Elvira leaned in, a slow, predatory smirk carving across her face.
"What is this, Your Majesty?" she purred, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "Have you grown cowardly all of a sudden? Can you not even manage a task as simple as this?"
She stepped behind Alisha, her hand clamping down on her shoulder like a shackle. She leaned closer, her breath cold against Alisha’s ear. "Just imagine the glory waiting for you on the other side of this. The crown, the power... the respect."
She let go, beginning to pace the room with the practiced ease of a wolf in a cage. Her yellow eyes swept over the cold, stone walls of the Western Palace.
"Or perhaps you prefer this?" Elvira gestured vaguely at the gloom. "To remain rotting in this bleak tomb? Is this what our exalted Empress has beco? Just another... lady?"
Alisha straightened her back, her nails digging into her palms. "Elvira, stop with the temptations. Tell the truth. I know your family—the house of Roland doesn’t offer anything for free. Spit it out. What is your price?"
Elvira humd, sinking into a velvet chair. She crossed her legs with a languid, arrogant grace, looking every bit the queen Alisha was supposed to be.
"I’ve always admired that about you, Alisha," Elvira said, her gaze mocking. "Your intelligence... even if you are fundantally weak."
"Weak?" Alisha snapped, her voice trembling with rising fury. "You know what? Never mind. I don’t care what you think. I can’t do it. I cannot kill him."
Elvira’s eyes widened in fake astonishnt, a jagged, cruel laugh escaping her lips.
"Oh... please," Elvira gasped, leaning forward. "Don’t tell you’re harboring those pathetic, flea-bitten feelings they call ’love’?"
Elvira leaned back, her eyes narrowing as she watched Alisha’s internal struggle. "I doubt it’s love," she said, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. "But I have a reason that will make you agree regardless."
"And what is that?" Alisha asked, her voice tight.
"I heard you had a... shall we say, unpleasant encounter with my dear elder sister. A little mont of friction that led to your current—unfortunate—residence here."
"Do not ntion that whore’s na in my presence!" Alisha hissed, her face contorting with a rage so sudden it was startling. "I cannot stomach her. If it were up to —if Roland hadn’t stopped from killing her that day—I would be the happiest woman alive today."
Elvira waved a hand dismissively. "There is no use in regret, dear. But there is a way to achieve a revenge that is... truly magnificent."
"Revenge?" Alisha’s eyes flickered.
"Let’s call it a mutual favor. You regain your crown, and I get my revenge on that wretched girl. I am going to strip her of the thing she prizes most." Elvira’s smile widened, sharp and cold. "I will take her husband from her. That is my promise. So, my dear... do we have an agreent?"
The hesitation that had clouded Alisha’s mind vanished in a heartbeat. The ntion of destroying Olivia was a temptation far greater than any fear of the Emperor. It was an opportunity she couldn’t let slip through her fingers.
Alisha lifted the glass vial, the moonlight catching the deadly liquid inside.
"I suppose so sacrifices are necessary in the end," she said, her voice cold and hollow. "Count in."
"You won’t regret this," Elvira purred, a triumphant glint in her sulfur-yellow eyes.
She glided out of the room, leaving a heavy, toxic silence behind. Alisha stood alone, her mind already spinning a thousand ways to reclaim her throne. But as she stared at the vial, a single, jagged mory of Mathias flashed through her mind.
"Am I truly capable of killing him?" she whispered to the empty air.
A shadow of doubt crossed her features for a fleeting second, but she wiped it away instantly, her expression hardening into a mask of stone. The Empress was gone; only the seeker of vengeance remained.
In her chamber, Isabella sat in a heavy, suffocating silence. It had been days since she and Leon had last spoken, and the void he left behind was starting to ache. Last night, she had ventured to his room, her heart hamring against her ribs, only to find it empty and cold.
A genuine, sharp anxiety took root in her chest. Despite their marriage being a hollow political arrangent, she had grown accustod to his quiet kindness and the way he seed to understand her without a single word.
Her mind wandered, drifting back to the very first ti their paths had crossed.
She rembered the garden—lonely, overgrown, and slling of damp earth. It was the year her family’s world had collapsed, the year the debts had swallowed their na whole. She rembered sitting there, invisible to the world, tears tracking slow, burning paths down her cheeks. She couldn’t cry in front of her father; he was already drowning in his own failures. She had to be the strong one, the silent one.
She rembered the day she finally made her decision. Her feet had felt like lead as she forced herself into that small, dimly lit shop.
