Chapter 3: The Mistress’s Malice

The rain in Aethelgard showed no sign of stopping. Outside the grand arched windows of Vance Manor, water lashed against the intricate stained glass, casting erratic shadows across the crimson velvet drapes of the estate’s private parlor.

Inside, the scent of expensive sandalwood incense was stifled by the heavy aroma of aging wine and festering resentment.

Lord Julian Vance paced back and forth across the plush Persian rug, a crystal goblet of aged brandy gripped so tightly in his knuckles that his skin turned stark white. His fine silk wedding coat lay discarded in a crumpled heap near the roaring fireplace, its gold-embroidered trim now stained with mud from the cathedral steps.

“A commoner! A nameless, low-rank light healer!” Julian slammed his goblet onto a mahogany side table, splashing dark liquid over the polished wood. “She left me at the altar of the Grand Cathedral! In front of the Duke of Valen, the High Prelate, and half the noble council! She tore off her veil and walked away for two filthy, mud-splattered vagrants!”

“Calm yourself, my dear Julian,” a melodious, purring voice drifted from the chaise lounge near the hearth.

Baroness Chloe sat languidly, twirling a slender silver dagger between her manicured fingers. She wore a gown of midnight-blue silk cut low across her shoulders, her emerald eyes glittering with predatory amusement. Where Julian’s fury was wild and reckless, Chloe’s was cold, calculated, and sharp. She had waited months to see Aria cast aside, but she had never anticipated the quiet light-healer would have the nerve to walk out first.

“Aria did not merely leave you, Julian,” Chloe said softly, leaning forward as the firelight illuminated her sharp cheekbones. “She humiliated House Vance. She made you look weak, foolhardy, and desperate. Right now, every noble house in Aethelgard is laughing behind their fan blades.”

Julian winced, the sting of truth piercing through his anger. He turned toward Chloe, his eyes dark with malice. “I will bring her to her knees. I will make her crawl back to the cathedral gates on her hands and knees, begging to be my servant!”

“Begging? No, Julian. Beggars are given pity,” Chloe sneered softly, standing up and gliding across the carpet like a shadow. She rested her porcelain hand against his chest, her touch soothing yet laced with poison. “Pity is dangerous. We must ensure that Aria has nothing left to hold onto. No pride, no shelter, and above all… no livelihood.”

Julian frowned slightly, though curiosity flickered in his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Aria relies on her license from the Healers’ Guild to work in the capital,” Chloe explained, a cruel smile curving her blood-red lips. “She prides herself on her precious ‘gift’ of light magic. But light magic is useless without the Guild’s seal of authorization. Guildmaster Vane owes my family a considerable debt of gratitude—and twenty thousand gold sovereigns in outstanding loans.”

She stroked Julian’s cheek gently. “By tomorrow morning, Guildmaster Vane will issue a formal decree. Aria’s Light-Healer license will be revoked under charges of professional misconduct, gross insubordination, and harboring suspicious anti-noble sentiments. We will blackball her across every district in Aethelgard.”

Julian’s lips stretched into a dark, vindictive smile. “She will not be allowed to practice light magic anywhere in the realm. If she even attempts to channel a spark of healing light to earn a copper coin, the Guild guards will arrest her as an illegal practitioner.”

“Precisely,” Chloe whispered, her eyes dancing with wicked triumph. “And I have already instructed my agents to spread word through the High Quarter and the Healers’ Square. By sunset, everyone will know her as an ungrateful charlatan who abandoned her noble benefactor for peasant criminals. When her silver runs out and her father and mother freeze in the streets, she will realize the bitter price of defying House Vance.”

Julian let out a low, satisfied chuckle, picking up his brandy goblet once more. “To her total ruin, my lady.”

“To her absolute destruction,” Chloe echoed, clinking her jeweled ring against his glass.

Far from the pristine marble halls of the High Quarter, deep within the rain-drenched alleys of Aethelgard’s South Ward, stood a small, weathered stone building. Its faded wooden sign bore a carved lily, half-worn away by years of harsh winter winds—The St. Jude Free Clinic.

The air inside was cold and smelled faintly of dried chamomile, damp straw, and clean rainwater. Drafts seeped through cracks in the old wooden shutters, but a modest stone hearth in the corner hummed with a soft, steady heat.

Aria hung her wet cloak on a wooden peg near the door and wiped the raindrops from her face with the back of her sleeve. Her white linen wedding dress, once meant for noble vows, was tucked beneath a simple woolen apron. Her hands were raw from the cold rain, but her gentle green eyes held no trace of regret.

“Father, Mother, please sit here near the fire,” Aria said softly, pulling two sturdy wooden chairs closer to the hearth.

She hurried to fetch thick, dry wool blankets from the linen closet, wrapping them gently around the shoulders of the two elderly travelers.

The man, who called himself Thomas, was tall but stooped with age, his grey hair damp and tangled, his worn leather cloak patched at the elbows. Beside him sat Mary, a petite woman with fine lines carved deep around her gentle eyes, her hands rough and calloused from decades of labor.

Or so they appeared to the rest of the world.

In truth, beneath the illusion of illusionary glamour magic and humble wool sat King Arthur and Queen Eleanor of Eldoria—the supreme rulers of the High Kingdom. For fifteen agonizing years, they had searched every village, garrison, and sanctuary across the continent for their stolen daughter, Princess Aurelia. Finding her in Aethelgard, living as a humble light-healer under the name Aria, had brought tears to their eyes. But today’s test had been necessary. They had needed to know if their daughter’s heart had been corrupted by the vanity of the capital’s nobility.

