"On your knees, you filthy little urchin." Florette's voice cracked like a whip, sharp and laced with venom. Her painted lips curled into a sneer as she glared at the girl before her, her hand twitching as though eager to strike, yet she held back—wrinkling her nose in distaste at the thought of soiling her own skin on such filth.
"Pardon?" Fatima asked, her voice rising instinctively, her proud, unbending nature slipping through before she could stop herself. The word cut through the gathering like a shard of glass. A collective gasp swept through the guests. Fans snapped open like a hundred fluttering wings, hiding mouths that whispered in scandal. The perfume-laden air grew heavy with murmurs and disdainful glares, every eye fixed on the lowborn creature who dared not only to speak, but to remain standing when her mistress had commanded her to kneel.
Florette's lashes narrowed into slits. "How dare you talk back to me?" she hissed. Her hand lashed out, the sound of the slap ringing through the garden like the crack of a branch in the still forest. Fatima staggered, her cheek blazing with pain, her vision shimmering with tears. She pressed her palm to her stinging skin in disbelief, the metallic tang of blood rising faintly in her mouth. Florette's face was alight with cruel satisfaction, her eyes glittering as though she had been waiting for this very moment.
The blows did not stop. Florette's palm struck again and again, each strike louder than the last, until Fatima swayed and dropped to the ground. The sudden collapse dragged Florette forward, her balance faltering. To the watching crowd, the girl's spirit had finally broken, but Fatima's mind was sharp, calculating—she had timed her fall deliberately, forcing her mistress to stumble in front of them all. A small victory amidst the humiliation she was enduring.
Florette recovered with a scoff, snatching a napkin and scrubbing her hands with fastidious disgust as though she had touched something diseased. She lowered herself into her chair, lifting her chin as though presiding over a performance. "Wipe this off the ground, little urchin," she sneered, tipping a pot of scalding tea over Fatima's bowed head.
The liquid burned as it cascaded down her scalp, soaking her hair, scalding her ears. Fatima's fists clenched, her nails digging crescent moons into her palms. Her body shook with the effort to contain the fury roaring within, burning hotter than the throbbing sensation spreading on her skin. Endure, Fati. Endure it all to the very end, she whispered to herself. If she struck back, if she dared, the duke's wrath would crush her.
"Young mistress," she said softly, her voice trembling but audible enough to carry through the hush of the garden. "I, I do not have a cleaning rag at my disposal at the moment." Florette's lips peeled back in a mockery of a smile. "What use is that rag draped across your back, if not to carry out a simple task?" She flicked her eyes with malice, her companions tittering behind their silken fans, their laughter like the rustle of snakes in dry grass.
"On second thought…" Florette extended her foot, the silk of her gown lifting to reveal shoes stained with splashes of tea. "Start with our shoes." Humiliation seared hotter than the scalding tea. Fatima bowed, lifting the hem of her own dress with trembling hands, the fabric heavy with shame. She lowered herself, preparing to wipe the polished leather, when—
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Three thunderous cracks shattered the garden's harmony. Birds shrieked and scattered from the trees, their wings beating against the suffocating silence that followed. Fatima froze, her body turning cold, her heart dropping into a bottomless pit.
Her mind was dragged back, unwillingly, into that nightmarish night—the stench of gunpowder choking her lungs, flames clawing at the night sky as her carriage burned, the air thick with screams and clashing steel. Knights fell one after the other, their blood slicking the mud, their voices echoing even now in her memory. "Protect the princess at all costs!" "Yes, sir!" "Don't look, Princess! We'll get you to safety!"
Her knees buckled, streams of tears running freely down her pallid cheeks. However, when the horrid memories finally left her, she found herself alone in the garden, shivering. A sudden weight draped across her head—a cloak, black as midnight, cold against her scalded skin.
She turned sharply. A young man stood beside her, his expression grim, his crimson hair catching the dying light like embers. Honey-colored eyes glowed beneath his furrowed brows, filled with severity. The Kartier knight's uniform clung to his broad frame, his presence carrying the weight of unspoken authority.
"Follow me," he said, his tone flat and commanding as he brushed past her. His stride was long and measured, his boots soundless against the grass, yet every step seemed to shake the ground beneath him. Fatima hurried after him, her breath catching, her gaze fixed on his wide shoulders that blocked out the world ahead. "Why are you dragging your feet?" His voice, sharp with irritation, cut into her thoughts. "Pick up the pace."
Why does he sound so angry? Fatima thought as she struggled to keep up with him. "May I ask, good sir," she stammered, her voice trembling, "where you are taking me? And… might I know your name?" Her question was met with silence, filled by the steady rhythm of their footsteps on fresh grass. Desperate, she tried again. "By chance… did the young master send you to my rescue?"
