Fatima had promised herself she would keep as much distance from Nathaniel as possible. Those words, murmured beneath her breath the day before when they had gone their separate ways, now felt like a cruel joke. Fate, it seemed, had other plans, appointing him as one of their escorts on the trip to Alvarest, the central city.
Their upcoming journey, however, was far from glamorous. The wagon waiting for them was a rickety contraption, its wood faded gray with age, every bolt and hinge groaning in protest. A lone, chestnut brown horse stood attached to the cart, its well-trimmed mane swishing irritably against flies. At its reins sat Nathaniel, his posture rigid and imposing, his face composed in that same stern mask he always wore. Even in such humble company, he somehow looked every inch the knight—a man born to authority or perhaps something more that Fatima couldn't quite grasp.
Fatima's eyes, despite her best efforts, strayed to him again and again, and he noticed. Oh, he noticed, and the faint quirk of his lips told her he was smugly aware of it—until another voice cut through.
"I will be tagging along as well!" Dimitriu announced, his cheer carried by the late-morning sun. He led his sleek black horse with casual ease, his blonde hair catching the light, every step radiating the charm Nathaniel so clearly lacked in her eyes. Trailing behind him, his three younger brothers, Jeffrey, Waynon, and Octave bounded like unruly puppies, their high voices overlapping in childish demands. Maids struggled to keep them from falling, tripping over hems and tangled reins.
"I wish to accompany you too, brother!" Octave cried, his small face glowing with hope. "Me too! Don't leave me behind, big brother!" Jeffrey clung desperately to Dimitriu's waist. "The answer is no," Dimitriu replied firmly, steel flashing behind his gentle tone. With a sharp nod toward the servants, he ordered, "Escort them back to the estate—now."
The boys' protests rose into tearful wails, sniffling hiccups cutting through the air until the maids coaxed them away. Only once their voices faded into the distance did the wagon lurch forward with a series of groans.
The road stretched beneath towering trees, their branches swaying, leaves whispering in the crisp summer noon breeze. Sunlight dappled their path, glinting on the wings of darting butterflies. Birds trilled merrily, the sound occasionally drowned by the wagon wheels' uneven clatter. They passed homes in cheerful colors, their plaster walls reflecting off a shimmering spring that spilled from beneath a tall stone bridge. The air grew thick and humid, the sun climbing higher, yet excitement kept the girls' spirits buoyant.
When the market finally came into sight, their anticipation spilled over. Dimitriu was the first to dismount, offering his hand with practiced courtesy. Clover and Ivy accepted with shy smiles, their skirts rustling as they stepped down. But when it was Fatima's turn, she faltered, heart hammering as her gaze met his. His handsome features, so close, sent warmth surging to her cheeks. She lowered her eyes quickly, hesitantly slipping her hand into his, only long enough to descend, her palm tingling even after he let go. Nathaniel's glare burned into her side, his horse already turning toward the resting area, reins gripped tight enough to whiten his knuckles.
**
Alvarest's marketplace unfolded before them in a dazzling wave of sound and color. Stalls lined the thoroughfare, draped in bright cloth and bursting with goods—spices spilling ruby and gold, jewelry flashing like captured sunlight, baskets overflowing with fruits of various kinds. The air was thick with the aroma of roasted meats, fresh bread, and sweet pastries dusted with sugar. Music drifted from a street corner where fiddlers played, their notes mingling with the hawkers' cries and the clatter of hooves on cobblestones.
"Stay together," Dimitriu advised, his voice cutting through the din. "The duchy is safe enough, but even here, scoundrels lurk. Do not wander."
The girls nodded quickly but could hardly contain their awe, their heads darting this way and that as they gawked like wide-eyed children. Fatima drank in everything—the shouts of merchants haggling, the impatient horns of automobiles jostling through the throng, the laughter of children weaving recklessly between adults. Beyond the market, banks rose with marble facades, restaurants spilled chatter and clinking cutlery, and boutiques glittered with silks and gemstones. To the west, looming above the chaos, a bell tower crowned a temple, its shadow stretching across the square like a watchful guardian.
Their wonder left them famished, and soon, Clover stuffed her cheeks with fritters, white cream dribbling down her chin. "Slow down, Clover—you'll choke," Ivy scolded, though she was busy licking frosting from her own fingers. Fatima, too, savored a bite, the crisp edges giving way to soft warmth, but her moment of bliss ended under Nathaniel's cutting voice. "Where did you learn to eat like that?" His gaze, sharp as a blade, fixed on her.
