The emperor's announcement had sent shockwaves through Arthandica.
Fear. Unease. Outrage.
And yet, the high priestess remained silent.
No public objection. No refutation. Nothing.
Which could only mean one thing—she approved.
The people's worst fears were being confirmed in real time.
Never in the history of Arthandica had an illegitimate daughter been crowned empress.
Not once.
Not ever.
It didn't matter if she was vampire, elf, witch, or shifter—her bloodline alone ensured she would never sit on the throne.
The sponsa eligens—the ancient selection process for the prince's bride—was never meant for illegitimate daughters to actually win.
Sure, they were allowed to compete, but that was merely for appearance's sake.
A way to distinguish them from commoners and servants.
To remind them they were still noble-born, but not noble enough.
The outcome was always predetermined.
The judges made sure of that.
The nobles knew it. The illegitimates knew it.
And yet, they all played along.
Because, as the elders always said:
"It's tradition."
---
In Arthandica, bastards held a precarious status.
They were above commoners, but beneath true nobility.
Their power was limited. Their privileges were few.
And why?
Because most mistresses were not royals, nor did they hail from noble bloodlines.
They were lowborn women, lucky enough to catch the eye of a noble or royal man.
Social climbers. Opportunists.
A well-placed womb could change their circumstances, but never their place in the hierarchy.
No illegitimate daughter dared to dream of the throne.
Not even if the prince himself chose her.
At most, she would be a mistress.
A woman with no title. No power.
And if she became the emperor's concubine?
That was no honor.
It was a death sentence.
To swear the oath of Dominam Nihil Pretii—the "Mistress of No Value"—was to fade into obscurity.
To be a footnote in Arthandica's history.
And yet, somehow, Ambrosia Bathory had defied every rule.
To take the title of Dominam Nihil Pretii was to submit to unmitigated gloom.
A life of luxury, yes—but a life emptier than death itself.
Few knew the true horror of the role.
Because once the final ritual was complete, a mistress's womb was taken.
The justification?
"To prevent unnecessary throne battles if she were to bear a male child."
But no one believed that lie.
Not really.
The truth was simple:
Blueblood supernatural creatures were too prideful.
They would sooner remarry a legitimate noble daughter to the emperor than crown the son of a mistress.
An illegitimate child would never sit on the throne. Ever.
That's why noble bastards did not dare to dream beyond their chamber walls.
No woman wanted such a fate.
A life where they could never hold their own child.
Where they would never be more than a fleeting amusement to a man who would soon tire of them.
Where they would never be first.
---
Victoria took a slow sip of her dandelion tea, its rosemary essence grounding her fraying patience.
Her ladies-in-waiting chattered away, giggling and fawning over the flower gifts they had brought.
She knew what they were doing.
Butter her up first. Then drop the bomb.
Typical.
As much as she wished they would just get to the point, she had to play along.
Remain graceful.
Poised.
A queen in every sense.
Annoying.
"Your Highness, we all know how much you love lilies, so I thought it wise to bring these beautiful water lilies," one of the ladies said with a bright smile.
Victoria's fingers twitched against her porcelain teacup.
Here we go again.
Her head already ached from the hateful thoughts of Ambrosia.
Perhaps this time, she wouldn't survive their insufferable pretenses.
May the heavens help me.
The lady continued, gesturing toward the delicate white petals.
"As you know, Your Highness, white water lilies are often used in medicine, though you have no need for that."
A flattering giggle.
"But they also provide instant hydration for the skin. As vampires, we are naturally pale, but the extract from these lilies can deeply moisturize and prevent irritation."
Victoria only half-listened.
Her mind was elsewhere.
On Ambrosia.
The cursed name that haunted her thoughts.
"Thank you, Countess Windsor."
Victoria took a graceful sip from her teacup, her expression unreadable.
It was a rare honor for someone of the Windsor bloodline to serve as a lady-in-waiting. Traditionally, only daughters from ducal houses were chosen, yet Emily Windsor had broken the mold.
Her appointment had brought great prestige to her family—though her arrogance had grown just as swiftly.
Duchess Nithercott made no attempt to hide her disdain.
She sat poised, but the disgust on her flawless, pale face was evident.
Ever since the Countess had entered the Queen's inner circle, she had forgotten her place—and that made the Duchess loathe her even more.
Lifting her chin, she turned to Victoria, a confident smirk curling on her lips.
"Your Highness, I bring you orange tiger lilies."
A servant stepped forward, presenting the vibrant blooms.
"These lilies symbolize wealth, extreme pride, confidence, and prosperity. They also represent mercy and compassion—traits that define you, Your Highness."
Her voice dripped with reverence, each word crafted to stroke the Queen's ego.
"You show boundless compassion to your subjects. Your confidence is so commanding that your presence is felt before you even arrive. And wherever you go, prosperity follows like a loyal knight in shining armor."
Victoria's smile deepened—elegant, controlled, knowing.
