Chapter 3

The bath chamber was a masterpiece of indulgent luxury, a temple to vanity and extravagance. Soft sunlight filtered through stained-glass windows, throwing muted shades of blue and gold onto the polished marble floors.

The walls, adorned with delicate gold-leafed carvings, reflected a quiet opulence that made the room both grand and intimate.

At the center of the room sat a massive tub carved from alabaster, its surface gleaming under the soft candlelight.

The water inside was scented with rose petals, lavender, and a hint of sandalwood, the mingling fragrances creating an intoxicating aroma that clung to the humid air. Steam rose lazily, curling toward the high, vaulted ceiling, where a crystal chandelier shimmered faintly

Two maids hovered by her side, their movements precise and practiced. One poured warm water over Julian's hair, her hands trembling slightly as she combed through the golden strands with an ivory comb.

The other maid knelt by the side of the tub, washing the queen's legs with soft cloths soaked in scented oils.

The queen closed her eyes, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "Be gentle, Anna," she murmured to the maid tending her hair, her voice smooth yet carrying an undercurrent of command.

"Yes your majesty," Anna replied, bowing her head even as her fingers grew steadier.

"Is the water warm enough for you, Your Majesty?" one maid asked timidly, her head bowed.

Julian didn't bother to answer, her focus entirely on her reflection in a handheld mirror she had demanded moments earlier.

Once Julian had had her

fill of the bath, she rose from the water, her movements deliberate and graceful. Her hair clung to her back like a golden waterfall, and the maids rushed to drape a plush towel around her shoulders.

Her gaze was cool as she observed their haste, the faintest smirk playing at the corner of her lips.

They dressed her in an elegant gown, a deep emerald green that hugged her figure and flared at the bottom. The bodice was adorned with intricate gold embroidery, and the sleeves were sheer, offering a tantalizing glimpse of skin beneath.

As one maid began braiding her hair into an intricate style befitting for her station, Julian dismissed the others with a sharp wave of her hand.

Julian opened her eyes, glancing toward the ornate mirror that hung on the wall. The candlelight flickered across its surface, reflecting a vision of perfection.

Her beauty, though no longer that of a young maiden.was undeniable. High cheekbones, a slender nose, and piercing blue eyes framed by dark lashes gave her an aura. But perfection was not enough.

She wanted dominance, reverence, and above all, the crown-permanently.

When she had married the late king, her sister's husband, it had been a calculated move. It didn't matter that her sister's death had been shrouded in whispers of treachery; Julian had seized the opportunity to climb to the throne.

Now, with Malcolm as king, her position was once again in jeopardy.

"All of you, leave," she commanded, her tone laced with quiet authority.

The maids froze, exchanging nervous glances before scurrying from the room. Only Margaret remained, the queen's most trusted attendant.

Margaret was older than the others, her movements slower but her loyalty unwavering. She had been with Julian for years and understood her better than anyone.

Julian sat before the mirror as Margaret began braiding her hair, her fingers weaving golden strands with precision.

"Margaret," Julian said softly, her eyes fixed on her reflection. "Am I still beautiful?"

Margaret paused, her hand hovering midair. "Of course, Your Majesty. You are the most beautiful woman in the kingdom, Your Majesty. None can compare."

Julian tilted her head, her lips curving into a faint smile. "Good. Beauty is power, Margaret. A woman who understands that can control even the strongest of men."

Margaret nodded, continuing her work.

Julian's gaze turned colder. "Do you think my beauty is enough to capture Malcolm's attention?"

The words hung in the air like poison, and for a moment, Margaret's hands faltered. The maid's thoughts were a whirlwind of shock and disgust. Her stepson? Has she gone mad? But Margaret quickly schooled her expression, keeping her thoughts buried.

"If anyone can captivate the king, it's you, Your Majesty," she said softly, forcing a smile.

Julian hummed in approval, her attention returning to the mirror. "Malcolm is his father's son, you know. His father couldn't resist me, and neither will he. But Malcolm is different-harsher, colder. It will take time, but I'll make him mine."

Margaret lowered her gaze, hiding her revulsion. "You always achieve what you set your mind to, Your Majesty."

"Indeed." Julian's voice was sharp, her expression one of steely determination. "You may leave now, Margaret."

The maid bowed and exited the room, her steps quick and quiet. Alone, Julian stared at her reflection, her blue eyes blazing with ambition.

