CHAPTER 77: CHAPTER SEVENTY SEVEN

The holy silence of the monastery was annihilated by another sharp, savage thwip of a bowstring.

Derek’s head moved a fraction of a second before his brain had even processed the sound. An arrow, black-fletched and deadly, hissed past his ear, missing him again by a hair’s breadth. It slammed into the thick, dark wood of the altar behind him with a heavy, sickening thud, the shaft vibrating from the force.

He was trapped. In front of him, the wall of Royal Guards, their swords raised, their faces grim. Above him, a death-dealer in the rafters, already nocking a new arrow.

The guards, seeing his momentary pause, seeing the archer’s near-miss, took it as their signal. They let out a unified, guttural shout and lunged.

He dodged the first two slashing blades, parrying their over-eager attacks. He saw the archer above him lean forward, his bowstring drawing back. He had perhaps two seconds.

He needed an exit. His eyes darted to the side. The stained-glass window. It was tall, narrow, and already broken, a gaping, jagged hole in the stone wall, a spiderweb of fractured, colored glass.

He had no time for a subtle fight. He put his full weight against the heavy, rotting altar, the very thing that had just saved his life. With a roar of rage, he shoved it.

The top-heavy stone table, already unstable, teetered for a moment and then crashed forward, toppling onto the lunging guards.

The sound was a deafening crash of splintering wood and stone, mixed with the sharp, surprised cries of the men who were now trapped under its weight. The air exploded in a cloud of dust so thick it momentarily blinded everyone.

"Now!" Derek thought.

He did not hesitate. He heard the thwip of the second arrow, but it flew wild, its owner now blinded by the dust.

He ran for the window. He grabbed his heavy, wool cloak—the one the first arrow had torn—and, as requested by the user, he wrapped it around his head and arm as a makeshift shield against the glass. He leaped, a dark, desperate shape, his shoulder hitting the fractured remnants of the stained glass.

He burst through the window in an explosion of tinkling glass and rotting wood, landing hard on the damp, overgrown ground outside. He rolled, the impact sending a jolt of fire up his arm.

The first arrow, the one that had "missed," had not missed entirely. It had torn a long, deep, searing graze along his forearm, a wound that was now, he realized, bleeding freely, soaking the inside of his sleeve.

"CHASE HIM!" he heard the Captain roar from inside the monastery. "HE’S OUTSIDE! DON’T LET HIM ESCAPE!"

Derek scrambled to his feet, clutching his bleeding arm. He ran. He plunged into the dark, misty forest that surrounded the monastery, his one goal the small, hidden grove where his horse, a fast, black stallion, was tethered.

He could hear them behind him. The heavy thud of their boots, the crash of them breaking through the underbrush, the shouts of men organizing a pursuit.

He reached his horse, his breath tearing at his lungs. He didn’t bother with the knot. He pulled a small knife from his boot and sawed through the leather reins, freeing the animal. He swung himself into the saddle, his wounded arm screaming in protest.

He dug his heels into the horse’s flanks, and the stallion bolted, disappearing into the shadows. Behind him, he could hear the sound of the Royal Guards reaching their own hidden horses, the pursuit just beginning.

~ ••••• ~

The sun had long since set. In the Golden Swan, Senna’s private parlor was an intimate, warm, and golden-lit space. The curtains were drawn against the night, and the soft, intricate melody of a lone lute drifted up from the main hall below.

The air in the room was heavy, smelling of the exotic, sweet grape wine from the western region. The ornate, crystal decanter, which had been full when Marissa arrived, was now empty.

Marissa smiled, a polite, weary, and slightly unfocused expression. They had been talking for hours. Or rather, Senna had been talking, and Marissa had been listening, her sharp mind filing away every soft word, every calculated confidence, every subtle, veiled probe about Derek, about the household, about her title.

"It’s already late," Marissa said, her voice a little thick. The wine was stronger than she had anticipated. She placed her small, empty cup on the table. "I need to leave. My... my household will be worried."

She pushed herself up from the plush, comfortable armchair.

And the room tilted.

