Althea stood on the platform, trembling, as the crowd whispered and pointed. She could feel their eyes on her—judging her, condemning her. Sylvia's grin was so wide it looked painful. Eloise had melted back into the crowd, her face carefully blank.
Why? Why would Eloise lie? They'd walked back from the market together. They'd laughed about the merchant who tried to overcharge them for turnips. And then, when they'd returned to the palace, Eloise had pressed those two coins into her hand.
"Take them," Eloise had said. "You deserve something nice for helping me. My feet are killing me."
Althea had hesitated. Her instincts had screamed at her not to accept—nothing in the palace came without strings attached. But the coins had glittered so beautifully in the sunlight, and Eloise's smile had seemed so genuine. She'd thought... maybe, just maybe, someone was being kind to her.
She'd been a fool. Why didn't she suspect something when Sylvia asked her to follow Eloise to the market.
Now those coins were being used as evidence against her. And the worst part was, she'd given them away to the old beggar woman who sat by the market gate.
If only she'd known. If only she'd listened to that voice in her head warning her that nothing good ever came free.
The guards returned, their boots heavy on the stone. They climbed the platform and bowed to Caysen.
"Well?" he demanded. "Did you find anything?" Why was he even praying that they didn't?
"We searched everything, Your Highness," the lead guard reported. "Tore apart her mattress, emptied every drawer, checked under the floorboards. There's no chest nor gold coins."
Relief flooded through Althea so powerfully she nearly collapsed. "See?" she gasped. "I told you—I didn't take anything!"
But Caysen's expression hadn't softened. If anything, he looked angrier. His jaw worked as he stared at her, his eyes searching her face. She could see the conflict there—the war between doubt and conviction.
He wanted to believe her. Some part of him wanted to believe that she was innocent. But the evidence... or lack thereof... it didn't prove anything. Maybe she'd hidden the chest somewhere else. Maybe she'd already sold the coins. Maybe she was just a very good liar.
He couldn't show weakness not here and certainly not in front of his entire household.
"Althea," he said, his voice cold and formal. "One more time. Did you steal from me?"
She looked up at him, her eyes red and swollen, her face streaked with tears. "No, Your Highness," she whispered. "I swear on everything I hold dear—I never took your money. I would never betray you."
The words hit him harder than they should have. There was something in her voice—something raw and honest that made his chest tighten. But he couldn't afford to be swayed by emotion.
He was the prince and he had to maintain order. He had to save face.
If he pardoned her now, with no concrete proof of her innocence, what would the others think? That the almighty vampire prince was soft? That he could be manipulated by a pretty face and tears?
No. He couldn't allow that. It'd only bung disrespect from his servants and that wasn't something he couldn't let happen.
"Fifty lashes," he said flatly.
"No!" The cry tore from Althea's throat. "Please, Your Highness, please—I didn't do anything!"
"Take her to the post," Caysen ordered, turning away so he wouldn't have to see her face. "Beat her up and make sure marks are left on her back as a lesson for theft."
Two guards seized her arms. She struggled, sobbing, begging, but they were too strong. They dragged her to the whipping post in the center of the courtyard and bound her wrists above her head.
Her back was exposed, her thin servant's dress offering no protection. The crowd had gone silent. Even the usual murmurs of excitement were absent. This was different. This was brutal.
The executioner approached, a thick leather whip coiled in his hand. He glanced at Caysen, waiting for the signal.
Caysen gave a curt nod, his face a mask of ice. But inside, something twisted painfully. He told himself it was necessary. Justice had to be served. He couldn't show favoritism because it was her.
The first lash cracked through the air and a cry tore out of her throat.
The sound pierced through Caysen like a blade. He forced himself not to flinch, not to react. His hands clenched into fists at his sides.
The second lash fell then the third. Each strike left a burning line of fire across Althea's back. She could feel her skin splitting, could feel the warm trickle of blood running down her spine. The pain was unimaginable—worse than anything she'd ever experienced. It consumed her completely, leaving no room for thought or breath or hope.
"Please," she sobbed between strikes. "Please... I didn't... I didn't..." But her pleas fell on deaf ears. Just like when she'd pleaded with her father that he didn't listen, that was how Caysen did.
Sylvia watched from the crowd, her grin so wide it looked manic. This was everything she'd wanted. That uppity little maid, finally getting what she deserved. Finally being put in her place. She wanted to laugh, to cheer, but she settled for the satisfied gleam in her eyes.
Lash after lash fell and it made the smile on her face widen. The little wretch thought herself a queen and it was high time she broke off those wings.
Althea's screams grew weaker, more desperate. Her vision blurred with tears and pain. Her back was now numb. There was only agony—endless, merciless agony.
Caysen watched, his expression carved from stone. But his jaw was clenched so tight it hurt. His nails dug crescents into his palms.
Every scream felt like an accusation. Every crack of the whip echoed with doubt.
What if she really was innocent?
He shoved the thought away. It didn't matter now. The punishment had been ordered and it had to be carried out.
Twenty lashes. Thirty. Forty.
Althea's body went limp against the post. She was barely conscious now, her sobs reduced to weak, breathless whimpers. Blood soaked through her dress, staining the stone beneath her feet.
Forty-five. Forty-six.
Her head lolled forward. The world was spinning, fading. She couldn't feel her body anymore—only a distant, throbbing ache that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.
Forty-seven. Forty-eight.
"Please..." The word was barely a breath. She didn't even know who she was begging anymore. The prince? God? Anyone who might listen?
Forty-nine.
The whip cracked one final time.
Fifty.
Althea's eyes rolled back. Her body sagged completely, held up only by the ropes binding her wrists and she fell unconscious.
The courtyard was silent. No one spoke and no one moved.
Caysen stared at her limp form, something cold and heavy settling in his chest. He told himself it was justice. He told himself he'd done what was necessary.
But as the guards cut her down and her body crumpled to the blood-stained stone, he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd just made a terrible mistake.
"Take her to the servants' infirmary," he said quietly. Then he turned and walked away, his cloak sweeping behind him, his expression as cold and unreadable as ever.
But inside, guilt gnawed at him like a living thing.
And in the crowd, Sylvia smiled.