Chapter 15

The grand halls of the palace bustled with an air of expectation, a stark contrast to the chaos simmering beneath its gilded surface. Malcolm sat upon his high-backed chair in his private chambers, his sharp gaze fixed on the goblet of wine in his hand. His thoughts, however, were not on the rich taste of the wine.

A knock interrupted his musings.

“Enter,” Malcolm barked.

The door creaked open, and a maid timidly stepped inside, her head bowed. “My lord, you summoned me?”

“Make sure the entire palace knows of the grand celebration tonight,” Malcolm ordered, his voice cold and commanding. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his fingers steepled under his chin. “I want banners hanging from every tower, music echoing through the halls, and feasts fit for a kingdom. Nothing less.”

The maid bowed low, stammering his reply. “Yes, my lord. It will be done as you say.”

“And,” Malcolm added, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, “Ensure the bride and groom are ready." His lips twisted into a cruel smile.

“Yes, my lord,” the maid stammered.

“Good.” Malcolm leaned back, waving his hand in dismissal. The servant scurried out of the room, leaving Malcolm alone with his thoughts.

For a moment, his mask slipped. His stomach churned uncomfortably, a sensation he couldn’t quite explain. Giving Amelia mto Viktor had seemed like the perfect solution but the decision left a bitter taste.

Malcolm clenched his fists, pushing the unease aside. He didn’t have the luxury of doubt.

-----

In the solitude of his chambers, Viktor stood before a tall mirror, adjusting the ceremonial sash draped across his chest. His expression was grim, his jaw set in a way that spoke of barely contained fury. His thoughts were not on the impending marriage but on the South—his domain, his army, and the traitor lurking among his men.

Two servants fussed over his attire. The ceremonial tunic they draped over his broad shoulders was dark and heavy, the fabric embroidered with silver patterns of wolves and swords. The cut emphasized his rugged frame, the deep neckline exposing the jagged scar that ran from his collarbone to the base of his throat.

“Hold still, my lord,” one servant muttered, fastening the clasp of his belt.

“Will that be all, my lord?” one servant asked hesitantly, stepping back to admire their work.

Viktor gave a curt nod, and the servants hurried out, leaving him alone.

Almost alone.

“You’re taking another wife.”

The voice was soft yet accusing, cutting through the silence like a dagger. Viktor turned his head slightly, his expression impassive as his eyes landed on the woman sitting on the edge of his bed.

She was beautiful in a sharp, calculating way, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders and her lips set in a slight pout. She wasn’t crying or pleading; she never would.

Viktor said nothing, turning back to the mirror and adjusting the heavy belt at his waist.

Sofia rose gracefully, her movements deliberate as she approached him. “You didn’t think to tell me?” she asked, her voice dripping with sweetness.

Still, he remained silent.

Her eyes narrowed, but she kept her tone even. “Who is she?”

Viktor ignored her again, his focus on the blade resting on the table nearby.

Sofia’s lips curved into a small, smile."This is Malcolm’s doing, isn’t it?, she said, her voice softening as she circled him. "Another one of his games.”

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

Sofia stepped closer, tilting her head to study his scar. Her fingers hovered near it, but she didn’t touch. “Do you think she’ll bear you a son before I do?”

The question was pointed, her words laced with venom. Sofia had known their marriage was one of power and alliance, not love, but the thought of another woman entering their carefully constructed world unsettled her.

Viktor finally turned to face her, his expression as cold as stone. “Stay out of my way, Sofia.”

She met his gaze, her smile widening. “Oh, don’t worry, my king. I know my place.”

Her words were a lie, and they both knew it.

-----

The air in Queen Julian's private chambers was thick with the scent of sweat and lust. The heavy curtains were drawn, blocking out the light of the setting sun, leaving the room bathed in a dim, glow. On all fours, Julian moaned, her body rocking back and forth as James pounded into her.

Her hands gripped the silken sheets beneath her, her nails tearing into the fabric as she cried out. “Just like that,” she hissed, her voice heavy with arousal.

James was one of Malcolm's most loyal soldiers, but to Julian, he was much more—a vessel for her desires, a reprieve from the boredom and inadequacy of her late husband. The king who had been laid to rest years ago had been a pitiful lover.

But James was different. His rough hands gripped her hips, his powerful thrusts sending shockwaves of pleasure through her. He knew how to make her scream and beg.

Julian’s head fell forward, her golden hair spilling over her face as she moaned louder, feeling the pressure build within her. She reached back, her hand brushing against James’s abdomen, urging him to go harder.

“More,” she demanded, her voice sharp.

James obliged, his movements growing more frantic, more forceful. His grunts filled the room, mingling with Julian’s cries. He reached around her, grabbing her breasts and kneading them roughly, sending her over the edge.

Julian climaxed with a guttural scream, her body convulsing beneath him. Moments later, James finished with a deep, animalistic groan, his cum spilling inside her.

Julian collapsed onto the bed, her body spent but her mind racing. She spread her legs lazily, feeling the warmth of James’s release dripping from her. She smirked, her fingers sliding down to her slick entrance. Gathering his cum on her fingers, she brought them to her lips, licking them clean with deliberate slowness.

James, still catching his breath, stood by the bed, his head bowed in deference. Julian waved her hand dismissively, not bothering to look at him.

“Leave,” she commanded.

James hesitated for a moment, his gaze lingering on her naked, form. But he knew better than to disobey. With a bow, he quickly dressed and left the room.

A knock on the door interrupted her reverie, and a servant entered hesitantly, bowing deeply. Julian propped herself up on one elbow, her expression one of lazy disdain.