A sudden, violent wave of dizziness washed over her. The soft, candle-lit parlor seemed to spin, the lights blurring into long streaks. She put her hand to her head, a small, confused sound escaping her. "I... I feel..."

Senna was on her feet in an instant, her face a mask of perfect, worried innocence. "Your Grace? Are you alright?"

she asked, her voice a soft, bird-like cry of concern. She rushed to Marissa’s side, her hand hovering, as if to help. "You look so pale! Was the wine too strong? Here, sit back down, sit..."

Marissa tried to turn back to the chair, but her legs were no longer her own. They felt heavy, numb, and useless, as if she were wading through wet sand. "I..." she tried to say, but her tongue was thick, her lips numb. She saw Senna’s "worried" face floating in front of her, a beautiful, anxious blur.

And then, the world went black. Her head fell forward, thudding softly onto the small table, her body slumping bonelessly in the chair, completely unconscious.

Senna stood over her for a long, silent moment. The mask of worried innocence remained in place, but her eyes, her beautiful, amber eyes, were cold, clear, and utterly triumphant.

She called her name, her voice no longer soft, but sharp and testing. "Your Grace?"

There was no response.

Senna reached out and shook Marissa’s shoulder, hard. "Marissa?"

Marissa’s head just lolled to the side, her body a dead weight. She was completely, totally, and helplessly unconscious.

The mask dropped.

The worried,innocent , gentle, kind "Lady Senna" vanished. Her face, in the lamplight, became cold, hard, and terrifying in its satisfaction. A slow, venomous smile, a smile of pure, cold hatred, spread across her lips.

"Esme!" she called, her voice a sharp, clear command.

The parlor door opened instantly. The maid, Esme, the same one who has been by Senna’s side, entered. She looked at the unconscious Duchess, her expression blank. "It is done, my lady?"

"It is done," Senna confirmed, her voice a low, satisfied purr. "The drug was a little slower than I expected, but it is perfect. Help me. Drag her to the bed."

Together, the two women took Marissa by the arms. She was a dead weight, an inconvenience. They pulled her from the chair, her feet dragging uselessly on the expensive Western rug. They hauled her across the room, opened the adjoining door and, with a grunting, unceremonious effort, threw her onto Senna’s own large, silk-sheeted bed.

Marissa landed in a heap, her hair, which had been so perfectly pinned, splayed out across the pillows, her face peaceful in its unnatural, deep sleep.

Senna stood over her, just staring, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. She was so... perfect. Even now. So calm, so regal, so... dignified.

"He calls her ’Mother’," Senna whispered, her voice a low, jealous, hateful growl. "He saved my life, but he gives her his coat. He bought me this palace, this... this sanctuary... but he runs to her when she or her stupid little maid is in trouble."

Her hand unconsciously went to her own cheek, her nails digging in. "And he looks at her. I’ve seen him. He looks at her... not like he looks at me. He looks at me like a pretty toy. He looks at her like... like an equal."

She turned from the bed and strode to a small writing desk. She pulled open a hidden drawer. From inside, she took out a small, lethal-looking dagger, its handle a beautiful, iridescent crystal.

She unsheathed it. The blade was thin, needle-sharp, and glittered like a diamond in the lamplight.

"This face," she said, her voice a soft, wondering hiss. She walked back to the bed, the dagger in her hand. She stood over Marissa, looking down at her perfect, serene, aristocratic features. "So smooth," she whispered. "So absolutely beautiful. So... charming."

She reached out, the tip of the blade hovering just an inch above Marissa’s cheek. She traced the line of her cheekbone, not yet touching, just threatening.

"If it were to be destroyed," she whispered, her voice trembling with a terrible, excited, and vicious idea. "If this perfect, calm, face was ruined... scarred... ugly... would he still care for you? Would he still find you so ’remarkable’? Or would he come back to me? Would he come back to his beautiful, perfect, innocent Senna?"

She smiled, a terrible, cold, and beautiful smile, her eyes fixed on the smooth, porcelain skin just below Marissa’s eye.

"Would he?