SHADOW

The Cost of Power

Alberto enjoyed the Duchess of Nome's dungeons, full of loud music, debauchery, and politics, thought Count Ambrossio as he watched the young man go wild. He was young and green, and he enjoyed this atmosphere—he had something to celebrate. He had landed himself a very rich bride, and his father, Squire Alfonso, was bragging to everyone. 

Intricate stained-glass lamps adorned the dark stone walls, creating mysterious shadows while multicolored lights danced along the dark marble.

This, however, had become a complication for him, because the old man did not want to sell his mansion. The land near the dark, whispering forest was strategic for his plans.

"Oh, my dear Count, why are you so pensive this evening?" asked the Duchess, leaning way too close to him. Her heavy, sweet scent of floral perfumes—and other things he didn't want to think about—pressed against his breath and made him want to lean away. But she was still very rich, very powerful, and he would tolerate her... for now, at least.

He looked at her and smiled, imagining himself punishing her, but for now, he would console himself with imagination.

"I am not pensive. I came here because I had some business to conduct, but the transaction failed," replied the Count with a sigh.

"Oh my, who would dare to refuse you?" replied the Duchess of Nome, giggling. Her fake giggling annoyed him, and he stood up, trying to leave.

She jumped quickly and clutched his sleeve.

"Well, well, don't be so quick to anger. You are the light of my eyes—you know I would do anything for you. Maybe I can help you," pouted the Duchess, still clinging to his arm.

"I'm afraid not, my lady, and I must depart," he replied, trying to pull his arm away slowly but firmly, so as not to be too offensive.

The damn woman still clung to him, and his patience was wearing thin. He had to return home; he had big plans for tomorrow. The court awaited him, Sha awaited him. He had to prepare.

Was she really waiting for him? He hadn't seen her for so long. He wondered if she missed him. So fresh, so naïve and angelic—so different from the people who surrounded him now. Since when had he become so sentimental?

"The prince... the king is waiting for news about my success in this affair. I must depart, my dear. You know I would enjoy staying, but I'm afraid I can't," he said.

"You are as cruel as you are beautiful, with your raven hair and porcelain face. I would give you anything you like if you dared to be mine," replied the Duchess, looking at him, licking her bloody red lips.

He knew all too well how the other husbands of this temptress had ended up—cold and three meters under. He would never entangle himself in such dangerous affairs, but he had to be polite and escape without offending her. This woman's influence stretched very far—from corrupt ministers to nobles, anyone of real importance in this country ended up at her parties. He would not want to make enemies of her, at least for now.

The crown was young. He had to support his king and grow his position until he was the law and could purge all this darkness from the land.

"Well, if you must... Our king, of course, takes precedence over my poor heart," the Duchess pouted again and released his arm to his relief.

He didn't hesitate. In two strides, he was out of the house and galloping into the night. Was she waiting for him? He was so tired, and he longed to be home.