Chapter 6: The New Dawn

The castle corridors hummed with panicked whispers. Servants pressed themselves against cold stone walls as Vivienne swept past, her violet skirts still speckled with dried blood none dared mention. Two guards trailed her, their armor clanking like ghost chains.

The news of Lord Edmond's death spread like wildfire—a fall, a tragic accident—but whispers slithered through the halls. The Violet Princess. The fork. The blood.

In the war room, Vivienne sat in her father's chair, the carved wood cold against her back. maps lay scattered across the oak table like fallen leaves. Her advisors—old men with tight faces—watched her, waiting.

"The Duke of Ironhold will demand answers," said General Rourke, his voice rough. "He expected the marriage pact. Now…" 

"Let him demand," Vivienne said. Her hands trembled under the table, but her voice held steady. "Send him a letter. Say my father's death changes nothing. The alliance stands." 

Murmurs rose. A young advisor, Tomas, leaned forward. "But my lady—if he learns the truth—" 

"The truth," Vivienne cut in, "is that my father fell. A sad accident. Anyone who claims otherwise is a liar." Her violet eyes burned into his until he looked away. 

He gulped monotonically, sounded thick with doom.

His scarred hands hold a clutching reports. "The kitchen staff claims rats got into the flour stores," he said. "But my men found these." 

He tossed a burlap sack onto the table. Vivienne flinched as it spilled blackened wheat kernels across her father's favorite battle plans. 

"Burned," she whispered. 

"Sabotage. Someone doesn't want the people fed come winter." 

The door creaked open. Lady Maris, Vivienne's childhood nurse, entered bearing a silver tray. "Eat, child," she urged, setting down honeycakes still steaming from the ovens. "You'll waste away." 

Vivienne stared at the golden crust. Last night's mutton still rotted in her stomach. "Take it to the orphanage." 

"But my lady—" 

"Now." 

As Maris retreated, General Rourke cleared his throat. "The Duke of Ironhold's riders will reach us by nightfall. His son leads them." 

"Cedric." The name tasted bitter. Vivienne remembered the duke's heir from childhood summers - a sallow boy who'd pulled wings off dragonflies. "Double the guard on the armory." 

Rourke's beard twitched. "With respect...perhaps a gentler approach? Send jewels? A peace offering?" 

Vivienne's palm slapped the table, making inkwells jump. "You'd have me grovel like some merchant's wife?" 

The general's jaw tightened. "I'd have us survive the week." 

——— 

Bats circled the dungeon tower as Vivienne descended, torchlight licking at moss-slick walls. The chained prisoner whimpered when he saw her - a scullery boy barely fifteen, his left eye swollen shut. 

His body quivered under her gaze, a subtle reflection of the fear that lingered in his eyes. The silky violet gown, adorned with crimson lines, gently brushed the blood-red floor, as though symbolizing a quiet connection between beauty and dread.

"They say you watched from the servants' stair," Vivienne said, crouching to his level. "Tell me what you saw, and I'll send you home." 

The boy's chapped lips moved soundlessly. 

"Was it Lord Tomas? General Rourke? Who paid you to spy?" 

"P-please..." Bloody spittle dripped down his chin. "Ma's sick. They promised medicine..." 

Vivienne stood abruptly. "Cut his tongue out." 

The guard hesitated. "My lady?" 

"Do it where the others can hear." She climbed the stairs, the boy's screams chasing her like vengeful spirits.

"This is how queens are made", she told herself. "Not with velvet, but with knives and swords"

——— 

Days slipped by in silence, the kingdom holding its breath.

Then, at the rise of the moon, riders appeared.

The Duke of Ironhold's banner—a black fist on red cloth—crested the hill. Fifty soldiers, armored and armed, trailed behind his son, Lord Cedric. His face was sharp as a blade, his smile colder. 

"Princess" Cedric's smile didn't touch his snake-green eyes as he kissed her hand. "How tragic about your father's...'accident'." 

Vivienne's expression remained composed, yet her smile was fragile, barely a semblance of warmth. She withdrew her hand slowly, as though she could feel the weight of each word he spoke. "Your condolences are... appreciated," she replied, her tone betraying the slightest edge of restraint. "We have made arrangements for your stay," she continued, her voice steady, though carrying a quiet undercurrent of formality.

"Charming." His gaze slid over her mourning gown. "Though I'd hoped to see you in wedding silks." 

....

The banquet hall buzzed with false laughter. Nobles picked at roasted peacocks while minstrels sang of lost love. Vivienne watched Cedric from the high table—how he tore meat with his teeth, how his eyes lingered on serving girls' necks. The sight made her stomach turn, but she couldn't look away. She watched as his fingers grazed the edge of his goblet, a hint of something dark playing in his eyes, as though he was savoring the moment.

It wasn't long before Cedric's voice broke the silence with the hollow ring of his laughter. "To new alliances!" he declared, his goblet raised high, the wine sloshing crimson against the polished surface. "May our union be as... fruitful as your vineyards!"

