The long table of forty chairs dominated the grand hall of Fondeur Palace.
At its head sat only three people: King Safris in the middle, Princess Gigna on his left, and Princess Grecia on his right. Safris tore into his meal like a starved predator, chewing with an almost animal ferocity. Grecia, cool and composed, sipped her wine in slow circles. Gigna, restless, let her green eyes wander across the vaulted chamber, her pale face framed by long blonde hair and a fringe that nearly shadowed her gaze. A white gown flowed around her, and a string of pearls rested against her collarbone. Grecia, pale as well, wore her black hair drawn up, her wine-red lips contrasting sharply with the blue hooded cloak on her shoulders.
Gigna leaned back, speaking without even looking at her father.
"Father, perhaps you should let someone—anyone—stay in here with us. A guard, a servant, a waiter… even an animal. Your silence, combined with your chewing, is not exactly helping the mood."
Safris stopped mid-bite. Grecia smirked into her wine glass.
"We may as well begin," Safris said, his voice low but carrying. "Marcus still hasn't arrived, and I doubt he will."
Grecia set her cup down with a faint click. "Perhaps we'll be lucky, and someone's killed him."
The king turned toward Grecia, discomfort flickering across his features.
"You should make peace with your brother," Safris told her.
"He is not my brother," Grecia replied, her voice like ice. "He's the bastard you parade as the son you never had. The most disgusting excuse I've ever had to endure."
"Marcus is a good man Grecia. One day, I will no longer be here, and you—by law—will rule alongside your husband. Marcus will serve as your protector. Everyone will fear him because he is my son."
Gigna gave a soft snort. "You must mean a queen who rules alone. Grecia's not the marrying type."
"The time will come," Safris said evenly.
Gigna laughed outright. "She's nearly thirty Father. Don't get your hopes up. She's worse than a widow in mourning."
Grecia, unbothered, lifted her wine glass in a small salute.
"Grecia my daughter," Safris continued, "we must be honest—if you want to continue our royal line, you must marry and keep our dynasty alive."
Grecia's eyes narrowed. "I agree. But I'm not a pawn for your politics."
Safris frowned. "What do you mean?"
Before Grecia could answer, Gigna lifted a hand. "She means the same thing you did to me—marrying me off to Otis for your precious Roman alliance and this dynasty."
"Exactly," Safris said without hesitation. "A perfect example of how we gain power."
"By selling your daughter to a general old enough to be her father," Grecia shot back.
Safris slammed a hand on the table. "It's how nations unite—through sacred bonds between families."
"Yes," Grecia replied coldly, "well done, Your Majesty. Marrying off your ten-year-old daughter to a man of your own age."
Gigna's fork paused midway to her mouth, and she chewed slowly, savoring the tension between her father and sister.
"Insolent woman!" Safris roared, suddenly on his feet. "You dare disrespect your father—and your king? I should have you cast away."
Grecia rose as well, but her voice was calm, almost serene. "Don't trouble yourself. Since Mother died, I told myself I'd rather die than come here. You summoned me, and I came. That alone says plenty about 'respect'."
She turned and walked away.
Gigna watched her go, then said lightly, "She's right Father. You keep summoning her, and she keeps ignoring you. And yet… here she is. Against her will."
Safris sat back down, rubbing at his temples as though a migraine was clawing behind his eyes. "Nothing gets through to that woman. Everything is a battle."
"You are the same," Gigna said with a sly smile. "But you're always against each other. Maybe you should play her game instead."
Safris studied her for a moment. "There's a young man—soon to be Sultan of Turkey—looking for a wife."
Gigna stared at him in silence for a heartbeat, then burst into sharp laughter. "She's already at war with you, and you want her to marry the man destined to be our enemy? I've heard of keeping your enemies close, but you want her in his bed?"
"It's important," Safris said, his tone hardening. "It would benefit us."
"Dream on," Gigna replied. "Besides, you swore I'd only marry once. And according to the rumors, I'm already damaged goods."
. "Otis respected you. He protected you."
Gigna stopped chewing, let her food drop from her mouth, and swallowed her laugh. "Oh yes, Father. The problem was that his servants, his son, and nearly every man I liked in Rome knew how to make me come."
Safris slammed the table again. Gigna only grinned wider.
"Speak to your sister. I have business," he growled, rising from his chair.
When the king was gone, Gigna wandered into his seat, eating with more appetite than before.
