Chapter 21: Lullaby

  [Eight years ago]

  The silence in the upper wings of Vermilion Manor was fundamentally different from the silence of the dungeons. In the cells, the silence was heavy and suffocating, heavy with the clinking of chains and the ragged, shallow breathing of the dying; in the halls of the nobility, it was made of velvet, broken only by the soft, rhythmic crackling of oak logs burning in the marble fireplaces. It was in this atmosphere of stifling luxury that a sweet, almost ethereal melody floated through the frigid night air, weaving itself into the tapestries like a ghost.

  "The Song of the Night, a frigid breeze carrying the tears of a melody so beautiful it soon lulls those who hear it to sleep; a king in mourning, his beautiful princess missing, the mistake echoing through the winds to an enchanting garden. The flowers begin to bloom, and the reddish glow of the rising sun recalls the embrace of that beautiful princess, thus warming the king's sad heart."

  The voice reciting those verses was as soft as falling snow. Ruby, only three years old, felt her eyelids grow heavy as she snuggled beneath linen sheets that smelled of lavender and ancient richness. For the little girl, that fleeting moment was the only instant when the world didn't seem like a predatory and dangerous place, lurking to devour her.

  The owner of that voice was Muriel Vermilion. If the mansion were a body built of inflexible stone and ice, Muriel was the only breath of life remaining in its lungs. She possessed long hair of a red so vivid it resembled arterial blood, and pale, slightly reddish eyes that overflowed with a deep, silent melancholy. Her beauty was that of a solitary rose growing defiantly in the middle of a field of poisonous weeds.

  Muriel waited until Ruby's breathing became rhythmic and deep before rising. She tucked the girl under the blanket with a tenderness that didn't exist within the protocols of Morgath's nobility. Leaving the room, she walked through corridors adorned with bloodstained tapestries depicting ancient conquests, making her way to her private chambers. There, Marth awaited her.

  Duke Marth Vermilion was the personification of avarice, a man whose soul was a ledger of debts and deaths. But when Muriel entered the room, something changed. Marth felt as if he were in a sanctuary, a garden beside her; she was his only weakness, the moral restraint he barely knew he possessed. He loved her with the obsessive possessiveness of a predator guarding his most precious treasure, keeping her isolated from the foul gears that made his empire turn.

  ?Marth looked upon others with a gaze of absolute superiority. To him, slaves were mere livestock and soldiers were disposable tools. Because of this psychological distance, he could never imagine that his Duchess would have any connection to the "vermin" in the lower levels. Muriel, however, used her influence in a silent, clandestine manner. She never descended to the dungeons—the tactical risk was too high, and her station did not allow for such exposure. Instead, she relied on a handful of loyal soldiers who, touched by her purity in a world of filth, carried water and clean food to the prisoners in her name.

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  ?Muriel believed she was protected by the loyalty of these men, but Celius, her fifteen-year-old son, had already noticed the movement. Celius possessed his father’s cold, analytical intelligence, but he respected his mother above all else. He saw the guards slipping away with extra supplies under veiled orders and simply chose silence. To the young man, his mother’s actions were a sacred secret he would never dare profane; he respected the flickering embers of humanity she tried to maintain in that house of shadows.

  ?Unfortunately, the rot of the manor attracted flies like Zour.

  ?Zour, a recently arrived slave and former Baron of Odyssia, was a man whose soul had been eroded by corruption long before he was sold to the Empire. He was observant, but his vision was distorted by his own villainy. Zour noticed that certain guards, at specific times, diverted small portions of clean rations and water to the deepest cells. He never saw who gave the orders; he saw only the uniforms—the faces of soldiers who carried out the task with a discretion he mistook for a conspiracy against the Duke.

  ?"If I hand these guards over, I should gain something from this idiot Duke," Zour thought, his mind racing with the logic of a professional traitor. He hoped that by denouncing the breach of protocol, Marth would reward him with dignity and the luxury he felt he deserved.

  ?The opportunity arose as Marth crossed the central courtyard, surrounded by his personal guard. Zour, ignoring the standing orders of silence and without any permission, tried to approach the Duke. Before he could utter a word, Captain Bistier delivered a brutal punch to his solar plexus, knocking him into the dirty snow.

  ?"My Lord!" Zour screamed, gasping for air. "There are soldiers who feed us in the darkness! Traitors who disobey your rationing orders, my Lord!"

  ?Marth stopped. The look he cast at Zour was not one of interest, but of deep, weary boredom mixed with irritation. To the Duke, the idea that his elite soldiers were "feeding slaves" sounded like a pathetic lie from a prisoner trying to stir up intrigue to feel important. Marth did not believe there was organized charity; he saw only an insolent slave trying to undermine the trust he placed in his personal guard.

  "Bistier," said Marth, his voice as cold as the north winds. "Let the blood spill on the snow."

  Marth tolerated no lapses in discipline, but he tolerated even less a slave trying to lecture him on how to command his men. Bistier, with a surgical movement forged in years of slaughter, unsheathed his blade. The cut was instantaneous, tearing Zour's throat before the man could even attempt to explain what he had seen. The former Baron collapsed, and the white of the snow was consumed by a dense, smoky red.

  As Zour's body cooled, Marth watched the soldiers around him. His next words were directed only to Bistier:

  "Check that the supply count is correct. If the slaves have enough energy to scream, the rations must be excessive. Tighten your belt."

  Marth didn't think about his wife. He didn't even consider the possibility that Muriel was involved. To him, Zour's accusation was merely a symptom of lazy guards who were perhaps being too lenient with the whip.

  However, the incident left a mark. From that day forward, Marth began to observe those who served him with heightened scrutiny. Muriel's garden remained hidden for the time being, but Marth's circle of paranoia began to close in on the soldiers, turning every small act of charity into a life-threatening risk.