Her jaw froze mid-chew. "What?" she demanded, already feeling the spark of anger. "You eat like an animal." The words fell like a slap. Ivy and Clover gasped, their hands flying to their mouths. Dimitriu shifted uneasily, forcing a laugh as he wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. "Now, now, Nate—you mustn't speak so harshly to a young lady." His voice was light, but his eyes flicked nervously between them.
Fatima's fury flared hot, her earlier blush transforming into the flush of rage. Nathaniel had a talent for needling her, and this time he struck true. "That girl is no maiden," he sneered. "She's a scraggly child with the attitude of a bear—wild, stubborn, and entirely unpleasant." The insult broke her restraint. "And what about you?" she shot back, her voice rising above the crowd's hum. "Do you think you're better than me because you're a knight and I'm a bond servant? How despicable of you." She scoffed.
Murmurs rippled through the nearby throng as faces turned toward the quarrel. Fatima jabbed her finger at him, her words tumbling over one another. "I hope you get stung by a thousand wasps!"
Dimitriu lunged forward as she stomped toward Nathaniel, scooping her up with ease before her flailing legs could reach him. She kicked furiously in midair, hair flying wild as the crowd erupted into laughter and cheers. "You may be tall and handsome," she roared, voice shaking with fury, "but if your personality is this grotesque, then you're hideous inside and out!"
Dimitriu doubled over, laughter booming across the square. Ivy and Clover peeked between their fingers, giggling despite themselves. But the mirth evaporated in an instant. Nathaniel, face unreadable, drew his sword with a slow, deliberate hiss of steel. He leveled the tip at the hollow of Fatima's throat. The crowd gasped, stumbling back, the cheers turning to shrieks as they scattered. "Are you quite finished spouting your nonsense?" His low, dangerous voice carried easily in the sudden hush, his eyes locked coldly on hers.
**
Meanwhile, back at the Kartier estate, the gilded silence of mid-afternoon was broken only by the sharp staccato of heels striking marble. Duchess Gwendolynn swept through the sunlit halls, the layered folds of her emerald gown trailing like a forest canopy behind her. Gold clasps, jeweled pins, and threads of lace glittered as the angled rays of light from tall arched windows caught her every movement, as though the house itself bowed to her presence.
A nervous procession of maids followed at her heels, their linen skirts brushing their calves, heads bowed so low their shadows stretched long and wavering on the wall. None dared to lag, though each step seemed weighted with dread. "Where is Dimitriu?" Gwendolynn's voice, sharp and imperious, rang through the cavernous corridor. The air seemed to shrink under her words. She had hunted for him the better part of the day, her patience thinning with every empty room and unanswered inquiry.
One maid, wringing her hands as though squeezing courage from her palms, dared to step forward. "H-his lordship took the bond servants on an errand in town, your grace. They… should return before sundown." Her voice faltered, the words tumbling out with the stiffness of rehearsed excuses.
The duchess halted mid-stride, the fabric of her skirts whispering against itself. Slowly she turned, her expression curdling into disdain. "Bond servants," she spat, as though the syllables themselves were diseased. "It is unfathomable why anyone, let alone Dimitriu, would subject himself to such lowly people." Her gaze cut through the maid, who shrank back as though scalded. "And the crown prince?" Gwendolynn pressed, the question slicing out like a blade.
The answer came softer still, from another maid who dared not lift her eyes. "His Imperial Highness… also accompanied them, your grace."
The corridor seemed to shudder with the force of the duchess' sudden bark. "What?!" Her jeweled hand clenched at her fan as fury tinted her pale cheeks. Both her stepson and the prince, suddenly straying from reason—there could only be one poisonous influence. That wretch. She ground the thought against the roof of her mouth, bitter as gall.
"Apologies for the interruption, Your Grace." A knight appeared breathless at the stairway, his chest rising and falling as he bowed hastily. "Your guest has arrived and is awaiting you in the drawing room, as instructed." "Very well, Anson. You may leave." She dismissed him with a flick of her wrist. The knight all but fled.
