Barracks (War of Hearts)

17- Render

"Fresh tidings have surfaced regarding Lavyrle's whereabouts. A missive from a witness claims he was seen consorting with a rogue recently."

"And the accuracy of this claim?"

"We shall confront them. Should their words prove false, their kin shall pay the price."

I advance, defiance in my step. "Surely, you are joking."

"Deception is unacceptable to me."

Yet here I stand, cloaked in my own deceit, praying for mercy.

"Perhaps the tale holds truth. Recall Anastasia's words? Lavyrle departed to meet a confidant. Maybe this rogue is the one."

"Your insight rings true. I've learned he seeks a clandestine gathering. His aim is clear: to remove you from the equation. We must act, yet disguise our true intent. He lays claim to the throne, citing the need for new leadership."

"Is there no counterclaim you might offer?" If he insists that Lavyrle should not have the throne, then he must believe he is the one. 

He pivots to face me. "I do not desire power. His claim is legitimate, yet propriety is in question."

Cecile's choice lingers in my mind—her trust in him unwavering, even beyond death.

"The queen's heart chose you for reasons unfathomable," I venture.

He appraises me, a silent sentinel. "Curious. Such words mirror her own," he muses, closing the distance between us.

Himley's gaze pierces me, arms folded in judgment. "You are lying."

I collapse, my limbs deprived of strength. "Very well, a woman named Cecile sought me out days past. I awaited her return, to no avail. I trusted her, since she said she was sent by you. Little did I know, she harbored thievery."

"Cecile?" Himley probes.

"Madness! To misplace something of such import! You had but one task, Leizabeth," he thunders. I recoil.

"Are you certain of her name? Such a title is reserved for royalty alone."

"Beyond doubt."

"Describe her, we must find her posthaste," Aldaire insists.

"Her hair, like moonlit silver, her stature delicate, her visage unforgettable..."

"Silver hair?" he echoes.

My affirmation is met with a nod.

Himley gestures towards a portrait, her tone laced with scorn. "This maiden?" Encased in ebony and glass, the image depicts a tiara-clad girl on a chesterfield, flanked by regal figures.

"Indeed, the very same!"

A hush falls. The siblings exchange silent discourse.

"What troubles you?"

"Two possibilities emerge, Leizabeth. A shapeshifter roams our realm, or you commune with specters. In either case, we must unearth the truth, for that damsel is none other than our departed queen."

"I don't understand."

"An interloper skulks within the Barracks. A heretic, perhaps, or a rogue."

"She spared my life, yet tonight, she may not." 

"I deemed you eager for death's embrace," Himley remarks.

"Stay near, but seek the dagger," he decrees, his voice laden with unspoken sorrow. Perhaps guilt gnaws at him, urging him to shield what remains of her legacy.

I bow deeply, my allegiance to Aldaire no longer born of duty alone. My past, shrouded in secrecy, now serves as the key to my freedom. I vow to aid him, not for honor, but for the tranquility it brings to my troubled spirit.

"The wedding will occupy Maximillian and the others. You cannot linger here," he warns, his voice trailing off. "But Himley's sanctuary is yours. Guards shall keep watch this night, but tomorrow..."

"Prince Xavier has seen to my protection," I assure him.

With matters settled, we part ways until dawn's light.

Himley escorts me through the castle's labyrinthine passages to the rear, where Xavier's sentinels await. I cast no backward glance as the cottage looms into view, its image haunting my restless mind. Seated by the window, I gaze upon the churning sea, yet the phantoms of my memory dance before me, their familiarity a tormenting enigma. Exhausted by the day's specters, I succumb to slumber's embrace.

******

A chilling dampness startles me awake—my pillow sodden. A foul scent assaults my senses, and horror dawns as I behold my sheets, stained crimson. Beside me lies a heart, still and silent.

Below, the guards lay fallen, their chests hollowed.

A scream tears from my throat, a clarion call of terror.

Melissa arrives, her approach halted by the gruesome tableau. Her hands tremble as they rise to stifle her gasp, the clatter of her dropped tray lost to my cries.

She flees to raise the alarm, leaving me alone with the ghastly sight.

I stare at the heart, then to my bloodied hands—am I the architect of this nightmare?

"Leizabeth," a voice whispers.

I search the shadows, my heart racing.

"Who speaks?"

"Still your fears. It is I, Cecile."

"Where do you hide?"

"Here, beside you. Fear not, all shall be well."

I shake my head, disbelief clouding my thoughts. "This must be but a dream."

Her voice carries a spectral smile. "Far from a dream, dear one. This is your doing."

A nervous laugh escapes me. This has to be my conscience. "A figment of my mind, surely!'

"I did this for you. Together, we might achieve greatness," she entices.

"No! Let me be!' I cry out, my voice echoing in the desolate chamber.

"Leizabeth!"

Xavier's arms enfold me, his presence a balm to my frayed nerves. Is it mere chance that he is always my savior?

"The is my fault," I sob into his embrace, my guilt a heavy shroud.

Aldaire's embrace is a fortress, shielding me from the chaos that ensues. Melissa hastens to us, followed by a procession of soldiers and the esteemed council. They concur on the gravity of the situation, yet they defer action, their focus unwavering on the impending nuptials.

As whispers threaten to burgeon into gossip, Aldaire draws me closer, his presence a soothing balm. Efforts to contain the news of the atrocity prove futile; by twilight, murmurs of the massacre have permeated every corner of the realm.

"I am at a loss," Emma confesses, her steps tracing a path of worry across Himley's chamber. Anastasia's departure, prompted by a spell of faintness, lingers in the air.

Himley's touch upon my back is a gentle solace, and Matilda's grasp lends me strength. A knowing glance shared with Himley reveals the unspoken truth: in this grand scheme, my life is but a mere token.

"I don't understand either," I say.

"Envy may be the root," Emma muses. "A new union could herald a contender for the imperial seat."

Emma's eyes alight with realization. "Indeed, Aldaire is the rightful heir, but he doesn't claim it because of fear. If he marries, maybe his wife can convince him to take the place. Heretics or rogues might be threatened by this."

Her logic is sound, yet my heart knows the fallacy of such conjecture. "You speak truly, Emma. Yet, your presence here is unwise. Seek out Tristan; he may require your comfort upon awakening."

As Aldaire enters, Emma and the other girls leaves us to converse in private.