1712, Eastern City, Levere

Each and every person comes with their own strengths and flaws. You may be beautiful, but you are also vain. You may be strong physically, but you are afraid of the dark. Marguerite's strength is undoubtedly her intellect, her sharp wit, and her flaw, her greatest ruin is the assumption that no one is as smart as she is.

There, in that discreet tavern in the middle of nowhere, sat two men, their features glum and grim. One was taller than the other, one had black hair and the other had no hair, but they both shared one thing, the thirst for revenge. These two were none other than the Duke of Lorewell, Elliott de Fontaine, and the Count of Levere, Vince Olivier.

"I had hired a team of investigators to look into the events surrounding the death of my daughter," Vince began grimly. "Onlookers said that they saw Nathaniel le Prince carrying my daughter out of the ballroom hours before she was thrown from that window. Her corpse showed signs of assault, Elliott. I think it was that le Prince bastard who...."

Vince could not finish his words. This was his little girl, his dear Winnie, not a nameless corpse found in the streets. This was his daughter, who he had raised with love and care, and she ended up dead, splattered against the palace compounds.

"She was such a pitiful girl, Elliott. Winnie wanted to be beautiful above everything else, but she had inherited her Papa's face instead of her mother's. I gave her everything she could ever ask for, Elliott. Dresses, jewelry, pets, anything a little girl could think of. I wanted her to be happy, to finally find someone who loves her for who she truly is, but even towards the end of her life, she never got that. How afraid she must have been, Elliott, to be touched by that wretched beast, to see nothing but the faraway ground underneath her feet."

"I am very sorry," Elliott sighed. "I too, have done some digging into my daughter's poisoning. But it appears that I have uncovered something much worse."

"What could be worse than having your own daughter so close to death?"

"I discovered that the circumstances of the poisoning were similar to my wife's death all those years ago. The perpetrator had used the exact same method, even the same poison."

"But who? Marguerite le Prince was nothing but a babe at that time," Vince retorted.

"Oh yes, but her mother is also well-versed in the field of poison. She had been spotted entering the black market multiple times, presumably to top up her little supply. And back in the day, she also ran a boutique of her own, Le Petit Fleur. It rapidly came to be out of business following the success of my wife's own The B, and a few weeks after her boutique was closed down, my wife ended up dead, taking our unborn child with her."

"Do you think that Alberta le Prince did it?"

"Oh, I am certain."

"Then, what should we do?"

"We destroy the entire family."

1712, le Prince Manor, Fiorio

Marguerite did not understand why it was taking so long for the authorities to come and detain her. Let them take her to the torture chambers, let them beg her to speak. She had laid awake all night to concoct the perfect, and those fools have no choice but to release her, scot-free.

"Hah!" Marguerite chuckled. "The joys of being born with superior intellect."

Her mother, who had so easily forsaken her, would soon choke on her words once she makes her glorious return. She might not be able to marry the Prince of Ravaeryn, but there are hundreds of kingdoms in this world. With her witty charm and incomparable beauty, she would attract a king in no time. If Ingrid could sail away in hopes of finding true love, why couldn't she?

As she joyfully made plans for her golden future, she was unaware that doom was right in front of her doorstep. Marguerite had heard the sound of the horse hooves outside, and she immediately thought that it was the royal soldiers, ready to detain her. Marguerite was not afraid, however. After all, this was only the first step in her journey toward fame and power.

She was not afraid. Instead, she was excited.

The ones below were not the authorities, oh no. They were here to take revenge. It was Aspen who had opened the doors, letting them inside.

"Where is your master's room?" one of the masked men asked her.

"Which master?"

"The young one."

Aspen's brown eyes lit up. "Master Nathaniel's room is the first on the left," she said a bit too quickly, too anticipatingly. Aspen was no fool, and she knew what these men were here for. The le Princes had not paid her enough, nor were they kind to her. As for Master Nathaniel, it is safe to say that Aspen would not miss him that much. And Lady Marguerite? Aspen could not care less.

