Chapter 1: Kill Her

In the courtyard of Marquis Eldermere’s estate, the thick snow lay untouched, a vast, unbroken sheet of white silence. A woman in a torn emerald gown was dragged mercilessly across the frozen ground. Crimson streaks followed her battered form, vivid against the pale snow, like trails of red silk unfurling behind her. She was tossed carelessly beside a makeshift bonfire, her body crumpling into the snow like a discarded rag. Blood trickled from her knees and forehead, staining her pale, frostbitten skin. The whip marks covering her body were grotesque, the torn fabric of her gown revealing flesh split open by relentless lashes. But what turned the sight from grotesque to horrifying was the bulge of her stomach; she was heavily pregnant, seven or eight months along.

Shaking, she clawed at the snow, forcing herself upright. Her one good eye fixed on the man standing in the stone gallery above. Her voice cracked as she spat, “William, eight years of marriage, and this is what I get? You heartless bastard.”

William Valen, Marquis of Eldermere, stood tall in his pristine white cloak, his face carved from stone. His cold blue eyes bore into her like knives. “Isolde,” he said flatly, “don’t waste your breath. Blame yourself and your cursed fate. My father’s dead because of you, and if I don’t end this now, Eleanor will follow.”

Eleanor Blackwell. His beloved concubine, treated like his only wife. Soft, fragile, perfect. She had fallen ill last year while carrying his child, and no physician could save her. Desperate, William had turned to a seer who whispered of curses and omens. Isolde, the first wife, was the curse, and the child in her belly was said to be a harbinger of ruin. The solution? Remove them both.

“You’re a goddamn Marquis,” Isolde Langley snarled, her voice trembling with rage. “You’re supposed to lead armies and uphold justice, yet you’re taking advice from a senile old fraud? Pathetic.”

“Enough of her bullshit, William!” Margaret Valen, his mother, called from the gallery above. She was Marchioness of Eldermere, the wife of the former Marquis. Draped in black velvet, her embroidered gown shimmered in the firelight. Her gaze was icy, her voice sharp. “That woman has been a curse on this house since the day she arrived. Do what needs to be done—cut that child out of her and burn it before it destroys us all.”

Margaret had despised Isolde from the start. If not for the day Isolde saved Pablo Valen, William’s father, on the battlefield, this marriage would never have happened. To Margaret, Isolde was little more than a brash, uncouth swordswoman who had no business in a noble house.

“It’s all Eleanor’s doing!” Isolde screamed, clutching her swollen belly. Tears streaked her bloodied face. “She bribed that so-called seer! She’s pregnant, and so am I—so why is it my child that has to die?”

William’s face darkened. He strode down the steps, his boots crunching on the snow. Without warning, his hand lashed out, striking her across the face. She collapsed into the snow, blood pouring from her injured eye, splattering on his cloak—the red vivid against the white fur.

“You dare accuse Eleanor? You vile, lying bitch!” He leaned over her, his voice seething. “If not for you, I wouldn’t have lost the Battle of Blackmore. You’ve cursed me, Isolde. You’ve cursed this entire house.”

Isolde let out a bitter laugh, her lips curling into a bloody sneer. “Your arrogance lost you that battle, William. But sure, blaming the woman is easier, isn’t it?”

“Shut your damn mouth!” William roared, his face twisted with fury. He kicked her hard, sending her sprawling. The blade of his dagger glinted in the firelight as he bent over her, slicing her gown open to reveal her pale, swollen belly.

Isolde stared at William’s enraged face in utter despair. Her whole body shook with pain, yet she still sobbed and pleaded, “Please… let me give birth to this child. After that, you can kill me, torture me—whatever you want!”

“Not a chance!” William snarled, gripping his blade tightly, his teeth grinding in fury.

“Margaret! Please!” Isolde turned desperately to Margaret. Her voice cracked as she begged, “I’m carrying your grandson! For the love of God, have mercy! Haven’t I been dutiful to you all these years? Let me bring this child into the world. I’m begging you!”