Still nothing. However, this time his silence was deliberate, disdainful. Inside, his thoughts bristled at the absurd suggestion that Dimitriu, of all people, would trouble himself for her. Fatima sighed softly under her breath, watching the cut of his jaw, the set of his mouth. "I can't believe someone this strikingly good-looking could be so ill-mannered," she muttered, not realizing his lips curved upward, just barely, into the ghost of a smile.
**
Meanwhile, back at the tea party, the noblewomen expressed their disappointment when the only person they found in the forest was Damian, and not the crown prince they had so longes to glimpse. "Pity—it was only the butler, skulking about after livestock," sighed a lady in lavender, gathering the front folds of her silk gown delicately before lowering herself onto a cushioned chair. The whisper of fabric against polished wood carried her irritation more eloquently than her tone.
"I'm sure you can see the prince whenever your heart desires, Lady Florette," another tittered, her voice high and light as she waved a gilded fan before her flushed cheeks. A soft cascade of curls framed her face as she added, "He is but a few doors away from you, after all."
Florette's painted lips curved into a practiced smile, though the glimmer in her eyes betrayed how much she relished the reminder. "I suppose so, Lady Isabelle," she replied smoothly, her fingers brushing the rim of her teacup with absent elegance.
It was then that one of Duchess Gwendolynn's companions leaned forward, her jeweled bracelets clinking as she squinted toward the empty corner of the garden terrace. "By the way—where did the girl go? She was here only moments ago."
The mention struck Florette like a thorn pressing into silk. Rage welled within her chest at the thought of the girl's audacity—slipping away without permission, without fear of the consequences of her disobedience. Her knuckles tightened around her cup until the porcelain threatened to crack. How dare a lowly thing stain her carefully arranged gathering.
But to bare her anger here, before her friends, would sour the delicate sweetness of her tea party. So, she smothered her fury beneath a smile as bright as the lace parasols above them. "There is no need to trouble yourselves with such trivial matters," she said, voice lilting as if the thought amused her. "Her presence was doing us more harm than good, anyway."
The noblewomen tittered and nodded, eager to drift back into lighter gossip—scents of peonies and sugared fruits filling the air as the conversation fluttered to gowns, suitors, and palace whispers. And so, with each careless laugh, Fatima's name faded like a dropped stitch, forgotten in the tapestry of their idle talk.
**
The crimson-haired knight led Fatima all the way to the waterfall without uttering a single word along the way despite her attempts at making conversation. Exhausted from the effort of keeping up with his long strides, she halted her steps, drenched in sweat and panting heavily, and to her surprise he too stopped and turned around to face her. "Go in and wash the tea off yourself." He said, pointing at the clear water spring in the distance. Fatima, confused and flabbergasted, narrowed her eyes at him and spoke "I beg your pardon?" In her mind he was suggesting that she bathe in front of him. The very thought of which sent shivers down her spine. Not only was he exceedingly discourteous and, quite frankly, rude, but discovering that he was also a pervert was the final nail in the coffin for Fatima. I find it utterly unbelievable that the young master would keep such a vulgar and inappropriate individual in his retinue. She thought, glaring at him.
"No need to make that face. I won't be looking at you." he sighed, whirling around to face the forest. Upon his response, she drew a loud sigh of relief, regretting her previous thoughts about him. It was his fault for making her think that way. He ought to have said something sooner. "You've nothing for me to look at, anyway. You are nothing but a scrawny little kid in my eyes. So, hurry and wash up, I've got better things to tend to." he scolded nonchalantly, treading deeper into the forest. Fatima's prickled pride led her to grab a palm-sized rock from the ground to launch at him but decided against it and lowered her arm, releasing the rock from her grasp. This petulant bloke was clearly trying to crawl under her skin, and she wasn't about to let him get to her. She took two deep breaths to calm her nerves and reminded herself of her current position. Getting riled up here will not guarantee her safety, since the odds are far from being in her favor right now.
"Cease your seething and get washing, child. My patience is already wearing thin from waiting for you." His remark reverberated throughout the forest, causing Fatima to growl internally at his rudeness. What an unpleasant fellow, that one, she sighed before turning around to face the extensive body of water in front of her, the sun rays above glistening on its surface like a field of jewels.
She removed her dress, then proceeded to loosen the piece of cloth at the nape of her neck. Her silver locks unraveled down her back, nearly reaching the back of her calves as she stepped out of her dress. "His looks are seriously wasted on him." She grumbled, running her hands through her hair. "What did you say?" His distant voice asked, pretending he didn't hear her just now. His question was left hanging in the air as a loud splash could be heard coming from the spring.
From where he leaned against a tree, out of sight, the knight smirked faintly to himself, shaking his head. "Quite the handful, aren't you?" he muttered, the corners of his lips curling into the faintest of smiles.
