1712, De Fontaine Manor, Lorewell

The bedroom was empty when she awakened. The windows were wide open, allowing the cool afternoon air to fill the space. There was no Julian, no Tristan, not even Rosie. The bed covers had been changed to silk ones, thank God, though no one had bothered to put the grandfather clock outside.

For a moment, she lay perfectly still, wondering if all that has just happened was nothing but a dream. It couldn't be, Catarina thought. It was far too realistic to be a dream.  She could still feel the sand crunching underneath the soles of her feet, and the crashing waves were still ringing in her ears.

    She abruptly sat up. Catarina wanted to talk to someone-- anyone at all, truly. Her mouth felt dry and parched, yet instead of looking for water, she desired human interaction instead. As she was about to make her way out of the room, she saw a slip of paper jutting from underneath her pillow.

It was a letter, Catarina discovered. There was no envelope, no wax seal, only a message upon a slip of paper.

My dear Lady Catarina,

    I solemnly beg for your forgiveness, as I am unable to be there once you finally awake. It is not my intent, and definitely not my desire to be apart from you. My duties as the Crown Prince of this kingdom have dragged me to the Kingdom of Amaris, where I shall aid your cousin Rafael to oust your uncle, King Anton. I do not know when I shall return, but once I step foot in Ravaeryn again, the first person I shall seek is you. I regret the manner of our parting all those months ago, and I intend to make things right. In my absence, do take great care of your health and safety. And please, I ask you to pray for our army's swift return.

Yours, Julian

1712, Palace of Syrene, City of Azura, Amaris

    On any other day, the Palace of Syrene would have been a sight to behold. Built along the western coastline, the palace was unlike anything that Rafael had ever seen before. Instead of being a singular yet grand building like Aethiel Palace, the Palace of Syrene was comprised of thousands of smaller buildings surrounding a castle in the very centre, where the king and queen would reside. Even more peculiar, these buildings were all built on top of the water. They were all connected to the main castle with bridges of marble and stone, like a complex, concrete spider web, yet some favoured to paddle their boats instead. In the green waters that surrounded the Palace of Syrene, there were hundreds, even thousands of beautifully crafted boats, their bows encrusted with opals and pearls.

    The breeze carried the scent of salt with it, and inhaling it felt like swallowing an entire mouthful of seawater. However, inside the castle, the stench of blood overpowered the scent of salt.

The Palace of Syrene is most famed for the Tunnel of Mavi, a corridor that connected the receiving had to the throne room. Everything from the walls, ceilings, and floors were coated with all sorts of gems in the shade of blue, like aquamarine, turquoise, azurite, lapis lazuli, sapphires, larimar, and of course, opals. Each of these gems were arranged in a specific manner, creating a mosaic that told a tale otherwise lost to time. But now, the gems were splattered with blood, and the mosaic now told a very different story indeed.

    "March forward," Rafael whispered to his men, and with their swords at the ready, they made their way into the throne room.

The throne room was even more enchanting than the Tunnel of Mavi, but Rafael had little time to indulge in beauty, for in front of him was none other than the murderer of his mother and father, King Anton. Unlike his two famously beautiful and attractive siblings, Anton seemed to not have been blessed with the same gifts, a possible root of his bitterness. Anton was short with little wisps of dark hair and large, bulging blue eyes, whereas Maximilian had been tall and handsome with long curls of chestnut hair.

    When he laid his eyes upon Rafael, the alleged pretender that had come to steal his throne, Anton was horrified. How could he not be, when Rafael was the spitting image of his dead father? Seeing the reincarnation of the man you once murdered with your very own hands is horrific on its own, but it is the realization that truly wounded Anton. Rafael was young, strong, and handsome, backed by the Ravaerinians, and he was Maximilian's heir, who had always remained the rightful ruler in the eyes of the Amarisians.

Anton knew he stood no chance against Rafael in the eyes of the people, but then again, if Rafael conveniently ended up dead like his father, then the Amarisians would be left with no choice. And surely, his special forces would do anything that he ordered them to?

    "Charge!" he yelled. "Kill the pretender!"

However, unbeknownst to him, in the eyes of the soldiers, their true king had finally come, and instead, Anton was the pretender, the cruel usurper. There was a sudden clatter as one of the men dropped their sword, and then another, and another. As he witnessed this scene, Anton was filled with so much rage that his hands started to tremble.

    "This man is nothing more than Ravaeryn's puppet! Submitting to him, and all of you will become slaves of the Ravaerinians! I have done so much to shield you all from those murderous bastards, and this is how you repay me? By submitting to this wee little boy?"

Rafael let out a chuckle. "Ah, fear-mongering. A tool created by cowards. So this is how you've controlled this kingdom. To make them live in constant fear, in constant resentment. You feed them tales of how evil everyone else is, yet you fail to tell them how rotten their king truly is! You murdered my father and chased my pregnant mother out of the kingdom, and yet you want them to believe that evil lurks outside the kingdom walls! You are nothing but a usurper."

    "This throne is mine," Anton sputtered pathetically as he clutched onto the wooden handles of the throne chair. "It has always been mine! I am ordained by God!"

