Chapter 52 - Punishment Part 1

Madeline stepped into the chamber with small, hesitant steps, her gaze lowered and her fingers tightly clutching the hem of her worn dress. The vast hall, with its towering pillars and rows of noblemen, seemed to swallow her whole. When King Alexander's eyes landed on the girl, they narrowed sharply. "Since when have we allowed a child to serve within these palace walls?" he demanded, his voice echoing across the room with disapproval. The question silenced even the whispers that had buzzed in the background.

Butler Barry stepped forward with a respectful bow. "Your Majesty," he began, "Madeline was taken in by the kitchen staff after her parents died in the northern raids. She's been under Theresa's care ever since. Treated her like a daughter, she did. The girl helps with small tasks—folding linen, fetching herbs, harmless duties. She's never been a problem." There was a brief pause, then he added softly, "Theresa may have been the only family the child had left."

King Alexander's gaze lingered on the little girl, and his expression subtly shifted. He remembered her now—her presence in the royal gardens with his son, Prince Sebastian, sharing quiet laughter beneath the willow trees. Still, he did not speak of it. The silence stretched until one of the regents sighed and gestured for the questioning to proceed. But Madeline didn't speak much. She simply nodded in response to simple questions, too scared to utter more than a whisper. Her big eyes were watery, her lips quivering as she looked around the room filled with strangers and judgment. Eventually, the regents waved their hands. "Enough. We've wasted enough time."

By the evening of the next day, shadows stretched along the damp stone walls of the palace as Sarah made her way quietly through the dim corridors. Her steps quickened as she reached the servant quarters, where she knocked gently on a worn wooden door. It creaked open moments later, revealing Madeline, her eyes red and brimming with tears. "Where is Mom? Is she still in the dungeon? When will she return?" she asked in a trembling voice before breaking down into sobs. Sarah quickly wrapped her arms around her. "You will see her soon," she whispered, glancing behind her to make sure no one was watching. "But first, we need to hurry. Get your clothes and things. Follow me."

Together, they tiptoed through the halls, every step fueled by desperation. They met Emily waiting at the corner of a narrow passage, her arms heavy with packed bags, her face pale but determined. The three maids exchanged quick glances, each knowing the risk they were taking. What they didn't realize was that someone had been watching all along. Cloaked in shadows just beyond the torchlight stood Duke William, dressed in his midnight robes. A smug smirk curled on his lips as he observed the girls' clumsy attempt to flee. He leaned back against the cold wall, arms crossed, silently savoring the chaos to come.

Following their rough sketch of the palace and their carefully laid escape plan, the girls moved toward the rear exit, where Russel, a loyal palace guard and Madeline's closest friend, awaited. Without a word, he scooped Madeline into his arms to quicken their pace. Tension hung in the air as they maneuvered through narrow halls and dark corners, praying no one would notice. They were so close to freedom—but fate, as always, had other plans. Just as they crept past a row of storage rooms, Emily's foot struck a metal bucket. The sharp clang echoed like a death knell. Within seconds, guards came charging, swords drawn, their armor clanking with urgency. The four were surrounded, caught like mice in a trap.

In the chaos, Russel acted quickly. With a nod from Emily, he took advantage of the moment, slipping into character as one of the guards who had made the capture. He barked orders and gripped Madeline's arm roughly, mimicking authority. As the three girls were dragged away to the palace dungeon, Russel slipped out of sight, vanishing among the real guards. The others, though frightened and imprisoned, took some comfort in knowing Russel had escaped—and that their story, and their fight, was not yet over.

The cold metal bit into their wrists as heavy chains bound the hands of Madeline, Emily, and Sarah. The three girls were herded through the winding corridors of the palace, surrounded by armed guards who offered no sympathy. Their boots clanged against the marble floor, the silence only broken by the sharp nudges from behind. Each shove reminded them of their failure, and each step brought them closer to the darkness that waited beneath the palace—the dungeon, a place whispered about in fear.

Upon reaching the lower levels, the air turned damp and foul, the scent of mildew and despair thick around them. The guards dragged them past rusted bars and flickering torches, and one by one, they were forced into separate cells. Madeline reached for Sarah's hand but was pulled away, her frightened eyes meeting Sarah's just before the gate slammed shut. The clang of iron echoed, and soon, only silence remained between them, broken only by the occasional drip of water and distant groans from the other captives.

Time passed slowly. Emily sat in her corner, her back against the wall, trying to control the pounding of her heart. The sound of approaching footsteps made her look up sharply. A tall figure emerged from the shadows, his presence unmistakable. Duke William. Dressed in a long, dark night robe, his expression smug as he stood before her cell. "The first-floor left hall is not a safe place for a midnight rendezvous," he commented mockingly, voice dripping with arrogance. Emily's eyes widened in horror. "It was you!" she gasped, realization washing over her. William said nothing, only offered a cold smirk that sent chills down her spine.

