The air within Orchid Manor was heavy with the scent of night-blooming jasmine. The garden, glowing with soft moonlight, stretched beyond the tall glass windows, a quiet contrast to the thoughts that stirred within Queen Priscilla’s mind. The queen reclined in her marble bath, the still water reflecting the flicker of candlelight. Yet her mind, restless and sharp, strayed to the conversation she had earlier with her son, Prince Damien.
Her hands, submerged beneath the water, clenched as she remembered his reckless words. "Just like the curse you placed on Queen Olivia," he had said, so thoughtlessly. The mention of the late queen sent her mind spiraling into memories—ones she had carefully buried deep within her mind for years.
The bath grew cooler as her thoughts sank into the past, to the time when she was still a young, nameless woman within the sprawling Moonlit Veil Manor—the residence of Queen Olivia.
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(Flashback)
Priscilla had entered the palace as a mere concubine, nameless and insignificant among the many women vying for King Gerald's favor. Queen Olivia, the late queen and mother to the second prince, Edric, had already held the king’s heart. Olivia was the embodiment of grace, beauty, and power, adored not only by the king but by the entire court. She moved through the halls with a quiet authority, her every word heeded, her every request granted.
Priscilla hated her from the very first moment she saw her.
The former queen’s residence, the Moonlit Veil Manor, had been a place of constant reminders of her failure to ascend. Olivia's chambers gleamed with soft moonlight, filled with delicate silks, treasures from far-off lands, and the constant hum of attendants who were utterly devoted to their mistress. Priscilla, on the other hand, had lived in the shadows, barely noticed by the court.
The bitterness took root in her heart, fueled by envy and ambition. Each day, Priscilla's jealousy gnawed at her, but she knew that Olivia’s fall could not be achieved through mere spite. She needed a plan, a calculated move, and most importantly—she needed power.
It was after the birth of the second prince, Edric, that Priscilla realized her opportunity. Queen Olivia, weakened by childbirth, had been secluded in the Moonlit Veil Manor for weeks, a time when Priscilla had often overheard the whispers of the court’s women. It was then, amid the gossip, that she learned of the Witch Clan's existence, an ancient and dangerous group living beyond the borders of the empire, feared for their forbidden magic. They held the knowledge of curses—dark arts that could cause demise and ruin, all without a trace.
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Priscilla had left the palace grounds under the cover of night, her heart pounding in her chest as she traveled to meet the witches in secret. Her desperation was the only thing stronger than her fear.
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The bathwater rippled slightly as Priscilla’s lips curled into a small smile, recalling her first meeting with Morwen, the leader of the Witch Clan. Morwen had been cold and calculating, her eyes piercing as she laid out the price for Priscilla’s request.
"You seek a curse strong enough to destroy a queen,” Morwen had said, her voice like the whisper of dead leaves. “But such power comes at a steep price. You will owe a debt that not even the crown can protect you from.”
Priscilla had not flinched. She was prepared to pay whatever it took. She had offered Morwen gold, but the witch had only laughed. No, the price was not something so simple. Morwen wanted access to the palace—a way for the Witch Clan to infiltrate and extend their influence.
It was a risk, but Priscilla had agreed.
And so the pact was sealed. Over the course of months, Priscilla had quietly provided the witches with everything they needed—a lock of Queen Olivia’s hair, a piece of her jewelry, and finally, her trust. Through subtle poison and incantations, Olivia had grown weaker, her health steadily declining after the birth of her son. It was slow, deliberate, and undetectable to the palace healers. Even King Gerald, who adored his queen, had no choice but to watch as she withered away.
Priscilla had watched it all unfold from the shadows, her heart cold with satisfaction. The day Olivia finally died had been a quiet one, her passing mourned by the entire empire. But for Priscilla, it had been a victory. She had claimed the king’s attention soon after, comforting him in his grief, whispering promises of loyalty. In time, her ambitions had borne fruit—Priscilla was named queen, rising from the ranks of a nameless consort to the most powerful woman in the empire.
(End Flashback)
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Back to present, the water had grown completely cold, but Priscilla did not move. Her mind still lingered on that moment of triumph, tempered now by the reminder of the dangerous alliances she had made. She had succeeded in killing Olivia, but the witches had never forgotten their price.
Her son, Damien, had no understanding of the dangerous waters they still swam in. His reckless mention of the curse had been a sharp reminder of how fragile their position remained, despite their power. The Witch Clan had yet to claim their due, and Morwen’s dark eyes still haunted Priscilla’s dreams.
She stood from the bath, the water cascading down her body like a curtain of silver, and called for her attendants. Her face had returned to its usual mask of calm authority, but deep within her, the stirring unease remained.
"I will not allow my past to ruin us," she murmured to herself. The memories had surfaced, but Priscilla was determined to ensure they would not resurface again.
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As the queen dried herself and prepared for bed, she cast a final glance out into the night, toward the distant horizon where the witches’ lands lay hidden in the mists. She knew that the game was far from over. Her past was not entirely buried—and the future, if she wasn’t careful, could unravel the empire she had fought so hard to rule.
But for now, Priscilla would wait, as she always had, ever watchful, ever calculating.