She dragged herself forward, crawling through the snow. Her forehead struck the frozen ground with every desperate kowtow, swelling grotesquely as blood trickled down her face. She kept pleading, her voice breaking with every word. Margaret’s icy eyes betrayed not a flicker of emotion. Her voice cut through the air, sharp and cold. “Don’t call me Margaret. If the late Marquis hadn’t forced you into this house, do you think someone like you could marry into the Valen family? Don’t make me laugh.”

As she realized her pleas were useless, Isolde’s despair turned to fury. Her fist clenched, and her one remaining eye burned with hatred as she glared at William. “William, five years I’ve stood by you, how many of your victories were because of me? I fought for you! I bled for you! Without me, you’d never have become Marquis of Eldermere. And now, you kill your wife, your child, just to please that scheming whore? You’re nothing but a spineless bastard! You’ll rot in hell for this!”

William’s face darkened, his humiliation twisting into a blind rage. He lashed out, kicking her squarely in the jaw. Isolde’s frail body flew back, crashing into the snow. She lay there, limp, her consciousness slipping. Through the haze, she heard Margaret’s cold, venomous voice. “Do it now, William! Cut out that cursed brat and burn it. Eleanor and your sister both said the child must be destroyed while she’s still alive, or its evil will linger.”

A sharp, icy blade pressed against her swollen belly. Summoning the last of her strength, Isolde arched her body, shielding her unborn child. Blood filled her vision, but through the haze, she caught a glimpse of Eleanor lurking behind a stone pillar, her eyes gleaming with triumph. Her dear cousin. The same cousin who had claimed to be carrying William’s child shortly after their engagement and schemed her way into this household. Isolde had foolishly allowed Eleanor to enter the family, swayed by her stepmother’s pleas.

How blind I’ve been, she thought. Her chest burned with fury as she stared at William. His hand trembled as he gripped the blade. For the first time, doubt flickered in his eyes. Every triumph, every accolade he’d claimed as his own—it had always been her strength propping him up.

Margaret’s chilling voice broke the moment. “Kill her, William. Then you can report to the King that she betrayed us, that she sold military secrets to the enemy and caused the defeat at Blackmere. If you don’t, the blame will fall squarely on you.” She paused, then continued, “She’s a witch, cursed from birth. Her death will cleanse this family—and she’ll die serving a purpose. What more could she ask for?”

So that was it. Isolde coughed up blood, a bitter laugh escaping her cracked lips. “It was all a lie, wasn’t it? You never believed in omens. You just needed a scapegoat. You’re a coward, William. A pathetic, worthless coward.”

“Shut up!” William roared, his face twisted with shame. He struck her again, shouting, “I’ll kill you, you miserable bitch!”

The blade came down. Agony tore through Isolde’s body as the knife sliced into her abdomen. She had faced countless wounds on the battlefield, arrows, and blades that had nearly claimed her life. But nothing compared to this pain. It ripped through her, body and soul, leaving her gasping for air. With her last strength, she clawed at William’s face, leaving bloody gashes across his cheeks.

Margaret watched coldly, unmoved. "Good thing she was drugged," she thought. "Otherwise, we’d never have subdued this wild beast." The Valen family couldn’t afford to bear the shame of William’s failure at Blackmere. Everyone knew he never went to battle without Isolde by his side. Shifting the blame onto her was the only way to protect their precious reputation.

Isolde’s vision blurred as her life slipped away. Through the haze, she saw the flames roaring beside her. Then she realized they weren’t heaven’s light. They were the fire consuming her child, torn from her womb and cast into the pyre.

“No… no!” she screamed, dragging her bloodied body toward the flames. “My baby! My child!” The fire scorched her hair, her skin, her torn dress, but she didn’t feel it. She wept bitterly, her voice cracking as she cursed them. “William Valen, Margaret Valen, hear me now! Even in death, I’ll haunt you. I’ll see your bloodline destroyed!”

The fire roared louder, drowning out her voice. When it was over, only a charred corpse remained. In its arms was a small piece of blackened bone, all that was left of the child. Margaret exhaled slowly, a cruel smile curling her lips. “Finally. That wretched woman and her cursed brat are gone. The Valen name will rise again.”

And so it seemed. With Isolde’s death, the Valen family escaped ruin—for now.