Chapter 8

Amelia sat frozen, her body tense and unmoving. The room was quieter now, but the oppressive weight of the night’s events lingered.

Goblets clinked and spilled, their contents staining the fine carpets. The dancers, once elegant in their movements, now seemed exhausted, their steps faltering as they continued to entertain.

Amelia clenched her fists in her lap, willing the night to end. Malcolm’s grip on her waist tightened slightly. She dared not look up at him, afraid of what she might see in his expression.

The hours wore on, and one by one, the noblemen began to leave, their movements unsteady and their laughter louder and more slurred.

“Another fine evening!” one of them bellowed, his words slurring together as he stumbled toward the exit.

His companion, equally drunk, threw an arm around his shoulder. “Aye", he said with a leering grin, though the glazed look in his eyes suggested he might not recall anything come morning.

As they passed a servant girl cleaning near the doorway, one of the men reached out and swatted her behind, causing her to yelp in surprise. He turned back with a smirk, his expression dripping with smug satisfaction.

“Sweet thing,” he muttered, earning a chuckle from his companion.

The servant girl didn’t respond. She kept her head down, her hands trembling as she clutched the tray she was carrying.

The brothel women began to leave next, their movements far less graceful than when they had arrived. Their hair was disheveled, their makeup smeared, and their clothing—or what remained of it—hung from their bodies in tatters.

Some limped as they walked, their steps unsteady and their faces marked with exhaustion and pain. Others bore bruises on their arms, legs, and necks, dark smudges that stood out starkly against their skin.

One woman clutched her side as she walked, her face contorted in a grimace. Another had a tear in the thin veil that had once covered her chest, exposing angry red marks beneath.

The courtroom itself was in utter disarray. The once-pristine floors were sticky with spilled wine, the dark liquid pooling in some places and streaking across the stone in others. Plates and goblets were scattered haphazardly across the tables and floors, many of them broken or overturned.

Clothes lay in piles, abandoned by their owners in the throes of drunken revelry. A few garments hung from the backs of chairs or draped over the edges of tables, forgotten and crumpled.

The air was thick with the smell of sweat, alcohol, and something far more pungent that made Amelia’s stomach churn.

The servants moved about the room like shadows, their steps quick and deliberate as they worked to clean up the mess. They swept up broken glass, gathered discarded clothing, and wiped down the tables with practiced efficiency.

Their faces remained blank, their eyes downcast as they avoided drawing attention to themselves. They knew better than to linger near the departing nobles, whose wandering hands and drunken tempers were as dangerous as they were unpredictable.

One servant girl bent to pick up a shattered goblet near the doorway, her hands working quickly to gather the pieces. She flinched as a nobleman passed by, his gaze lingering on her for a moment before he turned away.

The guards stationed at the entrance stood motionless, their faces expressionless as they watched the scene unfold. They made no move to intervene as the nobleman swatted the servant girl or as another stumbled into a table, sending a pitcher of wine crashing to the floor.

Amelia’s heart ached for the women and servants, but she felt powerless to help. She remained on Malcolm’s lap, her body rigid as his hand continued its infuriatingly gentle stroking along her waist.

Finally, the last of the noblemen staggered out of the room, their laughter echoing faintly down the hall. The heavy wooden doors closed behind them with a resounding thud, leaving the courtroom eerily quiet.

The brothel women were gone as well, leaving behind only the servants and the guards. The air was heavy with the remnants of the night’s debauchery, the silence broken only by the faint clinking of glass and the soft rustling of fabric as the servants continued their work.

Amelia’s eyes flicked toward the servants as they worked, her heart aching for them. She knew she was no different from them now—where survival meant enduring indignities she could barely comprehend.

The weight of the night pressed down on her, suffocating and inescapable. She remained still, her hands trembling in her lap as Malcolm’s presence loomed over her.

Amelia’s thoughts churned as she wondered if she should rise, but uncertainty anchored her to Malcolm’s lap. His arm rested lightly around her waist, a subtle weight that made it clear she was not to move without permission.

At the far end of the room, Malcolm shifted slightly, his gaze moving toward one of the guards stationed at the back of him. His voice, low and commanding, broke the stillness.

“Any word on Viktor?”

