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Third floor of Allen Manor, the patriarch’s master bedroom.
Her Majesty the Queen had just swallowed the seed. She lay naked upon the bed while the gramophone beside her played Veyn, Please Don’t Cry for Me.
The old attendant knelt respectfully at the bedside, silently praying.
“I feel somewhat thirsty.”
“I will fetch water for Your Majesty.” The old attendant rose, but just as she was about to move, she saw that dense black roots were spreading across the queen’s skin.
The queen opened her eyes and raised her hands. The roots were growing fastest at her palms. The flesh there split open, and vine-like tendrils emerged from within.
“Oh. So it is they who are thirsty.” The queen smiled, opening and closing her fingers. The black tendrils wound between them as though they possessed their own spirituality. “They are telling me they long for the blood of the Allen family.”
“It seems the research was correct,” the old attendant said. “The ancestors of the Allen family once controlled it, but it was taken back midway by that brave ancestor of the Gloria family.”
“Yes. We must thank our ancestor for sacrificing his life to seize this seed. Though that makes me even more curious; If this seed is so miraculous and magnificent, then the Allen family’s ancestor must have possessed something even greater at the time. Yet after so many years, why has the Allen family...
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