(Veronica POV)
I was born into a life where survival came first, and everything else didn't matter. My parents worked endlessly, but no matter how hard they tried, the hunger stayed. I was the eldest, so it fell to me to care for my younger siblings when they couldn't. Sometimes, it meant skipping meals. Sometimes, it meant watching my mother cough through the night, unable to afford the medicines she needed.
She didn't last long. I remember the day she died. It wasn't loud or dramatic. She just stopped breathing. My father couldn't handle it. He wasn't the same after that, leaving me to fill the space he left behind. I raised my siblings the best I could, but I was still just a child myself.
When the plague came, it didn't care about my sacrifices. It took two of my siblings, leaving only the youngest with me. With nothing left in our village, I sold what we had and moved us to the city. That's where I started working as a maid.
At first, it wasn't much better than the life I'd left behind. I scrubbed floors, served meals, and obeyed without question. But I learned quickly. I watched the way people talked, the way they moved, and I learned what they wanted. My employers liked that. They saw me as useful.
I climbed higher, step by step. Eventually, I found myself in the palace, surrounded by people who had power I couldn't even begin to imagine. I wanted that power. So I worked harder, stayed quiet, and made myself indispensable. That's how I caught the eye of Royal Attendant Stegertath.
Serving him felt like reaching the top of the mountain known as the social hierarchy. His personal servants were untouchable, even among the nobility. I wielded more influence than some officers in the empire's army. I was still a servant, but I didn't feel like one. People feared me, respected me, and sometimes even envied me.
But Stegertath didn't care about me. To him, I was a tool. As long as I was useful, I stayed. That was fine with me. I was content.
Then he sent me to Ophelia. She wasn't somebody who deserved the title of Noble, wasn't someone I considered worthy of respect. I resented her and underestimated her. That was my mistake.
Ophelia showed me what real power was. She didn't demand loyalty; she tore it from you. When she made me break my fingers as a sign of devotion, I did it without a tear. By then, I had nothing else to hold onto but her.
I swore my loyalty that day. Not because I wanted to, but because I didn't have a choice.
Now, I walk behind her through the grand halls of the royal palace. The floors gleam and the walls rise high with intricate carvings and golden trim. Everything here is a reminder of how far I've come. And yet, it feels like nothing. I'm used to this sight now.
Ophelia strides ahead, her movements steady and confident. I follow a few steps behind, silent, as I've learned to be. My fingers still ache, but I don't dare look at them. The pain is a small price to pay for survival.
The hallway seems endless, the echo of her boots the only sound. I glance at her back, trying to understand what makes her so different. She doesn't carry herself like someone seeking power. She walks as if she already owns everything she wants.
I don't know where she's leading me. I don't ask. That's not my place and was never my place.
'I'll cling to her until the other nobles get rid of her,' Veronica thought before seeing Ophelia pause.
Ophelia stopped in front of two massive stone doors, each carved with intricate patterns that seemed to tell a story lost to time. On either side of the doors stood two guards, towering figures clad in heavy pale gold armor. Their presence alone was enough to send shivers through anyone foolish enough to stand in their way.
Ophelia didn't utter a single word. She didn't need to. The guards, their faces obscured by helm-like masks, stepped aside without hesitation. With a low, grinding sound, the stone doors swung open, revealing a hall of unparalleled grandeur.
I followed her inside, my eyes immediately drawn to the six thrones with six people sitting atop them at the far end of the hall. Each throne was distinct, crafted from different materials—gold, silver, obsidian, and other metals I couldn't name—but together, they formed a commanding presence.
Behind them, a massive curved wall of glass stretched from floor to ceiling, offering a breathtaking view of the capital city below. The sun poured in, lighting up the hall with a golden glow, while the city beyond was alive with movement. Tiny figures bustled through streets, carriages wove their way through traffic, and the spires of distant buildings pierced the sky.
However, something was off. There was a vacant throne at the far back.
…
Archmage Medarda, also known as Kachi von Medarda, sat on the far right throne. Her crimson hair flowed loosely in vivid waves over her shoulders, striking against the black fabric of her tailored coat. A white lace corset, detailed and intricate, framed her figure beneath the sharp lines of pinstriped trousers. Black knee-high boots, laced tightly, completed her attire. Around her neck, a dark choker adorned with a single gemstone rested above her collarbone, catching faint glimmers of light.
General Solgrath Augeric, or Sven los Agueric, occupied the throne next to her. His dark ginger hair framed a pale, angular face. He wore a heavy cloak of dark fabric embroidered with silver, fur lining the high collar. In his hands, he held a bouquet of white lilies, their stark petals contrasting his somber attire. The hilt of a sword peeked from beneath the bouquet, its guard bearing subtle ornamental designs. A black raven perched on his shoulder, its feathers glossy and sleek.