“What is it?” she demanded, her tone sharp.

“The king has requested that you prepare yourself, my queen,” the servant said, her voice trembling.

Julian raised an eyebrow. “Prepare for what?”

The servant hesitated, as if afraid to speak. “For the celebration, my queen. Lord Viktor is to take a new wife.”

Julian rolled her eyes, sinking back onto the pillows. “Another wife? Doesn’t he already have one?”

“Yes, my queen,” the servant replied. “But this union has been arranged by King Malcolm himself.”

She mused, her voice dripping with mockery. “Malcolm playing matchmaker now?”

The servant remained silent, unsure whether the queen expected a response.

Julian sat up, stretching languidly. She reached for her robe, wrapping it around herself as she moved to the vanity. Her reflection stared back at her.

“Why would Malcolm care about Viktor’s marriage?” she wondered aloud. “Unless the girl comes from a powerful family. That must be it. A political move, no doubt.”

The servant shifted nervously. “Shall I call for your maids to prepare you, my queen?”

Julian waved her hand dismissively. “Do as you like. I couldn’t care less about Viktor or his new bride.”

------

The room was heavy with the scent of burning wood. He leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable as the firelight cast flickering shadows. The door burst open, and a cluster of servants hurried in, their faces pale and their hands trembling.

“My lord,” one of them stammered, dropping to her knees. The others followed suit, bowing so low they were nearly prostrate on the floor.

Malcolm’s dark eyes shifted to the group, his gaze cold and calculating. “Speak.”

The servant gulped audibly before finding her voice. “My lord, she's not in her chambers.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Malcolm’s fingers drummed against the armrest of his chair, his face a mask of calm that belied the storm brewing beneath. “Not in her chambers,” he repeated, his voice dangerously low.

“We have searched the entire palace,” another servant interjected quickly, her voice quivering. “Every corridor, every room. She is nowhere to be found.”

For a moment, Malcolm said nothing, his gaze fixed on the crackling fire. Then, slowly, he rose from his chair, the movement so deliberate that it sent a chill through the room.

“Who guards the servants’ quarters?” he asked, his tone devoid of emotion.

The servants exchanged nervous glances. One of them finally spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. “It is Guard Lorn, my lord.”

“Bring him to me,” Malcolm commanded.

The guards moved swiftly, dragging Lorn into the chamber within moments. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, but he looked small and terrified under Malcolm’s piercing gaze.

“My lord,” Lorn began, bowing deeply.

Malcolm’s lip curled in a mockery of a smile. “Lorn,” he said, his voice smooth and deceptively calm. “Tell me, where she is?”

Lorn blinked, clearly startled by the question. “My lord, I do not know. I have seen nothing unusual.”

Malcolm stepped closer, his hands clasped behind his back. The tension in the room was palpable, the servants holding their breath as they watched the exchange.

“You do not know,” Malcolm repeated, his tone now icy. “You are tasked with guarding the servants’ quarters. And yet, a servant vanishes from under your nose?”

“My lord, I swear to you,” Lorn said, his voice trembling. “I have done my duty. I know nothing of her whereabouts.”

Malcolm tilted his head, studying the guard with an intensity that made the man squirm. “You swear?”

“Yes, my lord,” Lorn said, his voice growing more desperate.

Without warning, Malcolm drew his sword in a single, fluid motion. The blade gleamed in the firelight as he stepped forward and drove it through Lorn’s neck. The room erupted in chaos as blood sprayed across the stone floor, the servants screaming and scrambling back.

Lorn’s body crumpled to the ground, lifeless, the crimson stain spreading beneath him. Malcolm wiped his blade clean with a cloth, his expression unchanging.

He turned to the terrified servants, his gaze slicing through them like the blade in his hand. “Let this be a lesson,” he said, his voice calm but laced with menace. “Failure is not tolerated in my palace.”

The servants cowered, their faces pale with terror.

Malcolm sheathed his sword with a deliberate motion and addressed the guards standing by the door. “Bring me my armor,” he ordered. “We ride immediately.”

One of the guards stepped forward, bowing. “Where shall we search, my lord?”

Malcolm’s expression darkened. “She won’t have gotten far."

The guards nodded and hurried to obey, their footsteps echoing in the silent chamber. Malcolm turned to the remaining guards, his eyes cold and calculating.

“No one outside this room must know that she fled,” he said. “Kill the servants who carried this information.”

The servants gasped, their fear escalating into panic. One of them fell to her knees, clasping her hands in a desperate plea. “My lord, please! We have done nothing but serve you faithfully—”

The guards moved swiftly, drawing their weapons. The servants screamed as they were dragged from the chamber, their cries echoing through the stone halls before abruptly falling silent.

-----

Malcolm mounted his horse with practiced ease.

“We search the forest to the North,” Malcolm announced, his voice carrying over the sound of hooves stamping against the cobblestones. “She wouldn't have left the area without help. Find anyone who aided her and bring them to me. Alive, if possible. Dead, if necessary.”

The guards nodded, their expressions hard.

The small party rode out, their horses’ hooves thundering against the ground as they disappeared into the night.

-----

Back in the palace, the remaining guards worked to maintain order, though the tension in the air was palpable. Rumors spread like wildfire among the staff, despite the efforts to suppress them.

In the servants’ quarters, bloodstains were hastily scrubbed from the stone floors, and whispers of Malcolm’s wrath echoed in hushed tones.

Meanwhile, the halls of the palace grew quieter as the evening wore on. The grand celebration Malcolm had ordered was still being prepared, though the servants moved with a nervous urgency.