Chapter 28
In the study, steeped in an almost sacred gloom, only the flickering glow of the flames brought the walls to life, casting dancing shadows around a motionless silhouette seated behind a broad desk of dark wood. The man, settled in a severe, high-backed chair, kept his gaze fixed on the window, silently contemplating the pale disc of the moon suspended in the night sky.
Arzhel could not rid himself of the words Lia had confided to him. They circled endlessly in his mind, sharp as blades.
How had Sullivan dared?
How could he have inflicted such a thing… on his Lia?
The door opened cautiously, its faint creak heavy with tension. Orion stepped inside, moving slowly, almost fearfully, his head bowed and breath held. Reaching the desk, he bowed deeply.
"Your Highness summoned me?" he asked respectfully, though his voice carried a thin veil of unease.
Arzhel barely turned his head, casting him a sidelong glance before returning his attention to the moon—pale and indifferent.
"Tell me, Orion… do you truly know your little sister?"
The young man flinched. His heart began to race, a cold sweat beading at his temple.
Angela again? Had she caused yet another scandal in the capital? He clenched his fists, forcing himself to remain composed.
"Has my sister offended you in some way, Your Grace?" he asked tensely, his voice edged with a painful premonition.
Arzhel slowly straightened. His face emerged from the shadows, bathed in moonlight that made his eyes gleam a deep, almost inhuman red. Orion shuddered.
"Let me rephrase my question," Arzhel murmured darkly, his tone laced with barely restrained menace.
"Do you truly know your sisters, Orion? And what binds them… or tears them apart?"
Orion froze, disbelief etched into his features.
His sisters? How could he—?
How did Arzhel know about that sister?
The shameful secret his family had tried to bury for years?
"How…?" he stammered, dazed.
Arzhel tilted his head slightly, a crooked smile breaking the icy impassivity of his expression.
"What? How do I know about your youngest sister?" he said softly. "The daughter of a wretched servant… and your dear father, that miserable adulterer?" he spat mockingly.
The ground seemed to vanish beneath Orion's feet. He staggered, his thoughts in chaos, yet forced himself to stand firm.
"Did you know," Arzhel continued, his voice smoother now, almost gentle, "that her name is Vidalia?"
It struck like a dagger straight through his heart.
Vidalia.
A name he had never truly known—or had chosen to forget, like the blurred face of a child drowned in denial.
How could the prince know her name? Speak of her with such intimacy?
"She is beautiful," Arzhel murmured, leaning against the desk, resting his head slowly against his fist. "Gentle. Possessed of astonishing strength—emotional as well as magical… And your father would turn her into a slave. Just as he once broke your mother."
Orion straightened abruptly, beside himself.
"What… what do you mean?!" he cried, forgetting all etiquette in his anguish.
The prince's smile vanished.
"Your mother," Arzhel said coldly, his voice low and glacial, "bound my Vidalia with an enslavement spell. She chained her magically, subjugated her to your sister. To Angela. She condemned her to live as a silent servant—a shadow without will."
Orion's heart constricted painfully. His throat tightened.
How?
How could his own mother…?
Had she always been like this—or had power and status twisted her beyond recognition?
"What can I do?" he whispered, eyes burning with tears, his legs threatening to give way. "How can I help her? Tell me, I beg you… how do we free her?"
Arzhel bared his teeth, his gaze dark with helpless fury, then slammed his fist down onto the desk.
"There is nothing to be done!" he roared. "Vidalia is chained. Condemned to serve your family until her death—a prisoner of their cruelty!"
The air around him ignited with incandescent mana. The candle flames surged upward, licking the walls in a violent whirl. The entire room seemed on the verge of rupture under the force of his rage.
"You studied dark magic, Orion Sullivan!" he shouted. "You know what this means! To break such a seal… the bearer must die!"
He dragged his hands over his face, curling inward beneath the weight of his own impotence as the flames slowly receded.
Orion collapsed to his knees.
Tears fell—silent at first, then scalding—sliding down his cheeks. A raw, desperate sob tore from his chest.
He had finally grasped the magnitude of the horror.
And the crushing weight of his own guilt.
The room sank into suffocating silence, broken only by the crackle of the fire, whose flames still danced against the walls like the harbingers of a restrained catastrophe.
Standing in the shifting shadows, Arzhel watched the wreck his assistant had become.
Orion—the brilliant strategist, the scholar with a prodigious memory, the tactician trained among the highest circles of nobility—reduced to a sobbing child, shattered by a truth he had never dared to face.
