Chapter 4

ROSALIA

The guards dragged me back to the dungeons, their grip bruising as I thrashed against them. My screams echoed off the stone walls—wordless, animal sounds of grief that I couldn't contain. They threw me into my cell like a sack of grain, and I collapsed onto the damp floor, my throat raw from screaming.

The sound of measured footsteps made me look up. The Queen stood before my cell, her elegant silhouette backlit by torchlight. "How are you, child?"

I scrambled to my knees, pressing myself against the bars. "Please," I begged, my voice breaking. "My brother—he's just a child. Please spare him, Your Majesty. I'll do anything—"

"The child is a boy," she cut me off, her voice sharp as a blade. "And boys turn into men. Angry men." Her lips curved into a cold smile. "Why would I want a boy who will thirst for blood in my space?"

"No," I shook my head frantically. "He's nothing like that. My brother is kind, gentle—"

"It doesn't matter." She waved her hand dismissively. "My words will hold no sway over the King now." A cruel laugh escaped her. "Not that I was ever going to try. I wouldn't miss an opportunity to make that Muller dick suffer."

I stared at her, uncomprehending. She leaned closer to the bars, her perfume overwhelming my senses. "Everything that has befallen you today is because of the man you called your father." Her eyes glittered with hatred. "Make sure you never forget that."

She turned and walked away, her skirts whispering against the stone floor, leaving me alone with her words echoing in my mind. I curled into myself, tears flowing freely now. I cried until I lost all sense of time, until my eyes burned and my chest ached, until I had no tears left to shed.

The scrape of metal against stone roused me from my stupor. A guard pushed a tray through the small opening at the bottom of my cell door. "The Prince says you should feed," he grunted.

I stared at the meager offering—a hunk of bread and a cup of water. My stomach churned with revulsion, but survival instinct took over. With trembling hands, I reached for the bread, taking small, hesitant bites. The water tasted of metal, but I drank it anyway, each swallow a reminder that I was alive while my family...

I couldn't finish the thought. Instead, I focused on the bread in my hands, forcing myself to eat even as my body threatened to reject it. Each bite was an act of submission, of acceptance—the first of many, I knew, in my new life as the crown's plaything.

***

The sky had turned a soft lavender, bleeding into hues of pink and gold as dawn broke over the kingdom. The color seemed almost mocking, as if the heavens themselves were celebrating the new day while my world crumbled.

I was dragged from my cell before the sun fully crested the horizon, my wrists bound tightly with coarse ropes that bit into my skin. My protests fell on deaf ears as the guards hauled me up the stone steps and out into the cold, open air.

The gallows loomed ahead, stark and imposing, the wooden beams casting long shadows over the courtyard. Beyond the palace gates, a crowd had gathered in the town square—common folk mingled with merchants, their murmurs a low hum that grew louder as the guards marched me closer to the platform.

My breath caught when I saw my family already standing beneath the nooses. My father, his proud shoulders slumped but his chin still held high, stood at the center. My mother clung to Ezra, my younger brother, her hands gripping his shoulders as if she could shield him from what was to come. Ezra’s wide eyes darted frantically across the crowd, his small frame trembling with fear.

The Queen stood to the side of the platform, resplendent in her dark green gown, her expression one of cold satisfaction. Beside her, the King sat on a raised throne brought out for the occasion, his face carved from stone. And there, just to the King’s right, stood Prince Damien, his sharp gaze scanning the crowd with an air of disinterest.

As the guards forced me to my knees at the edge of the platform, a man in elaborate robes—the royal herald—stepped forward, his voice booming across the square.

"By the decree of His Majesty the King, let it be known that House Muller has been found guilty of high treason against the crown!"

The murmurs of the crowd grew louder, a ripple of shock and curiosity passing through them.

"Their crimes," the herald continued, "include the falsification of noble lineage, the presentation of a slave-born as a lady of the court, and the deception of the kingdom in matters of bloodline and inheritance!"

Gasps and whispers broke out among the gathered townsfolk. I wanted to scream that it wasn’t true, that my father wasn’t a traitor, but my voice had fled, choked by grief and rage.

"The punishment for treason is death," the herald declared, his tone heavy with finality. "And so, by His Majesty’s command, House Muller shall be executed this day, their name stricken from the annals of nobility, their lands and titles forfeited to the crown!"

A cheer erupted from the back of the crowd, though many remained silent, their expressions unreadable.

My father turned his head slightly, his gaze locking onto mine. His lips moved, forming silent words I couldn’t hear over the din. I thought I saw him say, Be strong.

I wasn’t strong. I was breaking.

The executioner stepped forward, his hulking frame casting a shadow over my family as he adjusted the nooses around their necks. My mother sobbed openly now, her cries cutting through the air like jagged glass. Ezra whimpered, clutching at her skirts as she whispered frantic reassurances he was too young to understand.

"No," I choked out, struggling against the ropes that bound me. "Please, no! Spare them!"

My cries drew attention from the Queen, who approached me with a measured, deliberate pace. She leaned down, her lips curling into a cruel smile as she whispered, "Take it all in, Rosalia. This is the price of treachery. And you, my dear, will live to carry the weight of it."

I thrashed harder, screaming until my throat felt raw. "Father! Mother! Ezra!"

"Proceed," the Queen commanded, stepping back with a regal wave of her hand.

The executioner reached for the lever. The ropes swayed gently in the breeze, waiting to fulfill their grim purpose.

“Wait.”

The word rang out, commanding and firm. All heads turned toward the voice.

Prince Damien rose from his seat, his expression unreadable as he descended the steps. The Queen’s eyes narrowed, her lips pressing into a thin line as he approached.

“What are you doing, Damien?” she demanded.

He didn’t answer her. Instead, he stepped between me and the gallows, his tall frame blocking my view of the platform.

"She shouldn't have to see this, mother. Don't you think this is unnecessary cruel."

“Don't be childish. Move aside,” the Queen snapped, her tone sharp enough to cut.

“No,” Damien said simply, his voice calm but unyielding.

The Queen’s fury radiated off her, but before she could protest further, the King’s voice cut through the tension. “Let him be. He clearly likes her.”

The Queen turned to the King, her mouth opening to argue, but his raised hand silenced her.

Damien’s shadow fell over me as he crouched slightly, his voice low enough for only me to hear. “Don’t look, little flame,” he murmured, the words gentle despite the tension in his tone. “You don’t need to see this.”

The trapdoors fell with a sickening thud. My father, my mother, my brother—gone.

A scream tore from my throat, raw and uncontrollable. I collapsed to the ground, my legs giving out beneath me. I didn’t need to see it; the sound alone was enough to shatter what was left of my heart.

Damien stood motionless, his back to me, his head bowed slightly as if shielding me from the horrors behind him.

“Take her back to the dungeons,” he ordered, his voice sharp and cold again. “This is over.”

The guards hesitated, glancing at the Queen for confirmation. She waved her hand dismissively, her expression a mask of barely contained rage.

They yanked me to my feet, dragging me away from the gallows. My screams turned to sobs, my body trembling as I stumbled back toward the darkness of the palace.

As the doors closed behind me, I caught one last glimpse of Damien standing alone on the platform, his face shadowed but his posture unyielding. For a moment, I wondered why he had intervened—why he had spared me that final, damning sight.

But the answer didn’t matter. House Muller was gone. And I was truly, utterly alone.