The Criswell's Curse

During the dinner, Bradley’s attention focused fully on Ophelia as she gracefully cut her steak into small pieces. He still struggled to understand how this woman affected him so; why he spent so many hours of his day simply thinking of her.

Abruptly, a maid entered the room, forcing the present nobles to shudder, surprised by such drastic development. Ophelia, however, remained unfazed, her knife cutting the meat precisely. A letter from the Criswell’s had arrived. Of course, that was to be expected. There was no way Alvin would allow Bradley’s demands to come true. It was rather... predictable.

“Burn it.” The room almost gasped in unison. Had they heard it correctly?

“But milady...! Your sister, she... she might die!” The maid’s voice was loud, impertinent. From her words alone, some might think she was the noble in this house.

No servant would treat Ophelia with such disrespect. At least not in front of him. But, as he was about to intervene, he stopped, his heart completely frozen.

“Remember your place.” Her icy voice penetrated Bradley’s soul with the words he had heard all his life. Seeing her there, standing proudly, gracefully, coldly, above everyone else, just gave birth to desires far more wicked in his heart. An ecstatic shiver ran down his spine.

“I’m sorry milady!” The maid kneeled, begging for her life. Would Ophelia truly let it slide?

“Rise.” She stated moments before slapping the disobedient maid. Her light skin turned red from the powerful impact. “You seem to lack education.”

The more he observed her, the further his interest grew, the deeper these strange feelings became. It was now clear Ophelia was more than she showed as she glared at the maid like a rat instead of a human being. Her heart was wicked, vicious, and yet she wore her mask perfectly, just like him.

Eventually, the conversation continued to flow. Fulfilling the paper of a kind older sister, she switched her plate with Ralph’s, who struggled to cut the food properly. Even then, no matter how many topics Bradley pulled, she kept on neglecting his presence.

“I almost forgot, Terrel sent word. He is very eager to meet you.” Edgar declared loudly, almost as if asserting dominance.

As he sat across from her, Bradley’s eyes widened. Ophelia looked terrified, on the verge of spilling a river of tears; her skin paler than a ghost, as if she had just witness the murder of a beloved one; the tableware in her hands trembled, rather aggressively. What was going on?

Accidentally, her strength failed, forcing the tableware to fall. Quickly, yet messily, she hid her hands beneath the table. Everyone grew quiet. Mace looked at her pitifully, as if he knew such demons; Ralph tilted his head, slightly confused as to what was happening, and the Duke was simply worried, thinking she might be experiencing an indigestion.

Bradley, however, knew that look. Something had happened, and Terrel Wharton was to blame. The more he looked at her in that pitiful state, the heavier the world felt, the tighter his chest became.

“Have some water.” After offering her his glass, he found himself surprised. Why did he do it?

“I seem to be unwell, if you’ll excuse me.” She regained her senses and quickly left the room, rushing towards the door.

Both Mace and Bradley got up simultaneously. They wanted to go meet her, to see how she was doing. How could they possibly let her go in that state?

“Lord Bradley.” Edgar’s firm voice forced Bradley to stop in his tracks. “I would like to discuss some matters further...”

“Is Lia alright, Father?” Ralph questioned.

“I’m sure she is.”

Annoyed, Bradley sat back down as Mace ran after her. He knew the Duke had done this on purpose and from the icy look in his eyes; it seemed as if the real motives for the young man’s presence in the Wharton’s estate had already been discovered.

✽✼✽✼✽✼✽

The day after Lady Catherine’s ball, Blake Virden found himself stamped with requests from noble families. Most of them asking permission to open new businesses in the capital, as if such thrived with the prodigal son’s return from the war.

“Aldrich, bring me a cup of tea.” The prince leaned back in his chair after taking a deep breath. He had just pulled another all-nighter, again.

The caramel-haired man returned to the room holding a tray filled with the finest teaware. The gentle aroma of chamomile tea traveled through the small space, embracing the prince’s senses. In some moments, a teacup had been placed on the desk, steam floating out of it, like Frosting clouds.

“Fate is changing, Your Highness.” Those were the words Lady Catherine had told him the day before. She was a smart woman who spoke in riddles, forcing her messages to have many meanings.

Suddenly, a memory came to the prince’s mind. “Who was that girl?”

Aldrich pondered, indecisive about what to reply. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but who might you be thinking about?”

Prince Blake had a handful of servants he trusted; however, Aldrich was the only one with a deeper bond, an unbreakable connection. The commoner had risen to the prince’s aide position through merit alone, thus; he treasured Blake above everyone else. He knew that, from the royal family, his master was the righteous one to guide Ashen to greater heights, but even if his loyalty ran deep, he still needed to be mindful of his position.

Nobles knew the stories about The Blood Prince, about the devil that escaped Blasphemy and took a human form. Neither of them had seen the true prince, the true ruler of the land.

“Yesterday, that girl with the crimson hair and that awful attitude.” One could sense the disgust in his tone.

Aldrich’s eyes widened. “Oh! That was Amanda Criswell, first daughter of Duke Alvin Criswell, Your Grace.”

The aide couldn’t hide his temporary happiness. Could the young woman have stricken the prince’s fancy? If she did, their marriage was easily attainable, and Blake would gain a vigorous supporter on his fight for the throne: Alvin.

“The Criswell’s...” The prince clicked his tongue, displeased, right before dismissing Aldrich, who left quietly, disappointed by the shattering of his short-lived dreams. It wasn’t the beginning of a love, instead, it was the birth of a new nemesis.

The nobles are looking down on us. He thought. In Blake’s mind, the events from that night were still vivid. Just the fact that the girl had no idea how the crown prince looked like was disrespectful enough.

“Maybe we should tighten their restraints to remind them of who owns them.” A wide, wicked grin popped on the prince’s lips.

Ever since his father, the king, had gotten severely ill, most nobles and aristocrats* were slacking on their duties; some even foolishly tried to deceive the crown. Not even the most prestigious doctors knew what illness had stricken the king but, because of such an event, these blue-blooded* people thought they were the owners of Ashen. Blake despised most powerful families as they were all rotten on the inside, fucked up in some weird way.

*Aristocrats: New nobles. In other words, commoners who had just received a noble title, in that same generation or one or two ago.

Blue-Blooded: A person of noble birth.