Chapter 59 - The Duchess of Valentine
The air hung heavy with the scent of dust, old wood, and a faint metallic tang. Around Luxana's platform, shards of colored glass glinted in the red light, their broken edges sharp and threatening. Splintered wood, perhaps from destroyed furniture or fallen decorations, lay scattered in a rough circle around her. These fragments created a barrier of sorts, separating her from the rest of the hall.
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The stained glass windows, their scenes now barely discernible in the red glow, cast distorted patterns across the floor and walls. These patterns seemed to crawl and writhe, adding to the unsettling atmosphere. The chain that bound Luxana's hands glinted dully, its links showing signs of age and wear.
"AHH," purred a little girl’s voice, soft and almost melodic. The sound drifted away from me, teasing the edges of my consciousness. But before I could even process it, a louder, more manic laugh erupted from the same voice, slicing through the oppressive silence like a jagged blade.
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"AHAHAHAHAHAHAAAA!"
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This time, it was closer—too close.
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I couldn’t move. My body felt like it wasn’t mine anymore, as if I had been drained of every ounce of strength. My head hung limply to the side, my neck too weak to hold it upright. My wrists were bound in cold steel cuffs that bit into my skin, tethering me to the unforgiving chain. Every breath was shallow, labored, as though even the act of inhaling was a battle I was destined to lose.
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And then I felt it—her touch.
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"Oh my. Oh my," she purred again, her voice dripping with a sickening sweetness that made my stomach churn. Her small hands cupped my cheeks with an unsettling gentleness, tilting my face upward so our eyes could meet.
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I didn’t want to look at her. I wanted to resist, to turn away, to close my eyes and shut her out—but I couldn’t. My lids fluttered open just enough for me to see her face through the blur of tears pooling in my eyes. And when our gazes locked...
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A chill rippled down my spine like icy fingers clawing at my soul.
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She was similar—too similar. The word echoed in my mind like a broken record: similar...similar...similar.
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But similar to what? Or who? My thoughts fragmented into static as I struggled to make sense of it all. And then the name clawed its way to the forefront of my mind: The Whisperer.
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The Whisperer—the guardian of Omeen. A figure spoken of in hushed tones by those who dared cross into this place between worlds. He wasn’t supposed to be a monster or a tormentor; he was said to be a healer of broken souls, a guide for those lost in the void. But now... now I couldn’t help but wonder if those stories had been wrong—or if I had misunderstood his purpose entirely.
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My head lolled against my right hand, which dangled uselessly in its cuffed restraint. My vision blurred further as tears spilled over and slid down my cheeks in slow, deliberate streams. Each droplet felt heavy, as though it carried with it pieces of myself that I could never reclaim. They traced cold paths down to my jawline before falling away entirely, landing silently on the fabric of my dress below.
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And then... she noticed them.
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"AHHHHHHHhh!" she exclaimed with childlike glee, her voice rising in pitch as she twirled through the air in erratic spirals. Her movements were unnatural—too fast and too fluid for anything human—and they made my stomach twist with unease. She leaned in close again, her wide eyes fixated on the trail of tears cascading down my face.
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Her gaze dropped lower—to where the tears had fallen onto my dress—and her lips curled into a grin so wide it seemed to split her face in two.
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"What a perfect jewel," she whispered reverently, plucking one of the crimson droplets from where it had pooled on the fabric. She held it up between her fingers like a treasure plucked from the depths of the earth and admired it with an intensity that made bile rise in my throat.
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The jewel wasn’t just a jewel at all—it was blood.
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My blood.
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My crystallized blood.
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*Clack*
*Click*
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The sound of a door opening and closing shattered the moment like glass hitting concrete. The little girl froze mid-motion, her head snapping toward the source of the noise with an unnervingly slow turn that sent shivers racing through me.
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Her smile didn’t falter—in fact, it grew wider still—but there was something different about it now. It wasn’t playful anymore; it was knowing...expectant.
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The air grew heavier as footsteps echoed through the hall, each one deliberate and measured. A figure emerged from the shadows at the far end of the room, their silhouette distorted by the dim light filtering through cracks in the walls.
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As they stepped closer, their features came into focus—and dread coiled tightly around my chest like a vice.
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It was none other than...
The Duchess of Valentine.
