Beatrice turned on her, her face contorted in frustration and anger. She looked like a woman on the edge of madness. "You're one to talk, Lilian!" she screeched.
"Your husband is here, safe in the castle, doing nothing! And yet you stand there, calm and composed, while Spencer is out there—half-blind—fighting for this damn kingdom that doesn't care if he lives or dies!"
Her voice cracked with emotion, but her words were sharp, fueled by a mixture of fear, sadness, and pure rage. She stomped her foot, unable to contain the tears that flowed freely, her chest heaving with each sob.
Lilian's face tightened. She knew the depth of Beatrice's fear and frustration, but the dramatics were beginning to grate on her nerves.
She had seen enough of this emotional spectacle. "Calm down, Beatrice. Your crying won't change anything."
But Beatrice was beyond hearing reason. "How can you stand there so calmly?" she shouted, her hands trembling as she waved them in the air.
"Does it not bother you that your husband is doing nothing while mine risks his life? Spencer is out there, fighting for a kingdom that will never appreciate him! He's a prince, for heaven's sake—a prince with one eye! And they send him to fight!"
Lilian's mouth thinned into a hard line, and she hissed under her breath, clearly fed up with the constant dramatics. She had known Beatrice to be emotional, but this outburst—this wailing—was too much.
"You're being irrational," Lilian snapped, her patience unraveling. "The kingdom needs the defense of its princes, even if it means they must sacrifice themselves. Your husband chose this. You don't understand it, but it's his duty."
Beatrice's face twisted in an ugly mix of fury and disbelief. She stepped closer to Lilian, her voice rising in pitch, desperation and anger mixing with every word.
"Duty? Duty?" she spat. "Do you even hear yourself? He's blind in one eye, Lilian! How can they ask him to fight like this? How can you be so cold?" She clutched at Lilian's arm, pulling her closer, her breath ragged. "Do you even care?"
Lilian jerked her arm back, shaking her head in frustration. "You're unbearable, Beatrice. Stop this madness. Go to your chambers and compose yourself." She made a sharp, irritated sound and turned on her heel, her silken gown swishing behind her as she stormed away, leaving Beatrice standing in the hall, her sobs filling the air.
Beatrice stumbled back, hands clutching at her gown, her chest heaving as if she could not breathe through the weight of her anguish. "He's going to die. He's going to die, and I will be alone," she whispered, the words heavy with the crushing weight of reality.
The sound of soft footsteps approached from behind. Beatrice turned, eyes swollen, to see her two daughters, Philipa and Hazel, standing there, watching her with concern etched on their young faces.
"Mother," Philipa said softly, her voice tentative. "Please, you must stop. You're worrying us. This is not the way to honor Father."
Hazel, the younger of the two, stepped forward, her voice gentle but firm. "You have to be strong, Mama," she said, her small hands grasping Beatrice's. "Father wouldn't want you like this. He's fighting because he loves you, because he loves us. He's doing his duty."
Beatrice looked down at her daughters, her heart breaking at the sight of their worried faces. "I'm so scared," she whispered, her voice small and fragile. "What if he doesn't come back? What if… I lose him?"
Philipa and Hazel exchanged a glance, and then Philipa spoke again, more firmly this time. "He will come back, Mother. He's strong. He's our father." Her voice softened. "But you have to stop crying. You must be strong for him, for us."
Beatrice's lips trembled, but her daughters' words reached her. Slowly, she nodded, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.
She could feel the weight of the world pressing against her chest, but the truth in her daughters' words began to seep through. Spencer had always fought with honor. He would come back. He had to.
"I'll try," she whispered, a fragile promise, as her daughters embraced her gently. "I'll try to be strong for him."
But in her heart, Beatrice couldn't shake the fear that clung to her like a shadow. Spencer was out there, fighting a battle that might cost him everything, and she couldn't be there to protect him.
~~~{─────────────
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Jean's Midnight Excursion
The castle was unusually quiet as Jean slipped out of her chambers, her breath shallow and her heart racing. She had dressed in muted, dark clothing—a simple tunic and trousers, her long cloak pulled tightly around her. A hood concealed her face, but she still felt exposed as she made her way to the unassuming carriage waiting near the servants' entrance.
She glanced over her shoulder nervously. The shadows of the towering castle walls seemed to stretch and bend, watching her.
"Relax, Jean," Lucius's voice cooed in her mind, his tone laced with amusement. "You look like you're sneaking away for a crime rather than a little adventure."
"I feel like I am," she muttered under her breath, ducking into the carriage.
The driver tipped his hat and clicked the reins, setting the horses into motion. The wheels creaked, and the sound echoed eerily in the night. Jean's hands clenched the edges of her cloak, her unease growing with each mile they traveled.
"You didn't have to dress so discreetly," Lucius teased. "What's with all the dramatics? Did you think someone would stop you?"
"Someone should have," Jean hissed in reply, keeping her voice low. "You're dragging me into something ridiculous, aren't you? If I'm caught, I'll lose everything."
"Ridiculous? You wound me, dear Jean," Lucius said, his voice mockingly hurt. "This is the discovery of a lifetime. Trust me, you'll be remembered for this."
Jean snorted softly, though her stomach churned with nervous energy. "Remembered as what? A fool? A traitor?" Oh, Lord.