The nobles around the table clinked their glasses, their smiles all too wide, their joy all too loud. Vivienne remained still, her hand wrapped tightly around her goblet, untouched wine reflecting the candle flames like liquid fire. Her mind drifted, as the laughter echoed in her ears, to the future she would be forced to endure under Cedric's rule. She had seen the way his fingers tightened around the goblet, as if claiming his territory. Fruitful, indeed.

The banquet wore on, but Vivienne could not shake the cold unease that settled over her like a heavy cloak. She could hear the faint echoes of Cedric's voice in the back of her mind, his words laced with promises and veiled threats.

The truth was, she wasn't just a pawn in this game. She would not be a mere piece for them to play with. Her father was dead, but Vivienne had been born to fight—not just for survival, but for something far more dangerous: control. And Cedric, she knew, was just the first of many obstacles that stood between her and the throne.

Near midnight, as the laughter and chatter of the banquet echoed below, a quiet figure approached Vivienne on the party balcony. The air was cool, tinged with the scent of wine and crushed roses. One of the nannies, breathless from her hurried ascent, whispered a message in her ear, her words almost lost beneath the symphony of voices drifting up from the hall below. "My lady, the prisoner... he's fevered."

Vivienne's gaze swept over the courtyard, her face unreadable. The night's celebration had been a façade, a mask she wore with practiced ease. Her mind, always sharp, always calculating, was already elsewhere—on the scullery boy who had been caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. He had been a liability, and now he was dying. And with his death, another loose end would be tied up, another threat erased from her path.

With a barely perceptible nod, Vivienne turned from the balcony, her heels clicking against the marble floor as she moved swiftly towards the staircase leading down to the lower chambers. She had no time for weakness, for indulgence.

The court was below, dancing and celebrating her father's supposed death—an accident, they called it—but Vivienne knew that her rise was far from an accident. It was calculated, deliberate, and the death of this boy would serve her. It was simply the cost of doing what needed to be done.

In the dungeon's depths, the air was thick with the scent of decay. The boy lay on a bed of moldy straw, his body writhing in the fever that was consuming him. His mouth, torn and bloodied, gasped for air, but his breaths were shallow, weak, as if his very life was slipping through his fingers. The flickering torchlight cast grotesque shadows on the stone walls, shadows that seemed to whisper of the fate that awaited all those who crossed her.

Vivienne moved silently toward him, her presence a cold, unspoken authority. She could have felt something—compassion, perhaps, or even a shred of guilt—but she didn't. She had long since buried those emotions. Compassion was a weakness, and in her world, weakness was deadly.

She pressed a damp cloth to his burning forehead, her fingers cool against his feverish skin. His remaining eye, swollen and desperate, flickered open, meeting hers with a pleading gaze. She could see it—the fear, the desperation, the knowledge that death was approaching. But there would be no mercy here. Not for him.

Alone with the dying boy, Vivienne stood still, humming softly. Her mother's lullaby, the one she had long forgotten, slipped from her lips in a low, haunting melody. It was a lullaby that once promised safety, comfort, and love—but now, it was just a ghost, a vestige of a life she had left behind.

As she sang, her gaze never left the boy's face. His chest rose and fell with the labored breaths of someone who knew they were slipping away. And still, she hummed, the soft notes almost a mockery of the life she had taken from him.

The boy's eye locked with hers for a moment, and something flickered in his gaze—something like a plea, a silent question. Perhaps he was hoping for redemption, or maybe for an ounce of kindness before he passed. But Vivienne knew that kindness was a currency she could not afford. She was not here to save him. She was here to ensure that no loose ends remained.

When his chest stilled, when his life ebbed away in that final, quiet exhale, Vivienne felt no sorrow, no remorse. She simply closed his unseeing eye with trembling fingers. Her hands were stained with the blood of others, but she was still standing, still ascending.

"Burn the body," she told the physician in a voice that was all command. "Tell no one."

There was no room for sentiment, no room for hesitation. She had made her choice long ago, and the path to power was paved with such moments. The boy's death was tragic, perhaps, but it was necessary. He had served his purpose. Now, his body would disappear into the shadows of the castle, along with the truth of what had really happened.

As the physician moved to carry out her orders, Vivienne turned away, her mind already on the next piece of the puzzle she had to solve. The banquet still raged on—a loud, laughing lie draped over the quiet rot seeping through her castle's stones. "How strange", she thought, "that the world insists on wrapping its sharpest truths in pretty lies". Joy to hide fear, music to drown out silence, hunger wearing a crown.

She remembered her twelve-year-old self, ash from her mother's pyre bitter on her tongue, her father's hand heavy as iron on her shoulder "Kingship is deliverance through damnation. You'll understand when it's your turn to light the fires." Now, staring at the boy who stood where she once had, she wondered, Is power just learning to love the smell of burning? Or is it merely the price of a world where sacrifice is veil in the guise of service?

Her footsteps echoed down the stone corridors, the silence of the castle in stark contrast to the revelry below. She had risen, and she would not falter. She was no longer the girl who had hummed lullabies for comfort. She was the future of this kingdom, and with hands that had long since shed their innocence.

The path ahead was dark, but the throne was closer than ever.

*disclaimer - (–––) mean seen changed entirely and (...) mean location change*