Chapter 19 – Thorns Beneath the Velvet
Mourning shrouds the world in velvet black. The silence is louder than screams. Grief clutches Athanasia like vines around her throat. Rohan wears the mask of comfort, while shadows grin behind the curtains.
The Grand Duke is dead.
Athanasia hasn't left his chamber. She's still clutching the side of his bed like a ghost who doesn't know she's dead too. His hand, now cold, rests in hers.
Her inner voice is trembling, poetic, maybe even broken:
"If there's a God, he must be cruel. Because He gave me light only to snuff it out with his fingers."
Servants murmur outside the door. Nathan tries to get her to eat something—she refuses.
Rohan enters—quiet, steady, polite to the point of perfection. He kneels beside her and speaks in a gentle voice.
"He wouldn't want you to suffer like this, Athanasia. You have to be strong... for him."
His words are right. But they fall wrong. His touch is soft. But her skin crawls beneath it—and she doesn't know why.
There's something in his eyes. Too calm. Too… distant?
But grief fogs her mind. She pushes the unease down.
"I must be imagining it," she thinks. "He's been nothing but kind."
Rohan gives her a white rose.
"He always said it was your flower."
She clutches it like it means something.
But later, the petals bleed red.
Later that night, unable to sleep, Athanasia walks into her uncle's library. She's drawn to a hidden compartment she remembers from childhood.
Inside: a leather-bound journal.
The pages are filled with elegant handwriting. But one section is written in a secret code only she and her uncle knew—a childhood cipher. She deciphers it slowly. A passage reads:
"Some men wear masks so well, even the mirror forgets their face."
"Watch the ones closest to you. Not all roses bloom from the same roots."
She pauses. Her hands tremble. Is it about… someone specific? A warning?
"He's talking in riddles," she murmurs aloud. "I don't understand."
She doesn't know yet. But the words claw at the edge of her heart.
In a quiet moment, she prepares for the funeral. Dressed in obsidian silk and pearl embroidery, she stares at herself in the mirror and doesn't recognize the girl in the reflection.
"He raised me," she whispers. "And I couldn't save him."
Nathan knocks on the door gently and sees her.
"You don't have to carry this alone."
Athanasia smiles faintly.
"But if I don't… who will?"
She doesn't mention the journal. Not yet. Not until she understands.
That night, she dreams of a forest of thorns. Her uncle stands at the center, bleeding from the mouth. He tries to speak, but black vines wrap around his throat.
She runs to him—but someone stands behind her. Smiling.
She wakes up crying. And the white rose on her nightstand has withered overnight.
The funeral ends. The world moves on. But Athanasia doesn't. Her heart is a shattered music box playing ghostly lullabies.
She's curled in her room, too quiet, too pale. A tear-tracked face hidden behind trembling fingers.
And then—soft knocks.
Rohan enters. He doesn't speak at first. Just kneels beside her and takes her hand gently in his. Like she's glass and he's afraid of breaking what's already broken.
"Athanasia…"
She shakes her head, biting her lip to keep from sobbing. But it comes anyway—ugly, raw, desperate.
"God has taken everything from me…" she whispers, voice trembling.
"First Mother. Then Father. Now Uncle… What have I done to deserve this?"
Rohan says nothing. Just pulls her into his arms and lets her cry against his chest. His hand strokes her hair, patient and soothing. The way a liar might lull a lamb.
"You haven't done anything," he says softly. "It's the world that's cruel, not you. But I promise… I'm here. You still have me."
She clutches him like he's the last star in a black sky.
And the servants outside whisper:
"Crown Prince Rohan… he's so kind."
"Lady Athanasia is lucky. He's taking care of her so well."
"A true fiancé. A true prince."
If only they knew what kind of wolf hid beneath the wool.
Rohan doesn't stop with Athanasia.
He visits Adrian next. Finds him alone, sitting in the dark garden, staring at nothing with clenched fists and bloodshot eyes.
"You're holding it in again," Rohan says, sitting beside him.
"You always do that when you're hurting."
Adrian scoffs. "What do you want?"
Rohan places a hand on his shoulder.
"To be your brother. Not by blood, maybe, but by bond."
And Adrian—who's been stone since their uncle's death—cracks. Just a little. Just enough for a tear to escape.
They sit together in silence, and everyone who sees them says:
"The Crown Prince… he's holding that family together."