Amelia’s body froze, her breath catching in her throat. "Viktor "The name reverberated in her mind, dredging up memories she thought she had buried.

It had been years since she last saw him, yet the mere mention of his name was enough to send her spiraling into the past. She could still hear his laugh, sharp and mischievous, as they darted through the palace corridors.

The memory came rushing back, vivid and full of life. She was young again, no older than eight, with Viktor’s hand gripping hers as they sprinted down the hall. The polished floors of the palace gleamed underfoot, and the air was filled with the faint scent of flowers from the queen’s private garden.

"Faster, Amelia!" Victor's voice was hushed whisper, barely concealing his excitement. He glanced over his shoulder, his blonde hair falling into his eyes.

"I'm trying!" She hissed back, her small legs pumping furiously to keep up with his longer strides.

They rounded a corner and came to a skidding halt in front of the kitchen. Viktor pressed a finger to his lips, signalling her to stay quiet, before cracking the door open just enough to peer inside.

The kitchen staff were busy, their attention fixed on preparing the evening's meal. Platters of roasted meats and bowls of fresh fruit lined the counters, their tantalizing aromas wafting into the hallway.

"There," Viktor whispered, pointing to a tray of sweets on the far counter. Delicate pastries dusted with powdered sugar, candied fruits glistening like jewels—they were irresistible.

Amelia eye's widened. "We can't just take them!"

"Why not?" He countered his voice low but insistent.  "They'll make more."

Before she could protest further, he slipped inside, moving with practiced stealth of someone who had done this many times before. Amelia hesitated for a moment before following, her heart pounding in her chest.

Viktor moved like a shadow, his fingers deftly plucking a handful of sweets from the tray. Amelia mimicked his movements, her small hands trembling as she grabbed a few pastries.

Just as they were about to retreat, a voice rang out.

"Who's there?"

Panic seized Amelia, but Viktor reacted instantly. He grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the door, their stolen treasure clutched tightly to their chests.

They bolted down the corridor, the shouts of the kitchen staff fading behind them. Viktor's laughter rang out, bright and carefree, as they ducked into the queen's chambers—a sanctuary only they dared to claim.

The room was as grand as Amelia remembered, it's walls adorned with tapestries depicting scenes of valor and beauty. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting golden patterns across the plush rugs.

They collapsed onto the oversized bed, their breath coming in gasps as they finally allowed themselves to relax. Viktor unwrapped one of the pastries and took a bite, his eyes lighting up with delight.

"Worth it," he said, his voice muffled by the mouthful of pastry

Amelia giggled her earlier fear forgotten as she bit into her own treat. The sweetness exploded on her tongue, and for a moment, all her worries melted away.

She had never felt safer than she did in those moments, wrapped in the warmth of their bond.

The memory faded as quickly as it had come, leaving a hollow ache in its wake. Amelia blinked, her eyes focusing on the present.

She glanced at the guard Malcolm had addressed, her gaze lingering on his face. He looked tired, the kind of weariness that seeped into a person’s bones and never quite left.

It wasn’t just him. Everyone here looked tired—guards, servants, even the courtiers who clung to their titles with desperate hands. The palace, once a place of life and joy, felt like a mausoleum, its halls echoing with the ghosts of what once was.

The memory faded, leaving a hollow ache in its place. Amelia blinked, her surroundings coming back into focus. The courtroom was a far cry from the vibrant world of her childhood.

She glanced at the guard Malcolm had addressed, her gaze lingering on his face. He looked tired, the kind of weariness that seeped into a person’s bones and never quite left.

It wasn’t just him. Everyone here looked tired—guards, servants, even the courtiers who clung to their titles with desperate hands. The palace, once a place of life and joy, felt like a mausoleum, its halls echoing with the ghosts of what once was.

Her gaze drifted back to Malcolm. His expression was unreadable, his question about Viktor still hanging in the air like a specter.

Amelia’s heart ached with longing. She missed Viktor—not just the boy he had been, but the bond they had shared.

Now, that bond was gone, swallowed by the shadows that had consumed the palace.

The weight of it all pressed down on her, suffocating in its intensity. She felt like an intruder in the place she had once called home, a stranger among people who had once been her family.

Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them away, refusing to let them fall.