Turning, Gwendolynn's eyes fell upon her maids, who had gone stiff as statues. "Quietly escort the new bond servant to the annex upon her return," she ordered, her tone syruped with menace. The women exchanged quick, knowing glances. To disobey was unthinkable. To obey meant complicity in another's suffering. Yet they bowed in unison, voices soft and tight. "As you wish, your grace."
Each of them remembered the ordeal all too clearly—the duchess' so-called domestication process. It was no gentle introduction to service, but a trial by humiliation and endurance, where pride was stripped away layer by layer until obedience was second nature. Sleepless nights, punishments masked as lessons, tasks designed to break rather than teach—every step had been etched into their nerves like scars.
And as the duchess resumed her stately march, the maids followed, their silence heavy with the ghosts of their own initiation, knowing that before long, another soul would be led down the same dark path.
**
The forest path stretched before them, narrow and shadowed, its edges already blurred by the creeping embrace of twilight. The wheels of the wagon groaned softly over roots and stones, while the steady rhythm of hooves striking earth filled the cool evening air. A faint breeze stirred the canopy above, scattering the last threads of sunlight through the leaves like molten gold. Within the wagon's wooden frame, Fatima, Ivy, and Clover slept huddled together, their breaths rising and falling in peaceful rhythm, untouched by the unease that hung in the air.
"I can't believe she referred to you as hideous," Dimitriu burst out, his laughter bubbling like a stream spilling over rocks. "If the ladies at the capital were to catch wind of this, they would certainly march toward our duchy with pitchforks and lit torches."
His mirth rang out too loudly in the dim stillness of the forest, and Nathaniel's jaw tightened. The laughter grated on his nerves, a cruel counterpoint to the weight of guilt that pressed upon him. He had meant only to silence her, not terrify her—but the memory of her collapsing to her knees, eyes wide with panic, begging for mercy beneath his raised blade, replayed endlessly in his mind. Her voice, tremulous and raw, haunted him more than any battlefield cry.
"Cease your ridiculous cackling at once before I lose my patience," he snapped, though the edge in his tone was less anger than shame disguised. He had not intended to bare steel in her presence, but his temper had betrayed him. Now, contrition gnawed at him, insistent as a wolf at the bone. An apology lingered at the back of his throat, waiting, yet no moment seemed worthy enough to grant it passage.
Dimitriu, oblivious to the turmoil beside him, cast a glance toward the wagon where the girls lay in tranquil slumber. His earlier laughter ebbed away into a wistful sigh. "They fell asleep as soon as they got in. All that walking and sightseeing must've worn them out."
Nathaniel bit into a crimson apple bought from a roadside merchant, its sweetness sharp against his tongue. "Did we buy everything on the list?" he asked, more to distract himself than out of true concern. "It'll be fine either way," Dimitriu replied with a careless shrug. "The errands were just an excuse to take them out. We can always say we forgot." His eyes flicked toward the horizon where the sun, swollen and heavy, was sinking beneath the trees faster than seemed natural. "We should hurry before it gets dark, your highness." The title slipped free before he realized his mistake.
Nathaniel stiffened, the apple pausing midway to his lips. His gaze darted to the wagon, his heartbeat quickening as his eyes settled on Fatima's resting face. The faint rise of her chest reassured him she was still asleep, but the fear of discovery throbbed hot in his veins. He wasn't ready for her to know—not yet. He savored the rare freedom of her unguarded candor, her ability to meet him as an equal rather than as a prince. That freedom was a treasure he refused to surrender too soon.
"Right." Dimitriu cleared his throat, fumbling for correction. "Sir Nate, let's hurry home." Nathaniel exhaled through his nose, half-amused, half-irritated. "The art of acting is utterly lost on you, Dimitriu. Do stay away from the theaters." His sigh mingled with the whisper of the forest, the weight of his secret pressing heavier as the shadows deepened.
**
By the time the wagon rattled to a halt beside the stables, night had already swallowed the estate. The last traces of daylight had vanished during their nap, leaving only the heavy velvet of darkness draped over the grounds. Lanterns swayed faintly from iron hooks, their flames sputtering in the cool night breeze, casting long shadows across the cobblestone path. The earthy tang of hay and the musk of horses drifted thick in the air, punctuated by the restless whinny of beasts shifting in their stalls.
