Chapter 11

Amelia wandered aimlessly through the corridors of the palace, her footsteps light against the marble floors but her mind heavy with thoughts. Every corner she turned felt colder.

She hugged her arms around herself, trying to steel her resolve, but her thoughts betrayed her.

Her steps slowed as she passed through an arched hallway lined with high windows. The sunlight streamed in, casting golden patterns on the floor, but even the light felt oppressive here. She stopped and pressed her forehead against the cool stone of the wall, closing her eyes to block out the world. For a moment, she just stood there, letting the cold seep into her skin, grounding her.

The sound of approaching footsteps jolted her from her thoughts. She pushed off the wall, straightening her posture, and turned just in time to collide with something solid. The impact sent her stumbling back a step, and she barely managed to catch herself before falling.

She looked up, her apology dying on her lips as she met the eyes of the man before her. Her body froze, her breath caught in her throat.

He towered over her, a living embodiment of strength and menace. His broad chest rose and fell steadily beneath his dark leather armor, his frame imposing even in the wide corridor. Golden hair, slightly disheveled, framed a face marked by a jagged scar that ran from his temple to his jawline. His features were sharp, angular, and unforgiving. His blue eyes, cold and piercing, bore down on her with a fury that sent a chill through her very soul.

Her lips parted, a whisper escaping before she could stop herself. “Viktor...”

His name hung in the air between them, but it did nothing to soften the rigid lines of his face. For a moment, there was silence, the kind that pressed down on her chest and made it hard to breathe. Then his expression hardened further, his jaw tightening

Without warning, his hand shot out and grabbed a fistful of her hair. Amelia gasped, her hands instinctively flying to his wrist as he yanked her toward him.

“Viktor, please—” she began, her voice trembling, but he cut her off with a low growl

He didn’t wait for her to respond. His grip tightened, and he began dragging her down the hallway. The pain in her scalp was immediate and sharp, sending tears springing to her eyes. She stumbled as she tried to keep up with his long strides, her hands still clawing at his wrist in a futile attempt to loosen his hold.

“Viktor, stop!” she pleaded, her voice cracking under the strain. “Please, just let me—”

“Silence,” he barked, his tone brooking no argument.

Amelia’s heart pounded in her chest, fear clawing at her throat.

She struggled against him, digging her heels into the polished floor, but it was no use. Viktor was too strong, his grip too firm. He hauled her through the palace like she weighed nothing, his pace never faltering. The corridors blurred around her, the familiar surroundings becoming a dizzying haze as she fought to keep her footing.

Pain radiated from her scalp with every step, each tug of his hand sending fresh waves of agony through her body. Her breathing was ragged, her chest heaving with effort as she tried to keep up, tried to make sense of what was happening.

“Viktor, please,” she whispered again, her voice barely audible.

But he didn’t respond. His face was set in a grim, determined scowl, his jaw clenched tight. The only sound was the echo of their footsteps and the occasional muffled gasps that escaped Amelia’s lips.

Finally, the grand doors of the throne room came into view. Amelia’s heart sank at the sight of them, her fear intensifying.

“No,” she muttered, shaking her head. “Viktor, don’t—”

He didn’t slow down. With one powerful motion, he shoved the doors open, the sound reverberating through the vast chamber. The room was expansive, its high ceilings adorned with intricate carvings of battles long past. Chandeliers hung low, their crystals casting a soft, golden glow over the polished marble floor. Heavy velvet drapes framed the tall windows, the sunlight streaming in to create a stark contrast between light and shadow.

At the far end of the room, atop a raised dais, sat the throne—a massive, imposing seat of dark wood and gold, carved with ornate details that spoke of power and authority.

Malcolm sat upon the throne, his posture relaxed yet regal. One leg was crossed over the other, his chin resting on his hand as an advisor stood beside him, speaking in hushed tones. The advisor paused mid-sentence as the doors slammed open, his gaze shifting to the commotion.

Viktor didn’t hesitate. He strode into the room, dragging Amelia behind him with an iron grip. The sound of her shoes scuffing against the marble floor echoed loudly in the silence.

When they reached the center of the room, Viktor released her with a forceful shove. Amelia stumbled forward, falling to her knees on the cold marble. She braced herself with her hands, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps as she tried to steady herself.

For a moment, the room was deathly silent. The advisor looked between the two brothers, his expression a mix of confusion and apprehension. Malcolm’s gaze shifted from Viktor to Amelia, his expression unreadable.

Amelia didn’t dare look up. She stayed on the floor, her body trembling, her mind racing. Her scalp throbbed where Viktor had pulled her hair, and her knees ached from the impact of the fall.

Viktor’s chest heaved with barely restrained fury as he stood over her, his fists clenched at his sides. His glare was fixed on Malcolm, his blue eyes blazing with anger.

Malcolm met his brother’s gaze with calm indifference, his expression unchanging. He leaned back in his throne, his fingers drumming lazily against the armrest.

The advisor shifted uncomfortably, glancing between the two brothers before edging toward the wall, eager to avoid whatever storm was brewing.

Malcolm’s gaze flicked to Amelia, lingering on her for a moment before returning to Viktor. “This is a... bold entrance,” he remarked, his tone dry.

Viktor didn’t respond immediately. He took a step forward, his boots striking the marble with a deliberate sound.

“She was wandering the halls,” he said, his voice cold and clipped. “Care to explain why?”

Malcolm didn’t respond immediately. He continued to watch Viktor with a detached air, as though the question was of little importance.

“Brother,” Viktor growled, his voice rising. “I asked you a question.”

Malcolm raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into a faint, amused smile. “And this concerns you... how?”

