The Dark Trinity

Chapter 8

Amelia sat frozen, her body tense and unmoving. The room was quieter now, but the oppressive weight of the night’s events lingered.

Goblets clinked and spilled, their contents staining the fine carpets. The dancers, once elegant in their movements, now seemed exhausted, their steps faltering as they continued to entertain.

Amelia clenched her fists in her lap, willing the night to end. Malcolm’s grip on her waist tightened slightly. She dared not look up at him, afraid of what she might see in his expression. 

The hours wore on, and one by one, the noblemen began to leave, their movements unsteady and their laughter louder and more slurred. 

“Another fine evening!” one of them bellowed, his words slurring together as he stumbled toward the exit. 

His companion, equally drunk, threw an arm around his shoulder. “Aye", he said with a leering grin, though the glazed look in his eyes suggested he might not recall anything come morning. 

As they passed a servant girl cleaning near the doorway, one of the men reached out and swatted her behind, causing her to yelp in surprise. He turned back with a smirk, his expression dripping with smug satisfaction. 

“Sweet thing,” he muttered, earning a chuckle from his companion. 

The servant girl didn’t respond. She kept her head down, her hands trembling as she clutched the tray she was carrying. 

The brothel women began to leave next, their movements far less graceful than when they had arrived. Their hair was disheveled, their makeup smeared, and their clothing—or what remained of it—hung from their bodies in tatters. 

Some limped as they walked, their steps unsteady and their faces marked with exhaustion and pain. Others bore bruises on their arms, legs, and necks, dark smudges that stood out starkly against their skin. 

One woman clutched her side as she walked, her face contorted in a grimace. Another had a tear in the thin veil that had once covered her chest, exposing angry red marks beneath. 

The courtroom itself was in utter disarray. The once-pristine floors were sticky with spilled wine, the dark liquid pooling in some places and streaking across the stone in others. Plates and goblets were scattered haphazardly across the tables and floors, many of them broken or overturned. 

Clothes lay in piles, abandoned by their owners in the throes of drunken revelry. A few garments hung from the backs of chairs or draped over the edges of tables, forgotten and crumpled. 

The air was thick with the smell of sweat, alcohol, and something far more pungent that made Amelia’s stomach churn.

The servants moved about the room like shadows, their steps quick and deliberate as they worked to clean up the mess. They swept up broken glass, gathered discarded clothing, and wiped down the tables with practiced efficiency. 

Their faces remained blank, their eyes downcast as they avoided drawing attention to themselves. They knew better than to linger near the departing nobles, whose wandering hands and drunken tempers were as dangerous as they were unpredictable. 

One servant girl bent to pick up a shattered goblet near the doorway, her hands working quickly to gather the pieces. She flinched as a nobleman passed by, his gaze lingering on her for a moment before he turned away.

The guards stationed at the entrance stood motionless, their faces expressionless as they watched the scene unfold. They made no move to intervene as the nobleman swatted the servant girl or as another stumbled into a table, sending a pitcher of wine crashing to the floor.