Chapter 26 Cage of Velvet, Cage of Blood
26\. Cage of Velvet, Cage of Blood
The first sign that Dravenmoor had changed was the silence. Not the natural kind, but the trained kind — silence with posture, silence with purpose. Even the servants walked differently now. Their steps were too measured, their eyes too low. The air itself felt ironed. The corridors that used to hum with Lucian’s unpredictable temper were now smooth, polished, and unnervingly polite.
The kingdom had always been a fortress, but now it was a machine.
And Darius was its clockwork heart.
Three days after the Council interrogation, the banners changed.
The old silver insignia — the wolf devouring a moon — was replaced with one in crimson thread: a serpent coiled through a crown. The symbolism was subtle enough to be “temporary,” but not subtle enough for anyone to mistake the message.
Darius had taken over.
Officially, he was “acting regent while His Majesty recovers.” Unofficially, he was a velvet cage with perfect manners.
From my barred window, I watched the courtyard below as new guards trained under his direct order. Gone were the silver uniforms of Lucian’s elite. These wore black trimmed with crimson. Efficient. Obedient. Loyal — not to the throne, but to the man who smiled while he strangled a kingdom.
My chamber — I’d stopped calling it a room — had been redecorated too. New drapes, new linens, new enchantments woven through the walls. The wards weren’t meant to heal me anymore. They were meant to keep me in.
I could feel them humming, faintly alive, like a heartbeat that wasn’t mine. A gilded cage, upgraded to luxury confinement.
They even sent breakfast now — polished silver tray, delicate tea, scones arranged like an apology. If I wasn’t paying attention, I might’ve mistaken imprisonment for pampering.
Which was the point.
Power always dresses its cruelty in comfort.
On the fourth morning, Lady Mirelle came to visit.
Her knock was so gentle that for one blissful second, I thought it was Elijah.
“Lady Aria,” she trilled when I opened the door. “You look pale. Grief does terrible things to the complexion.”
“Good morning, Lady Mirelle,” I said sweetly. “I’d offer you tea, but I’m not allowed to handle boiling water unsupervised.”
Her smile tightened just enough to show cracks. “Ever the wit. Darius worries that your humor masks… resentment.”
“Tell Darius my humor masks my desire to stab him in his sleep. That’s healthier than resentment.”
She laughed — tinkling, false, expensive. “You shouldn’t say such things, dear. Words have power here.”
“I’ve noticed. Mostly when they’re written into execution orders.”
She floated to my table, trailing perfume and politics. A servant followed, setting down a porcelain set of tea that probably cost more than my old apartment.
“Lavender and bloodorange,” Mirelle said. “Imported. You’ll find it soothing.”
I eyed the steam suspiciously. “You first.”
Her hand didn’t even twitch. She poured both cups, sipped delicately, and smiled. “Satisfied?”
I nodded, but didn’t drink.
“His Majesty’s health worsens,” she said after a beat. “Darius is doing everything possible, of course. Such a devoted man.”
“Devoted,” I repeated. “That’s one word for it.”
“Some say,” she continued casually, “that the Luna’s presence agitates the royal wards. Perhaps your magic is too… foreign.”
Magic?
There it was, a confirmation to my long running questions.
Ever since I was transported here I wasn't questioning something so obvious which is Aria Quinn the protagonist who's an alchemist, based on the Blood Moon Requiem novel I've read but since my presence was now on her she scented more like human instead. I was able to use her ability without me noticing it.
Well, this shouldn't be a surprise to me. Seeing how Darius confined me with such enchantment.
Nevertheless what Lady Mirelle said was no accusation rather an invitation. She was baiting me, trying to see if I’d rise to defend myself or implicate someone else.
I smiled instead. “If I’d known I was that powerful, I’d have asked for better curtains.”
She sighed, theatrically. “You must feel so helpless. Locked away while men make choices for you.”
“Helpless?” I leaned forward, matching her tone. “No, my lady. I’m just patient. That’s worse.”
Her eyes glittered — impressed, or threatened, or both. She stood, smoothing her gown. “You should learn when to bow, Lady Aria. Darius is… merciful, when pleased.”
“Good for him,” I said. “I’m not.”
She left her cup half-finished. I waited until the door closed before I poured the rest into the potted plant beside my desk.
It smoked faintly. The leaves curled into brown.
So much for imported tea.
That night, Elijah my butler came.
He didn’t knock. He appeared the way shadows do — naturally, as though the darkness had simply decided to stand upright. I've been waiting for him for a week now.
