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The Jamon Residence, The Guest House
"I'm really sorry," Talmia Jamon said, her voice dripping with sincerity.
"Please, Lady Jamon, do not apologize," Rivan answered as he hurriedly packed his things into a trunk before taking Qaya's belongings from her.
The entire room was in chaos. They had just returned from the debutante ball and were preparing for a hasty escape.
Jaslin rushed out of a room, looking disheveled, and lugged a trunk down with a heavy thud before grabbing a glass of water. "The only thing that worries me is who sold us out. If we don't figure that out, we could risk alerting them to our next destination."
Qaya nodded, sharing Jaslin's concern. "Tell me, Talmia, do you think any of your servants could have—"
"Heavens, no." Talmia shook her head vehemently. "No one knows who you truly are. They believe you're my relatives. I only told them Qaya was standing in for my daughter's governess."
"What about the guards who brought us here?"
"They weren't guards," Talmia clarified. "They were mercenaries I hired to pose as guards, and they left Porto Jamon immediately after dropping you off."
"That explains why I never saw them again," Rivan added.
"Oh, this is bad. If we don't know who's feeding the soldiers information, then we're doomed," Jaslin muttered.
"No," Zachary finally spoke, having been busy arranging their luggage. He motioned for some attendants to take the bags out to a carriage. Once they were gone, he continued, "It only means we need to move faster."
"I have a plan we'll execute tomorrow evening. If all goes well, we won't have to keep running."
The room fell into a tense silence.
"What if the plan fails?" Jaslin bit back, her panic rising. Qaya placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, and even though Jaslin hated to admit it, she appreciated the comfort.
"It's not the kind of plan that fails," Zachary answered with conviction. "There may be setbacks, but failure isn't an option."
Talmia spoke next. "I can vouch for his plan. We've spoken at length, and any man who could take down the lieutenant's den of De Gei Jaune with such efficiency won't fail here."
Qaya turned to look between Talmia and Zachary, surprised that Talmia knew about that incident. Catching her expression, Talmia explained, "As I said, we've been talking. He told me he was responsible for the fire. It was all part of his grand scheme—which, I must admit, aligns quite well with my own."
"I'm sorry," Qaya muttered, her voice laced with embarrassment. "I shouldn't have deceived you."
"Oh, sweetheart, think nothing of it. Because that's exactly what I'm doing." Talmia smiled warmly before continuing, "Speaking of which, since you'll be fulfilling your part of our deal tomorrow, I suppose it's time for me to fulfill mine."
She stepped forward, her expression turning serious. "Come, let me tell you the truth of your being."
Qaya's breath hitched. This was the reason she had come here in the first place—the reason she was entangled in this mess to begin with. She was closer than ever. She noticed Jaslin shifting uneasily in her chair. Whatever Talmia was about to reveal, it was going to be heavy.
"I'm honored that you wish to share this story," Qaya said, steeling herself. "I'd appreciate it if you could say it here, in the presence of my companions."
She glanced at them. "I assume the three of you already have a general idea of what we're discussing. To be honest, I'm uncomfortable sharing this, but deep down, I know I must."
"So I can make things right."
She didn't say it aloud, but everyone could sense her unspoken words—especially Jaslin.
Talmia looked taken aback for a moment, then smiled fondly. "Then I must be quick. You'll need to leave here this evening."
She took a deep breath before beginning.
"Qaya, you came here to learn about yourself, about your parents, and the truth Awin has hidden from you. I met your parents when I was young. Lavine and Decker—that was their names."
Talmia's expression darkened.
"Your parents… good people that they were… became victims of love and oppression."
---
Years Ago
A twenty-something-year-old Lavine smoothed out the bed's golden-framed sheets, humming softly to herself.
This afternoon, she was supposed to meet her friends at the market. They would go out to play, dance, and maybe—just maybe—she'd catch a glimpse of him.
Before she could lose herself in daydreams, a pale, strong arm wound around her waist. She flinched and turned abruptly.
"Your Highness!" she gasped. "Apologies."
Arthur II, the king, chuckled lazily and jumped onto the freshly made bed.
