Chapter 3

DAMIEN

I had noticed her the moment she was dragged into the throne room. Even in chains, the daughter of a criminal, Rosalia Muller commanded attention—not with the practiced grace of our court ladies, but with something far more intriguing. Her dark red hair caught the light filtering through the stained glass, creating a halo of crimson around her face. There was a wild beauty in her desperation, in the way she held herself despite everything crumbling around her.

While my father passed judgment, I found myself studying the curve of her neck, the defiant set of her jaw, the way her eyes blazed even as tears threatened to spill. She was nothing like the tepid nobility that usually graced our court. Here was something raw, untamed—and about to be wasted on the gallows.

"Your Majesty, wait," I called out, my voice cutting through my father's pronouncement. The court fell silent, and I felt my mother's sharp intake of breath beside me. I knew that sound—disapproval already forming on her lips.

"Yes, my son?" Father's voice carried a note of impatience. He had always hated interruptions to his judgments.

I stepped forward, allowing my gaze to deliberately trail over Rosalia. "It seems wasteful to destroy something so... exquisite." I watched color flood her cheeks as understanding dawned in her eyes. "The girl with the red hair—she could serve a better purpose in the court's pleasure houses. After all," I smiled, knowing the effect it would have on the gathering, "beauty like that shouldn't be left to rot on the gallows."

Mother's fingers clenched on the arm of her throne, her knuckles white with fury. "Damien," she hissed, but I ignored her.

"Think of it, Father," I continued, circling Rosalia like a cat studying its prey. "She's young, beautiful, and her presence would serve as a daily reminder of the price of treachery. Is that not a more fitting punishment than a quick death?"

I reached out, letting my fingers brush against a strand of her red hair, savoring both her shudder and my mother's barely contained rage. "Besides," I added, my voice carrying across the silent hall, "it would be such a shame to waste a valuable asset to the crown when savages from the North would be visiting us quite soon."

The slave woman collapsed before me, her forehead striking the marble floor with such force that I wondered if she'd draw blood. How fitting.

"Please, Your Highness," she begged, her voice raw with desperation. "Show mercy. My daughter and son—they can be indentured to the crown until their dying day. Servants without pay, slaves to your will." Her shoulders shook as she pressed herself lower. "We would be grateful for such kindness from the crown."

I turned to gauge my mother's reaction, and what I saw made me pause. She wasn't looking at the groveling woman at all—her eyes were fixed on Lord Muller, a smile crawling across her lips that I had never seen before. Something clicked into place: she wasn't just savoring his downfall; this was personal.

"The Crown Prince makes a valid point," Mother's voice carried across the hall, smooth as silk. "We shouldn't waste blood when it can be used in our favor."

Father's brow furrowed. "Are you suggesting we spare the children?"

"Just one." Mother's smile widened, and I watched Lord Muller flinch. "Let the criminals choose which one." She turned to him then, her voice honey-sweet with cruelty. "Which one of your kids would you salvage, Marius?"

I watched tears form in Lord Muller's eyes, and my curiosity deepened. There was definitely a history here—one that made this moment all the sweeter for my mother. His gaze darted to me, then back to Father, and when he spoke, his voice cracked like thin ice.

"Please... spare my son."

I couldn't help but laugh, even as I watched the color drain from Rosalia's face. "You would rather see your daughter die than become a pleasure slave?" I shook my head in mock dismay. "That is the most twisted love I have ever witnessed." Then, because I could see how this game could be made even crueler, I added, "However, when it comes to children, surely a mother's word holds more weight."

I approached the slave woman, still prostrate on the floor. Crouching beside her, I asked softly, ensuring my voice carried to every corner of the silent hall, "Which of your children do you want to save?"

She convulsed as if physically struck, her fingers clawing at the marble floor. I could see the agony of choice ripping her apart, and I savored every moment of it. When she finally spoke, it was barely a whisper, choked with self-loathing:

"My... my son..."

The sound Rosalia made then wasn't quite human—something between a gasp and a sob that echoed off the high ceiling. The perfect accompaniment to my mother's triumphant smile and Lord Muller's broken expression.

I watched with satisfaction as Rosalia crumbled, tears streaming down her face, her entire body trembling. The betrayal of both parents choosing her brother over her had done what chains and imprisonment couldn't—it had broken her spirit.

But Mother wasn't finished with her game.

"I suppose we have our answer," she said, her voice lilting with false consideration. Then her tone hardened. "But no." She turned to me, her eyes glittering. "The Muller son is not quite... useful to us, is he?" Her lips curved into a cruel smile. "There's truly nothing special enough about him to warrant breaking the rules."

Understanding dawned on me. Of course—this was even better than my original plan. Mother turned to Father, her voice honey-sweet once more. "Spare the girl, my love."

Father's eyebrows rose slightly. "Is that what you really want, my dear?"

Mother's nod was decisive, final. As if she hadn't just reversed the family's desperate choice with a few careful words.

"So be it," Father declared, his voice ringing through the hall. "The girl will be spared and inducted into the court's pleasure houses. The remaining members of House Muller will hang at dawn."

The screams that followed were delicious chaos. Lord Muller thrashed against the guards dragging him away, his composure completely shattered. "No! Please! Rosalia!" The slave woman wasn't much better, her wails echoing off the stone walls as she was pulled in the opposite direction. Their precious son, the one they'd both chosen to save, was silent in his shock as he was hauled away with them.

But Rosalia—she was the most fascinating to watch. She stood perfectly still, as if turned to stone, her mind seemingly unable to process the rapid shift of fortune. Unable to comprehend that both her parents had chosen to sacrifice her, only to have fate—or rather, my mother—decree that she would be the sole survivor of House Muller.

Father turned his attention to the Calderons, who had watched the entire spectacle with poorly concealed relief. "You two will be spared for doing the right thing," he announced. "However, your titles will be stripped from you."

They bowed deeply, gratitude oozing from every pore. "Thank you for your mercy, Your Majesty," Lord Calderon simpered. "We understand the consequences of our past deceptions."

I barely heard them, my attention fixed on Rosalia. There was something magnificent about her devastation, about the way she stood alone now, betrayed by everyone who should have protected her. My mother had orchestrated this perfectly. Why she did? I had no idea. Now, the girl was utterly isolated, with no one left to turn to.

The perfect prey.