"She must be found," Ellinora interrupted, her tone resolute. "Send word to the Wyfguard. They patrol the outskirts of wyfwoods. If they spot her, they'll bring her back safely."
"Yes, my lady."
Ellinora sighed, her mind racing with worry. Alaric and Wyfhaven had saved hundreds over the years, but this girl was different.
There was a mystery surrounding her, an unspoken danger that hung in the air like a storm waiting to break.
Somewhere in Wyfwoods, Serenity crouched beneath the shelter of a large tree, her arms wrapped around her knees. The damp earth chilled her, but she didn't care.
She couldn't stay at Wyfhaven. They were kind, but kindness didn't erase fear. It didn't undo what had been done to her.
She needed to be free, to be far away from everyone, even if it meant braving the dangers of the woods alone.
Back at Wyfhaven, Ellinora stood by the stained-glass window overlooking the courtyard, her hands clasped tightly.
The rain from the previous night had washed the world clean, but it felt like the girl had taken a part of Wyfhaven's soul with her when she ran.
"We'll find her," Ellinora whispered, more to herself than anyone else. "We'll bring her back. And this time, we won't let her slip away."
The girl needed stability but perhaps feared it, she thought.
~~~{───────
~~~~~~~~~~~~}~~~
The courtroom was a grand, imposing space, steeped in the gothic elegance of the era. High vaulted ceilings loomed overhead, adorned with intricate carvings of saints, gargoyles, and ominous heraldry.
Tall, narrow windows stretched to the heavens, their stained-glass panes casting fragmented beams of colored light across the dark wooden floor.
Velvet drapes hung heavy and solemn, muffling the murmurs of the gathered nobles, lords, and spectators. The air was heavy with tension, thick enough to choke on.
At the far end of the room, the king entered with deliberate steps, his rich burgundy robes trimmed with gold trailing behind him like flowing blood.
The crown atop his silver-streaked hair glinted in the dim light as the gathered crowd stood in unison, bowing their heads.
He ascended the dais where his throne sat like an altar to power, its gilded frame looming behind him.
With a measured wave of his hand, the audience resumed their seats, the tension in the room coiling tighter.
The court's presiding judge—a portly man with a powdered wig and a fur-trimmed robe—rose from his bench, clearing his throat. His voice, reedy yet authoritative, echoed through the chamber. "Bring forth the accused."
Margaretha was led into the courtroom, her expression demure, yet her eyes held a cunning glint.
She was dressed modestly, in an effort to appear innocent, but the faint smirk on her lips betrayed her. She curtsied deeply before the king and the court, her trembling hands clutching a handkerchief as if she were on the verge of tears.
"Margaretha, former lady-in-waiting to the seventh princess," the judge intoned. "You stand accused of attempted arson and the endangerment of Miss Jean Goliath lady-in-waiting to the seventh princess Salviana Velthorne. How do you plead?"
Margaretha straightened, her face painted with a mask of grief. "Innocent, Your Majesty. I went to Lady Jean's quarters only to check on her health, as I heard she was gravely ill."
Jean rose from her seat, her presence radiating quiet strength. Dressed in a simple yet elegant dark green gown, her golden eyes flickered with restrained anger. "Your Majesty," she said, her voice steady, "I have evidence to present."
A servant stepped forward, holding a small vial of water. "This," Jean continued, lifting the vial, "is water collected from the rain that washed over my quarters. It reeks of oil. Had the fire started, my home would have been engulfed alongside me as I was locked inside."
The court erupted in murmurs. The king raised a hand, silencing the crowd. "And yet," Margaretha interjected, her voice trembling with feigned sorrow, "how can we be sure this was from my doing? Perhaps the oil came from some accident or spill. I only came to visit Lady Jean to express concern, and instead, I was treated with hostility."
Jean's lips pressed into a thin line, her hands curling into fists at her sides. "Hostility?" she retorted. "You locked me in, Margaretha. How do you explain that?"
Margaretha's expression hardened, though her tears continued to fall. "If you were locked in, Lady Jean, how then did you manage to catch me in the act, as you claim?"
The court fell silent, all eyes turning to Jean. She hesitated, her heart thudding in her chest. She couldn't speak of Lucius—his existence in the castle was a secret that could unravel everything.
She glanced at Salviana, seated nearby, her complexion pale and strained.
"I… I broke the door down," Jean finally said, her voice faltering.
Before anyone could question further, Margaretha's lips twisted into a smug smile. "Your Majesty," she began, her voice rising. "I must reveal something alarming. As I was knocking on Lady Jean's quarters door , I was manhandled by a man—someone who doesn't belong in this castle. He wasn't a knight, nor a guard, nor any prince I've seen."
The murmurs rose again, louder this time, filled with scandal and intrigue. The king's sharp gaze pierced Margaretha. "You claim there is a stranger in the castle?"
"Yes, Your Majesty," Margaretha said, her tone triumphant. "I believe Lady Jean is hiding this man in her chambers."
The crowd gasped, and the king leaned forward, his eyes narrowing on Jean. "Is this true?"
Jean felt her blood run cold.
She couldn't speak, her mind racing for an explanation. Salviana's hand tightened on the armrest of her chair, her pale complexion mirroring Jean's.
"No," Jean said, forcing the word out with every ounce of strength she had. "I live alone. I work solely for the seventh princess. There is no man in my chambers."
Margaretha sneered. "Then surely you wouldn't mind if we searched your quarters?"
"I—" Jean began, but her voice faltered.