Chapter 9

“She is just my sick mistress,” Beta Barbara told the soldier sharply, his voice dropping to a whisper as if shielding a fragile secret. But the soldier’s face remained rigid, jaw clenched in determination. He was adamant. He knew even a measly reward from the King would be enough to etch his name in honor—accomplishing such a mission would be a medal across his entire career.

The echo of footsteps thundered across the staircase. Soldiers were already running upstairs, closer and closer. Lois’ heart hammered violently inside her chest. There was nowhere to hide in this room—no wardrobes deep enough, no curtains wide enough. It was too late to run, too late to slip through a door. If she tried now, she would fall right into their hands.

“Anything you want! Anything—land, houses, farms, money, a mansion—you name it, and it will all be yours!” Beta Barbara staked everything in desperation, his voice trembling yet commanding. The soldier’s brow twitched in shock. This was a life-changing offer, more than any soldier could dream of.

Barbara’s greatest fear had always been that his bloodline would end with him, his family name fading into disgrace. What he craved above all else was a child, an heir to carry his name. That desperation, that need, weighed in his tone. And the soldier, stunned, hesitated.

It was temptation. A moment to gamble with fate. And in that instant, he chose. He nodded, deceiving himself with resolve. He would act.

Together, Beta Barbara and the soldier rushed out of the room just in time, colliding with Sinclair and three other guards in the hallway.

“You alarmed us!” Sinclair snapped, his voice sharp, eyes narrowed, his hand already tightening on his sword hilt.

“Huh—I must have been mistaken,” the soldier lied quickly, feigning innocence. “That was just a maid… startled by my sudden appearance.”

“A maid?” Sinclair arched a brow, his face tightening as suspicion filled his gaze. “Impossible.”

“There is no way she could get far in this town,” Sinclair growled, pacing like a predator. “Her horse broke nearest to this mansion. The soldiers are parading the entire district. The only place of escape is here, in this compound.” He stepped closer, his voice booming. “And you expect me to believe it was just a maid frightened by your face? Where is she? Show me this maid!”

Sinclair’s voice reverberated across the walls, his anger a storm. This was his second chance, perhaps his last, to capture Lois. Failure meant punishment—unpredictable, perhaps even death—at the hands of Alpha Karl. The thought of that punishment was enough to fuel him with the hunger of a beast.

“She must have gone down the stairs. I—I am sorry for alarming you unnecessarily,” the soldier stammered, his attempt at persuasion fragile.

“I’ll search that room myself. Excuse me.” Sinclair brushed past, his tone final.

“No!” Beta Barbara snapped, stepping in front of him, his hand firm against Sinclair’s chest.

“Why am I being stopped, Beta Barbara?” Sinclair demanded, eyes narrowing to slits.

“That is a sacred room,” Barbara countered, his voice stiff with authority. “I do not trifle with my property. There is no girl hiding in my abode.”

“We’ll make sure your property is intact,” Sinclair replied coldly, brushing his arm aside. “You have nothing to fear.” And with that, he twisted the doorknob, pushing forward.

Barbara’s face wrinkled with strain, his veins pulsing with anxiety. If Sinclair found Lois—if she was dragged from that room—it would be over. He would be charged for harboring her illegally. The throne would strip him bare, titles and all.

The door creaked open. The atmosphere grew tense, stale, as Sinclair’s boots crossed the threshold.

ꁞ⁠ ⁠ꁞ⁠ ⁠ꁞ⁠ ꁞ

Meanwhile, in the South Palace, fury boiled like fire.

After the shocking incident with the Lady of the Court, Sandra stormed back into her chamber, her chest rising and falling violently. She seized the nearest vase and hurled it at the wall. The glass shattered into pieces, scattering across the marble. She grabbed another—glasses, flowers, anything in reach—hurling them with shrieks of rage.

“That wench!” she roared, her voice rasping and venomous. Her fists shook with fury. Never once had she been satisfied in this Palace. Never once had she felt enough. She saw herself as queen already, destined for the crown. And yet, some common maid—an insect in her eyes—dared to speak to her in such a manner?

“Call Mother!” she spat, her eyes ablaze.

Berra, her trembling maid, bowed hastily and rushed out to summon Lady Vetta, who now resided officially within the palace residence, her influence stretching from the shadows of Marrok’s Mansion through trusted messenger maids.

Lady Vetta craved power as one craves breath. Through her daughter’s rise, she had lifted herself. Why waste her stolen wealth from Beta Marrok’s coffers on lavish meals, jewels, and gowns, when the Palace itself could pour these luxuries into her hands?

Moments later, Lady Vetta entered, regal and calculating. Sandra immediately recounted the encounter, her voice dripping with venom.

“Daughter,” Lady Vetta began, her voice calm but sharp as a dagger, “the Palace is built on hierarchies of power. She holds the female court now. But you know it belongs to you, don’t you?”

“She’s nothing but a bitch! A maid, Mother!” Sandra barked, slamming her fist on the table.

“Yes,” Lady Vetta’s lips curled, “the highest ranking court maid. But titles are fragile. There are ways to seize power from her, and with little effort. Once you do, you will control the palace, darling.”

Sandra smirked, her fury softening into curiosity. “And what way is this, Mother?”

“You need the King’s favor,” Lady Vetta whispered. “Make him yours. Make him bend to you. And most importantly—bear him a child. Once you conceive, you will not just be Queen—you will be goddess to them all.”

Sandra’s face twisted, her voice breaking into a growl. “Mother! You know he is cursed! I can’t conceive. And that wench—Lois—she hasn’t even been caught yet!”

“Darling, you must be smart,” Lady Vetta warned, her tone chilling. “The Palace is a game. And the heat hasn’t even begun. That wench Lois may give birth to an heir at any moment. And what then? What if the King grows bored of you? What if this Court Maid uses her power to fill the palace with rivals? What will you do when the fire consumes you?”

Sandra’s shoulders sank, fear dripping into her veins like poison. For the first time, she realized—she had nothing yet. Nothing that could not be shattered in an instant.

“Tell me what to do, Mother!” Sandra cried, clutching Lady Vetta’s hands, her tears spilling like rain. Anxiety rippled through her body, goosebumps prickling her flesh.

Lady Vetta’s eyes darted to the corners of the chamber. “Where is Berra? She is not listening, is she?”

“She wouldn’t dare, Mother,” Sandra said, too hastily.

But Berra was there—right at the door. Her ear pressed against the wood, catching every venomous word.

“You’ll need trusted court maids,” Lady Vetta continued, her voice dropping to a dark whisper. “Ones who owe you their lives, who will do your dirty work. And you—make the King bed you. Let his seed fill you…”

“But I can’t get pregnant even if he does!” Sandra burst out, desperation in her voice.

“Yet Lois did,” Lady Vetta said coolly. “She bore his children. And why should you not? You are his recognized mate. Perhaps the curse was nothing but a lie.”

Sandra froze, her lips parting. “How… how would that work?”

“Get him drunk,” Lady Vetta said. “Let him bed you, and then… we find a man. A gigolo. He will lay with you after. You will conceive. And the child will be his—Karl’s heir in name, your victory in truth.”

Sandra’s eyes widened in horror. And so did Berra’s, her jaw dropping silently behind the door.

“Wench! You dare listen to your lady’s words?” hissed Rita, Berra’s colleague, her tormentor and rival. Rita had long wanted to serve a powerful mistress, to climb through loyalty. And now, she had heard enough to see her chance.

Berra’s secret might just be her ruin—or her greatest weapon.