He stepped closer, his gaze fixed on her like a predator eyeing its prey. "You and your little friends have made quite the mess," he said lowly. "Escaping the palace? You must know that it's one of the most important rules for a servant. What you did only provides enough evidence that you and your friends were hiding something. Or maybe the accusations are real after all," he said, staring at her unblinkingly. Emily's eyes widened as she exclaimed, "We did nothing wrong—we're innocent!"

"Innocent? After everything you've done?" he retorted. "So, tell me—are you a witch as well?" he asked. Emily's face tightened with frustration at the accusation. "I am not! Neither are my friends. And—between you and me—I think you're the one hiding something," she added, her final words barely a whisper. But William heard her clearly. He fell silent, staring intently at the maid before him. After a tense pause, a menacing laugh echoed through the dungeon walls. Emily narrowed her eyes at the man, watching him with growing suspicion as his laughter faded.

"Anyway," he said, his tone suddenly sharp and cold, "if I were you, I'd start thinking carefully about what comes next. The King will not be pleased." With that, he turned on his heel, the sound of his boots reverberating down the stone corridor as he left Emily alone in the dim cell—her heart pounding, not just with fear… but with fury.

Sarah, whose cell was just a few paces away from Emily's, had heard every word of the exchange. Though the walls were thick and the air damp, voices carried easily in the silence of the dungeon. She pressed closer to the bars, her heart heavy with worry as William's footsteps approached. As he passed her cell, he cast her a brief, disinterested glance—cold and dismissive, as if she were nothing more than a shadow on the wall. In response, Sarah bowed her head, not out of submission, but to avoid drawing attention. She held her breath until the echo of his boots faded into the distance, leaving only the low hum of tension lingering in the air.

The next morning, the heavy oak doors of the palace groaned open, letting in a gust of cold, mist-laden air. The two regents—Aldric and Morgan—stepped through, their dark cloaks dusted with frost, faces set in grim, unreadable expressions. The sound of their boots striking the marble floor echoed sharply through the corridor, an ominous drumbeat that sent a chill down the spines of those who watched from the shadows. Without speaking, they moved with purpose, heading straight toward the Great Hall.

Whispers had already begun to swirl like smoke through the palace halls. Servants huddled in corners, their voices low and anxious. "Do you think they found out the truth about Theresa?" one kitchen maid asked, eyes wide with a mix of curiosity and dread. "They say she levitated a goblet in front of a nobleman two weeks ago—if that's true, she won't leave that hall alive," another murmured, clearly more excited than afraid.

"Shh!" hissed an older male servant. "You'd do better to worry about the King's temper. He's not interested in truth—he wants obedience. And blood, if it comes to it." Others whispered of the failed escape attempt the night before. "Madeline, Emily, and Sarah tried to flee," a scullery boy said breathlessly. "They made it past the guards, almost out through the old servant's gate. Almost."

"Do they think they're witches too?" someone asked.

"I don't know… but someone told me they were caught escaping. If they were innocent, why would they do that?".

The palace bells began to chime—low and slow—cutting through the murmurs like a blade. It was a summons, clear and final. Every servant, noble, and guard was called to the Great Hall. The towering chamber, with its vaulted ceilings and stained-glass windows, filled quickly with uneasy faces and restless feet.

At the far end of the hall, King Alexander sat upon his grand throne. He wore his ceremonial robes of royal blue, lined with thick white fur. A golden circlet rested upon his brow, but it was his face—stone-cold and devoid of mercy—that truly ruled the room. The seat beside him, reserved for the Queen or the heir, was notably empty. Prince Sebastian had not been allowed to attend. He had begged, pleaded even, but his father had refused with uncharacteristic finality. The boy now sat confined in his chambers, pacing like a caged lion. Word had reached him—through whispered gossip carried by sympathetic servants—that someone had been accused of killing a royal during the grand ball. A servant, they said. A witch.

Sebastian's heart thundered in his chest as the pieces swirled in his mind. A murder. An accusation. The regents back from questioning. And still, no word on Madeline. He had asked about her—too many times, perhaps. Enough for his father to suspect the depth of his attachment. The King, ever calculating, had kept him away not out of protection, but control. He feared the prince might try to interfere, especially if the girl in question turned out to be the one he held dear.

Back in the hall, all eyes turned to the regents as they stepped forward before the throne. The crowd fell into a hush so deep it felt like the very stones were holding their breath.

The verdict was coming.

And whatever it was, it would change everything.