    "Well then, I shall send you to meet him."

Rafael kept his sword back in his sheath, making the onlookers frown in confusion. But as he reached for his bow and arrow, they all knew what was lingering on his mind. What goes around, comes around.

    He let go of the bowstring, and the arrow made a whistling sound as it swiftly darted towards its target. Rafael could not tell which was more disturbing, the sound of the arrow slicing into flesh, or Anton's pained wails as he pitifully attempted to hold onto the throne, his crown slipping from his head. His cries could be likened to a cow being slaughtered, and the sight of him crawling around on all fours like an animal made Rafael's stomach turn.

Out of pity for the onlookers, not Anton, he raised his bow once again, and this time, Anton was silenced for good. For a moment, the Amarisian soldiers were silent, stunned by the revelation that the cruel tyrant was indeed dead, but their hearts soon soared with joy, knowing that the young, handsome Rafael Van den Berg shall replace him.

    "Long live the King!"

    "Long live the King!"

    "Long live King Rafael!"

As they began to chant in unison, all celebrating their victorious new king, Julian made his way through the crowd and clapped his friend on the back.

    "I extend to you my heartiest congratulations, Your Majesty," he chuckled. "This lowly man would like to know if you'll return to Ravaeryn with the rest of us."

    "Oh you rascal!" he grumbled. "It should be agreed upon that we should never call each other with all those pompous terms."

    "Agreed, ugly."

    "Well, to answer your question, dumb sir, I shall remain here, to rebuild my kingdom. As you can see there is much to do."

    "Oh, and while you are doing that, please remove your soldiers from my territories. It's quite rude and unpleasant, you see. Once you've done that, do let me know. Thank you for your cooperation."

Rafael sighed. "First of all, it was not I who sent them there. Second, is this how it will be for the rest of our lives?"

    "I imagine yes, ugly."

1712, le Prince Manor, Fiorio

    Marguerite stared blankly at the piping hot cup of black tea in front of her, her lips trembling with rage, or was it fear? Her plan had been perfect from start to finish. She had laid it all out, and it was flawless.

She would blackmail Eleanora into poisoning Catarina, and once Catarina is out of the way, Eleanora's crimes would be exposed to the world, and soon she would be on her way to the chopping block. Out of the seven ladies of the choosing ceremony, how many remained? Lavinia, Eleanora, and Catarina were either dead or would soon be dead, Cosmina was married, Jessamine preferred women, and Ingrid was off to Castelona in hopes of finding a dark-haired nobleman who would love her. The only option that the Prince had left was Marguerite. After all the scandal dies down, he would propose to her, and she would become a princess, and one day, the Queen of Ravaeryn. It was perfect.

Unfortunately for Marguerite, there was a variable that she failed to notice. The Prince himself. Who would have expected Julian to abruptly return from the north and harvest the legendary Flower of Anaise for Catarina? The de Fontaine harlot survived, much to Marguerite's chagrin.

She might as well have thrown away all hopes and dreams of marrying the Prince by now, but there was another variable that she constantly thought about. Eleanora. That stupid whore had been rotting in a dungeon for the past few weeks, but she was alive still. Of course, no one wanted to hear whatever she spouted out, but Marguerite still lived in constant fear, knowing that the truth of her actions now lay with Eleanora Finley, and she had absolutely no reason to shield Marguerite.

    Her worst fears would eventually come true.

It was a day unlike any other. Nathaniel was not home, whoring presumably, while her father was locked up in his study, counting the few gold coins that they had left. It was her mother that stormed into the drawing room, her face slick with sweat.

    "What have you done, Marguerite?" she wailed as she leaned against the closed door, her fingers clawing on her tufts of matted blonde hair. "What have you done?"

    "What have I done?" Marguerite huffed indignantly as she stood up, unwilling to give up her unbothered façade. "I have not done anything!"

    "You fool! The whole world knows what you have done! You have tarnished our family name! Let us hope that the king shall only punish you instead of annihilating our entire family."

Instead of lashing out like Alberta initially thought she would, Marguerite had actually gone silent. "Would you care to tell me which crime of mine has been exposed?"

    "Which?" Alberta sputtered. "You coerced that Finley girl to poison Catarina de Fontaine. Have you thought that she would remain silent forever? No! The Grand Duke of Devereaux returned with illustrious achievements, and the king granted him one wish. Do you know what he wished for? He wished for the release of that Finley girl! And she told him, told everyone is what you did!"

    "And the rest?"

    "What do you mean? What else have you done? Marguerite? Marguerite!"

She ignored her mother's shouts and instead sat back down. Marguerite brought the teacup close to her lips, and she saw her blank, dead eyes reflected in the tea. What the world thought of her did not matter. Marguerite knew that she was smart, she knew that she was blessed with a glib tongue. She knew that she could lie her way out of this.

Even though Eleanora had been wrongfully accused of attempting to kill Catarina, she had already fallen out of the Queen's favors, and it would take only a single statement from Marguerite to send her back to the dungeons. By then, no one would be able to save her, not even her beloved duke.

    "There is still hope," Marguerite muttered. "I shall not fail."