Athanasia watches from a distance, heart raw and aching.
And she tells herself—she forces herself to believe—that Rohan is her lighthouse in this endless storm.
But somewhere inside, something small and scared whispers…
"Too perfect. Too good. Too calm in grief."
Wanna end the chapter here, with a lingering chill and false warmth? Or should I add one last scene—maybe Athanasia starts writing a journal entry that mirrors her uncle's, unknowingly echoing the warning?
Your call, queen of ink and ruin. Shall we lace it with another thread?
Somewhere far from the mourning halls, where Athanasia's cries echoed in cold marble—
The battlefield bled crimson.
Ashes kissed the wind as Duke Kyle's banner swayed amidst the haze of fallen men. And there—at the center of it all—stood Arion Elfeldore, eldest son of the late duke. The sharp tilt of his jaw, the stiff set of his shoulders—he was war-forged and quiet, like a blade that refused to rust.
A courier stumbled into camp, armor cracked, breath rasping from the ride.
"My Lord—"
"Speak."
The knight dropped to one knee, holding up the blood-stained envelope. The seal had been broken, hastily reclosed. As if the message itself tried to escape the page.
Arion took the letter with steady fingers, peeled it open.
His eyes skimmed the words.
And then—
His sword fell.
No scream. No sob. Just the sound of steel clanging onto stone.
He stared at the parchment, disbelief flooding in like seawater breaching a cracked hull.
"A curse...?"
"They said it was unnatural, milord. Not poison. Not blade."
"Who was with him?"
"Only the butler... and a priest who fled."
Silence.
He crumpled the letter in his fist and turned his back to the fire.
"Tell the men to ride at dawn," he said, voice hollow. "If anyone speaks of this before we return... I'll have their tongues."
The knight hesitated. "And... the young lady? Lady Athanasia?"
Arion's jaw tightened.
He didn't answer.
He simply walked into the night.
The horses thundered through the rain-soaked path. Cloaked in black and urgency, Arion Elfeldore reached the gates of the Granddukedom just as the sun kissed the horizon with crimson.
He didn't wait for a formal welcome.
He leapt from his stallion, storming past the startled guards. The butler, old and shaking, stumbled forward from the shadows.
"Y-Young Lord Arion?! We… we didn't know you were coming—"
"Where's Adrion?"
The butler's eyes trembled like candle flames.
"In his room. He hasn't opened the door since… since the Duke's death."
Arion didn't wait for more.
He climbed the staircase, breath harsh, armor still smeared with war and dust. And as he turned the last corridor—
There she was.
Athanasia.
Her back was to him. Her hands thudded softly against the closed door.
"Adrion… please," she whispered, broken. "Please open the door…"
Her voice was sandpaper, dragged over raw emotion. Her shoulders shook with each quiet plea, and her golden braid was undone, falling loosely over her silk gown.
"Athanasia," he breathed.
She spun around.
Her eyes—so red, so swollen, so desperately lost.
"Huh… A… Arion…?"
And then—
She ran.
She collided into him with the force of a world-ending sob. Arms tight, clutching him like he was the last fragment of her shattered sky.
"Uncle… Arion… he's dead… he's really… gone," she gasped.
Tears poured from her eyes like monsoon rain. "There were… strange patterns on his body. It was a curse… it was a curse, Arion… and Adrion… he won't open the door, he won't eat, he won't talk—I don't know what to do!"
She was spiraling.
So he did the only thing he could.
He hugged her.
Tight. Protective. One hand gently resting on her head, the other around her back. Like a wall she could lean on.
"It's okay," he whispered. "You're not alone. We'll be strong for him. So don't cry here, okay? Don't let Adrion see your tears… Not yet."
She nodded against his chest, her sobs softening into silent hiccups.
Arion slowly stepped forward.
Knock knock.
"Adrion. It's me. Arion."
Silence.
Then—soft creaking.
The door opened by a sliver, enough for them to see him.
Adrion—hollow-eyed, pale, lips bloodied from biting them too hard.
He didn't speak.
He just looked at Arion.
And Arion opened the door wider, stepping in without asking. He pulled his younger brother into his arms.
"It's okay, Adrion," he whispered into his hair. "We're still here. You're not alone."
And for the first time since the curse, the Grand Duke's son cried.
Not alone.
No anymore.