**
The late afternoon sun spilled its golden warmth across the quiet glade, dappling the surface of the spring where Fatima floated on her back. The water was cool, carrying the faint scent of lilies and damp earth, its gentle ripples lapping against her skin as if rocking her in a cradle. Her eyes were half-closed, lost in memory, and her mind drifted to the vaulted halls of the Kartier library. She could almost smell the papery musk of books and hear the faint rustle of turning pages—a sound she had once cherished more than any song. Her favorite of them all, The Art of Crossbreeding by Yurel, still lingered in her thoughts, every meticulous description of petals and pollen etched into her memory. The longing to experiment with flowers tugged at her heart, though her duties at the farm had long since stolen that chance from her.
The spell was broken by a familiar voice. "Are you still not finished?" Fatima startled, the sound sharp against the serene backdrop. She had just finished slipping into her clothes, tugging her shoes into place, when irritation rose hot within her chest. "I've had enough of your discourteous attitude, sir knight," she retorted, her tone clipped as she rose from her crouched position. The leaves beneath her feet crackled, and she could feel the sun drying rivulets of water along her arms. "I did everything you asked of me, so the least you could do is be polite when addressing me."
The air thickened with tension. Her frustration boiled, each word sharper than the last. She turned around—and froze. He stood so close behind her that she could see the faint glint of sunlight in his amber eyes. They bore into her like steel drawn from its sheath, dissecting every flicker of her expression, every quaver in her voice. His presence carried the faint scent of polished leather and iron, a weight that pressed down on her shoulders.
"Why is it so hard for people to be respectful nowadays? Good grief!" she snapped, folding her arms tightly across her chest, glaring at him. "First you drag me all the way out here without a word, and now you—" Her words faltered as a sudden chill prickled her spine. "How dare a mere bond servant—" he growled, his voice deep, the edges jagged like a beast's snarl. But Fatima, her emotions surging unchecked, cut across him, her voice breaking with raw defiance. "Bond servant or not, I am still a living, breathing human being!"
Tears welled in her eyes, spilling hot down her cheeks. She clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms, her chest heaving. The words tumbled out, louder, harsher, laced with the bitterness of years unspoken: "Why can't I speak my mind, huh? Why can't you be nice to me? Afraid I'll sully your spruced-up uniform with my filth? Then you should've just left me where I was! I did not need your help. I am sick and tired of being treated like a parasite by the lot of you!"
Her voice cracked, and then the dam broke. Everything she had held back at the tea party came flooding out, ugly and unstoppable. She wept and wailed, her nose running, her hair sticking to her wet face. Mortified, she wanted nothing more than for the ground to open up and swallow her whole. "Are you done?" he asked finally, the sigh in his voice carrying both weariness and restraint. He leaned forward, lowering himself so their eyes met. Fatima blinked, startled by the sudden shift in his tone.
"What?" she breathed. His hand rose, surprisingly gentle, and with firm fingers he lifted her chin. His sleeve brushed against her tear-streaked face, dabbing clumsily at the mess. She caught his eyes—once sharp, now softened by some unreadable realization—and guilt knifed through her chest. Is this his way of making me feel worse for yelling at him? "What. Do you have more to say?" he murmured, a faintly teasing smile tugging at his lips, his head tilted. "Go on. Let it all out, now that you have my attention. I'm feeling generous today."
Her anger faltered, unraveling into shame. "I'm sorry," she muttered, her voice hushed and heavy. Her head dipped low the instant he let go of her chin. "It was wrong of me to yell at you so disrespectfully when you were just helping me. Please accept my humble apologies, sir knight." She bowed, her damp hair brushing forward, awaiting the harsh reply that surely would come. But silence stretched between them. The only sounds were the soft rustle of trees in the breeze and the distant chirping of birds.
Why isn't he saying anything? Is he rejecting my apology? Fatima panicked internally. "Hm. Interesting. Very interesting indeed." His chuckle came low, almost amused. A sudden sting spread along her arm. Fatima's divinity mark throbbed beneath its bandages, forcing her to scratch at it absentmindedly. "Nate." Came his clipped voice. She blinked at him. "Pardon?" "That's my name. Short for Nathaniel." His expression hardened into a menacing scowl, as though warning her not to forget it. She exhaled a shaky breath, baffled. What a strange young man… Yet strangely, some of her tension slipped away.
"My name is Fatima," she said softly, offering him a bright smile despite her swollen eyes. "But you can call me Fati, like my friends do." "Right. Let us go." His reply was cold, abrupt, as he turned sharply on his heel. "I shall escort you back to the stables."
Her fragile hope crumbled. For a fleeting moment, she had thought they were making progress, perhaps possibly become friends in the near future. But his distant stride and cold shoulder shattered the sliver of hope she held.