The prince's gaze hardened, icy.
"A genius," he murmured bitterly. "And yet so pathetically blind. Blind to the ugliness of your own family. Blind to the suffering of a sister you never even deigned to know."
He approached slowly, boots echoing faintly against the stone floor, stopping a few steps away.
"You are brilliant, Orion," he continued in a lower, weary voice. "But you are also a fool. A fool who believed noble blood could conceal rot. That honor could exist where contempt reigns."
He leaned down slightly, his scarlet eyes locking onto those of the man kneeling before him, red and swollen with tears.
"Your sister is a slave before your very eyes. A pearl smeared with filth so she would never shine. And all you did… was look away."
Arzhel straightened, his dark cloak rippling in the vibrating heat of the room. The flames had calmed, as though bowed to his will, but the tension remained thick.
"I do not yet know whether you are better than your family, Orion. But I am giving you a chance. One. Earn it. For her."
A heavy silence fell again, even more oppressive than before.
Then, with a swift gesture, Arzhel extinguished the fire with a simple wave of his hand. Darkness reclaimed the room, broken only by the pale moonlight filtering through the windows.
And in that half-light, the prince turned his back on the man at his feet.
"Pull yourself together. Or leave. But know this…" he murmured.
"I will not leave Vidalia in the Sullivan's claws."
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
In the sumptuous gardens of Greenwood, bathed in the golden light of afternoon, enthusiastic voices rang out from the greenhouse, mingling with the harmonious clink of fine porcelain. Around a long, elegantly set table—embroidered linens, delicate floral arrangements, refined pastries, and ivory china—young ladies clad in pastel, flowered dresses chatted animatedly.
A gentle breeze stirred the silky fabrics and carried with it the scents of lilac, jasmine, and old roses, wrapping the scene in an almost unreal fragrance.
At the head of the table sat Camélia.
Graceful and composed, she wore a pale blue gown with diaphanous sleeves, adorned with silver embroidery reminiscent of frost patterns. A steaming teacup rested between her slender fingers, while her deep violet eyes surveyed the gathering in silence.
She did not speak.
Her gaze—calm yet penetrating—seemed to strip away intentions behind every smile, every whispered murmur.
The young ladies, usually so talkative, exchanged discreet glances, hesitant. The atmosphere was not tense—no. Merely restrained. Suspended. All were waiting for a sign, a tacit permission from their hostess to dare broach the subjects burning on their tongues.
But how could one speak without risking familiarity? Audacity?
Camélia Greenwood was as respected as she was enigmatic—and no one wished to displease her.
All of them knew why the young Lady Angela was conspicuously absent from the gathering. And it did not take long to notice that a few invitees had dared decline Camélia Greenwood's invitation in favor of drawing closer to the capital's newest darling—the girl who, in only a few days, had captured the attention of the First Prince.
A mistake.
For seducing another's fiancé was already an affront—but daring to curry favor with a prince promised to a Greenwood bordered on sheer folly. And in noble circles, to challenge Camélia was to willingly throw oneself into the jaws of rumor.
Yet the future duchess revealed nothing. Silence hovered—soft and heavy—disturbed only by the discreet clink of teaspoons and tentative breaths.
Then, against all expectations, it was Camélia herself who broke it.
A faint smile—sincere yet measured—bloomed upon her lips.
"Miss Eveline, my congratulations on the birth of your little brother," she said in a clear, soothing voice, gently fixing her violet eyes on a young girl with water-colored hair seated midway down the table.
Eveline started, eyes widening in surprise, before her face lit up with a shy smile.
"Thank you, Lady Camélia," she replied warmly, visibly touched.
The other young women glanced at one another in silence, blinking as if to confirm they were not dreaming. Not only had Camélia initiated conversation with gentleness, but she showed neither coldness nor anger—contrary to everything they had imagined.
And the scandal with the prince?
Was her silence a sign of icy disdain… or was she truly indifferent?
Their thoughts spun, pricked by curiosity. Several burned to ask the question—but none dared be the one to shatter the fragile equilibrium.
Camélia sensed it. She read the unspoken question in their eyes. And she waited.
For if the trap was to close, one of them would have to spring it first. Just one. A bold soul—or a careless one—would suffice.
Angela had sown chaos.
Edgar had carved his own disgrace.
And she—Camélia Greenwood—fully intended to make sure they paid the price.