"What are you apologizing for, Lavine?" he asked, his voice dripping with amusement.
She lowered her gaze. "I should have finished tidying before you returned from sword practice."
She hated the way his gaze lingered on her. They had known each other since childhood—when her mother had worked in the palace—but even after all these years, Arthur's attention made her uneasy.
"You wound me," he drawled. "You make me sound like a dragon."
He waved a hand in invitation. "Come here."
She hesitated, then reluctantly obeyed.
"Sit."
She did.
"I didn't see you at all last week," he murmured, toying with her hair. Lavine cursed herself for leaving it down today of all days.
"My mother is sick," she whispered.
Arthur's lips brushed her bare shoulder. She shivered.
"Poor thing," he said.
Lavine wasn't sure if he meant her mother or herself—but she hated it either way.
The king suddenly gripped her hands, his hold almost bruising.
"Your Highness, please don't—"
"Why not?" His voice was raspy, as if he was intoxicated.
"It's not right," she insisted, scrambling for an excuse—no, a reason. "I'm not a noble. You're married."
But none of it deterred him.
"I don't want to do this!" she finally shouted.
Arthur froze. His expression darkened, venomous and cold.
"What did you say?"
Lavine swallowed hard, but she knew she couldn't take it back. "I said I don't want to do this."
"How dare you?!"
Before she could react, he pinned her to the bed. Terror coursed through her veins. She knew what would happen next.
She thrashed wildly, screaming for help, but an acidic voice in her mind told her to shut up. No one would dare defy the king.
Still, she screamed. Louder.
And she was wrong—someone did come.
A strong pair of hands wrenched Arthur away from her and shoved him back.
"How dare you?" Arthur thundered.
"Forgive me, Your Highness," the man said evenly. "The queen requests your presence. She says it's urgent."
Lavine looked up, her heart pounding.
It was him.
Decker Wright—a noble of low standing —and a guard in the royal court.
She had wanted to see him. Speak with him.
Not like this.
Arthur turned to them, his gaze hateful.
"You reject me… for this?"
Lavine's breath hitched.
"You will rue this day," Arthur spat.
---
Two Months Later
The taste of sea salt clung to the air, thick and briny, and Lavine's stomach churned. She spat onto the ground, her body weak from exhaustion. A sharp kick to her ribs sent her stumbling forward, pain bursting through her side.
"Move faster, wench!" barked the taskmaster, his boot still raised.
Lavine winced, swallowing back a curse as she lifted her head. Her gaze met Decker's. He was at the other end of the shipyard, single-handedly pulling and pushing a massive lever that even four men would struggle with. Decker had always been strong—stronger than most—but it wasn't just physicality that made him this way. It was the unrelenting torture, the whippings and beatings that had sculpted his endurance into something almost inhuman. The lash marks on his bare back told the story of his suffering.
Yet, despite his pain, he smiled at her. A warm, soft smile. One that didn't belong in a place like this.
She returned it, her heart clenching.
This was their new reality. Two months ago, she had lived a simple but decent life in the capital, Easteford. Now, she was practically a slave in Porto Jamon, all because she had refused the king's advances. And Decker? He was here because of the king's insecurities.
As cruel as it was to admit, there was one thing she could thank Arthur for—she wasn't here alone. If she had been sent to this wretched place by herself, she would have perished in the first week. Decker had become her anchor, her only source of joy in this nightmare. The only reason she endured. Even now, as she turned to resume her work on the ship, she found herself counting the hours until nightfall, when they would be released and she could see him again.
She stole another glance at him, her throat tightening. She was close to him now—close enough for whispered words in the dark, for shared warmth in the miserable quarters they were given. But they weren't married, and doubt gnawed at her. Did Decker truly love her, or was this just a desperate need for companionship? Did he hold her at night because he wanted her, or because he didn't want to be alone?
She clenched her fists and forced the thoughts away. They had no place here.
One thing is for sure—I must confess my feelings to him.
With renewed determination, Lavine threw herself into her work. When the call for dismissal rang out, she exhaled sharply in relief. Time to see Decker.
Just as she turned, a voice called out.
"Hey, Lavine!"
