The Dark Trinity

Chapter 17

The palace loomed like a dark fortress as the horses thundered through the gates. Malcolm dismounted with effortless grace, dragging Amelia behind him as if she weighed nothing. Her feet stumbled against the cold stone path, her wrist aching from the force of his grip. All around them, the court’s curious eyes watched, whispers trailing in their wake. 

"Is Viktor ready?" Malcolm barked to a nearby guard, his tone sharp and unyielding. 

The guard snapped to attention, nodding quickly. "Yes, Your Majesty. He waits at the altar." 

"Good," Malcolm replied, his voice devoid of warmth. Without hesitation, he hauled Amelia through the grand palace doors, his stride purposeful and unrelenting. 

The ornate corridors were alive with light and chatter, nobles dressed in their finest silks and jewels lingering with goblets in hand. But as Malcolm passed, the conversations died away, and all eyes turned to him and the disheveled woman he dragged along. 

Amelia’s heart pounded in her chest, her face burning with humiliation. She tried to avert her gaze from the stares, but the weight of their judgment was suffocating. 

He stopped abruptly outside a towering set of double doors.

Amelia’s head snapped up, panic flashing in her eyes. "Your chambers?" she whispered, her voice trembling. 

He didn’t respond, merely pushed the doors open and pulled her inside. The room was vast and imposing, dominated by a massive bed draped in dark velvet. A fire roared in the hearth, casting flickering shadows on the richly adorned walls. 

"Call the maids," Malcolm ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument. 

Moments later, a group of women hurried into the room, their faces carefully blank. 

"Prepare her," Malcolm said, his gaze fixed on Amelia. 

The maids exchanged uncertain glances, hesitating for a brief moment. "Here, Your Majesty?" one of them asked cautiously. 

"Here," Malcolm confirmed, sharply.

Amelia’s stomach churned as the maids approached, their hands gentle but firm as they led her toward an adjoining room. The large bathing chamber was almost oppressive in its grandeur, with a gilded tub that reflected the flickering candlelight. Steam rose from the water, the air thick with the scent of rose oil. 

The maids worked in silence, undressing her with efficient movements. Amelia wanted to protest, to demand privacy, but she knew it would be futile. Instead, she clenched her teeth, her body trembling as they scrubbed her skin clean, their touches devoid of warmth. 

They shaved her legs and underarms, their blades scraping against her skin with precision. She felt like an object being polished.

When they finally lifted her from the bath, they wrapped her in soft towels, their hands moving swiftly to dry her hair. She was ushered to a seat before a grand mirror, and the transformation began in earnest. 

The maids braided her hair intricately, their fingers moving with practiced skill as they wove in delicate golden threads. They painted her face with powders and paints, highlighting her natural beauty while erasing any trace of the woman she’d been before. Perfume was dabbed onto her wrists, her neck, her collarbones, the floral scent overwhelming. 

Amelia stared at her reflection, barely recognizing the woman who stared back. She looked regal, like someone born to the halls of power. But inside, her stomach churned with unease. She could feel the maids’ disdain in every movement, the way their eyes flicked toward her with thinly veiled contempt.