Escaping His Control, the King Went Mad Novel – Within just three years of entering the royal court, Elvira Frost had been forced to have sex with the so-called ascetic King a total of nine hundred and ninety-nine times. Once again, after fulfilling her duties, she carefully avoided the sleeping form of the man beside her, slipping from the velvet bed with a body covered in marks of affection. She softly whistled under her breath.
In no time, a shadow silently appeared at the window. “Have you made up your mind?” Vesper’s voice was colder than the night air. Elvira tightened the thin fabric of her nightgown, her voice barely a whisper. “Yes. My wish is to leave the palace.” Vesper’s voice remained impassive. “Your name is recorded in the royal ledger. Leaving is not a simple matter unless… you fake your death and change your appearance.” “Very well.” Elvira nodded.
Whether faking her death or assuming a new identity, she didn’t care, as long as she could leave the royal palace. “I will come for you in half a month.” The shadow spoke, and in the blink of an eye, vanished into the night, as if it had never been there. Elvira gazed at the crescent moon in the sky, letting out a long sigh. Finally… it was almost over. She had never truly belonged in this royal court, her arrival here had been nothing more than a twist of fate. Three years ago, she had been the most neglected bastard daughter of the Frost family.
Her elder sister, Isabeau, was the jewel of Frost Castle, adored by all. She was in love with the then-Prince Alistair Adler. However, her father, Lord Frost, believed that Duke Lucian, the fourth prince, had more potential to ascend to the throne. He forcefully separated the lovers and arranged for Isabeau to marry Duke Lucian. Who would have thought that in the end, it was Alistair who ascended the throne. The king’s wrath was swift. The Frost family was stripped of their titles, their influence shattered.
To appease the new monarch, Elvira’s father sent her—his unwanted daughter—to the royal court as a lady-in-waiting, a sacrificial lamb for the king’s torment. She still remembered the first time she had met Alistair. The young, handsome king, wearing a royal purple mantle, looked down at Elvira, who was kneeling before him, his eyes cold as ice. “The Frost family’s daughter?” Indeed, Alistair poured all his hate onto her. Whippings, kneeling punishments, kneeling on broken porcelain shards in the winter… not a single part of her body remained unscarred.
It wasn’t until that one night, when he had been drunk, that he mistook her for Isabeau and took her by force. That mistake had led to three years of suffering. Night after night, she had been forced to comply, unable to endure much longer. She had hoped that with time, she would be able to leave the palace, but when she went to request her royal passing warrant, she was denied. “By His Majesty’s order, you are not to be released.” The knight’s cold voice had pierced her ears.
At that moment, she realized that she might never escape this gilded cage. Fortunately, a year ago, she had saved a heavily wounded man in black. She later discovered he was none other than Vesper, the number one assassin on the royal kill list. “I owe you a life, and I will grant you one wish,” he had told her. Now, her only wish was… to leave! She turned—only to freeze. Alistair had woken up at some point. Standing in the corridor, his gaze darkened, his voice low. “Where were you just now?” “I was thirsty, Your Majesty, so I went to get some water.” She lied, forcing herself to remain calm.
Alistair’s eyes narrowed, turning ice-cold. “Come back here.” She obediently returned to the velvet bed, but he grabbed her chin with a firm hand. “Remember, you are not allowed to leave without my permission.” “Yes, Your Majesty.” He released her chin and pulled her into his embrace. She inhaled the scent of Attar of Roses from his robes, counting the hours until morning. By dawn, Elvira could barely stand, her legs too weak to hold her up. Alistair scoffed. “Pathetic.
You can’t even stand after so many rounds. Get into my carriage.” “I… I dare not, Your Majesty…” she protested weakly. Before she could finish, Alistair swept her up in his arms and strode toward the royal carriage. “Your Majesty! This is improper!” She grabbed his sleeve in panic. “Silence,” he snapped, cutting her off, and unceremoniously shoved her into the carriage. As the carriage approached the courtyard, Alistair suddenly raised his hand, signaling the coachman to stop.
Elvira followed his gaze and saw a young woman in a deep blue gown, hanging silken cloths to dry. The maid, Dorothy, bore a striking resemblance to her sister, Isabeau. “Send that maid to my chambers tonight,” Alistair instructed indifferently. The Lord Chamberlain, the head of the royal servants, immediately nodded and sent someone to inf