The Dark Trinity

Chapter 4

The throne of Riverland was an imposing creation, a blend of elegance and menace. It loomed high on a raised dais, carved from obsidian and veined with gold, as though fire itself had forged it.

The backrest soared into jagged peaks, crowned with inlaid rubies that glinted like drops of blood in the faint light. A wolf’s head, wrought in silver, jutted from the armrests, its bared teeth a reminder of the throne's previous occupant, King Aleric.

Malcolm sat with one leg draped over the other, his gloved hand gripping the armrest. His black cloak spilled over the throne, pooling around his boots. Shadows danced across his sharp features, exaggerating the hard lines of his jaw and the cruel set of his mouth.

His dark eyes were fixed on nothing in particular, though his fingers drummed against the armrest in a measured rhythm.

The door creaked open, and Sir James entered.

His polished armor glinting in the firelight,
he was a tall man, his broad shoulders filling the frame of the door. His face Stoic, his expression unreadable, but his eyes betrayed a hint of concern. 

He was the kind of man who did his job without question, and in a kingdom as unstable as theirs, that was the kind of loyalty King Malcolm needed. 

“Your Grace,” Sir James said, bowing.

Malcolm’s gaze shifted lazily to the knight, his gray eyes cold and distant. He let the silence linger for a moment, studying the man before him. He had a decision to make, one that would likely draw more attention than he wanted. But it was necessary.

“Remove the girl from the dungeon,” he said, his voice low and smooth, like a blade drawn from its sheath.

Sir James brow furrowed in confusion. “The girl, Your Grace?” 

Malcolm’s gaze sharpened, his lips curling in impatience. “The queen slayer,” he snapped. "Do I need to paint a picture for you?” 

The knight hesitated. “Your Grace, if I may—” 

“You may not,” Malcolm cut him off, his tone as cold as the obsidian beneath him. He leaned forward, his gaze piercing. “Do as I say, or you will join her in the dungeon. Do you understand me, Sir James?”

The knight swallowed hard, bowing deeply. “As you command, Your Grace.”

“Good,” Malcolm said, leaning back into the throne. “And Sir James…” 

The knight paused, glancing up. 

“Put her in the servant quarters".

The dungeon stank of mold. The air was damp and thick with the stench of mold, urine, and unwashed bodies and the faint drip of water echoed endlessly in the darkness. Amelia lay on the floor, her head resting against the old woman’s side.

Her long hair spilled over her face and shoulders, a dark curtain that shimmered faintly in the dim light of a guttering torch. It covered her like a blanket.

Amelia stirred as the sound of boots echoed through the stone corridors, their measured rhythm drawing nearer.  She blinked, her hazel eyes heavy with exhaustion, and instinctively clutched her veil tighter around her head.

The old woman woke as well, her thin hands reaching out to steady Amelia.

The sound grew louder, more distinct—the distant clank of armored boots. Amelia’s heart pounded in her chest. The guards never came at this hour. What did they want now?

The women froze, their breath hitching in unison. The old woman’s bony fingers tightened on Amelia’s arm.

The footsteps stopped outside their cell. The lock clicked, and the door creaked open. A man stepped inside, His armor gleamed even in the dim light, crimson plume on his helmet, a polished silver that seemed out of place in this pit of filth. His face was sharp and clean-shaven, his blue eyes piercing and his stance exuded authority.