The tiny girl bowed low, her forehead nearly touching the wood of the mural, leaving Evangeline alone with the realization that the rot wasn't just under the floorboards—it was reading her mail.
Evangeline collapsed into her bed, her body finally hitting the silk with a heavy, ungraceful thud. The adrenaline was gone, leaving her throat dry and her head throbbing with a dull, persistent ache. She didn't "weave through shadows"—she stared at the ceiling until the patterns in the plaster looked like veins.
"It's not just Chester," she muttered, the sound of her own voice strange in the empty room. "They're all whispering. I can feel it in the way the floorboards creak. They're waiting for me to turn my back so they can sink their fangs in. Even that pathetic maid... she thought she could look me in the eye and lie."
The truth felt like a cold stone in her gut. The rebellion that had ended her once hadn't been some grand, tragic storm. It was a slow, stinking infection. It was the result of her own weakness—years of looking the other way, of giving pardons to people who only wanted her blood.
"The seeds are already deep," she whispered, her eyes burning in the low light. "I'm done trying to garden this mess. If I have to rip out every bud with my bare hands, I will. And if the roots won't come? I'll burn the whole damn forest to ash. I'll turn this kingdom into a graveyard before I let them take me again."
The morning air feels thick, heavy with the stench of blood that hadn't even been spilled yet. Evangeline didn't just march; her heels struck the stone with a violent, bone-shaking crack that echoed through the empty corridors like a hammer hitting a coffin lid.
Behind her, White was a nervous wreck. He wasn't just "scurrying"; he was pathetic, his boots dragging and his breath coming in shallow, wheezing gasps. He gripped that silver pocket watch until his knuckles went white, his eyes darting around as if the walls were closing in on him.
"We're late again! We're late! Your Majesty, precisely three minutes and forty-nine seconds! We are—"
Evangeline whipped around. It wasn't "graceful"; it was a snap, like a whip cracking. She stepped into his space until her face was inches from his, her eyes two cold, dead points of light.
"White," she hissed, and the sound was like glass grinding against glass.
"If you chirp about that watch one more time, I will jam it so far down your throat you'll be able to hear your own heart ticking until it stops. Do you understand me? Shut. Up."
White's jaw didn't just snap shut—it clicked. He withered, shrinking back into the cold shadow she cast on the stone. "As you command, Mistress," he choked out.
She shoved the heavy double doors open. The courtroom didn't smell like a "shroud"; it smelled like stale sweat, old ink, and the sour breath of men who had spent the night plotting.
Only one chair was occupied. The Duke of Diamonds was sprawled there, his legs crossed with an insulting ease that made the throne behind him look like a toy.
He looked at the girl on her knees, then at Evangeline, with the bored, half-lidded expression of a man watching a dog die in the street. His amethyst eyes didn't "flicker"; they burned with a wet, oily light that made Evangeline want to wash her hands all over again.
Beside her, the King of Hearts was an eyesore. Julian looked like he'd crawled out of a gutter—hair matted, clothes rumpled, arriving with that pathetic, late-night stench of someone who couldn't govern his own bed, let alone a kingdom.
He wore that "kindness" of his like a cheap, fraying coat. Evangeline didn't even acknowledge the air he breathed; to her, he was a smudge on the glass.
In the center of the hall, the maid wasn't "pleading"—she was disintegrating. She was a heap of wet fabric and snot, her knees raw from grinding against the stone. Her voice didn't crack; it was a desperate, animalistic screech that grated against the ears. "Your Majesty, mercy! I have siblings! I have—"
Evangeline didn't let her finish. She didn't want to hear about siblings or hunger. She raised a hand, her voice not like a blade, but like a heavy iron gate slamming shut.
"I didn't come here to trade words with a thief," she spat, her tone flat and devoid of any human heat. "Guards. Take her head. Now."
The room choked. The air left the lungs of every noble present. As Evangeline stood to leave, she didn't just "look" at Julian; she burned a hole through him. It was a reminder of the mess he'd left her to clean, a silent promise of what happened to those who failed her.
Julian lower his head. His shoulders slumped, his entire frame trembling as if he were waiting for the axe to fall on his own neck. He looked small. Pathetic.
Evangeline's eyes flickered toward the back, where the shadows were thickest. Chester was there, looking less like a man and more like a stain on the wall. He gave a tiny, almost invisible tilt of his head. Leave it to me, my Queen. I'll handle the blood.
She turned and swept out, her skirts hissing against the floor like a snake in the grass.
Julian, thinking the room was empty of anyone who mattered, let his "kind" mask slip. He stared at the executioner.
But then, his gaze snagged on Chester, lurking in the corner like a bad omen. Julian's breath hitched. For a second, the "Saintly King" looked like a cornered rat, his eyes darting for an exit before he tried to force a shaky, hollow smile back onto his face.
Julian took a shaky breath, thinking the darkness of the hall was a shield. He make a subtle motion; his hand twitched, tracing a sharp, hurried circle in the air—a jagged signal aimed at the executioner's hooded shadow. It was the desperate gesture of a man trying to bury a secret before it started to rot.
In the corner, Chester grin. His mouth pulled back from his teeth in a way that looked painful, eyes glittering with a sick sort of joy.
"Oh," he purred, the sound barely more than a rattle in his throat. "Our 'Saintly' King wants a late-night chat with the man who holds the axe. How touching. I think I'll invite myself along. It'd be a shame for him to be lonely in the dark."
Across the room, the Duke of Diamonds sat like a spider in the center of a web. He watch; and lingered on the King's sweating brow with a gaze that felt like a cold needle stitching through flesh. He didn't blink. He just sat there, tapping a single, ring-clad finger against his chin—a slow, rhythmic sound that felt like a death knell in the silent hall.
"Look at him," the Duke murmured, his smile sharp enough to draw blood. "Our 'Kind' King is dancing. He's finally tripped over those invisible strings he's been pulling for years. I wonder... who will be the one to cut them?"