The ordeal had come to an end.

  Girasol stared at the ceiling of the chamber in silence. Her naked body lay barely covered by a thin, translucent blanket that did little to hide the white stains still drying across her skin. At the foot of the bed, Vlad II remained seated, smoking a thick cigar imported from the Silent Isle.

  “You’re a mad woman,” the foreign monarch muttered. “I admit—you have remarkable composure.”

  “I’m glad I was able to please you both.” Girasol spoke like a machine. Every response was rehearsed, mechanical. Not a single word came from her heart. Each sentence had been prepared in advance for moments like this.

  “I’ve never seen my brother so frustrated,” Vlad II said with a crooked smile. He glanced at his reflection in the mirror above the dressing table. His athletic body, covered in scars earned from a life of warfare, filled him with pride. The fine gray undergarments he wore had been hand-stitched by his servants; everything he wore was of excellent quality.

  Girasol exhaled softly.

  Of course she had angered him.

  The brothers enjoyed breaking the women they violated—penetrating them without mercy, abusing them again and again with absolute violence until they reached complete submission. They sought a “broken mind,” a state where the victim could no longer think or feel. They wanted a doll made of flesh.

  That goal had failed.

  And that failure had enraged Duke Manius.

  The bruised left eye on Girasol’s face was proof of his frustration.

  “I’ll take what belongs to me,” Vlad said, walking toward her wardrobe under Girasol’s steady, unshaken gaze. He opened the doors in one swift motion and pulled out red hose and a blue doublet embroidered with golden lions.

  “I—” she murmured.

  “Nothing.”

  “Now that I think about it… didn’t I execute your husband in an outfit similar to this?” Vlad scoffed as he dressed himself shamelessly. His smile widened by the second.

  “Yes, Your Highness.” Girasol felt thousands of tears clog her throat. If the assault hadn’t been enough to humiliate her, Vlad had now chosen to desecrate the memory of her beloved husband as well. That elegant outfit had been the one her husband wore on their wedding night.

  “It suits me better than that fucking traitor, don’t you think? What a waste.”

  “It belongs to you now,” she replied, nearly biting her lip in fury.

  “Well said.”

  Fully dressed and restored, Vlad II walked toward the door.

  “I hope you’ve learned your lesson. Any attempt at rebellion is impossible.”

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  “I know, my lord…”

  Girasol understood the reason for everything—even their visit. It had all been planned from the beginning. The forced engagement between Ulric and Ingrid. The tragic night Sora died. The theft of her dignity.

  It was an old intimidation tactic.

  Demonstrate power before the weak. Crush them with fear.

  The Queen Regent endured until the very end without showing weakness. She did not cry. She did not appear fragile. Not a moan, not a tear, not a curse escaped her lips throughout the entire forced act. She remained stoic through it all—until she received a punch to the face.

  And even then, she did not scream.

  She kept her face firm and unyielding through every second of torture.

  She would not give them that pleasure.

  They will not break me.

  They have already taken almost everything from me—my husband, my freedom, my dignity, my body, and Sora. But I still have reason to stand firm: Ulric will become a magnificent king. He will save us all from this horrible dictatorship.

  I must fight for the Kingdom of Etrica and its people.

  They will not break me. I will not give them that satisfaction. If they want to break me, they will have to do it with blows. Again and again, until I die. As long as I breathe, they will not see a single tear from me.

  They will not break me.

  They will not break me.

  I will not yield to pain or martyrdom.

  I will stand firm until death. Those two miserable wretches will never see my face twisted in agony or drowned in tears. My tears belong only to Ulric and Alda.

  They will not break me.

  They will not break me.

  Even if they violate me once—or a thousand times—I will remain stoic. I will remain strong and powerful.

  Because I am the Queen Regent, Girasol León.

  She repeated those thoughts to herself again and again.

  No matter the humiliation. No matter the punishment.

  She kept her word.

  Vlad II and Duke Manius failed to shatter her.

  “One more thing,” Vlad muttered before leaving. “Control that son of yours once and for all—or the next to die will be Luther’s bastard.”

  Alda.

  “As you command, Your Highness.”

  After that exchange, King Vlad II left the chamber and reunited with his brother at the castle gates. Sir Marte Hogan bid them farewell alongside a retinue of courtiers and knights.

  They had accomplished their objective.

  It was time to return to the Kingdom of Apollo. There were still many matters awaiting them.

  As the horses were saddled and Duke Manius ogled a passing servant, the thin, awkward lady-in-waiting approached the king.

  Vlad’s eyes widened briefly before he smiled—much to the irritation of the courtiers present. Noble ladies and senior servants alike despised the unknown girl who, overnight, had somehow gained King Vlad II’s favor.

  How had she done it?

  No one knew.

  She wasn’t charming. Nor particularly brilliant. Yet Vlad II had felt a strong intuition about her—and without hesitation, had recruited her.

  “You did well, Eva,” he said. “Thanks to you, we weakened the morale of our puppets. You’ll be rewarded when we return home.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Eva bowed respectfully. “Your Highness… may I speak openly for a moment?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “There’s something about King Ulric that gives me a bad feeling. His eyes aren’t those of a normal child. I sense something different in him. I can’t explain it well, my lord… but it’s as if his entire behavior were a mask.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Eva. You’re overthinking it. He’s just a brat, nothing more.”

  In truth, Vlad II had found Ulric’s behavior strange from the very beginning. He had sensed something was off about that boy.

  The rescue of Ingrid. The cold, unwavering look in his eyes when Sora was killed.

  Still, he maintained the image of an imposing king. How could he possibly feel threatened by a nine-year-old child? What nonsense.

  “Yes… perhaps I’m overthinking it, Your Highness.” Eva bowed again. “I’ll return to the other ladies.”

  She stepped back, leaving the sadistic monarch alone with his horse—and his thoughts.

  I dominated the father and the mother. The son will be no problem.

  Ulric will kneel—whether he wants to or not.

  With that final conviction, King Vlad II’s procession began the journey back.

  There was nothing left for them in Etrica.

  End of Interlude