A few minutes later, a guard arrived—Remedis, a fit, dark-haired soldier with bronze skin, black eyes, and a scar along his neck. Without a word, he led Gigna through the castle and down into the underground cells, torchlight dancing across the stone.The dungeons stank of rot and damp, rats skittering across the shadows. From one of the cells, a prisoner called out to Gigna.
She paused. "Out of all the voices calling to me, you've made me curious."
The man stepped closer to the bars. Remedis rapped his gauntlet hard against the metal. "Back, animal. Her Majesty doesn't make friends with your kind."
"Don't be so rude Remedis," Gigna said mildly. "He probably wants bread or water. Tell me—how well do you feed them?"
"They're well-fed, your majesty," Remedis replied.
"Strange. I can count his ribs from here," Gigna said, stepping closer.
"Careful, Your Majesty," Remedis warned. "They have nothing to lose."
"Relax," she said with a smile. "You're too tense. Go find a whore, loosen up… Now, prisoner—why are you here?"
"I was in a clan when I was young," the man said. "They accuse me of treason."
"Ooooh," Gigna said, dragging the sound out like a child savoring a treat. "That won't end well. Father's harsh with traitors. But look on the bright side—these walls keep out the rain."
They continued on, until they reached a heavy door. Inside, the air reeked of iron and blood. Several bodies lay slumped against the walls. In the center of the room, a table gleamed with sharp instruments, and beside it sat Sócrates—a heavyset man with a scar across his lip, his brown tunic stained with dried gore.Gigna stepped into the torture chamber as if she were entering a gallery, her eyes sweeping over every detail. Several corpses slumped against the walls, their faces pale.A table crowded with gleaming tools dominated the room's center. Beside it sat Sócrates—his bulk filling the chair, his lip scar pulling tight as he polished a blade. His brown tunic was stiff with dried blood and dirt, and he barely glanced up when she arrived.
"Busy as ever butterball,," Gigna said with a smirk. "These bodies are fresh—clean. They didn't rot in the cells. This is new stock."
Without looking away from the knife in his hands, Sócrates said, "They claim to know something about the carriage ambush. We even made a perfect wanted poster for him."
Gigna crouched by the bodies, studying them like fine artwork. "These are guards… Don't tell me they were the ones escorting the carriage?"
Sócrates' mouth curled in the faintest smile.
Gigna let out a delighted laugh. "Father's cold streak goes beyond my expectations. I like it."
"He thinks they were accomplices," Sócrates said.
"Do you?" she asked, still inspecting the dead.
"I've known them for years," Sócrates replied. "Royal guards."
Gigna clicked her tongue. "Poor boys. Probably loyal to the end. And the girl in the carriage?"
"A lady of good family—Cesari. Nora's with her. Nora suspects everyone, but her instincts are good."
"My sister can't stand her," Gigna said.
"Grecia can't stand anyone," Sócrates said dryly. "Cold-blooded, like her father."
Gigna grinned. "Jealous."
They both laughed, their voices echoing off the stone. At the door, Remedis stood stiff as a spear, his face locked in its usual mask.
"Lose the face Remedis," Gigna called. "You're ruining the mood."
"Apologies, Your Majesty," he said quickly.
Their laughter deepened. Sócrates' chuckle broke into strange, porcine grunts.
"Why does he call you 'Your Majesty'?" Sócrates asked her.
"No idea," Gigna said. "Fear, maybe?"
Sócrates tilted his head toward Remedis. "He's a good one. Came from the Legion of Adames. Solid soldier, lucky too—that scar's from an ambush he survived. Milan himself chose him for the royal guard."
Gigna's eyes narrowed with interest. She crossed the space between them, slowly, like a cat stalking something it might play with. Without breaking eye contact, she slipped a hand inside Remedis' trousers.
The guard went rigid, his breath catching.
Gigna didn't blink. Remedis bit his lip, eyes darting anywhere but her face.Sócrates simply smiled and went back to polishing his instruments.
It didn't take long. Remedis' breath hitched; his body trembled. Gigna pulled her hand away and caught the cloth Sócrates tossed her, wiping her palm as if it were an afterthought.
"Newborn," she said, looking him over. "Probably a virgin."
"Fresh meat," Sócrates said with a grin. "Let him be."
"Really?" Gigna asked, eyes still on Remedis.
"Don't stand there like an idiot, boy—answer her," Sócrates said.
"I'm not a virgin, Your Majesty," Remedis said, voice tight.
