In the cold, damp dungeon beneath the palace, King Alexander stood before the chained prisoner, his gaze stern and unyielding. The flickering torchlight cast eerie shadows across the stone walls, reflecting the tension that thickened the air. Before him knelt Theresa, her wrists bound in rusted iron, her once-vibrant face now pale and bruised. "You stand accused of the murder of Lord Belvane," the King said, his voice low but sharp. Theresa shook her head, tears threatening to fall but her voice steady. "It wasn't murder, Your Majesty. He tried to force himself on me. I pushed him away, and he slipped… he fell onto the broken vases. It was an accident—self-defense." But Alexander's expression didn't waver. He had heard the rumors whispered in the palace's shadowed corners—Theresa, the maid with strange ways, accused of witchcraft. And in their kingdom, witches met only one fate: death by hanging in Gallows Square.
With a flick of his hand, the King summoned two palace guards, their armored boots clanking as they approached the cell. "Perhaps a little persuasion will remind her to tell the truth," he said coldly, stepping aside. The guards unsheathed their blades just enough to gleam menacingly, but even with the threat looming before her, Theresa did not flinch. "I have spoken the truth," she said, her voice tired but unwavering. The King stared at her for a long moment, as if trying to see into her soul. Then, without another word, he turned and walked out, his cloak sweeping behind him. At the dungeon entrance, he issued his final order: "Do not allow anyone inside. And no meals for the prisoners." The heavy wooden door groaned shut behind him, sealing Theresa in silence and shadows.
Outside, the silence was broken by hushed voices and hurried footsteps. Madeline, her eyes swollen from crying, approached the dungeon with Emily, Sarah, and Russel—the palace guard who still held sympathy for the accused maid. Russel whispered urgently to the guards at the entrance, arguing, pleading, convincing. After a tense deliberation and a few wary glances over their shoulders, the guards reluctantly opened the door, making sure no one saw them. Inside, the scene was heartbreaking. Theresa looked like a ghost of her former self—haggard, pale, and barely able to lift her head. Madeline rushed to the cell, her small hands gripping the cold bars. "Mama!" she cried. Theresa's heart twisted painfully, but she forced a smile. "Shh, I'm here, my darling. Don't cry." The revelation of Theresa being Madeline's mother shocked Emily, but Sarah's lack of any response prompted Emily to remain silent.
Then, Theresa recounted everything to her daughter and friends—the struggle with Lord Belvane, the shattered vase, the fatal accident. She turned to Sarah, her gaze intense. "You must take Madeline and leave. Run away, far from the palace." But Sarah and Emily trembled with fear. "We'll testify for you," Emily offered. "We'll tell them what kind of person you are." "NO!" Theresa's voice echoed against the stone. "Don't do anything reckless. If they find out we're close, you'll be punished too. You know how the palace treats people like us." Her friends exchanged a sorrowful glance, realizing the bitter truth. Turning to Madeline, Theresa softened her voice. "You have to be strong, sweetheart. I'll come with you soon, I promise. But for now, say nothing about me. Say you don't know anything. And go with Sarah—she'll protect you." As the footsteps of approaching guards echoed down the corridor, Emily and Sarah quickly pulled Madeline away from the bars, her sobs muffled against Sarah's shoulder. They exited the dungeon just in time, disappearing into the shadows.
The next morning, a somber gloom blanketed the palace like a fog that refused to lift. The once lively corridors were now filled with whispers and wary glances. Maids who used to chat freely now spoke in hushed tones, their eyes darting around corners. Rumors about the night of the Royal Ball and the incident that followed were spreading like wildfire. Many exaggerated the tale, claiming Theresa summoned spirits to kill Lord Belvane, while others swore, they saw her casting spells in the moonlight. Yet, there were still those who remembered her kind heart and soft-spoken nature—maids who had shared duties with her and knew her not as a witch, but as an adept servant of the palace. Meanwhile, in the dimly lit servant quarters, Madeline knelt at the edge of her small bed, hands clasped tightly in prayer. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she begged silently for her mother's safety. Every thought of Theresa's chained figure made her chest ache.
Elsewhere, Sarah and Emily kept their minds sharp and their movements discreet. Knowing that time was against them, they began formulating an escape plan, using bits of old parchment and charcoal to sketch the palace layout from memory. Every errand and chore became a mission to survey exits, servant paths, and weak points in the palace guard rotations. They never spoke of it out loud, but a single look between them was enough to understand the urgency.
