The first strike came with a sickening, wet crack that echoed through the vaulted ceiling. The iron barbs of the whip tore right through the fine linen of Vincent’s shirt, instantly staining the fabric into a blooming, visceral crimson. In that single, shivering note of violence, it became clear why the iron-tipped whip remained one of the most whispered-of horror in the King’s arsenal.

Vincent had already removed his coat, handing it to Elias who now stood at the side with a face as pale as parchment. Elias’s knuckles were bone-white as he strangled the fabric in his grip, condemned to the silent, helpless role of witness while his master was systematically broken for his stubbornness.

Yet, Vincent did not buckle.

He remained knelt upon the cold marble, his spine unyielding as a pike, his gaze anchored to a single point on the floor. A lifetime of grueling military campaigns and the jagged isolation of his upbringing, had forged a tolerance for agony that verged on the inhuman.

But as the fourth and fifth strikes followed in rhythmic, brutal succession, the sheer force of the iron-tipped whip began to take its toll. The air in the throne room, once smelling of beeswax and stale incense, grew thick with the scent of copper.

William watched the scene with a trembling mixture of horror and dark, twisted glee. Every lash that bit into the Marquis’s flesh was a strike against the man who had usurped his inheritance and stolen his future. Nearby, Baron James pointedly averted his gaze, as if the gore offended his sensibilities.In truth,his mind was a counting-house, coldly calculating whether a crippled Marquis would be a more pliable obstacle to depose.

By the thirteenth strike, Vincent’s breathing had devolved into a harsh, ragged grate in his chest. The muscles in his back corded and spasmed under the rhythmic onslaught. He was known to be a powerful man made of steel, but even the finest blade reaches its melting point when the forge fire burns hot enough.

"You can stop this at any moment, Marquis," the King’s voice drifted down from the dais, sounding languid and utterly bored. He adjusted a signet ring on his finger, not deigning to look at the blood-splattered floor. "I assure you, this spectacle hurts me far more than it hurts you. You need only admit the folly of your ways. This union was a mistake. Terminate the marriage, sign the annulment and simply set yourself free."

Vincent’s head lifted a fraction, a bead of sweat tracing a slow, salt-stung path down his temple. He offered no plea, no cry for mercy. Instead, he met the King’s gaze with a look of such concentrated, murderous defiance that the air seemed to thin. The message was silent and absolute: he would sooner be flayed to the bone than grant the Crown the satisfaction of his submission.

He would not give up his wife.

The whip whistled through the air, but before the iron could bite into Vincent’s shredded skin, the heavy doors at the far end of the hall didn’t just open. They were flung wide by the royal ushers as a figure sprinted into the throne room.

"Wait!"

The shout shattered the rhythmic cruelty of the punishment. The guard, who was currently acting as an executioner, paused, the bloody iron tips trembling inches from Vincent’s skin. A collective intake of breath swept through the courtiers as all eyes shifted toward the threshold.

It was Penelope. Yet, she bore no resemblance to the bedraggled fugitive they had imagined. She was prettily dressed in a gown of deep, midnight violet, its bodice stiff with intricate silver embroidery that caught the torchlight. Her ash-brown hair was swept up into an elegant, complex arrangement, pinned with pearls that shimmered against her pale skin. She looked every bit the Marchioness of Aelgard.

William’s jaw dropped, his face draining of color. Baron James also stood frozen, his mind frantically trying to rewrite his plan as he watched his daughter move with a grace she had never shown in his house.

Penelope didn’t wait for permission. Upon witnessing the carnage visited upon her husband, she swept forward, the heavy silk of her skirt rustling with a sharp, aggressive hiss against the cold marble. As the executioner, blinded by his own rhythm, raised the iron-tipped lash once more, Penelope instinctively threw herself into the spray of blood. She draped her body over Vincent’s, a shield of violet silk and silver thread covering the ruin of his back.

"Stop this!" she commanded, her voice vibrating with a raw fury that seemed to rattle the heraldry hanging from the walls.

Vincent gasped, the sudden, impossible scent of her– roses and cold rain– cutting right through the suffocating metallic tang of his own blood. It was a hauntingly clean scent in a room that smelled of the butcher’s block.

He turned his head with agonizing slowness, his movement stiff and rusted by pain, as if he feared she might be a delirium born of fever.

"Penny?"

The name was a shattered thing, a rasp of pure, unadulterated shock. His vision swam, the torchlight blurring into golden halos around the sudden, ethereal sight of her.

"Vince..." she looked down at the visceral map of red carved into his skin, her eyes welling with hot, stinging tears. The sight of him publicly reduced to such a wretched state made her breath hitch.

She had shown up late. She had spent every precious second since her "escape" from the estate preparing for this moment, but she had underestimated the King’s appetite for cruelty. She had expected a debate, but found a slaughter.

"...are you alright?" she whispered, meeting the storm in his eyes. Her hands hovered like a ghost above his shoulders, trembling with the desperate urge to anchor him, yet paralyzed by the sight of his flayed skin.

Vincent found his throat constricted, his voice lost to the copper-tasting heat of his breath. His Penelope was no phantom; she was here, breathing and real. Yet the cynical, battle-hardened machinery of his mind, the part that had survived a decade of treachery, was in a frantic tailspin.

The logic did not hold.

Had she not fled the estate to be free of him? The road to the border had been wide open, so... why did she come back?

His gaze flickered past the silk of her shoulder to where William stood, and a cold, familiar dread settled in his marrow.

Had she returned for him?

Slowly, with a strength that defied her delicate frame, Penelope helped Vincent rise. Her touch was a firm, steadying anchor that helped him up.

She offered no glance to William, nor did she acknowledge the Baron, her father, who watched the exchange with a sickening blend of avarice and rising fear.

Only when Vincent had found his footing, his blood dripping through his torn shirt and onto the marble did she release him. She stepped forward and sank into a deep, impeccable court curtsy before the throne.

"Your Majesties," she said, her voice blooming in the hushed cavern of the hall, resonant and chillingly calm. "I have come to pay my respects—and to fulfill the summons of my King."

The executioner who held the dripping whip, looked to the throne for his next command. With a lazy, almost bored flick of his wrist, the king dismissed him. The heavy silence that rushed back into the hall was suffocating, thick with the scent of iron and unsaid gasps of courtiers.

"Lady Penelope," the king addressed her personally, a slow, intriguing smile spreading across his features. "Your husband was quite convinced he had lost you. He was prepared to sacrifice both his flesh, and his title to shield your name. Even in your absence, it seems you possess a singular talent of stirring an uproar in my court."

The king leaned forward, his rings catching the light. "Tell me, Marchioness: does your honor remain intact? Sir William here has made a bold accusation. He claims you bestowed upon him a token of your... shared intimacy. If his testimony is true, then by the laws of the Church and the Crown, your union with the Marquis is a farce and shall be terminated forthwith."

Vincent’s gaze burned into the side of Penelope’s face, his heart hammering a frantic, uneven rhythm against his ribs. He felt the cold air hitting his flayed skin, but it was nothing compared to the chill of the King’s words.

Penelope remained motionless, her eyes cast respectfully toward the marble floor. She did not grant William the mercy of a glance, even as he leaned forward with a look of desperate, feverish hope. Finally, her voice broke the stillness—clear, steady, and utterly devastating.

"I have indeed lost my purity, Your Majesty."