"May I leave now?" she asked.

"Not yet," one of the men said. "We need your testimony on the crimes that this family of wretches had committed. Speak, and we will pay you handsomely."

This was an offer that Aspen could not resist. To tell the truth, anyone in Aspen's shoes would do the very same. She quietly nodded as she made her way through the door, knowing well to ensure that nobody should ever know about the events that would soon occur within the walls of le Prince Manor.

Nathaniel le Prince had been lying fatigued in bed, with a petite brunette nestled in his sweaty embrace. Neither he nor the woman expected the door to be brutally kicked open. Three masked men dressed in all black stormed inside, their swords brandished at the ready.

"Leave," one of the men said to the woman, and she hastily threw her clothes back on and darted off without regard for Nathaniel's life. She had not been paid enough to care.

Nathaniel abruptly sat up, his face flushed red. "Who the hell are you lot? You have ruined my night with Miss Maddalena, you little bastards-"

"Do you know Lavinia Olivier?" one of the masked men questioned firmly.

"The dead one?" he cackled. "I've seen her obituary in the daily paper. Not a looker, to be frank."

"Do you know Lavinia Olivier?" the man repeated, and this time, Nathaniel felt a shiver run down his spine. How could he not, when he was the one who brutally assaulted the poor girl moments before her death? But then again, no one other than Marguerite knew of what he had committed, so there is truly no reason to be afraid. Or so he thought.

"Fine, I've met her once. Now what? What do you want from me?"

The man then changed his question. Now he asked, "What have you done to Lavinia Olivier?"

Nathaniel scoffed indignantly as to seem offended by this accusation, when in truth, he was on the verge of wetting his pants. "What have I done to her? I met her once! Once! What could have I done to her?"

"Then let us remind you," the man said, brandishing a dagger. As Nathaniel's strangled cries filled the hallways of the manor, it was an entirely different story in the upstairs chambers, where the Countess resided.

Alberta le Prince, born Alberta Blanchard, valued her beauty above all else. She was seated before the mirror, where an assortment of creams and ointments were strewn all over the vanity table. Like all other living beings, Alberta was not spared from old age. Strands of grey were becoming visible amongst her golden locks, and her once smooth, plump porcelain skin had become saggy and dull. Although growing old and gaining wrinkles might seem like a horror tale to some, in truth, is growing old not a privilege to begin with?

Caught up in her melancholy, Alberta failed to notice the door creaking open. While a whole group had gone downstairs to deal with Nathaniel, only one masked man had come for Alberta. She had been patting a dollop of snail cream onto her forehead when she saw the reflection of the masked man, steadily approaching behind her back. Unfortunately for Alberta, by the time she spotted him, it was already too late.

"Like mother, like daughter," Elliott de Fontaine's voice rang. "With a name like le Prince, one would expect its members to be composed and civilized. Or at the very least, decent human beings."

She abruptly turned around, her face as white as a sheet. "Who are you?" she briskly asked.

"You have taken everything from me, and you dare to ask who I am. My poor wife never had the chance to grow old, to raise our daughter, to savour the life she has been given. I raised my daughter alone, and she grew up to become the finest lady in this kingdom. She is everything to me, and your daughter, that devil's spawn, had conspired to have her killed, just as you did all those years ago."

Alberta now knew exactly who it was, and she immediately grovelled on the ground, praying that Elliott de Fontaine would show even a semblance of mercy.

"Your Grace, I had nothing to do with Lady Catarina's poisoning. I had no involvement in it at all. It was all my daughter's doing, not me," she stammered.

"That is true. But you are the mastermind behind the death of my wife, the late Duchess."

Alberta stiffened, but she resolutely decided to cling to the pretence of ignorance. "No, Your Grace. I know nothing regarding the death of the Duchess, and I most certainly had nothing to do with it."

"You swear that you speak of nothing but the truth?" Elliott hissed, his eyes narrowing.