"If Malcolm takes a wife, I'll lose everything," she whispered. "But I won't let that happen. He will be mine."

The air in King Malcolm's chambers was heavy, thick with the scent of whiskey, smoke, and the faint metallic tang of the armor resting on a rack near the door. The room was dimly lit by a cluster of flickering candles, casting long, wavering shadows on the stone walls adorned with trophies of war-swords, shields, and maps marked with red ink to signify battle plans.

The king's imposing desk was littered with documents, gold seals, and empty goblets, a testament to long nights spent brooding and strategizing. The crimson velvet curtains draped over the windows blocked out the night, isolating the chamber from the world outside.

Malcolm sat by the fireplace in a chair carved from blackened wood, His whiskey glass was half-empty, the amber liquid catching the faint light. He swirled it absently.

His gray eyes were cold, calculating, as he stared into the flames. The firelight danced across his sharp features-his angular jawline, his thin lips that rarely smiled, and the faint scar running along his left cheek, a remnant of battles long past.

To anyone else, the warmth of the fire might have been comforting, but in this room, it only amplified the tension, the heat oppressive rather than soothing.

He stared into the flames, his mind churning with thoughts of war and strategy. The kingdom was in ruins, its alliances shattered. His father's legacy was one of reckless wars. It would take decades to undo the damage.

Malcolm swirled the whiskey in his glass, his jaw tightening. "Fool," he muttered to himself. His father's incompetence had cost the kingdom dearly, and Malcolm refused to repeat those mistakes

A sharp knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.

"Enter," he said, his voice steady.

Vicktor strode in, his boots echoing on the stone floor. His face was hard, his jaw clenched, and his blue eyes burned with barely restrained fury, his broad shoulders tense as he shut the door behind him.The tension between the brothers was palpable, a smoldering fire threatening to ignite.

Vicktor's gaze swept the room, lingering on Malcolm's desk and the untouched armor in the corner. "Busy, brother?" he asked, in a mocking tone.

Malcolm didn't move from his chair, didn't even spare Victor a glance. Instead, he swirled the whiskey in his glass, the amber liquid catching the firelight.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, brother?" Malcolm asked, his tone cold and devoid of any real interest.

Vicktor stepped closer, his boots echoing against the hardwood floor. "You know why I'm here," he said, his voice taut with anger. "Why make me Hand?"

Malcolm set his glass down, leaning back in his chair. "Do you think I owe you an explanation?"

Vicktor's jaw tightened. "I think you enjoy playing games, Malcolm. But this isn't a game to me."

Malcolm finally raised his eyes, studying his younger brother with a cold, calculating stare. For a moment, he said nothing, letting the silence stretch until it became unbearable

"To keep an eye on you," Malcolm said at last, his words precise and cutting.

Vicktor's jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides. He knew what Malcolm meant. His older brother didn't trust him, saw him as a potential threat.

Vicktor stiffened, his hands curling into fists. "You don't trust me," he said, his voice low but vibrating with anger

Vicktor took a step closer, his eyes narrowing. "And yet you make me Hand? Do you think chaining me to your side will keep you safe?"

Malcolm laughed, a sharp, mirthless sound that echoed in the chamber."I'll place you wherever I see fit. You're my Hand because it amuses me to watch you squirm under the weight of a power you'll never truly hold."

Vicktor's face darkened, his hatred burning brighter. "You're just like Father-a tyrant hiding behind a crown. The only difference is, you don't even bother pretending to be noble", Victor sneered.

The words struck a nerve. Malcolm's expression darkened, and in one swift motion, he grabbed Victor by the collar, his voice a low growl.

"I'm nothing like that bastard," Malcolm hissed. "I won't let my wife be murdered and condemn a child, Father was weak-weak enough to let his whore poison our family. Weak enough to let Mother die."

Vicktor froze, his breath catching.

Victor's voice shook with barely controlled rage. "You're speaking treason, Malcolm. If anyone hears-"

"Let them," Malcolm interrupted, rising to his full height. his presence as menacing as it was commanding. "I am King. Who will dare oppose me?"

Malcolm stepped closer, his expression deadly serious. "I won't let Mother's murder go unpunished," he said, his voice steady. "I'll have her head."

Vicktor turned on his heel, storming out of the room and slamming the door behind him.

Malcolm returned to his chair, picking up his glass of whiskey and staring into the flames once more.