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She stood before us, a vision of cosmic beauty that transcended mortal comprehension. Her celestial gown seemed to pulse with the very heartbeat of the universe, each shimmer and sparkle a testament to the infinite wonders beyond our world. As she moved, the constellations on her dress danced and swirled, creating new patterns and stories with every graceful step.
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Her presence was both awe-inspiring and intimidating. The golden crown atop her head, with its radiant spikes, gave her an almost divine aura. It was as if she wore the sun itself, its rays extending outward to illuminate the darkness around her. The midnight-blue veil that cascaded from this crown only served to enhance the ethereal quality of her appearance, like a piece of the night sky had been captured and tamed to do her bidding.
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As I gazed upon her face, I found myself lost in those aquamarine eyes. They held depths I couldn't begin to fathom, swirling with secrets of distant galaxies and the wisdom of eons. Her blonde hair, falling in waves around her shoulders, seemed to catch and reflect every available light source, creating a halo effect that only added to her otherworldly beauty.
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The Duchess moved with a grace that belied her elaborate attire. Each step was deliberate, purposeful, as if she were treading upon the very fabric of space and time. The hem of her dress whispered across the floor, leaving trails of stardust in her wake. It was as though the universe itself bent to her will, rearranging its cosmic tapestry to suit her whims.
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As she approached, I felt a mixture of reverence and trepidation. This was no ordinary noblewoman; the Duchess of Valentine carried herself with the authority of one who had gazed into the heart of creation and emerged unscathed. Her lips parted, and I braced myself for words that I imagined would carry the weight of celestial decrees.
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"What a shame," she spoke, her voice a melody that seemed to resonate with the music of the spheres as she bore her eyes into mine.
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The Duchess of Valentine—no, Rudbeckia—strode toward us, her celestial gown flowing behind her like the very fabric of the cosmos itself. Her smile was soft, almost serene, but her aquamarine eyes betrayed a flicker of something darker as they landed on the little girl cradling the crimson jewels in her hands.
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"So it did work, huh?" Rudbeckia questioned, her tone laced with satisfaction. Each word carried the weight of someone who had anticipated this moment for far too long.
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I hung there, motionless, my head heavy and my body limp. Tears continued to stream down my cheeks, but I felt nothing. No pain, no fear—just a hollow emptiness that gnawed at the edges of my soul. I must have looked like a lifeless doll, suspended in chains and stripped of everything that made me human.
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"Never ever in my life have I everrr tried to show people the truth," the little girl exclaimed suddenly, her voice breaking through the oppressive silence like a burst of chaotic energy. She crouched down, scooping up a handful of the blood-red jewels with trembling hands, her wide eyes glimmering with unrestrained excitement. "I only thought showing fake things to others would make them cry. But I was wrong all along!"
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Her words sent a shiver through me—not because of their meaning, but because of the sheer joy in her voice as she spoke them. She turned back toward Rudbeckia, her gaze sharp and piercing as if it could cut through to the very core of the Duchess’s soul.
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"So," she chimed innocently, though there was nothing innocent about the way her lips curled into a grin that stretched too wide for her small face. "These jewels should allow me to even haunt the souls of children who had father issues too?"
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Rudbeckia tilted her head slightly, her golden crown catching what little light filtered into the hall. Her hands rested one over the other in front of her as she regarded the girl with an expression that was almost maternal—almost.
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"Yes," Rudbeckia replied softly, her voice smooth and measured. "They definitely will."
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For a moment, silence enveloped us like a heavy fog. The little girl’s attention returned to the jewels in her hands as she studied them with an intensity that bordered on obsession. Meanwhile, Rudbeckia’s serene expression faltered ever so slightly as her thoughts seemed to drift elsewhere.
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What a bother, Rudbeckia thought, narrowing her gaze at the child before her. What did that pathetic man think when he handed his entire realm to a child he knew would twist it into something so vile? That fool... Whisperer of Omeen.
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Her lips pressed into a thin line as anger began to simmer beneath her composed exterior. If it were me, she mused bitterly, I would’ve ensured my reign never ended. I would’ve ruled this land with all my might and power. Her aquamarine eyes darkened as they flickered toward the little girl again. Unlike him... who fell in love with a worthless hurt soul and left behind this child—a child who knows nothing but how to spread despair.
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Rudbeckia’s fists clenched briefly before she forced herself to relax again. Her thoughts churned like a storm within her mind: Had it not been for his last dying wish for this girl to inherit his realm and "keep souls at peace," I would’ve ended her existence myself. She exhaled sharply through her nose, slumping slightly as if trying to shake off the weight of these thoughts.
