The Dark Trinity

Chapter 7

The heavy doors swung open, this time with a slow creak that drew all eyes to the entrance.

A hush fell over the courtroom as the sound of clicking heels echoed off the polished stone floors.
All eyes turned to the entrance. A line of women began to file in,

The brothel women had entered gracefully, a deliberate sway to their hips as they crossed the threshold. Their clothing—or rather, the lack of it—left little to the imagination.

Thin veils hung over their breasts, the fabric sheer enough to show the curves beneath. Their skirts were slit high, revealing toned legs adorned with shimmering jewelry that clinked with each step.

They didn’t walk—they glided, as if the very air around them bent to their will. Their dark eyes scanned the room, lingering briefly on each man present.

The queen remained seated at the head of the room, her sharp eyes flicked over the group of women, her expression betraying a mix of anger and annoyance but she stayed composed.

The noblewomen, however, were not as composed. Their reactions ranged from barely concealed disgust to open hostility.

“Ladies,” Queen Julian said, her voice carrying across the room with a note of mockery, “it seems the gathering has taken a turn. Perhaps it is time for us to leave.” 

The noblewomen exchanged glances, their expressions ranging from irritation to outrage. Still, none dared challenge the queen directly. One by one, they began to file out of the room, their heels clicking sharply against the floor in a staccato rhythm. 

Amelia watched them go, her confusion growing with every passing moment. Should she leave as well? She wasn’t sure of her place in this unusual scene, but the memory of the old woman’s warning stopped her. 

"Do not leave until every court member has gone," the old women had said, her voice gravelly but firm.

Finally the queen departed. The heavy wooden doors closed with a thud that seemed to echo through the grand chamber. Inside, the atmosphere was already thick, the air warm with the mingling scents of wine, sweat, and something musky—something primal.

The room seemed to grow smaller, more intimate, as the newcomers took their places along the edges of the space. The women began to move, their bodies swaying in unison to a rhythm that seemed to emanate from the very air itself.  

Amelia stood near the back, clutching a silver tray so tightly her knuckles turned white. She felt her chest tighten as her eyes darted over the room. This wasn’t the place for her, yet here she was, standing among men whose appetites were on full display and women whose sole purpose seemed to be to satisfy those appetites. 

Amelia’s hands trembled as she gripped the wine pitcher, her uncertainty growing with each passing moment. Was she supposed to continue serving? Should she retreat to her corner and wait for instructions? The lack of guidance was maddening, but the old woman’s warning echoed in her mind, urging her to stay put. 

She risked a glance at the other servants, hoping for some clue as to what was expected of her. They moved about the room like ghosts, refilling goblets and clearing plates with practiced ease, their eyes never meeting anyone else's. 

She swallowed hard, gripping the tray tighter. 

“Come here, girl,” a nobleman called out, his voice loud and slurred. 

Amelia’s heart jumped. She knew he wasn’t speaking to her—he couldn’t be—but still, she froze, her breath catching as she watched him beckon one of the dancers. The woman approached with a coy smile, her hips swaying with every step.