1712, Tower of The Damned, Kestramore City

MARGUERITE shivered in the darkness, clutching onto her torn cape pitifully. It had failed to shield her arms and legs, but her face, her once beautiful face, was now marred with hundreds of small cuts and scratches. In truth, she was glad that her dungeon cell was devoid of light, for she could not bear to see her reflection. Not now, not ever.

She lay there, crumpled on the damp floor, and it was there that she found out about her family's fate. Her mother's charred corpse was found in her bedchamber, perfectly sprawled out on the floor, as if she had no intention to even escape. Her father, who was almost always counting money, was found slumped over his study table, his charred hands holding onto a bottle of whiskey, and there, in the money chest was a measly twenty golden coins, which was all that the le Princes had to their name.

But the worst fate certainly befell her brother Nathaniel. He had not been burnt into a crisp like his mother and father, and instead, he was only burnt from the waist down. They found that his manhood had been severed and stuffed down his throat, and his arms and legs were tied together, leaving him to be consumed by the raging fire.

Whoever did this had a clear vengeance towards the le Princes, and Marguerite could think of quite a few prominent names. While she could not care less about her family members, she did feel that she had lost some allies, and Marguerite knew that there was not one person on this Earth that would vouch for her.

In the cell opposite from her was Lady Dinah Finley, the mother of Eleanora Finley. Why Eleanora had not vouched for her mother's release was lost to Marguerite. The middle-aged woman, barely older than her own mother, was rocking herself back and forth, her pale blue eyes misty with tears. At times, she would lay on the floor and weep like a hungry child, and when she was not doing that, she would stand stoically by the bars, staring into nothingness.

At noon, it came. A prison guard walked up to Dinah Finley's cell, and nonchalantly, he began to read the contents of a yellowed piece of parchment.

"Dinah Finley has framed and harmed the Prince of this kingdom. She is a master of deceit, and all of this kingdom has fallen prey to her. As such, she is stripped of all her titles and demoted to a commoner. On Saturday morning, she shall be beheaded in the tower square as a punishment for her crimes and deception."

After he read those words, he simply walked off with a calm face, as if he had not just read out a person's death sentence. Today was Wednesday, which meant that Dinah Finley had a mere two days left to live. When she initially received the news, Marguerite saw that she was relatively calm. But when nighttime came, the wails and cries began.

"I don't want to die!" she would shout out. "I am the mother of the future queen! You cannot kill me!"

As Thursday rolled by, Marguerite grew rather anxious. Why was there nobody to take her in for questioning? During her three days locked up in there, not a single person had said anything to her, and as a result, Marguerite had never been able to stage that performance of hers.

"I request an audience with the Queen," Marguerite said to the guard that night. "How long do you intend to lock me up in here? I have my own story to tell, and the Queen must listen to two sides of the story, not just the one told by Elliott de Fontaine."

The guard rolled his eyes, much to Marguerite's annoyance. "The Queen has listened to both sides. Your maidservant, Aspen, was summoned this very morning. Do you want to know what she said?"

Fear immediately gripped Marguerite's chest. Why Aspen? Why had nobody bothered to ask her to speak? This was her golden opportunity, but it was seized away from her before she could even blink.

"Yes, please."

The guard cleared his throat. "Well, where do I even begin? Your maid testified that you were the very last person to be seen around the late Princess Consort Eufemia, moments before she ended up dead. If that is not enough to land you a death sentence, your second offense certainly will. Weeks after the late Princess Consort was found dead, you had donned your maid's garbs and went out. When you returned, the garments were bright red. And very coincidentally, the late Marchioness, Miriam Breckenridge had disappeared on that same day. "

"But no one has seen me actually killing them? How can you make a judgement based on nothing but assumptions?" Marguerite argued, her face flushed.

"That is right. But for your third crime, there is a witness. She may be dead now, but her writings still exist."

"What do you mean by that?"

"In 1707, you and the late Princess Consort had tortured, murdered, and disposed of the corpse of Jacquetta Palin. You may have thought that nobody would ever find out, but who would've thought that Eufemia, ridden with guilt, would later write down a detailed record of that event in her journal?"

"No- no I did not-"

"And I must add that Eleanora Finley had turned in all the threatening letters that you have sent to her. That, accompanied by your attempt to kill Catarina de Fontaine, is more than enough to land you a death sentence. Alas, we never know until it arrives. Have a pleasant night, Lady le Prince."

That night, Marguerite could not sleep. It is not that she did not want to sleep, rather, it was they who would not let her. As she anxiously slumped on the ground, her back against the wall, she began to hear their voices.