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But what can I say? Rudbeckia thought grimly, her aquamarine eyes narrowing as she straightened herself once more. The weight of her celestial gown seemed to flow with her movements, shimmering faintly as if mocking the tension in the air. Her gaze flickered between me—weak, broken, and suspended in chains—and the little girl who clutched those cursed crimson jewels so tightly in her small hands.
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I too am one hell of a mother to my children, Rudbeckia mused, a bitter edge to her thoughts. She exhaled softly, smoothing the golden filigree of her gown as she approached us with deliberate grace.
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Lowering herself into a squat, she brought her face level with mine. Her aquamarine eyes locked onto my own crimson ones, and for a moment, there was silence—an unbearable stillness that seemed to stretch on forever. Then, with a soft smile that carried an unsettling mixture of pity and malice, she reached out.
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Her right hand cupped my face gently, tilting it upward so that I had no choice but to meet her gaze. Her touch was cold, yet deceptively tender, like frost settling on fragile glass.
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"Hmm," she chimed, her voice lilting with mock curiosity as she studied me intently. "No wonder Cillian's so obsessed with you."
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Her words hung in the air like a dagger poised to strike. My expression remained impassive—empty—as though I were nothing more than a soulless vessel. Tears continued to stream silently down my cheeks, but I made no effort to resist her touch or respond to her words.
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Rudbeckia’s smile widened slightly as she released my face, letting it fall back into its lifeless position. She stood gracefully, brushing invisible dust from the flowing fabric of her gown.
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"Oh!" she exclaimed suddenly, her tone light and almost playful as if we were discussing something trivial over tea. "And when you meet your sweet little psycho of a hubby, make sure to tell him how well his mother has treated you."
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Her words were a blade wrapped in silk—a cruel jest delivered with such casual elegance that it almost sounded like a compliment.
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But before I could process the venomous weight of her statement, another voice cut through the oppressive air like lightning splitting the night sky.
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"That won’t be necessary," the voice declared.
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It was calm yet sharp—a voice that carried authority and danger in equal measure. Rudbeckia froze mid-step, the little girl’s wide eyes snapping toward the source of the sound as well. The voice was unmistakable—familiar enough to send ripples of tension through the room.
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Rudbeckia turned slightly, just enough for the edges of her golden crown to catch the fractured light filtering through the broken hall. Her lips curled into a faint smile as though she had been expecting this moment all along.
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But before she could fully turn to face him—before she could utter even a single word—a black light struck her like an unrelenting storm.
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The impact was instantaneous and brutal.
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The force hurled Rudbeckia across the hall like a ragdoll caught in a hurricane’s wrath. Her celestial gown billowed violently around her as she slammed into the far wall with such ferocity that cracks spiderwebbed across its surface. The resonance echoed through the vast chamber like thunder rolling through an empty canyon.
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The little girl gasped audibly, her wide eyes darting toward where Rudbeckia had landed amidst the rubble. But before she could react further, hands—strong and unyielding—grabbed her sides from behind.
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She shrieked in terror as she was lifted off the ground, her small hands releasing their grip on the crimson jewels. The blood-like crystals scattered across the floor in a cascade of red light as her screams filled the air.
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"AHHHHH!" she cried out desperately, thrashing against the iron grip that held her aloft.
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The figure who had seized her floated effortlessly above the ground, his presence commanding and chaotic all at once. His laughter rang out—a deep, guttural sound that sent shivers racing down my spine.
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The Circus Joker.
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The man Cillian and his group had been tasked with assassinating now loomed above us all like some malevolent specter pulled from nightmares.
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The Joker’s mismatched eyes gleamed with manic glee as he tightened his grip on the child’s waist with one hand while covering her mouth with the other to stifle her screams. His grin stretched impossibly wide across his painted face as he surveyed his trade.
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"DAMN MAN," he bellowed between fits of laughter, his voice reverberating through the hall like an unhinged symphony of chaos. "This good is worth way more than those circus fools! This really was worth the trade."
Tears streamed down the little girl's face as she thrashed helplessly in his grasp. Her muffled cries only seemed to amuse him further as his smirk deepened into something truly sinister.
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And then—just like that—they vanished into thin air.
To be Continued...
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