There was only one other person there—a man sitting quietly in the shadows. The elderly shopkeeper was nowhere to be seen. Isabella sat beside him, her gaze fixed on her own reflection, her heart breaking with every breath. She bit her lip, harder and harder, trying to physically crush the sob rising in her throat, until the tallic tang of blood filled her mouth.
She didn’t care. The physical pain was a distraction from the rot inside.
Suddenly, a clean white handkerchief dangled before her eyes.
She blinked, startled, as she looked at the man sitting next to her. "Huh? What is this, sir?"
He didn’t look at her with pity, only a calm, steady presence. "It’s for the blood," he said simply, his voice a low, soothing hum. "You’ve bitten through your lip. You can cry if you need to... after all, I’m the only one here to see it."
She wiped the blood with her bare hand. She couldn’t even afford the cost of washing a silk handkerchief, and she wouldn’t dare ruin his. One glance at the fabric told her it belonged to a world of nobility she would never touch again.
But he didn’t pull away. Instead, he reached out, caught her trembling hand, and began to wipe the stains away himself.
"This might be a bit forward," he said, his voice a calm anchor in her storm. "But I think you have your reasons. Accept this help from a stranger... there is no need for sha."
"It isn’t a matter of pride," she whispered, her voice cracking. "If I had any pride left, I wouldn’t be standing here to sell my own hair. I’ve thrown my pride away long ago. I simply... I cannot afford the cost of cleaning your silk, nor can I buy you a replacent. Keep your handkerchief, sir."
Leon’s eyes widened. He, who had been raised in the lap of luxury, was staring at a woman whose clothes were worn but whose elegance and speech betrayed a high-born soul. She was a fallen star, and she was here to sell the only thing she had left.
"Then, tell ," Leon said, his voice shifting into sothing deeper, more intense. "What is the price?"
Isabella blinked, her breath catching. "What?"
He reached out, catching a long, silken strand of her hair between his fingers, feeling its texture like a precious treasure.
"Your hair," he murmured, his gaze locking onto hers. "How much must I pay to buy it all?"
He looked at her with a simplicity that was almost insulting. "You said it yourself—you want to sell your hair. Well, I want to buy it."
Isabella felt a cold splash of disbelief. "Stranger... are you in your right mind?"
"Why wouldn’t I be?" His silver eyes locked onto hers, steady and unblinking, searching for sothing beneath her weary exterior. "Tell , Miss... what is your na?"
"What does my na have to do with anything?" she snapped, her voice trembling not from fear, but from the sheer absurdity of the mont.
"Do not misunderstand ," he said, his tone remains calm, almost clinical. "I am quite serious about the transaction. I truly wish to purchase your hair."
Isabella fell silent for a mont. Her mind raced, a bitter war waging in her chest. She had told herself earlier that there was no room for pride—that pride was a luxury she had traded for bread long ago. But there was sothing about the way he looked at her, as if she were a rare specin in a gallery, that made her skin crawl.
"I don’t know the price," she whispered, looking away. "And besides... I am selling it to the shopkeeper, not to you."
The stranger didn’t flinch. Instead, his gaze swept over her from head to toe, lingering on the fraying hem of her dress before returning to her face. "Fair enough. But even if you do, I will simply buy it from him the mont you leave."
It was the final straw. He wasn’t just being helpful; he was being provocative, toyed with her desperation as if it were a ga for his amusent. The implication that he could simply ’own’ a part of her, even indirectly, felt like a slap to the face.
Isabella bolted upright from her chair, her green eyes flashing with a sudden, erald fire that seed to light up the dim shop.
"I think I’ve changed my mind," she hissed, her voice dripping with venom. "If you have such twisted tastes in won, go play your gas elsewhere. I won’t sell a single strand of my hair to a deviant like you!"
With a jagged motion, she snatched the white handkerchief from her lap and hurled it at his chest.
"Take your silk and get out of my sight! I want nothing from a piece of filth like you!"
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"As we stand just four days away from our Grand Mass Release on May 14th, I find myself looking at this journey we’ve shared. Every writer has a quiet dream, and mine has always been to see a [Magic Castle] grace this story. Not for the prize itself, but as a sign that these characters—Mathias, Olivia, and their broken world—have truly touched your lives."
"Please know there is no pressure at all; your ti and your comnts are already more than I could ask for. But if you’d like to help turn that dream into a reality, any support through [Gifts, Power Stones, or Golden Tickets] would be a beautiful gesture I would cherish forever. Thank you for walking this dark path with and for believing in my words."
"With all my love and gratitude,
Ines"
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