Dimitriu and his knight parted ways with the girls, bootsteps fading into the hush of the courtyard. Ivy, Clover, and Fatima began to tread wearily toward the stable's entrance, the grass crunching beneath their shoes, when a maid suddenly came into view. Her hands twisted the hem of her apron, and her eyes darted nervously across the grounds, as though expecting danger to leap out of the darkness itself. The horses' snorts and the stamping of hooves filled the silence until she finally spotted them. Relief flashed across her face, and she hurried forward, skirts brushing her calves.
Her breathless words carried urgency: Duchess Gwendolynn demanded Fatima's presence at the annex immediately. Ivy and Clover stiffened at once, exchanging worried glances before springing into pleading whispers, their voices hushed but desperate. They begged the maid to allow them to accompany their friend, but the woman only shook her head, her mouth pressed into a grim line. Their protests fell into futility, swallowed by the growing unease that seemed to cling to the night air.
**
When Fatima stepped into the annex, she was met not by warmth, but by a suffocating chill. The chamber was dim, its candlelight flickering weakly against the stone walls, shadows stretching and recoiling like living things. The sharp tang of oiled leather mixed with the faint metallic hint of blood that clung to the air.
At the center stood Duchess Gwendolynn. Her eyes, hard and unforgiving, glinted beneath the wavering light. In her hand, a horsewhip hissed as it sliced through the air, the crack splitting the silence like a curse. The resolute frown etched deep into her face mirrored the rigid cruelty in her voice. "Pull up your skirt, you vile creature," she commanded coldly. The whip lay coiled in her palm like a venomous serpent waiting to strike.
Fatima froze, her pulse pounding so violently she could feel it in her throat. Around her, the maids lingered like carrion birds, their eyes alight with cruel anticipation. They snickered behind their hands, stifled laughter fluttering through the room like sharp knives. Yet even trembling, Fatima summoned the courage that always seemed to guide her. Her voice wavered, but it carried a quiet resolve.
"If I may be permitted to speak, mistress," she began, lifting her chin though her body shook. "I wish to understand why I am being punished. Those who do not know their errors cannot hope to—" Her plea was cleaved in two by a savage strike. The whip lashed across her back with a fiery sting, the sound tearing through the room as she gasped, her breath stolen by the sudden, searing pain. Her cry rang out, raw and sharp, only to be cut short by the press of a gag forced against her lips.
The blows rained down mercilessly. Each crack of leather against flesh tore another gasp from her, until her body was no longer her own, just a vessel of pain and trembling limbs. The duchess's face twisted, contorted between rage and twisted satisfaction, as she gripped Fatima by the arm and hurled her across the polished floor. The impact rattled through her bones, her vision fracturing with the force. A cruel heel followed, stabbing into her flesh with calculated precision. Fatima's muffled scream vibrated against the gag as blood welled in crimson blossoms beneath the duchess's step, soaking into the floor and staining the hem of her expensive nightgown. The chamber reeked of iron now, heavy and suffocating.
When the duchess finally relented, she discarded Fatima's limp form like refuse, and her maids, understanding the assignment, dragged her to the terrace and left her sprawled in the cold night air. Her body was a broken heap, trembling with shallow breaths. "That ought to teach her to keep her smart mouth shut," one maid giggled, flicking crimson droplets from her hands onto her dark uniform. Another parroted Fatima's words with mocking exaggeration, sending the others into peals of laughter. But Amie, the quiet one, could not mask her unease. "Don't you think the madam went too far?" she murmured, voice soft but tinged with worry.
Her concern was silenced by a sharp smack to her back that sent her stumbling. "Shut your mouth, girl, unless you'd like to be next," hissed one of her companions, eyes gleaming with menace.
On the grass outside, Fatima's world blurred. The coarse blades dug against her open wounds, grinding salt into raw flesh. Every nerve screamed, yet her body refused to obey, limp and heavy as stone. Her thoughts were fractured, scattered shards that cut into her mind, each one breaking her concentration, severing her from the divine gift that usually brought healing.
The night pressed down on her like a shroud. All that remained was the bitter taste of blood on her tongue, the ache in her lungs, and the quiet, ragged sobs that escaped her lips. Her tears mingled with the earth, disappearing into the soil beneath her, as her broken body lay still beneath the indifferent stars.
