The music had died with a screech, the laughter choked off. The air was thick, suffocating with the scent of roasted at turning cold and the sharp, tallic tang of public humiliation.
Carlos, the man who was supposed to be a commander, the man who was supposed to be the "bright star," was on his knees. He looked up, his eyes scanning the sea of faces—hundreds of them. Nobles in silk, rchants in wool, servants in uniforms. His wife’s parents, Lord Malone and Lady Anita, stood frozen near the buffet table, their plates still in their hands, staring at their son-in-law with a mixture of shock, pity, and growing disgust.
"Why..." Carlos rasped, his voice a broken whisper that barely carried over the sound of his own ragged breathing. He looked at Ashlyn, confusion warring with his pain. "Why are there so many guests at ho?"
Marissa stepped forward. Her pale blue dress rustled softly, the only sound in the room. She looked down at him, her face a mask of polite, helpful explanation, but her eyes were cold.
"Naturally," Marissa said, her voice clear and carrying to the back of the room. She gestured gracefully to the crowd, to the banners, to the untouched feast. "Ashlyn invited them. To celebrate early."
She paused. She looked at Ashlyn, whose face was a mask of frozen terror, then back at Carlos. Her smile was small, sad, and devastating.
"She was congratulating you," Marissa continued, savoring the word, "on passing... gloriously."
Carlos bowed his head. Sha, hot and burning, flooded his veins. He closed his eyes, wishing the marble floor would open up and swallow him whole. Gloriously. The word was a knife, twisting in his gut. He had failed. And now everyone knows about it.
Marissa turned her attention away from him. She walked toward the two soldiers who had thrown him in. They stood by the door, tall and imposing in their armor, their faces grim.
"Good day, kind sirs," Marissa greeted them, curtsying slightly.
"Good day, Your Grace," they replied in unison, bowing stiffly. They respected the Duchess, even if they despised the Duke’s brother.
Marissa looked at them with wide, innocent eyes.
"Why was he escorted back so early?" Marissa asked. Her tone was one of genuine confusion. "The examination was supposed to last another hour. We were just serving the appetizers."
Ashlyn glared at Marissa. Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. "She knows," Ashlyn thought furiously. "She knows exactly why. She is enjoying this. She is peeling my dignity away layer by layer."
Marissa ignored her sister’s glare. She looked back at Carlos, who was still kneeling, clutching his ribs.
"Did you suddenly fall ill?" Marissa asked him, her voice full of false concern. She stepped closer, examining his bruised face. "Did the stress overco you that you couldn’t continue with the assessnt?"
She tilted her head, looking at his torn coat.
"Or," Marissa paused, her voice hardening just a fraction, "judging by your look... were you beaten by rogues on the road? Did the military escort you ho for your safety? Was it a bandit attack?"
It was a cruel question. It offered him a lie—a dignified excuse—knowing that the truth was about to destroy him. It was a trap. If he lied, the soldiers would correct him. If he told the truth, he was finished.
Carlos didn’t dare lift his head. He stared at the floor. He knew what was coming.
One of the soldiers, a sergeant with a scar on his chin, stepped forward. He unrolled a scroll he was holding. The parchnt was thick, official, and sealed with the crest of the Royal Army.
"Lord Carlos Thompson," the soldier read, his voice booming like a judge’s gavel.
Everyone leaned in.
"Caught bribing a high-ranking official," the soldier declared. "And insulting the dignity and honor of the Thompson’s Army with his incompetence and deceit."
Gasps roared from the guests. It was a wave of sound, a collective intake of breath.
"Bribing?"
"Incompetence?"
"The Thompson Army?"
The soldier continued, relentless.
"He is hereby banned," the soldier announced, "from taking any position in the military. Forever. He is stripped of his right of eligibility. He is disgraced."
Beatrice, the Dowager Duchess, closed her eyes. She swayed slightly, her hand gripping her cane until her knuckles turned white. The sha. The absolute, public sha. She had prayed for a star, and she had gotten a black hole.
Ashlyn stood frozen. Her world was crumbling. Her investnt, her mortgage, her future... it was all gone. The prophecy was a lie. The priestess at the market lied to her.
She forced a chuckle. It was a nervous, high-pitched sound that sounded like glass breaking.
"My husband studied diligently," Ashlyn said, her voice shaking. She looked at the guests, desperate to salvage the narrative. "He read books night and day. He earned an audience fair and square. This... this is a mistake."
Marissa turned her head slowly. She looked at Ashlyn.
Her expression was one of profound, overwhelming pity. Her eyes were sad, soft, and utterly mocking. "Poor you," her eyes said. "Poor, deluded, foolish you. You bet on a la horse."
"You must be mistaken," Ashlyn insisted, her voice rising in panic. She pointed at the soldiers. "You have the wrong man. My husband is a genius."
Marissa sighed. She turned back to the soldiers, acting the part of the supportive sister-in-law trying to fix a misunderstanding.
"Yes," Marissa said reasonably. "There must be so errors. Perhaps it was a different Carlos? A different bribe? My brother-in-law is a man of honor."
The other soldier, who had been silent until now, stepped forward. He reached into his pouch and pulled out a piece of paper. It wasn’t a scroll. It was a letter.
"This is the evidence," the soldier said, holding it up.
He walked over to Ashlyn. He thrust the paper toward her.
"This letter," the soldier said, "proves that he bribed the Minister of War. He paid him to secure an audience with the generals, bypassing the rit test. The handwriting matches Lord Carlos’s."
Ashlyn stared at the paper. She recognized the handwriting. It was Carlos’s. It was the letter he had written the night she gave him the money.
She looked at Carlos. He was still kneeling, defeated.
Ashlyn felt a cold rage replacing her fear. He had lied to her. He had told her he was ready. If he had studied well, they wouldn’t have noticed. And he even did the bribery poorly. He had wasted the money she borrowed from Marissa and had wasted her mortgage too.
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