Gigna smiled. "Then you need a night. Cures any sour mood."
Sócrates leaned back in his chair. "Speaking of… your sister's here. Going to see her before she leaves?"
"I could invite her here, if you like," Gigna said with a smirk.
They shared a look, then both laughed again.
"Maybe your friend will learn something," Gigna said, glancing at Remedis. "Something beyond the boring rules . Anyway fat bastard, I'm off. Don't be a stranger. You never invite me just to watch these poor souls suffer. And don't forget to greet Grecia—she could use real company."
"I thought she was busy with Agnus," Sócrates said.
"They sent him to camp," Gigna replied. "Something happened."
That drew the faintest flicker of surprise from Sócrates. Gigna left with Remedis.
A few hours later, Agnus strode into Sócrates' chamber. Tall and broad-shouldered, with cropped blond hair and the easy gait of a man used to armor, he wrinkled his nose at the stench.
"This place is worse than the dungeons," Agnus said. "You should talk to the prisoners—they might have tips on how to smell better."
"You mean the scent you brought in with you?" Sócrates countered.
Agnus gave him a sharp look; Sócrates only grinned.
"A messenger came," Agnus said. "Gelio wants me at Milan's camp—some tragedy."
Sócrates stopped working . "What kind of tragedy?"
"He wouldn't say. Just told me to bring a legion. Urgent. Something about a fire."
"Strange they'd send you," Sócrates said. "Adames or Marcus would be more fitting. I trust your skill, but it's… odd."
"Not odd at all," Agnus said flatly. "The king wants me far from his daughters. I'm considered… favored."
The door opened again and Remedis entered, his face twisted in frustration. "What the hell was that?" he demanded.
Agnus looked at Sócrates.
"Gigna had her fun with him," Sócrates explained. "He's shaken."
"I'm not shaken—it's the position Butterball," Remedis said.
Sócrates' voice turned cold. "Careful. I could kill you right here for that. I've got new tools I'd like to try."
Remedis stepped back quickly. "My mistake. She calls you 'Butterball,' I thought we were… familiar."
Agnus clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Don't cross the line Remedis. They've known each other since childhood. You, on the other hand, are just a fool. What exactly did she do to you?"
"Ran her hand over his cock until he came," Sócrates said.
Agnus grinned. "Knees go weak?"
"No, but he yelped like a dog in heat," Sócrates said. "She wasn't impressed."
Agnus smirked at Remedis. "If you're lucky, she might let you screw her one day."
"That would be treason," Remedis said stiffly.
Agnus and Sócrates both roared with laughter.
"Well, gentlemen, enjoy yourselves," Agnus said. "I'm off."
Sócrates caught him by the arm. "Be careful. I meant what I said. You're not the right man for this. I don't like it."
High in one of the castle towers, Grecia stood at the parapet, the cool evening breeze playing over her face. Soldiers patrolled nearby but kept a respectful distance. Sócrates emerged from the stairwell and joined her, leaning on the stone beside her.
"I see you've crawled out of your cave," Grecia said, her gaze never leaving the horizon. "Let me guess—my sister fetched you."
"How'd you know?" Sócrates asked.
"She told me she would." A faint smile tugged her lips.
"You know I'm her slave," Sócrates said. "The bearer of bad news."
"Nothing new there," Grecia replied.
"Your father just told her about his plan—to marry you to a future sultan," Sócrates said.
"So I'm the enemy's lamb to slaughter," Grecia murmured.
"Something like that."
Grecia turned to look at him. "Tell me—how does my sister survive here, being more liberal than me?"
"She has no shame," Sócrates said. "I'm her shadow because she plays dangerous games. She's not insane, but her tastes are… unusual. She knows her limits—just never respects them."
"Father doesn't find her a headache," Grecia said, "but I—who am rarely here—am one, and will always be."
"I agree with your father—it's a good opportunity," Sócrates said. "You're at an age where you could give this kingdom a future."
"I'm no opportunist, Sócrates," Grecia replied. "I look forward to Father's death so I can take the crown. I can't marry his enemies—it would keep them from killing him."
Sócrates chuckled quietly. "I've heard a rumor—he may strip you of the legions your grandfather gave you. The soldiers are bound to serve you, but they respect Safris. You need a story to make them follow you. Your father knows that. You're no soldier."
Both of them turned as movement caught their eyes—Agnus leaving the castle gates with fifteen men. Grecia and Sócrates exchanged a long knowing look.