Meredith. The name hung in the air between them, a simple introduction that carried the weight of a ghost story Carmine didn't know she was living in. But before Carmine could ask more, the heavy bells of the castle began to ring—the signal of departure.
Colden was leaving.
The royal carriage, flanked by the King's guard, rolled out of the palace gates. Colden sat inside, staring blankly at the passing trees, the image of Marco's tear-streaked face burning into his mind. He had done what he had to do. He told himself it was for the kingdom. But as the distance between him and Windmere grew, the hollow ache in his chest expanded, threatening to swallow him whole.
Back in the castle, the silence was absolute. Marco lay on the bed, but he wasn't sleeping. He was drowning.
The room felt like a tomb. The shadows in the corners seemed to stretch, whispering accusations. *He left you. You are a burden. You killed your mother.*
Marco squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the noise. But then, another voice cut through the darkness. It wasn't a ghost. It was a memory.
*Swoosh. Click.*
The sound of knitting needles.
Marco found himself drifting, pulled back through the years. He wasn't in a cold, stone palace. He was in the warm, cramped kitchen of the inn. The air smelled of roasted garlic and yeast. He saw himself, younger, scrubbing a pot until his hands were raw. He was tired, his back aching, but he was working his butt off because he knew who was sitting by the fire.
Lily.
She sat in her rocking chair, a basket of yarn by her feet. Even after a twelve-hour shift serving tables, even when her back was killing her and her fingers were swollen, she never put the needles down. She was a seamstress to her core. She knit clothes for the neighbors, for the poor, for Marco. She poured her compassion into every loop and knot.
He remembered asking her once, "Mama, why don't you rest? You're tired."
Lily had looked up, her smile tired but radiant. She hadn't stopped knitting. "Because, my love, passion doesn't clock out. It's what keeps the cold out. It's what keeps us human."
The memory shifted. It was the night before he left for the last time. Lily was older, greyer, but her hands moved with the same fierce rhythm.
"Even if I am dead," she had whispered, tying off a knot, "I would still give up the world for you. Don't you ever forget that."
Marco gasped, his eyes snapping open. The darkness of the room wasn't suffocating anymore. It was just dark. And he wasn't a victim waiting for a savior.
He sat up. The tears were still wet on his face, but the crushing weight had shifted. He felt a spark—not of happiness, but of purpose. He couldn't stay here. He couldn't rot in this bed while his mother's body lay in an unvisited grave.
If Colden wouldn't take him to her, he would go himself.
Marco swung his legs out of bed. He grabbed Lily's torn cardigan from the pillow, clutching it to his chest. He went to the window. It was a steep drop, but there was a trellis of ivy growing up the wall—a path he used to climb as a boy in the inn to watch the stars.
He didn't hesitate. He threw his leg over the sill and began to climb down, the rough wood biting into his hands. He dropped the last few feet into the garden, landing softly on the grass.
He looked back at the towering castle one last time, a dark silhouette against the moon. Then, clutching the cardigan, he turned and slipped into the night, heading for the only place that made sense: the graveyard.
Inside the castle, the "catastrophe" was already stirring.
In the basement, the heavy iron door groaned under a sudden, immense pressure from the inside. The chains rattled, the metal straining against the stone.
Arthur, the prisoner chained in the dark, wasn't sleeping. He was laughing. A low, manic sound that echoed off the damp walls.
He had been waiting for the King to leave. He had been waiting for the castle to grow quiet. And most of all, he had been waiting for the person who had finally come to set him free.
The door burst open. Silhouetted against the light of the corridor stood a figure. It wasn't a guard. It wasn't Francis.
It was Jesta.
She tossed a set of keys onto the floor. They clinked against the stone, the sound echoing like a gunshot.
"The King is gone," Jesta said, her voice devoid of the maid's subservience now. It was cold. Commanding. "And the walls are about to bleed."
The catastrophe had arrived.
To be continued.