What they had witnessed at the Grand Cathedral—Aria choosing her impoverished parents over a wealthy noble title—had shattered their hearts with overwhelming love.

“Aria, child,” Queen Eleanor murmured in her disguised, trembling voice, clutching the blanket around her shoulders. “You threw away a life of luxury… a noble name… for two old folk who brought you nothing but wet mud and embarrassment.”

Aria knelt before her mother, placing her warm, smooth hands over Eleanor’s cold, weathered fingers. She looked up with eyes so pure and fiercely honest that Eleanor nearly gasped.

“Mother, how could you say that?” Aria’s voice was soft, yet unshakeable. “You and Father gave me everything when I had nothing. You raised me in the border mountains, shared your last loaf of bread with me, and held me when I was sick. A golden gown and a noble title mean nothing if I have to sell my soul and disown the people who gave me life to get them.”

King Arthur sat silently, his sharp eyes lingering on his daughter’s face. Beneath his rough peasant tunic, his heart throbbed with a mixture of intense pride and burning rage at how Lord Julian had dared to speak to her.

“Julian Vance is a fool,” Arthur growled softly, his deep voice carrying a natural command that momentarily pierced through his rustic facade. “He treated you like a ornament to be bought.”

Aria smiled faintly, shaking her head. “He showed his true nature before it was too late, Father. I should be grateful. Here, let me warm some tea for you both.”

She turned toward the small counter, bustling about to brew a pot of wild mint and elderberry tea.

As Aria worked, the heavy wooden door of the clinic suddenly burst open. A frantic woman wrapped in a tattered shawl rushed in, carrying a small, shivering boy of no more than six years old.

“Healer Aria! Please! Help him!” the woman sobbed, collapsing onto her knees near the threshold. “Little Toby’s fever spiked an hour ago! He can barely breathe! The Guild clinic on the main avenue threw us out because I didn’t have two silver coins for the entry fee!”

Aria didn’t hesitate for a single second. Abandoning the teapot, she rushed across the room, wrapping her arms around the mother and child to lift the boy into her arms.

“Bring him to the cot, quick!” Aria commanded gently.

She laid the young boy onto a narrow wooden cot. His face was flushed crimson, his skin burning hot to the touch, his breathing shallow and labored.

King Arthur and Queen Eleanor watched intently from their seats near the fire as Aria knelt beside the child. She pulled off her apron, closing her eyes as she rested her palms lightly over the boy’s chest.

“Aria, you’re exhausted,” Eleanor whispered, stepping closer, genuine maternal concern bleeding through her act. “You walked miles through the storm after the cathedral…”

“He needs help now, Mother,” Aria replied quietly, not looking up. “A fever like this will seize his lungs before midnight if left untreated.”

Aria took a deep breath, focusing her mind. From the palms of her hands, a soft, soothing pale-white aura began to glow. It was low-rank light magic—gentle, unhurried, and humble—yet as it touched the boy’s chest, the harsh wheezing in his throat began to calm.

Sweat beaded on Aria’s forehead. Her shoulders trembled slightly from the physical and magical strain of channeling her energy after a long, emotionally draining day. But she did not stop. She pushed her strength to the absolute limit, pouring every drop of her light magic into easing the child’s pain.

Minutes passed like agonizing hours in the quiet clinic. Gradually, the boy’s flushed skin settled into a healthy rose flush. His deep, ragged gasps evened out into soft, peaceful breathing. He let out a gentle sigh and drifted into a restful sleep.

The boy’s mother collapsed in tears, kissing Aria’s hands repeatedly. “Bless you, Healer Aria! Bless you! I have no silver to give you…”

“I don’t need silver,” Aria smiled, her voice faint but filled with genuine warmth as she gently wiped the mother’s tears away. “Keep him warm, give him clean water when he wakes, and let him rest. That is all the payment I require.”

After guiding the grateful mother and sleeping child into the quiet side room to rest, Aria stumbled slightly, catching herself on the edge of the wooden table. Her face was pale, her light magical reservoir completely spent.

Arthur moved swiftly, catching her elbow with a firm, protective grip before she could fall.

“You give too much of yourself, child,” Arthur said softly, his voice trembling with an emotion he could barely contain.

“It is why I became a light healer, Father,” Aria whispered, looking up at him with a weary but beautiful smile. “Magic isn’t a weapon to flaunt at noble balls. It’s a gift meant to comfort those who have nothing else.”

Queen Eleanor wrapped the wool blanket back around Aria’s shoulders, pulling her daughter into a tender, tight embrace. Over Aria’s shoulder, Eleanor looked at her husband. Tears shimmered in the Queen’s eyes—tears of profound joy and fierce maternal love.

King Arthur’s gaze hardened into steel as he gently stroked his daughter’s hair.

She is purest gold, the King thought, his regal aura pulsing beneath his peasant rags like a sleeping dragon waking from its slumber. House Vance sought to drag her into the dirt, thinking she was a helpless commoner. They have no idea what they have done.

Beneath his patched leather sleeve, Arthur’s fingers tightened around a heavy gold ring tucked inside his pocket—the Imperial Crown Signet of Eldoria.

Let Julian Vance and his scheming mistress play their petty games in the shadows. The High Kingdom was about to descend upon Aethelgard, and when the truth was revealed, House Vance would learn what it meant to incur the wrath of a King whose daughter they had dared to trample.