“My lady,” he whispered, bowing low. His uniform looked the same, but his eyes didn’t. They darted toward the corridor before he spoke again. “The guards change at midnight. You’ll have a short window.”
“For what?”
“For information.” He handed me a folded scrap of paper. His hands trembled — not with fear, but urgency. “From the kitchen boy. He overheard the Beta’s steward mentioning a ‘red vial.’ Said it was hidden in the east garden.”
I unfolded the note. The handwriting was rushed.
‘Bloodroot — east wall — crimson glass, half-drained. He says it keeps the King docile.’
My stomach turned cold. “Bloodroot,” I murmured. “That’s illegal in Dravenmoor.”
“Not if the one using it writes the laws,” Elijah said grimly.
For a moment, the air between us thickened — loyalty against survival. He had served Lucian since before I existed in this world. His loyalty wasn’t mine to ask for, but he gave it anyway.
“Thank you,” I said quietly. “Be careful. Darius has eyes everywhere.”
He smiled faintly. “Then we must make sure they blink.”
After he left, I sat by the dim lamp, staring at the note until my eyes burned.
Bloodroot. I’d read about it in the original novel. A slow toxin — not meant to kill quickly, but to dull the will, cloud the senses, and make the victim compliant.
Lucian had once used it on Silvermoon as the villain in the book. Now it was being used on him. Irony really was the universe’s favorite punchline.
I pressed a hand to my chest. It felt like my heartbeat didn’t belong to me anymore.
Every piece of this world had shifted — the plot, the players, even the villainy. And if Darius was writing the new story, then I was already the tragic footnote.
Not today.
Two days later, the gardens were “opened” for my daily walk. A privilege, they said. A test, I thought.
The east garden was less a garden now and more a graveyard of beauty. The roses were trimmed too short, the fountains still. Guards stood at every path junction, pretending not to watch me.
I walked slowly, hands folded, as if admiring the lilies. My fingers brushed the edge of the eastern wall.
Crimson glass, half-buried beneath soil.
I knelt. Pretended to fix my slipper.
When I brushed the dirt aside, the vial caught the light — small, thin, the color of dried blood. The seal bore Darius’s sigil.
Of course it did.
“Lady Aria,” called one of the guards sharply. “The regent requested you remain on the path.”
I smiled over my shoulder. “Just appreciating your landscaping. It’s so… fatalistic.”
He blinked, clearly unsure whether to report that.
I slipped the vial into the lining of my sleeve when he turned away.
That evening, I tested the edge of the poison. Just a drop — the smallest shimmer against silver. The reaction was immediate. The metal darkened, hissed faintly.
Untraceable, my ass. It was a masterpiece of cruelty.
Bloodroot slowed the pulse, muted magic, and made the mind pliable. Administered gradually, it could make even an Alpha docile enough to obey anyone’s command.
And Darius had the antidote, no doubt — the only one who could “save” Lucian when the time came.
It was brilliant, in the way evil often is.
And I hated that it almost impressed me.
The next day, I played my part. I smiled at guards, sipped untouched tea, let the court see me as the fragile Luna holding onto decorum.
Meanwhile, Elijah began slipping my notes to the few loyalists left — old knights who’d sworn to Lucian, a healer from the infirmary who’d seen too much, even the kitchen boy who’d started all this.
Each note was the same:
“The king is not ill. He is in prison.”
By the week’s end, the castle gleamed like a predator after a bath.
The halls were brighter, the guards sharper, the courtiers quieter. Darius’s reforms were “effective.” Trade was reopening. The people whispered of stability. And through it all, Lucian’s name grew fainter, like something too dangerous to say aloud.
At dinner, I caught Darius watching me across the hall — eyes calm, smile precise.
“You look well,” he said.
“I’m learning to enjoy captivity,” I replied. “It builds character.”
He laughed softly. “You’re adapting faster than I expected.”
“I read fast,” I said.
He tilted his head. “Still reading, then?”
“Always,” I said, and met his gaze. “Some of us like to know how stories end before we play our part.”
He smiled, slow and knowing. “Then you already know the moral: loyalty is just another form of poison.”
That night, I couldn’t sleep. The moonlight pooled on my floor like spilled milk. My reflection in the window looked wrong — pale, sharper, more certain.
I pressed my palm against the glass and whispered, “Hold on, Lucian.”
Because the thing about poison — and power — is that both lose their edge when someone stops pretending to be helpless.
And I was done pretending.