Chapter 4

The throne of Riverland was an imposing creation, a blend of elegance and menace. It loomed high on a raised dais, carved from obsidian and veined with gold, as though fire itself had forged it.

Malcolm sat with one leg draped over the other, his gloved hand gripping the armrest. His black cloak spilled over the throne, pooling around his boots. Shadows danced across his sharp features, exaggerating the hard lines of his jaw and the cruel set of his mouth.

His dark eyes were fixed on nothing in particular, though his fingers drummed against the armrest in a measured rhythm.

The door creaked open, and Sir James entered.

His polished armor glinting in the firelight,

he was a tall man, his broad shoulders filling the frame of the door. His face Stoic, his expression unreadable, but his eyes betrayed a hint of concern.

He was the kind of man who did his job without question, and in a kingdom as unstable as theirs, that was the kind of loyalty King Malcolm needed.

“Your Grace,” Sir James said, bowing.

Malcolm’s gaze shifted lazily to the knight, his gray eyes cold and distant. He let the silence linger for a moment, studying the man before him. He had a decision to make, one that would likely draw more attention than he wanted. But it was necessary.

“Remove the girl from the dungeon,” he said, his voice low and smooth, like a blade drawn from its sheath.

Sir James brow furrowed in confusion. “The girl, Your Grace?”

Malcolm’s gaze sharpened, his lips curling in impatience. “The queen slayer,” he snapped. "Do I need to paint a picture for you?”

The knight hesitated. “Your Grace, if I may—”

“You may not,” Malcolm cut him off, his tone as cold as the obsidian beneath him. He leaned forward, his gaze piercing. “Do as I say, or you will join her in the dungeon. Do you understand me, Sir James?”

The knight swallowed hard, bowing deeply. “As you command, Your Grace.”

“Good,” Malcolm said, leaning back into the throne. “And Sir James…”

The knight paused, glancing up.

“Put her in the servant quarters".

The dungeon stank of mold. The air was damp and thick with the stench of mold, urine, and unwashed bodies and the faint drip of water echoed endlessly in the darkness. Amelia lay on the floor, her head resting against the old woman’s side.

Her long hair spilled over her face and shoulders, a dark curtain that shimmered faintly in the dim light of a guttering torch. It covered her like a blanket.

Amelia stirred as the sound of boots echoed through the stone corridors, their measured rhythm drawing nearer.  She blinked, her hazel eyes heavy with exhaustion, and instinctively clutched her veil tighter around her head.

The old woman woke as well, her thin hands reaching out to steady Amelia.

The sound grew louder, more distinct—the distant clank of armored boots. Amelia’s heart pounded in her chest. The guards never came at this hour. What did they want now?

The women froze, their breath hitching in unison. The old woman’s bony fingers tightened on Amelia’s arm.

The footsteps stopped outside their cell. The lock clicked, and the door creaked open. A man stepped inside, His armor gleamed even in the dim light, crimson plume on his helmet, a polished silver that seemed out of place in this pit of filth. His face was sharp and clean-shaven, his blue eyes piercing and his stance exuded authority.

The old woman instinctively pulled Amelia closer..

The knight sneered. “Step aside, hag. The king’s orders.”

The knight’s gaze hardened. “Step aside."

But then his grip on his sword tightened. “Move,” he barked shoving the old women away and grabbing Amelia by the arm and yanking her forward.

Amelia thrashed against his hold, her mind racing with terror. All she could think about was the promise the guards had made countless times—She beat her fists against his armor, but it was like hitting a stone wall.

The old woman lunged at the knight, her nails clawing at his leg.

The knight’s expression darkened his hand dropped to the hilt of his sword. The blade glinted as he drew it, the sound sharp and final.

“No!” Amelia cried, stepping forward despite the terror that gripped her. Her hazel eyes were wide with desperation as she clutched at her veil, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Please, don’t hurt her! I’ll come with you. Just… don’t hurt her.”

The knight’s cold blue eyes flicked to Amelia, studying her. Her beauty struck him—her sun-kissed skin, her delicate features, and the innocence the veil added to her appearance. His hand wavered, a flash of uncertainty in his steely gaze. For a moment, time seemed to freeze.

With a harsh grunt, he dragged Amelia away.

The old woman reached for her, her frail hands trembling.

The woman’s wrinkled face crumpled with grief as she watched them disappear into the shadows.

Sir James’s hand clamped tightly around Amelia’s arm as he dragged her through the winding corridors of the palace. Her feet stumbled over the polished stone floors, leaving faint streaks of dirt in her wake.

Her veil, frayed and thin, slipped partially off her head, revealing strands of her long hair that spilled over her shoulders like a dark curtain.

The hallways were dimly lit by flickering torches, their flames casting shadows across Sir James imposing frame. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and utterly unyielding. His grip on Amelia's arm was firm, bruising, and every step he took forced her smaller frame to keep pace. To her, it felt as if he was dragging her to her execution.

Amelia winced with every yank, but she bit her lip to stifle any sound. She had long ago learned that her pain was meaningless to the men who held power over her.