The Duchess continued, her voice now tinged with feigned sincerity.
"I also selected these lilies with your head servant in mind. As you know, they are used in the treatment of heart ailments. They may aid in her daughter's recovery."
Ah.
There it was.
A calculated display of concern, though Victoria knew full well the Duchess cared nothing for the servant's child.
And neither did she.
Still, appearances must be maintained.
"Very well, Duchess Nithercott. I appreciate your efforts wholly and shall not forget this kindness of yours."
Her voice was as gracious as ever, but beneath it lay something far colder.
The rumors were true—if one sought favor with the Queen, they had to learn exactly how to praise her.
Duchess Nithercott knew this game well.
She cast a victorious glance at Countess Windsor—a silent, smug declaration:
"I've won this round, you lowly Countess."
---
Seated beside her rivals, Duchess Arlay watched the exchange with thinly veiled boredom.
Unlike the others, she had no desire to play this foolish game.
Bootlicking was not her way.
It would neither change her status nor serve her purpose in coming here today.
When her turn came, she merely stood, performed a small curtsey, and presented her gift.
"Your Highness, these are glory lilies. They symbolize fame and are used in treating coughs and infertility."
Short. Simple. To the point.
The servants accepted the pot of flowers as the room hung in brief, awkward silence.
Victoria's brow lifted ever so slightly.
Duchess Arlay's unyielding nature was nothing new, yet it never failed to irritate her.
She took another measured sip of tea, her eyes glinting with something sharp.
"Thank you, Duchess Arlay."
A pause.
"Now—may I know what brings you here today?"
Though her words remained polite, there was no mistaking the edge behind them.
The Queen was done with pleasantries.
Duchess Arlay had dragged her back to reality—away from the pretty lies of her garden.
And Victoria did not appreciate that.
"Your Highness, we are here to know if there is any truth to the emperor's message from a few days ago."
The Queen's expression remained unreadable as she set her teacup down.
"Yes, Your Highness," another duchess added, her voice measured yet urgent. "Our people demand answers."
"We do not mean to offend you, nor to bring back unpleasant memories," Duchess Arlay spoke, her tone careful, "but we have a duty to fulfill."
The air shifted instantly.
The remnants of Victoria's earlier forced smiles vanished, replaced by a stony silence.
Ambrosia.
The name festered like a wound that refused to heal.
Even here, in her own court, in her own palace, she could not escape the shadow of that girl.
But as her ladies-in-waiting had said, they had a role to play—and so did she.
Sore topic or not.
With a heavy sigh, she straightened her posture, her voice composed yet distant.
"I'm afraid I know no more than what we have all seen on the screens. I have yet to visit the imperial palace, so I cannot say for certain whether the message is true or not."
Her words, though carefully chosen, were a dismissal.
If that was all they came for, they could leave.
A tense pause followed.
Duchess Arlay, however, was not so easily deterred.
"We understand, Your Highness… but if it turns out to be true, what will your next course of action be?"
Victoria's gaze snapped to her, cold and unwavering.
"Pardon me, Duchess Arlay, but I believe I was loud enough."
Final. Unyielding.
They all knew the truth.
The emperor never made announcements himself unless it was absolute. That fact alone was proof enough.
But tradition dictated that Victoria must visit the imperial palace to seek confirmation.
And so she would.
---
"Be quick with that," the tired head servant whispered, her voice barely above a breath.
Young maids scurried about, packing the Queen's belongings with haste, their hands moving as fast as their trembling nerves allowed.
The heavy chamber doors burst open.
Elisabeta stormed in.
"Where is the Queen?"
The servants flinched at her sharp tone before quickly bowing their heads in deference.
"In the bath, Your Highness," they responded in unison.
Her amber eyes narrowed, scanning the half-packed trunks and neatly folded gowns.
"Why all these bags?"
The head servant, ever composed despite her exhaustion, answered, "Her Highness the Queen is preparing to leave for the imperial palace with His Majesty the King."
Elisabeta's jaw tensed.
"What for?"
"I am sorry, Your Highness, but I do not know."
A thoughtful hum left Elisabeta's lips.
"Hmmm… If you're done with the packing, leave. I'll wait here."
The servants did not hesitate.
Bowing their heads once more, they quickly gathered their things and left, their relief palpable.
Not that they wanted to be in the same room with her any longer than necessary.
---
In a dimly lit chamber, soft humming filled the air—a haunting melody known only to the singer.
Fingers, pale and graceful, trailed through soft yet firm feathers.
Turquoise eyes—mirrors of her own—gazed back at her.
"You feel it too, don't you?"
The raven pecked the inside of her palm, an unspoken confirmation.
A shadow of unease crept into her voice as she whispered,
"Something bad is coming. And it's strong."
She continued stroking Musk's feathers, seeking solace in the rhythmic motion.
But deep inside, she knew—
No amount of comfort could stop the storm that was coming.