Chapter 4 A Drop of Blood on the Ring and a Whisper in the Night

A Drop of Blood on the Ring and a Whisper in the Night

The chandeliers in the great hall glittered like a thousand stars suspended from a velvet sky. Yet Arielle's gaze wasn't on the light above, but on the shadows that moved silently at the edges of the corridor below. Her slippers barely made a sound against the marbled floor as she paused beside a gilded column, heart thudding against her ribs-not from fear, but from something colder. Curiosity sharpened by the sting of betrayal.

Down the hall, her father stood beneath an archway, his face half-lit by the wall sconce. Opposite him was a man she didn't recognize, cloaked in an impeccably tailored black coat. His gloved hand moved slightly, gesturing as he spoke-just enough for the firelight to catch on the ring he wore.

Arielle's breath hitched.

Blood red. A drop of garnet or ruby, deep and glinting like it was still wet, set into a thick silver band etched with baroque flourishes. The "Blood Drop." She'd heard whispers-tales murmured between servant quarters and dismissed as conspiracy by her tutors. The Hội Máu Versailles. The Blood Court. Fiction for the foolish.

But the look on her father's face wasn't fiction. It was steel. Calculated. Real.

She watched as the two men clasped hands in that ancient way nobles sometimes still did-forearms gripped, not palms-like warriors of old. The ring pressed against her father's skin.

Then they parted, and the man vanished into a hallway Arielle knew led to the restricted wing.

She stepped back, heart racing, and nearly collided with Rafael.

His hand gripped her elbow, steadying her before she could fall. "You shouldn't be here," he said quietly, though there was no accusation in his voice. Just the observation of a soldier who saw everything and spoke little.

"I wasn't," she said, smoothing her gown. "Now I am."

His gaze lingered on her face. She could tell he wanted to ask what she'd seen. He didn't. But she knew he filed it away, the way he filed away everything.

That night, Arielle couldn't sleep. The ring glimmered in her mind, that drop of crimson seeming to throb with its own pulse. Who was that man? What did the ring mean? And why was her father dealing with someone connected to a group that wasn't supposed to exist?

The next morning, over tea, she asked the head librarian a simple question. "Have you ever heard of the Hội Máu Versailles?"

The old woman froze, mid-sip, her cup clinking slightly as she set it back on its saucer. "That is a name best left to dust and silence, mademoiselle."

"But what is it?"

"A myth," the librarian said, too quickly. "An old tale used to scare noble children into obedience. Stories of... genetic rites, bloodlines purified through archaic science. Royal blood, they believed, could be enhanced-refined."

"Enhanced?" Arielle echoed, frowning.

"Think nothing of it," the woman said. "It's just nonsense."

But Arielle couldn't think of anything else.

---

In the days that followed, she began to dig.

Her lessons became a formality-her mind elsewhere. She spent hours in the lesser archives, searching through journals, scrapbooks, half-burned ledgers. Most were sanitized, purged of anything politically dangerous.

Until she found the journal.

It wasn't catalogued. Hidden behind volumes of agricultural records from the Second Regency. Its cover was leather, cracked and scorched at the edges. Pages torn. The ink was faded, smudged in places by what looked disturbingly like blood. But the handwriting was precise, clinical-like a scientist detailing experiments.

One entry read:

"Subject 14-B displays accelerated cell regeneration. Bloodline trace: Merovingian. Procedure will proceed to Phase IV pending final council vote."

Another:

"The girl knows nothing. Her immunity to the serum makes her an ideal carrier. We will monitor her proximity to Volkoff."

Her hands trembled.

The name Volkoff. Her father's chosen guard. Rafael.

Was she the subject?

In the final legible page, dated fifteen years ago, a line chilled her more than any scream in the night ever could:

"When the time comes, she will bleed for the future of Versailles. The heir, perfected."

---

That night, as storm clouds gathered over the estate, Arielle stood by the window, the journal clutched to her chest. She had always known there were secrets-every palace held them. But this was something deeper. Not mere politics or inheritance. This was biology. Legacy. Control.

She was not a daughter. She was a design.

A faint knock sounded.

She turned. Rafael stood in the doorway, rain soaking the shoulders of his coat.

"I found this outside your door," he said. In his hand, a ring box-velvet, royal blue.

Inside, the same ring. The blood-red stone gleamed.

"Who sent this?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

His jaw tightened. "There was no name. Just a note."

He handed her a card, plain, with a single phrase:

"The blood remembers. So will you."

They stared at each other in silence.

And in that moment, though Rafael's face gave nothing away, his eyes said what he couldn't.

He didn't trust them. Not her father. Not the Court. Perhaps not even himself.

Arielle closed the ring box and whispered, more to herself than to him: "Then I'll find the truth. Even if it bleeds me dry."

End of Chapter 4.