"Yes, Your Grace," Alberta cried out exasperatedly. "Whatever must I do to prove my innocence?"

Elliott smirked. "Drink this, and we will see whether you are innocent or not." From his coat pocket, he produced a single vial that was half-filled with a thick, black liquid that almost resembled ink. It was liquid gravebloom.

Alberta immediately recognized what it was, but she knew better than to admit it. "What is that, Your Grace? It is not that I am unwilling, but--"

"Drink it!" Elliott insisted, thrusting the vial into Alberta's hands, his patience now running thin. Alberta's hands trembled as she held the vial, her lips quivering.

"You hesitate to drink it precisely because you know what it contains. You know what it can do to a person."

"I beg you to show me mercy," she pleaded. "I am nothing but an old woman now. I swear that I will do no harm to you and your family."

Elliott smirked. "Even if I forgive you, do you think that the King of Amaris will show you and your family mercy after you had murdered his aunt?"

At first, Alberta was confused. But then, she was reminded of Luciana's orphaned nephew, Rafael Lombardi, who was said to have died a few months ago. The young man, albeit incredibly handsome, did look out of place in the Ravaerinian society, as if he was not from here. And that name... Lombardi. Rafael Lombardi.. Rosalind Lombardi! The deposed Crown Princess of Amaris!

Alberta knew how vicious, how merciless the Amarisians could be, and if she did not die at the hands of Elliott de Fontaine, an even worse death was awaiting her. She gripped the vial in her hand, and uncapped it.

"Well then," she murmured. "I shall atone for my sins with my death."

She brought the vial to her lips and downed it in one gulp, hoping that her death would be quick and her pain not prolonged. However, no pain came, and all she felt was a prickly sensation in the back of her throat, slowly spreading to her face and arms. The liquid in the vial was not gravebloom, oh no. Instead, it was diluted pufferfish venom, not deadly enough to kill, but enough to paralyse.

"Pray that you have already suffocated to death before the fire reaches you," Elliott said coldly as he stepped out of the room. Outside, Vince Olivier and his two henchmen were already waiting, ready to move on to the next agenda. Now that the little devils had been dealt with, it was now time to capture Lucifer herself.

Inside her bed-chamber, Marguerite was growing restless. The authorities should be here by now, and there and then, she would immediately begin this performance of hers. It would rival even the actors at Opera d'Ghislaine, and undoubtedly, it would be the performance of a lifetime.

But they never came.

Instead, Marguerite began to smell smoke in the air, and the room felt somewhat warmer. The hot, grey stench filled her throat and made her eyes water. She reached for the door handle, and she immediately recoiled due to how hot it felt. The burning hot door handle had left a sear mark on Marguerite's white palm, and she winced in pain as she attempted to blow the pain away.

Now, Marguerite knew that she must leave. Who cares if her father, mother, and brother were still in the manor? They are as useless in life as they will soon be in death. She rushed towards the window and pushed it wide open. Now, Marguerite's room was only on the first floor, so it was not such a high drop. However, the height is the least of Marguerite's concerns.

Surrounding the entire Le Prince Manor were large, bountiful rose bushes, and like all roses, they also came with thorns. Marguerite knew that if she fell into the rose bush, she was at risk of getting disfigured, but if she remained where she was, she would certainly get disfigured, and perhaps even die.

"Grand-meré," she whimpered. Never had Marguerite felt so helpless before. She was no magician who could stop the approaching fire, nor could she jump from the window and escape unscathed. "Grand-meré, help me.."

But what could a long-dead woman do? The decision was up to Marguerite now, whether to die in the fire, or to jump and risk becoming disfigured. Marguerite chose the latter.

She had wrapped a white cape around her, hoping that it would shield her legs and arms, and as she perched on the windowsill, the ground never seemed so far away. Alas, the fire had already burned down the door, and if she did not jump, soon she shall burn too.

And so, she jumped.