At first, it sounded like a gust of wind, whistling through the stagnant air. But when it suddenly said 'Marguerite!', she knew that this was no gust of wind. The voices were unrecognisable at first, as if a thousand people were all speaking at once, like a pot of melted wax, where all the colours are mixed together to the point where it becomes indiscernible.

The voices howled and shrieked, some guttural and some shrill, but all of them were hungry for revenge.

"How the mighty has fallen," one of the many voices cackled. "How do you like it here in the dungeons, Lady le Prince? You seem so well suited for it."

The air suddenly felt much colder.

"Oh, what happened to your pretty little face? You look like you got chewed up by a dog!" the voice laughed shrilly. Marguerite could recognise that pompous, whiny tone anywhere.

There she stood in the corner of Marguerite's cell, her white nightgown splattered with blood, her face oddly deformed, as if she were a clay statue that was accidentally dropped to the floor. One of her eyeballs had popped out of its sockets, and it hovered just below her cheekbones, barely hanging on the string of nerves and veins.

"I heard that you will be beheaded. Although, I believe that they should put you inside the brazen bull. That way, you will get a taste of what Hell is like," Lavinia said gleefully.

Marguerite felt sick to her stomach, and she covered her ears with her hands, hoping to block out those words. But no matter what she did, Lavinia's voice seemed to fill her head nonetheless.

"She will be going to Hell anyways, so there is no need for her to get a taste of it beforehand. An eternity in the fiery depths of Hell might do her some good, though I suspect that she will befriend the Devil himself."

Marguerite could faintly smell the earthy notes of freshly brewed black tea and the sweet scent of white musk. It was Eufemia.

Unlike Lavinia, Eufemia's ghost was clean and devoid of any blood or impurities. Her face was perfectly intact with no eyeballs hanging out whatsoever, and her entire being seemed to glow, albeit quite eerily. There was no bloodthirst or blistering rage within Eufemia's emerald gaze, only sadness, and disappointment.

"I thought that you were my friend," the ghostly voice spoke. "I had been all alone within those palace walls, and when you came along, I thought that I would no longer be alone. That I would finally find solace. But instead, you took my life, Marguerite. And not only that, but you also took the life that I tried so hard to nurture."

Eufemia gently patted her rotund stomach. "My poor child will never see the world, Marguerite. It will never breathe, never walk, and never laugh. It will never feel the warm summer breeze, the cold autumn sunshine. It will never feel happiness, nor will it ever love. You have robbed my poor child of everything, Marguerite. All because of your hatred towards me."

Her haunting sobs filled the cell, echoing endlessly throughout the night. Then, as the midnight bell rang, the faint cries of a baby could be heard. It cried and wept with pain, and though no words were spoken, the cries alone made Marguerite sick to the stomach.

By the time the sun rose, Marguerite had not had a single wink of sleep. On that Friday morning, Dinah Finley was appeared to be oddly calm, almost catatonic even. Marguerite could not blame her, since the poor woman had exactly one day left to live.

Despite her optimism, Marguerite knew that her own time was numbered, but she was certain that her glib tongue would save her. She only needed the opportunity. She knew how partial and gullible the Queen could be, and how she could sway her judgement in the blink of an eye. She would tell them how Aspen had been paid off by Elliott de Fontaine, and how Eleanora Finley had made up lies to save her own skin. Just one meeting. Just one conversation. It was all that Marguerite would need.

Unfortunately for Marguerite, this golden opportunity of hers would never come. At noon, as he did yesterday, the guard came and headed towards Marguerite's cell.

In his hands was a fresh sheet of parchment, and the black ink was still wet. Marguerite's heart sank.

"Marguerite of House le Prince has been found responsible for the deaths of the late Princess Consort Eufemia Dubois, the late Marchioness of Avionne, Miriam of House Breckenridge, and Jacquetta Palin. She has also been found guilty of attempting to murder Lady Catarina of House de Fontaine. For her heinous actions, she has been stripped of all titles and demoted to a commoner. As she is the last surviving member of House le Prince, the title of Count of Fiorio shall be reverted back to the crown, and all possessions of House le Prince are to be seized. From this day onward, House le Prince is no longer a part of the Twelve Noble Houses, and all mentions of this disgraceful house shall be removed. Marguerite le Prince shall be executed by beheading on Saturday morning at the tower square to atone for her many sins," the guard read out calmly, his voice light and nonchalant, as if he were reading out a gossip page, rather than her death sentence.

"Forgive me, there must be a mistake there-"

"There is no mistake, Marguerite le Prince. You played with fire, and now you shall burn. I suggest you sleep well tonight, for tomorrow will be a very big day."

As the prison guard walked away while whistling a jolly tune, Marguerite slumped to the ground, tears spilling down her cheeks like a waterfall. There was no one coming for her, no one to save her. This time, she was doomed.