He needed to kill.He needed to consume souls.
And I had promised him I would bring him the worthless—the men who deserved no mercy.
But time, that unyielding thief, had slipped through my grasp.
The masquerade loomed just days ahead, approaching like a rising tide, swallowing me whole.
My father had chosen me as the organizer of the affair, not out of trust or admiration but because he knew my dutiful nature would ensure his grand vision came to life.
So, my days were spent wading through the suffocating tedium of preparations.
And my nights—my nights belonged to the poison.
A lethal elixir, crafted under the hush of candlelight, a silent assassin waiting to be unleashed upon those who had orchestrated Amir’s suffering.
I was the conductor of this firestorm.
The household erupted into a frenzy from the moment my father announced the date—a Thursday, to avoid clashing with the Countess’ ball.
Servants scurried through the halls, each seeming to grow an extra pair of hands.
Invitations were sent within the week.
Handwritten by Mr.Gainsborough, his script was flawless, and every swirling letter sealed fate upon fate.
Each envelope bore the family crest in red wax—an emblem of power, dominance, and the illusion of control.
But they had no control.
Not over me.
Not over what was coming.
The estate, though grand, could scarcely contain the flood of Timehunter guests and their insufferable “plus ones” who had eagerly accepted our invitation.
Thus, Kew Palace was chosen—an opulent jewel on the outskirts of London, a venue renowned for its grandeur, gilded excess, and deceptive beauty.
A place fit for kings and queens.
A place that would soon become a graveyard of the unsuspecting.
As I entered, the chandeliers dripped with light, diamonds splintering across the polished floors.Servants bustled like ants through golden corridors, ensuring that every detail—from the placement of roses to the arrangement of seating—was executed with meticulous care.
A spectacle of perfection.
It was a performance for those who had no idea they were walking straight into the final act of their existence.
The palace itself became a stage.
Garlands of fresh greenery—rosemary for remembrance, lavender for fleeting peace—were woven through the balustrades, filling the air with a false sense of serenity.
The silver was polished to a mirror shine, reflecting the faces of men who believed themselves untouchable.
The chandeliers in the grand ballroom were cleaned, new candles refitted, ready to cast a golden glow upon the unwitting damned.
Outside, I commanded the footmen to sweep the front drive until every speck of gravel was aligned.
Carriages would arrive one after another, delivering lambs to the slaughter.
