CHAPTER 33: ECHOES IN THE ALCOVES

The world outside had long surrendered to sleep, but within the castle’s eastern wing, a low and breathless silence held its own dominion.

Vincenzo’s chamber stretched vast and quiet, cloaked in shadow and wealth. The polished black marble floor gleamed beneath golden light—smooth as glass, veined faintly in silver, echoing the hush of late hours. Above, a grand chandelier shimmered softly, its light dancing against dark silk curtains drawn to either side of towering arched glass walls. The night beyond lay still—moonlit and watching.

At one end of the chamber loomed the great bed—immense and untouched, dressed in layered black bedding so rich it seemed to drink the very light. The headboard bore gold-gilded trim and quiet carvings, yet nothing dared disturb the solemn elegance of that onyx rest.

Across from it, at the far end, nestled in the curved glass corner, the sitting area offered its own gravity. Black leather armchairs, smooth and deep, rested beside a low table of dark crystal and gold. A carved stone hearth crackled nearby, its fire casting long, flickering shadows that stretched across the walls—twisting behind the two unmoving figures.

In the right corner of the sitting area, a polished cabinet stood low and wide, its surface lined with dustless, poised bottles of every shape and size—slender-necked, broad-shouldered, some tall as lanterns, others squat like old secrets. Some stood sealed and untouched; others sat half-emptied or nearly bare. Old rum, deep gold whiskey, and crimson blends glinted in the firelight. Though clearly untouched tonight, they seemed to belong there, like a memory tucked into the corner of the room.

Vincenzo sat, one arm draped over the edge of the leather chair, a glass of deep crimson balanced in his hand. The liquid glowed like garnet—thick, fresh, unmoved. His posture was composed, regal without effort. Behind him, the city of Versimoil shimmered, distant, faint and forgotten.

Across from him, Adomas mirrored the quiet. One leg crossed, one hand resting gently on the armrest, a matching glass glinting in his grasp. In the stillness, beneath firelight, two creatures of blood and night simply sat. Silence reigned between them—not cold, but carved.

Adomas tilted his glass, watching the light catch the curve of the liquid. "How’s the mysterious not-so-human girl coping after seeing the dead village?"

"She’s still processing." Shadows clung beneath Vincenzo’s eyes—darker than usual.

Adomas looked up. "Did she remember anything?"

"Fragments," Vincenzo replied quietly. "She saw her father. Her house. The flames. It was her magic. Her power."

His jaw tightened as he met Adomas’s eyes. "Bridgehallow left its mark."

"She left hers on it, too," Adomas said, his tone matter-of-fact.

He set his glass down with a soft clink and leaned in slightly. "You think the memories will come back fully?"

Vincenzo didn’t answer right away. His gaze drifted to the darkened panes of glass, where the moon sat like a frozen eye. "Yes. No matter how much she wants to turn away, it’ll all come crashing back. But I won’t let it bury her. She’s stronger than she knows."

Adomas nodded, saying nothing more. For a while, only the crackle of flames and the hush of wind filled the room.

Then, he rose and walked toward the door.

At the threshold, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder. "Maybe tomorrow’s court proceedings will distract you both—if only by boring you to death." The door closed behind him with a soft click.

Vincenzo’s mouth curved faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. He had kept the proceedings on the schedule for reasons of his own—certainly not duty, and never necessity. To him, they were little more than a stage where carefully scripted dramas played out for his benefit.

The fire had long gone cold by morning. The throne room of Versimoil was carved from the marrow of ancient stone—an opulent sanctum of power. Crimson sunlight filtered through the pointed arched windows, casting long, fractured shadows onto the polished white marble floor veined with gold. Velvet drapes in shades of dark red and black swept downward from the sanctum ceiling like bleeding banners, drawing the eye toward the dais above.

There, at the highest point of the chamber, the royal throne loomed—its carved back wings flaring like a phoenix mid-flight, gilded in molten gold. The seat itself was padded in blood-red velvet, rich enough to drink light.

On the upper level, twin private galleries flanked the chamber—Cassia and Atticus occupying the left, Anneliese and Roslin the right. They watched in stillness, their expressions unreadable, as the chamber gathered its voices—silent observers above the quarrels below.

The four house leaders were already seated in their designated alcoves on either side, followed by other dignitaries and royals. Below, near the base of the dais steps, Adomas stood to the right—formal and watchful. Low murmurs lingered until silence fell.

Vincenzo sat above them, his expression remained unreadable—sculpted from patience and cold command—but his eyes missed nothing.

"Royal seals have been tampered with," Lady Valeria Blackrose said quietly, her voice precise but cautious. She produced a parchment from a velvet folder, sliding it toward a nearby steward with careful hands. "Several decrees bearing this court’s seal were found circulating in the North—though none bear the signature of anyone present."

Her gaze flicked briefly to Vincenzo, measured and wary beneath the weight of his stare. "Forgery, then. Old seals, copied—clumsily, it seems. Might this be an attempt to invoke your authority, Milord?"

Her tone was polite, but the edge of nervousness was there—careful to test the waters rather than challenge.

From the southern alcove, Zephyr Ashenveil shifted slightly, the heat of the deserts lingering in his copper-toned skin. His eyes darted away before settling on a distant corner of the chamber.

"I have heard whispers," he said low, voice smooth but guarded. "Portals... torn space. Something ancient stirring."

He glanced briefly toward Valeria but avoided Vincenzo’s gaze. "You question the seals, but there are darker things at play—things no one wishes to name."

Sire Sebastian Roderick’s scholarly calm flickered as he tapped his knuckles lightly against the armrest, his eyes moving between the other two leaders with subtle unease.

"Cloaked figures have been seen in the eastern woods," he added softly, voice steady but tinged with concern. "Animals fall silent. My seers speak of blood rituals... dark magic."

The unease in the chamber deepened. A soft shifting of weight, the creak of chairs—small sounds amid the tension.

Xavier Redgrave broke the stillness with a rough breath, adjusting his posture as his sharp gaze swept the room cautiously.

"A human town... wiped from the map. No trace remains. Then Haselburg—same fate. It reaches closer to western border than we feared."

His usual soldier’s confidence was subdued, replaced by a grim awareness.

The leaders exchanged fleeting, tense looks—words unspoken but understood.

The words lingered like smoke. Vincenzo’s gaze swept the chamber, measuring each in turn, a decision forming in shadow.