“She shouldn’t be here,” Viktor said. His tone didn’t rise, but there was a steeliness to it, an edge that cut through the room like a blade.

Malcolm tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

Malcolm leaned back in his throne, his expression still maddeningly calm. “I wasn’t aware you had taken up the role of palace enforcer,” he said. “Since when do you concern yourself with the movements of servants?”

“Don’t toy with me,” Viktor snapped. His voice was low, cold, the tone of a man who had endured enough. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Letting her roam free. You’ve made a mockery of justice.”

Malcolm chuckled softly, the sound devoid of humor. “Justice?” he repeated, as though the word itself was amusing. “You speak of justice, Viktor, as though you understand it. As though you haven’t spent years serving your own brand of it, meting out punishment as you see fit.”

Viktor didn’t take his eyes off Malcolm, his expression unreadable. “You’re playing a dangerous game, brother,” he said, his voice quiet but no less threatening.

Malcolm rose from his throne slowly, his movements deliberate. He descended the dais, the hem of his dark robes trailing behind him like spilled ink. When he reached the foot of the steps, he stopped, his gaze locking onto Viktor’s.

“You’ve overstepped,” Malcolm said, his voice calm but laced with steel. “And I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve been too lenient with you.”

Viktor held his ground, his posture rigid. “Lenient?” he repeated, his tone disbelieving. “You call this leniency? You’ve turned this palace into a den of lies and manipulation. You let her—”

Amelia risked a glance upward, her eyes flicking between the two brothers. She could see the rage simmering in Viktor’s posture, the tension coiled tightly in his muscles. Malcolm, by contrast, was the picture of composure, his calm demeanor only serving to stoke Viktor’s anger further.

Malcolm interrupted smoothly taking a step closer, his movements slow and calculated. “You’re so fixated on her, so determined to see her punished,” he said, his voice low. “But tell me, dear brother, why does she concern you so much? Shouldn’t your focus be elsewhere? Like, for instance, the south?”

At the mention of the south, Viktor’s shoulders stiffened, but his expression didn’t falter.

“Ah,” Malcolm said, a faint smile playing on his lips. “There it is. You think I don’t know what you did?”

“I’ve done nothing,” Viktor said evenly, though his voice lacked conviction.

Malcolm’s smile widened, the expression as sharp as a blade. “Oh, but you have. Your little... attempt to sow dissent among my soldiers. Turning them against me. Whispers of rebellion.”

“That’s a lie,” Viktor said through gritted teeth, though his hands curled into fists at his sides.

“Is it?” Malcolm asked, tilting his head slightly. “You underestimate me, brother. Always have. But treachery is treachery, no matter how much you deny it.”

The room seemed to grow colder as Malcolm took another step forward, the distance between them shrinking.

“So,” Malcolm continued, his voice soft but deadly, “what do you propose I do with a traitor like you?”

Viktor’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond.

Malcolm let the silence stretch between them, savoring the tension. Then, without warning, he moved. He reached out and grabbed Amelia by the hair, his grip surprisingly gentle but firm enough to pull her forward.

She gasped softly, her hands instinctively flying to his wrist, though she didn’t dare struggle.

Malcolm turned back to Viktor, his expression calm, almost serene. Then, with a sudden burst of force, he shoved Amelia toward Viktor. She stumbled, her feet sliding against the marble, and Viktor caught her out of instinct.

The contact was brief and cold, Viktor’s hands gripping her arms just long enough to steady her before he let go, his touch as impersonal as it was firm.

Malcolm watched them with a faint smile, his eyes gleaming with something dark and twisted. “There are two paths forward,” he said, his voice smooth. “Two ways to settle this little... dilemma.”

Neither Viktor nor Amelia spoke, the weight of his words sinking into the silence.

“Option one,” Malcolm said, raising a finger. “I take your head, dear brother. A fitting punishment for treason, wouldn’t you agree?”

Viktor’s expression didn’t waver, though his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“And option two,” Malcolm continued, his smile widening. He gestured toward Amelia, his gaze lingering on her for a moment before returning to Viktor. “Take her as your wife."

The room seemed to hold its breath.

Amelia’s heart raced, her body frozen in place. She glanced at Viktor, her lips parting as if to speak, but no words came. She couldn’t process what was happening.

Viktor’s jaw tightened, his expression unreadable. He didn’t react immediately, his eyes locked on Malcolm’s, a silent battle of wills playing out between them.

Malcolm took a step closer to Viktor, his voice dropping to a whisper that still carried through the vast room. “You wanted justice, didn’t you? Well, here it is. Make her yours, and your treachery will be... forgiven. Decline, and I’ll have your head.”

Viktor’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze unwavering. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, his silence speaking volumes.

Malcolm leaned back slightly, his smile taking on a more sinister edge. “I’ll leave you to think about it,” he said. “But not for long. The wedding will be held today.”

Amelia’s breath hitched, her mind reeling. She looked at Malcolm, her eyes wide with confusion and fear. For the briefest moment, his gaze softened, a flicker of something. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by the cold, calculating mask he always wore.

“Everyone's a pawn,” Malcolm said, his tone light but his words cutting. “Some just take longer to realize it.”

With that, he turned and walked away, his robes trailing behind him as he ascended the dais. He settled back onto the throne, his posture relaxed, as though the exchange had been nothing more than a minor diversion in his day.

Amelia stood frozen, her body trembling, her mind racing. She glanced at Viktor, but his expression gave nothing away. His jaw was tight, his eyes cold, and he remained as still as a statue.

The silence between them was deafening, the weight of Malcolm’s decree hanging heavily in the air. Neither of them moved, the gravity of their situation sinking in.