Episode: 2

  CONSPIRACY: PART ONE

  “Moonlight claims my chamber. Lumia paces. A precursor to eruption.

  Jolt’s fingers drum the wall. Eyes distant. Mind shackles thoughts?

  ‘Your commoner friend.’ Lumia’s halts. ‘The one you write to.’

  ‘Sky,’ Her name, a spell paralyzing Jolt. ‘The Red Velvet Lounge a veil hiding mysteries.’

  ‘Aloft with debauchery and scandal.’ A smirk undermines his nobility. ‘Alas, your ball and chain, Prince Ryuji, would object to such… associations.’

  The title drips with venom. My chest tightens, removing Jolt from sight.

  ‘Prince Kitagawa is a man of virtue. A quality, dear cousin, you are bankrupt.’ Lumia giggles beside me.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  ‘First Sky.’ I move to Mother’s writing desk.

  Soularium-candlelight dances across parchment. My fingers hesitate above blank space. She speaks in code, investing in discretion.

  My writing desk a gift from Mother. Engravings tell tales.

  My quill dips. Black secrets flow. Parchment becomes my confidant.

  Sky,

  The greater world calls, questions demand answers. Meet me at the white oak past the north gate in two days. Your fellowship steadies my course forward.

  —Stella

  Royal wax seal duty. Jolt snatches the letter.

  ‘I trust business will come before pleasure.’ Words command his attention.

  ‘I am a talented man. I will manage both.’ His smile brightens. ‘The Lounge suits confidentiality.’

  Lumia smiles. ‘Brother dear, remember no renting.’ Hand grips his shoulder. ‘I’ll regale you with your reputation?’

  ‘One must appreciate art. When faces are painted beautifully.’

  ‘I waste breath on you.’ Lumia’s eyes narrow. ‘Deliver the letter, fool.’

  Footsteps fade. Chamber doors seal. Silence descends—

  Air vanishes.

  Here?

  Shadows lunge.

  Fingers pierce the desk.

  Foreign agony floods veins. Heartbeats shatter rhythm. Vision blackens. Chair crashes.

  Stone bruises knees.

  Now?

  Magic dies. Vitality drains. Realities converge—burning claims soul.

  Mother’s desk anchors me. The chair accepts defeat. The silver bell tolls.

  Your Highness!’ The maid rushes forward. ‘You’re white as death—’