evening meal."

Both Leviathan and Malcolm exchanged a fleeting glance. The absurdity of the situation hung heavy in the air. A guest, no less, after murdering a Lord? Treating her nicely, even preparing her for dinner with the King? It defied all logic, yet here they were, witnessing it unfold.

Leviathan cleared his throat, a sardonic smile playing on his lips. "A bold move, Your Majesty," he ventured, his voice dripping with amusement. "Inviting a murderer to dine at your table. Most would opt for the dungeon."

Samael's lips twitched at the corners, a flicker of something akin to a challenge crossing his features. "Hmm," he hummed, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames, "the guest is more… interesting than a simple dungeon visit allows for."

He turned back to Malcolm, his voice regaining its authoritative tone. "See that she is… well-presented for our dinner. Dismissed, Malcolm."

The butler inclined his head in a silent bow and exited the room, leaving the King and Lord Leviathan alone.

Leviathan leaned back in his chair, a sly smile playing on his lips. "Dinner with a murderer, Your Majesty," he mused, his voice laced with amusement. "This promises to be… entertaining."

A slow smile spread across Samael's face, his golden eyes gleaming with a dangerous light. "Indeed, Leviathan," he agreed, his voice smooth as silk. "Indeed."