**
The bathroom door slammed behind him, a sharp, echoing crack that bounced off the marble walls and mingled with the distant whisper of wind through the open terrace. Prince Nathaniel emerged, black trousers clinging to his long, muscled legs, and his white linen shirt hanging open against the planes of his brawny chest. Water dripped from his hair, catching the dim light as he ruffled it with a towel, droplets scattering across the marble floor, leaving tiny, glistening puddles. The maids had lingered far too long, their uneasy glances prickling his skin, but he ignored them. In this sprawling, labyrinthine estate, nothing ever seemed ordinary.
He sank into the leather lounge chair before the roaring fireplace, the heat brushing against his damp skin, mingling with the lingering chill in the room. Shadows danced across the high walls, twisting into shapes that seemed alive, yet the fire's warmth did nothing to thaw the icy weight pressing against his chest. Words like sorry had never passed his princely lips, yet here he was, consumed with regret, knowing Fatima's fiery temper would not forgive itself.
No matter how angry I was, I should never have drawn my sword at her. The thought hammered into him like a relentless drum, sending a bitter taste of guilt into his mouth. A fleeting urge to visit the stables tonight rose, only to be shaken off with a frustrated sigh. "No… tomorrow will be better," he whispered, his voice swallowed by the crackling fire. But then came the sound—a voice, sharp and jagged, tearing through the quiet night like shattered glass. "It hurts… it hurts… it hurts so much!"
The sobs and strangled cries clawed at him, raw and intimate, piercing through the veneer of his composure. His muscles coiled as instinct ignited every nerve. Without thought, he sprang to his feet, the door slamming behind him in a thunderous echo. His hands fumbled for a lantern, shaking violently as the flame quivered, casting erratic shadows that jittered across the walls and the frost-tipped garden outside. The night pressed in around him, heavy and cold, the scent of wet earth and crushed grass rising to meet him. Panic surged. The stables were empty. Only Ivy and Clover emerged from the darkness, moving like shadows themselves, anxious and hesitant, offering fragments of hope that guided him onward.
Her cries, now faint, fragile, and almost swallowed by the night, beckoned him. "Please… someone… anyone… help…" Nathaniel moved with precision, each step crunching on the manicured grass, his heart hammering like a war drum in his chest. Moonlight glinted across dew-specked leaves, illuminating a narrow path through the garden. Edith, the head maid, passed in a blur, locking the annex doors before vanishing, leaving an uneasy silence in her wake.
Then he saw it—a trail of flattened grass, glinting pale under the lantern's trembling light. Painful groans reached him, rising in volume with every step. And then he saw her—Fatima—collapsed, her body a mosaic of agony. Blood streaked her torn dress, pooling on the ground beneath her. Bruises mottled her skin in dark, angry patterns, puncture wounds oozed steadily, and the faint metallic scent of blood mingled with the cool night air. Nathaniel froze, hand clamped to his mouth, breath catching in his throat.
"Fatima?" His voice cracked, quivering in a way that shocked him. He dropped to his knees, cradling her fragile form, every nerve alight with terror and helplessness. His fingertips brushed over torn fabric, marred skin, and the subtle tremor of her chest beneath his palm. Her shallow breaths carried the scent of sweat, blood, and fear. Every instinct screamed at him to protect, to heal, to undo the cruelty inflicted upon her.
Nearby, the stables promised a tenuous refuge. He wrapped his black cloak around her, the thick wool warm but heavy, dragging it over her bloodied body, shielding her from the biting night. Lifting her onto his shoulder, each movement careful yet desperate, he sprinted across the terrace toward the stables. The lantern, abandoned, flickered violently before succumbing to darkness.
"Keep your eyes open, Fatima… don't you dare fall asleep," he said breathlessly, the urgency in his voice raw, shaking in the cold night. He felt the faint, erratic pulse of her heart beneath his fingers. When her body went limp in his arms, consciousness lost to pain, Nathaniel's jaw tightened, fear gripping his chest like a vise. "Please forgive me… it's going to be a rough ride but hold on just a little longer."
He mounted the horse, feeling every muscle in his body tense as he adjusted her sideways, cradling her gently but firmly. The animal stirred beneath him, sensing the tension, hooves thudding on the ground as they broke into a swift gallop. Shadows raced across the ground, wind whipping past them in harsh, biting gusts, carrying the scent of wet leaves, earth, and the faint copper tang of blood. Every heartbeat of the horse, every shudder of Fatima's fragile body, pressed against Nathaniel like a relentless drumbeat of urgency, fear, and determination as he carried her into the night, every second a prayer against the darkness.