General Solgrath Medarda, born Sheek von Medarda, reclined on the following throne. Her crimson hair spilled over her shoulders and across the high back of her chair like liquid fire. A tailored black coat adorned with faint embellishments shimmered subtly in the light. She wore sheer ruffled cuffs that spilled from her sleeves, mingling with the deep red roses appearing to grow from her garments. A dark silk mask concealed the lower half of her face, leaving only her sharp eyes visible.
Archbishop Igmach, otherwise known as Jonnan al Igmach, seated beside her, had flowing golden hair cascading over his shoulders. Two curved horns rose elegantly from his head, blending seamlessly with his noble appearance. His robes were a combination of gold and gray, patterned with intricate designs that complemented his opulent attire. A soft shimmer played across the fabric, accentuating the fine details.
General Obfuscator Jakaron, also known as Ozel di Jakaron followed next. His long white hair hung freely, framing a sharp, angular face. His pitch-black eyes seemed to swirl like a whirlpool of straight malice. He wore a dark layered outfit adorned with feathers, pendants, and chains that draped subtly across his form. A dagger in his hand glowed faintly with violet energy, while a book, tethered at his side, added to his composed yet enigmatic appearance.
Finally, there was Archmage Agueric, also known as Gunter los Agueric seated on the far left, who had dark ginger hair, its untamed strands adding to his striking appearance. His face was pale and angular, his piercing blue eyes unyielding. A crimson cloak, weathered at the edges, draped over him. Beneath the cloak, his black clothing fit cleanly, and a golden timepiece hung from his neck, its intricate design catching flickers of light.
Every breath Veronica drew felt labored, the sheer pressure bearing down on her chest like an unseen force. She stood behind Ophelia, her gaze locked on the floor as her pulse raced in her ears. Her limbs trembled faintly, but she pressed her palms to the cold marble to steady herself, determined to keep her composure.
"Greetings," Ophelia spoke, her voice calm as she sank to one knee.
"Ophelia von Aubessec, correct?" Sven los Agueric's voice reverberated through the hall, deep and probing, his words as much a command as a question.
"Yes, sir," Ophelia replied. There was no hesitation, no crack in her calculated exterior.
"You've been recommended by quite a few nobles," Sven continued, leaning slightly forward. "That is something to congratulate."
"Thank you, sir," Ophelia responded. Her gaze swept the room, her expression serene. She met each pair of eyes with calculated care, ensuring she neither lingered too long nor appeared dismissive. All but one—the seat she had expected to command the most authority—remained vacant.
'The Emperor is absent,' she thought. 'As expected.'
"Do you understand why you've been summoned?" Sven leaned forward in his chair, the lilies in his gloved hands crumbling into a fine, gray dust.
"Yes, sir," Ophelia answered smoothly. "You wish to test me."
"Correct. I knew you were a smart one." Sven's grin was sharp, almost predatory.
Veronica's breath hitched as the pressure mounted, her vision darkening at the edges. It wasn't fear alone—this was the sheer force of their presence. Even her willpower, honed over the years, buckled slightly beneath it. She focused on the marble beneath her, grounding herself against its cold, solid surface.
Sven continued, his voice cutting through the thick air. "Then, we all agree that naming you Duchess is acceptable—under one condition."
Veronica swallowed a drop of saliva while Ophelia remained unphased.
"During your inauguration, you will declare war on the Kingdom of Nessigolopt," Sven stated, his tone final. "We have not made an official declaration yet. Your rise will be the perfect moment, with all eyes in the capital on you."
The faintest of smiles touched Ophelia's lips as she inclined her head, a gesture of acknowledgment rather than submission.
"I understand," she said, her voice steady, devoid of surprise or defiance. It was the answer they wanted and the one she had intended to give since her planning at the fortress. "Then, thank you for your time. I will ensure your condition is met," Ophelia finished.
She bowed her head slightly, her voice carrying no doubt, only the certainty of someone whose steps followed a path they had already mapped.
Turning sharply on her heel, Ophelia began to walk toward the massive stone doors. Veronica, still fighting to steady her breath, followed, her thoughts a tangled mess of apprehension and opportunity.
Veronica, still kneeling, hesitated for a fraction of a second. They had not been dismissed, nor had Ophelia given her any sign to remain. Pushing down her confusion, she rose and followed in silence, her footsteps echoing faintly behind Ophelia's.
The council members did not speak as the pair departed. 'Did we just leave without being dismissed? Surely they'll be angry?' Her mind churned. 'If she forgot, it's a mistake I can exploit later.'
The thought settled into a quiet corner of her mind. For now, her duty remained to follow and observe.
Ahead, Ophelia strode forward without a glance back, her movements as fluid and deliberate as ever. Then, she saw her smile. A wide almost demonic smile.