She stiffened, her stomach twisting. Of all the times for her supervisor to approach…
Forcing a smile, she turned to face him. "Evening, sir. I was just heading in for the night."
The supervisor eyed her with a look of disdain, his lips curling.
"You really have it good, you know that?" he sneered.
Lavine bit back the urge to roll her eyes. What did he expect? That she would fall to her knees in gratitude?
"When the king's guards dumped you here for conspiring with that beast, I was told to put you in the worst conditions imaginable." He paused, his eyes flickering with something she couldn't quite place. "But I decided against it."
A cold shiver ran down her spine.
She glanced around, searching for Decker. He wasn't here today.
"I'm grateful for your kindness," she muttered, hoping to end the conversation. "I'll be sure to properly thank you tomorrow morn—"
"I can be kinder," he interrupted, his lips curling into a sickening grin.
Lavine's stomach turned. She swallowed hard, bile rising in her throat.
"No need for that," she said stiffly.
"Really?" He stepped closer. "Because I can also be crueler. I can show you that what you've been enduring so far is nothing but bliss. There's a special kind of hell in Porto Jamon, and I can send you there."
She froze.
If I refuse, he'll make my life even worse. But if I agree…
Disgust clawed at her throat. She turned sharply, hoping to walk away, but his rough hand latched onto her wrist.
"Unhand me," she growled, her patience finally snapping.
Lavine was tired. Tired of men who took what they wanted without asking. Tired of being treated like property, like a prize they could claim. She was not their plaything. She was not theirs to keep.
With a swift, practiced move, she twisted free and shoved him back. He stumbled, falling hard onto the dirt.
"What part of unhand me don't you understand?" she spat.
For a second, silence stretched between them. Then, the supervisor's expression twisted. His lips curled into a wicked grin, a glint of triumph flickering in his eyes.
He had been waiting for this.
"So, you do want to see hell," he said, his voice a low, monstrous growl.
Before she could react, he shouted for the taskmasters. They appeared almost instantly, like shadows lurking just out of sight.
"Take this wench to the Alchemies," he ordered, dusting himself off. "And don't leave her dog behind—he'll cry without her."
Lavine's heart lurched.
Two men grabbed her, their grips like iron. She thrashed, screamed, but it was useless. They were dragging her away.
She caught sight of Decker—just as he was tackled to the ground and beaten. His bloodied face turned toward her, and despite everything, he shook his head, as if to say It's okay. Don't blame yourself.
But it wasn't okay.
They were being taken to the Alchemies.
A place of horrors.
A place worse than anything they had suffered so far.
The air grew colder as they were dragged through the winding corridors of the Alchemies. The moment they stepped inside, Lavine gagged. The stench was unbearable—a sickening mix of rotting flesh and chemicals. The floors were slick with filth, the walls lined with rusted tools and grotesque instruments. Glass vials lined the shelves, filled with dark, bubbling liquids and things that twitched inside.
She sobbed.
This was not how she wanted to die. Not here. Not like this.
A shriveled old man hobbled toward them, his pale, papery skin stretched tight over his skull.
"New specimens," one of the taskmasters announced.
"Just in time," the old man crooned. His watery eyes flickered over them. "Though, in this condition, they might not survive. A shame. But no matter."
He gestured for them to be taken deeper inside.
"Get the male in that chair, and the female in that one."
Lavine screamed as they strapped her down. A needle pierced her skin, ice-cold liquid flooding her veins.
"What's that?" a young assistant asked.
"A little something to keep them from struggling," the old man replied with a chuckle. "Not quite anesthesia. More like paralysis. I want to *see* their reactions."
Lavine's body went rigid. She couldn't move. She couldn't even scream.
The old man turned toward a rusted canister. He twisted a valve, and a black-red liquid began flowing through the tubes. One connected to Decker. One connected to her.
Lavine's chest burned. Agony ripped through her body as something shifted inside her.
The old man's eyes widened.
"Something's wrong!" the assistant shouted.
The old man's lips curled into a giddy smile.
"Nothing is wrong," he murmured, his voice trembling with excitement. "She's pregnant."
To be continued..