Despite the turmoil, the palace attempted to return to normalcy. Servants bustled about, polishing marble floors and preparing meals for the royals, yet there was a lingering tension in every step. That afternoon, two regents arrived at the palace gates, their carriages drawing curious eyes. They were welcomed inside and promptly escorted to the King's study. After a brief meeting, they requested to be taken to the scene of the crime—the chamber where Lord Belvane was killed.
The regents wasted no time in starting the investigation. They ordered every servant in the palace to be lined up outside the chamber. One by one, each maid and footman was summoned for questioning. Sarah knelt down beside Madeline and whispered softly into her ear, "Only answer what's asked. Say nothing about the dungeon, or your mother. Do you understand?" Madeline, though pale and trembling, gave a small nod. From a nearby balcony, Prince Sebastian stood silently, observing the entire process. His sharp eyes never left Madeline. He watched as her hands trembled and her lips quivered. He recognized the look of fear, and something in him stirred—something that made him uneasy. As more maids were called, it became evident that not all were loyal. Some, seeking to save themselves, began pointing fingers. Whispers turned into accusations. It didn't take long before someone mentioned Sarah, Emily, and even Madeline's names.
When Emily was called in, she bowed low and entered the chamber where the regents waited. The room was quiet save for the scratching of pens and the clinking of teacups. King Alexander stood by the window, sipping calmly, detached from the proceedings. The butler stood stiffly near the door, and in the far corner sat Duke William, his black eyes focused on a newspaper, though his ears clearly listened. The regents introduced themselves and gestured for Emily to sit. They smiled as they questioned her, their tone pleasant, but every word carried weight. Emily responded calmly, explaining her routine, the tasks she handled, and where she was during the night of the incident. But when asked about her relationship with Theresa, she hesitated. "We're not close," she said, "just fellow workers." The regents, however, pressed further. "Some of the maids say otherwise," they prodded. Emily swallowed hard. "She's… an acquaintance. Quiet, timid."
The questioning grew more pointed. "Did she ever exhibit strange behaviors? Speak of odd things?" Emily shook her head. "She's quiet but normal." "And her hobbies? Anything… peculiar?" When they brought up gardening, her breath caught. She had almost forgotten about that—Theresa's green thumb, her joy in tending to the palace garden. A trap was being laid, and Emily realized it too late. The regents stared expectantly. She felt the heat of a gaze and turned slightly—Duke William was staring at her, intense and unblinking. Her mouth moved before her mind caught up. "Yes, she's good with plants… she helps in the palace garden." Regret washed over her as she watched the regents jot the note down with quiet satisfaction. The room felt colder. She had confirmed a piece of the puzzle they wanted. Without another word, she was dismissed, her heart pounding as she stepped out, knowing she had just nudged her friend closer to the gallows.
Emily stepped out of the chamber, her head bowed low, hands clenched tightly around the hem of her skirt. Her face was pale and drawn, lips pressed into a thin line, and there was a heaviness in her movements that hadn't been there before. She didn't look at anyone—not Sarah, not Madeline, not even the other maids standing silently in line. Without a word, she walked past them, her footsteps echoing faintly down the corridor. Sarah's eyes narrowed in concern, watching Emily disappear around the corner. What happened inside? she wondered, her heart thudding anxiously. The tension only grew when another maid's name was called next, the sound of her slippers retreating into the room becoming a grim reminder that the regents' scrutiny had only begun.
Moments later, just as the line shifted, a new presence entered the hallway—elegant, poised, and commanding. Princess Vivienne stepped forward, her gown trailing behind her like a silk shadow. Her face was unreadable, lips painted red like wine, eyes sharp as daggers. Whispers died instantly as the princess passed by, heading straight toward the chamber without a word. Just behind her, a servant trailed meekly—Agatha. Her head was bowed so low her chin nearly touched her chest, her steps cautious, as though she knew she was walking into something unforgiving. The guards opened the door slowly, the sound of its creak ominous, and as both the princess and the servant disappeared behind the heavy wooden doors, silence fell once more. No one spoke, but every heart held the same breathless question—what now awaits them behind those walls?