They entered the servant’s quarters, a sprawling labyrinth of narrow corridors and low ceilings. The walls were a dull beige, cracked in places, and the air was thick with the mingled scents of sweat, stale bread, and soap.

As they walked, heads turned. Servants paused in their duties, their eyes drawn to the ragged figure Sir james dragged behind him.

“She reeks,” one of them whispered, his nose wrinkling.

“Another one, I see,” a woman muttered, her gaze trailing over Amelia with contempt. “They must have plucked her straight from the gutter.”

“Probably another war prize", someone added, their voice dripping with mockery.

Amelia’s cheeks burned, her humiliation mounting with every snide comment. She shrank into herself, her grip on her veil tightening. The fabric was her last shred of dignity, and even that felt tenuous under the weight of their scornful eyes.

“Enough!” Sir James barked, his voice a sharp command that cut through the murmurs like a whip. The servants froze, their faces paling as they realized who had spoken. "Back to work.”

The venom in his tone sent them scurrying like frightened rats, their whispers silenced. Yet, even as they resumed their tasks, their glances lingered on Amelia, their curiosity and derision unspoken but palpable.

Sir James continued dragging her down the hall, his strides long and purposeful. Amelia struggled to keep up, her feet barely skimming the ground as he pulled her along. Her breath came in short gasps, and her heart pounded with a mix of fear and anger.

Finally, they stopped outside a small, unassuming door. Sir james pushed it open with one hand and shoved Amelia inside with the other. She stumbled forward, nearly falling to her knees, and the stale, cramped air of the room enveloped her.

The servant’s chamber was little more than a box. The walls were bare stone, cold and uninviting. A single cot sat against one wall, its straw mattress lumpy and thin.

A wooden basin rested on the floor beside it, filled with murky water that had likely been reused countless times. There was no window, and the only light came from a flickering lantern hung on a nail in the corner.

Sir James stepped inside, his presence filling the tiny space, making it feel even smaller. He released her arm but didn’t move back, his towering frame casting a long shadow over her.

Amelia clutched her veil tighter, her knuckles white. She could feel his eyes on her, heavy and assessing, and it took every ounce of her strength not to flinch under his scrutiny.

Slowly, she lifted her head, her hazel eyes meeting his.

Sir james’s expression was unreadable, but his gaze was piercing. He studied her, his eyes tracing every detail—the dark circles under her eyes, the dirt smudged on her cheeks, the way her lips trembled despite her attempt to keep them still.

Her hair, wild and unkempt, spilled over her shoulders and down her back in a chaotic cascade.

Sir james’s lips curled into a sneer. “Stay in the corners of the palace,” he said. “Out of sight, If anyone asks, you’re nothing more than a servant. Do you understand?”

She nodded silently, her gaze dropping back to the floor.

Sir James’s hand shot out, gripping her chin and forcing her to look at him again. His touch was firm, almost painful, and his eyes bored into hers. “Do you understand?” he repeated, his voice a growl.

“Yes,” she whispered, the word barely escaping her lips.

Satisfied, he released her and stepped back. Without another word, he turned and strode to the door. Amelia watched him go, her chest tight with a whirlwind of emotions—fear, anger, and a deep, aching sadness.

As the door closed behind him, she sank to the floor, her knees drawn to her chest. Her hair spilled over her face like a shroud, and her veil, still clutched in her hands, rested atop her head like a wilted flower.

She stared at the door, her tears falling silently as the reality of her situation settled over her like a suffocating weight.

Malcolm sat in his chambers, the air thick with the scent of aged leather, ink, and the faint metallic tang of steel.

The room was cavernous, dimly lit by the golden glow of flickering candles scattered across towering shelves of books and maps.

Heavy drapes of crimson velvet hung from the tall windows, keeping out the light of the setting sun. The temperature was cool, the air carrying a faint dampness that clung to the stone walls

He stared into the fire, his thoughts drifting ..

The desk before him was strewn with papers—military plans, tax decrees, and letters from his advisors. But Malcolm barely glanced at them. His mind was elsewhere, in the depths of a decision he had just made.

The door to his chambers opened, the sound of boots clicking on the stone floor echoing.

Malcolm didn’t look at him immediately. Instead, he let the silence hang heavy in the room, the weight of his presence pressing down on the man. Finally, he turned his gaze to him.

“Is it done?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Sir James replied, his voice clipped. “She’s in the servant quarters.”

“Good," He said, reaching for his goblet of wine, the deep red liquid swirling like blood in the golden cup. Taking a slow sip, he relished the bitter taste before setting it down with a soft clink.

Amelia remained on the floor, her sobs muffled against her knees. Her long hair framed her face, hiding her tears from the empty room. The veil, her last symbol of dignity, lay crumpled in her lap. She clutched it tightly, her fingers trembling as she tried to hold onto some semblance of control.

She stared at the door, her vision blurred with tears. The pain in her chest was almost unbearable, a suffocating weight that threatened to consume her.

As her tears slowed, she took a deep breath, her grip on the veil tightening. She would endure this, just as she had endured everything else