Elvira suddenly awoke, her back drenched in cold sweat.
She struggled to prop herself up, her voice trembling with weakness. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. The fever must have addled my mind… I spoke nonsense, thinking I was near death…”
Alistair’s sharp gaze swept over her face, and he sneered. “You seem quite lively to me.”
With that, he left.
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The moment the door shut behind him, Dorothy rushed in again.
“Did I not tell you to stay away from His Majesty? I will have you pay for this!”
She grabbed Elvira by the hair and slammed her head against the bedpost.
Elvira, still burning with fever, felt a dizzying pain as her head collided with the wood.
She tried to resist, but she lacked the strength to even raise her hand.
Dorothy’s slaps came down like a storm, her nails leaving bloody scratches across Elvira’s face.
“Did you think His Majesty cares for you? You are nothing but a plaything!” Dorothy delivered a vicious kick to Elvira’s chest.
Pain seared through her body, and her vision darkened. Before long, she lost consciousness.
When she awoke again, there were agonized screams coming from the courtyard.
“Your Majesty! Please have mercy! I swear I’ll never do it again-!”
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Elvira pushed herself up with great effort, peering through the window. Dorothy was strapped to the punishment rack, two attendants taking turns administering a flogging.
Her backside was torn and bloody, her cries growing fainter with each passing moment.
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Alistair stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his purple mantle billowing in the wind. Sensing her gaze, he turned to look at Elvira. There was a flicker of disdain in his eyes. “Useless.” He strode inside. “You let some maid beat you without even reporting it?”
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Alistair’s hands gripped her chin, forcing her to look up. “Remember your place. You’re the Frost family’s offering–my toy to break. No one touches you but me.”
Elvira knelt, pressing her forehead to the cold marble. “Forgive me, Your Majesty.”
“Right,” Elvira murmured, her heart turning to ice.
Indeed, she was just a tool for him to vent his anger.
Seeing that she was unharmed, Alistair turned and walked away, tossing over his shoulder, “Come with me. Prepare ink for me.”
Elvira followed him to the King’s study, carefully grinding the ink. But as she did, a wound on her hand split open, and blood dripped into the inkstone, staining it a dark red.
“Slap!”
Alistair’s brow furrowed in annoyance as he grabbed a jar of ointment and threw it at her forehead.
“Get out! You can’t even handle something so simple. Useless!”
The jar left a red mark on her forehead as it fell to the ground. She quietly picked it up, hearing Alistair’s cold voice from behind her: “Stay away from court for two days. You’ll oversee the Midwinter Ball preparations. One mistake, and I’ll have your head.”
“As Your Majesty commands.”
Elvira, clutching her swollen forehead, lowered her eyes and withdrew.
After hastily applying some ointment to her injuries, she began to prepare for the banquet.
Lord Chamberlain, who had followed her, seemed hesitant. “My lady, don’t be upset. His Majesty, though harsh, is concerned about your injury. If he truly were angry, he would not have let you off so easily.”
Chapter 2
Two nights later, the Midwinter Ball commenced.
Nobles arrived with their wives—including Isabeau and Duke Lucian, their fingers entwined, their affection obvious to all. The duke even adjusted Isabeau’s gown tenderly as they sat, their harmony a perfect display.
“His Majesty, the King!”
Lord Chamberlain’s voice rang through the hall, and everyone rose to bow.
Elvira followed behind Alistair, his expression as cold and detached as ever. Yet, she couldn’t help but notice that his gaze often lingered on Isabeau and the fourth prince.
He was jealous, but he did not show it.
As the banquet proceeded, Alistair’s presence became more oppressive. Suddenly, a large hand pulled Elvira into his embrace.
Panicked, Elvira realized too late what was happening, as she heard the fabric of her gown rip.
“Your Majesty… please not here…” she pleaded, her voice trembling.
