Chapter 48 - The Devils Daughter
Time rots in rooms like this.
It does not move forward; it decays. It lingers in the air, thick and unmoving, clinging to the walls, soaking into the floor beneath our feet.
The candles have burned down to uneven stubs, wax pooling and hardening in crooked shapes, their flames flickering low as if even fire itself has grown tired of watching.
Hours have passed.
I know this not because I have counted them but because everything has changed.
The air smells different now. Heavier. Metallic.
The woman
Ophelia's stepmother
does not resemble the composed, sharp-tongued noble who stood in the courtyard earlier that night. Whatever she had been before has been stripped away piece by piece, carved down into something raw and trembling and desperate.
And yet—
She still refuses.
"I did nothing wrong," she croaks again, her voice shredded from repetition, from strain, from the sheer stubbornness of her own defiance. "This is a misunderstanding..."
Veronica laughs.
Bright.
Delighted.
The sound does not belong in this room.
"Oh, you're still saying that," she says, almost impressed, as she steps back and looks at the woman like she's admiring a piece of art she's been working on all evening. "That's incredible. I really thought you would've moved on to bargaining by now."
She tilts her head, lips curving.
"You're either very brave... or very stupid." The woman says nothing. Her silence is louder than any scream she's made so far. I stand near the edge of the desk, arms crossed, watching.
Waiting.
Losing patience.
Veronica moves slowly around the room, her shoes leaving faint, sticky impressions across the marble as she circles her "work." She hums softly under her breath, some tune I don't recognize, tapping her fingers lightly against her blade like she's considering what to do next.
She is enjoying this.
That much is obvious.
Veronica always enjoys this.
There is something deeply, fundamentally wrong with her, and I have long since accepted that fact.
The court does not know her.
Not really.
They think they do.
They whisper about her in corners, speculate about her origins, and invent stories to make sense of her presence.
To them, she is a woman who somehow climbed too high, too fast, a merchant's daughter who charmed her way into power, a widow who inherited more than she deserved, a clever opportunist who found the right man to ruin and then stepped neatly into his place.
They think she is lucky.
They think she is cunning.
They think she is harmless in the way women are often assumed to be when they smile too easily.
They are wrong.
Veronica is the most dangerous person in this kingdom.
More than my generals.
More than my assassins.
More than me.
Because I am predictable.
My cruelty is expected. My violence is understood. When I enter a room, people prepare themselves. They brace. They anticipate.
Veronica...
She does not give them that luxury.
She can sit at a table, smiling sweetly, complimenting dresses, asking polite questions, and leave with secrets that will destroy entire families. She can laugh with you, drink with you, listen to you, and you will never realize you've already given her everything she needs to end you.
And when she chooses to stop pretending.
There is nothing left behind.
No hesitation.
No conscience.
No pause.
Suppose the devil had a child. Veronica would be one of them. They say gingers have no soul. I have heard the joke my entire life.
Most people laugh.
I don't.
Because if anyone has ever proven that statement true
It is her.
And the worst part?
Elias likes her.
The thought alone is enough to irritate me further.
Elias, with all his intelligence, all his careful observation, all his ability to read people like open books
And he chose her.
He watches her as if she's fascinating.
Like she's something beautiful.
He flirts with her in ways that toe the line between bravery and stupidity, as if he does not fully understand what she is capable of.
Or worse
As if he does.
And doesn't care.
I don't know which possibility is more concerning.
Veronica claps her hands suddenly, snapping me out of my thoughts.
"This is fascinating," she says, crouching again in front of the woman, her tone bright with excitement. "I've tried pain, I've tried fear, I've tried patience...which, by the way, was incredibly boring....and you're still holding onto your story."
She leans closer, her voice dropping into something softer.
"Tell me," she murmurs, "what do you think happens if you win?"
The woman stares at her.
Silent.
Defiant.
Veronica sighs.
"See, that's the problem," she says, standing again. "No imagination."
Her gaze flicks to me.
"And here I thought tonight would be entertaining."
"It's not," I say flatly.
Her lips pout.
Briefly.
"Oh, you're no fun when you're in a mood," she complains.
"I am always in a mood."
"Fair," she says, shrugging. My patience thins further. This has gone on long enough.
"Enough," I say quietly.
Veronica pauses.
Look at me.
There is something in her eyes, something sharp, something calculating as she studies my expression, the tension in my posture, the way my hands have curled slightly at my sides without me noticing.
Then
She smiles.
Slow.
Knowing.
"Ah," she says softly. "Now you're angry."
"I was angry before."
"No," she corrects lightly. "Before, you were interested. Now..." she gestures vaguely, "...this is personal."
My gaze sharpens.
Her smile widens.
"I like this version of you better," she adds.
Of course she does.
There is a knock at the door.
Veronica freezes.
Then
Her entire demeanor shifts.
Brightens.
"Oh!" she gasps, spinning toward the door like she's just remembered something delightful. "Perfect timing!"
She turns back to me, practically glowing.
"My gift to her is here."
I frown.
"What..."
The door opens.
Guards enter first.
Then
They drag in six figures.
A man.
Two young women, three young men.
The woman's family.
Their eyes widen the moment they see her.
Shock.
Horror.
Recognition.
"Mother...?"
The word cracks.
Breaks.
The stepmother goes still.
Truly still.
"No..." she breathes, her voice shaking. "No, no...let them go....they have nothing to do with this—"
Veronica claps her hands together, delighted.
"Oh, see?" she beams. "Progress!"
She gestures eagerly.
"Sit them down."
The guards force them to their knees.
The younger girl begins to cry immediately.
The older one tries to stay composed.
Fails.
The husband stares at me, silent, understanding exactly where he stands.
Veronica steps forward, hands clasped behind her back like she's about to deliver a lecture.
"Alright," she says brightly. "New rules."
She walks slowly in front of them, examining each face like she's choosing something off a menu.
"Before, this was just about you," she says, glancing at the woman. "Which was fun for me...but clearly not motivating for you."
She turns back.
Smiles.
"So now," she continues cheerfully, "we make it about them."
The stepmother shakes her head frantically.
"Please..please don't..."
Veronica raises a finger.
"Shh," she says gently. "You'll ruin the surprise."
She looks at me.
"My king," she says sweetly, "would you like to ask again?"
I step forward.
Slow.
Controlled.
The room tightens around me.
"Where is my wife?" I ask.
Silence.
The woman trembles.
Her eyes flicker between her family, between Veronica, and between me.
"I..."
She hesitates.
That is all it takes.
Veronica moves.
Fast.
The blade flashes before it plunges into her girl's thigh, before swiftly pulling out, and blood sprays into her face and eyes.
The older daughter screams.
The sound is sharp.
Piercing.
Real.
Veronica steps back immediately, humming thoughtfully.
"Mm," she murmurs. "Good reaction."
She tilts her head, studying the girl.
"Strong lungs," she adds approvingly. "Very expressive, have you ever thought about joining a choir? You would be an amazing soprano."
The stepmother breaks.
"Stop...please...please..."
Veronica crouches beside the girl, smiling softly.
"Oh, don't worry," she says kindly. "We're just getting started."
She looks back at the stepmother.
Eyes bright.
Excited.
"Would you like to try again?"