Thud-thud-thud.
The rhythm of daggers biting into the carved wooden torso echoed in the high-ceilinged training gallery.
Each impact was precise, brutal, final. Camilla stood at the edge of the straw-matted floor, her hands clenched at her sides, watching as Isabelle threw another blade.
It spun through the air with a soft, deadly whistle and buried itself with a crunch directly into the dummy's painted heart.
Isabelle didn't look at her. Her focus was absolute, her arm flowing back smoothly to pluck another dagger from the rack. Her jet-black hair, swept into a severe knot, remained perfectly still.
"You look shocked, Crown Princess," Isabelle said, her voice conversational, almost sweet, as she weighed the next blade. "Seeing my talent up close." Only then did she turn her head, a slow, deliberate pivot, to pin Camilla with a smile that didn't touch her cold, dark eyes.
Camilla's own hands flexed, her knuckles white. Her blunt-cut blonde hair framed a face taut with tension. "Can we talk?"
"No," Isabelle sang softly, turning back to her target. Her wrist snapped forward. Thud. Another perfect hit. "As you can see, I'm really busy."
A coil of frustration tightened in Camilla's stomach. She took a step forward, the straw rustling under her slipper. "What the hell do you want, Matrona? What is your price?"
Isabelle paused, her hand hovering over the last dagger. She finally turned fully, letting her arm drop to her side. Her dark eyes swept over Camilla from head to toe, a slow, dismissive appraisal.
"I already have everything I want," she said, her voice dropping its false sweetness. "The knowledge I possess is the prize."
"You should forget what you saw yesterday."
A genuine laugh, short and brittle, escaped Isabelle. "You came here to tell me that?" She took a step closer, a stray lock of black hair loosening from its knot. "I swear, you have no shame. Tenebrarum is the dream of every noble daughter in all kingdoms, and here you are, throwing yourself at a drunken fool."
Camilla's breath hitched. Her blue eyes, wide and clouded with panic, flickered away for a second before she forced them back, meeting Isabelle's dark stare.
"You think Tenebrarum can ever love? That's impossible," she said, her voice gaining a razor's edge. "The only person I've ever seen him show the slightest flicker of interest in is Flavia. You are not even half her beauty."
The insult landed. A muscle twitched in Isabelle's jaw. Her fingers, which had been resting idly on the hilt of the last dagger, curled into a tight fist.
"Flavia," she spat the name.
"is a hallot. A common-born nothing. I would beat her ten times over in everything." She leaned in, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "But why do we talk of her? Let us speak on real sense. She is no where close to me. She is less than nothing. The daughter of a witch has more standing."
Isabelle's dark eyes, wide and gleaming with furious conviction, held Camilla's blue, fearful ones, waiting to see which barb had drawn blood.
Two days. Not even four full hours in your presence… and I am dying for you. It feels like I've known you for more than a century.
Tiberius's words, a desperate anchor in the storm of her shame, flashed through Camilla's mind. She clung to them, a private truth against Isabelle's public scorn.
Isabelle simply stared, her head tilting slightly as if observing a strange, pathetic animal. "What are you muttering about?"
"I do not want Tenebrarum," Camilla said, her voice gaining a fragile steadiness. She lifted her chin, a defiant gesture that felt hollow even as she did it. "You can have him. Truly. But must you destroy me to get him?"
A slow, cruel smile spread across Isabelle's lips. She took the final dagger from the rack, not to throw it, but to turn it over in her hands, the blade catching the bright light.
"You should be thinking of how you will die," Isabelle said, her voice a soft, chilling caress, "not wasting your breath on what I must have. Your fate is no longer a matter of want. It is a matter of when."
I'll see you die, Camilla.
The words chased her, a silent echo in her skull as she fled the gallery.
Camilla's mind, stripped of all other options, latched onto a single, desperate destination.
Tiberius.
She didn't knock. The heavy oak door to his private chamber flew open under the force of her panic.
"Tiberius!"
He was seated in a high-backed chair by the fire, a leather-bound book open in his lap, a pen poised in his hand. At the sound of her voice, he turned—not with alarm, but with a focused stillness. The firelight caught the planes of his face, softening the usual severity.
"Camilla." Her name was a statement, a question, and a welcome. He set the pen down carefully on the page.
"I was thinking…" she began, her breath coming in short, visible puffs in the cool air of the room. She crossed the space between them, her movements unsteady.
Before he could rise, she was there, sinking to her knees on the rug beside his chair. Her hands reached up, one cupping the strong line of his jaw, forcing his gaze to stay locked with hers. "We should escape. Now."
Her chest rose and fell rapidly with each breath, the neckline of her gown trembling with the frantic rhythm. He could see the frantic pulse at the base of her throat.
"I am making arrangements for that, too," he said, his voice a low, grounding rumble. One of his hands came up to cover hers where it held his face, his thumb stroking her knuckles. "We will leave before anyone finds ou—"
The sentence died, severed by the violent crash of the chamber door being thrown open against the wall.
They froze, a perfect, damning tableau: the Crown Princess on her knees before the prince, her hand on his face, his covering hers, their bodies angled toward each other in undeniable intimacy.
In the doorway stood not servants, but the King's own personal guard, their expressions impassive masks of duty. And just behind them, her dark eyes gleaming with vindictive triumph, stood Isabelle.
The arrangement of their bodies, the closeness, the private chamber—it was no longer suspicion. It was proof. And Isabelle had delivered it, straight to the throne.
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To be continued...