Fatima's gaze lingered on Dimitriu as if caught in a spell, her red eyes tracing the contours of his face with a desperate curiosity she could neither quell nor confess. Every line seemed sculpted with care: the proud angle of his jaw, the faint shadow of his cheekbones, and the golden strands of hair that shimmered beneath the sunlight like threads of spun silk. Loose at the crown, the locks shifted gently whenever the breeze stirred, and Fatima's imagination betrayed her—she pictured her own fingers sliding into those soft waves, holding them as though they were fragile treasures. Her heart throbbed painfully in her chest, her lips parting ever so slightly, as though one touch might sanctify her forever.
The collar of his shirt was undone, two buttons unfastened, granting a glimpse of pale skin where the fabric folded loosely. That small exposure—so unintentional, so ordinary—was to her as if she had stumbled into a forbidden shrine. She thought she might burn beneath the heat rising in her cheeks.
"Fati?" Ivy's whisper cut like a knife, sharp with urgency, paired with the jab of an elbow that struck Fatima's ribs. Pain snapped her back to the world. She blinked, startled, realizing too late the warmth spilling down her chin. "You're drooling. Are you alright?" Ivy's brows furrowed with concern, her lips drawn thin, eyes darting between Fatima and the man who unknowingly stole her attention.
"Thank you, young master," Fatima blurted, her voice light and airy, painted with a foolish smile. The words tumbled out before she could catch them, and the betrayal of her own tongue set her ears blazing scarlet. Ivy smacked her palm against her own face in mortification, groaning quietly. Clover, unable to contain herself, covered her mouth but failed to hide her giggles. Dimitriu, however, only blinked at them. His green eyes narrowed slightly in puzzlement, his expression calm but unreadable. "Right," he said, his voice careful, laced with awkward amusement. He rubbed the back of his neck and let out a nervous chuckle. "What are you thanking me for?"
Embarrassment swallowed Fatima whole. Beads of sweat slid down her temple, catching the light before trailing down her cheek. "Get it together, Fati," Clover whispered conspiratorially, nudging her shoulder before pressing a piece of bread into her hands. She pushed it between Fatima's lips with a grin. "Here. Eat some bread."
"Apologies for her behavior, young master," Ivy interjected with a weary sigh, her tone rehearsed and cautious. "She's not feeling well today." Silence crept in like a thin veil after her words, heavy and suffocating. "Brother!" A child's voice carried over the open plain, bright and jubilant. The spell of awkwardness was instantly shattered.
Two small figures darted across the field, their laughter ringing like bells in the summer air. Their cheeks flushed, their legs pumping as though the wind itself bore them forward. Octave followed behind at a slower pace, his tall frame upright and composed. His hands rested deep within the pockets of his trousers, stretching the suspenders taut against his broad shoulders. Though still youthful, the quiet gravity of his stride lent him a maturity beyond his years. Sunlight caught in his short, flaxen hair, and with the wind combing it back, he looked every bit the nobleman he was born to be.
Fatima's chest tightened. She noticed too keenly the way Clover's gaze lingered on Octave, a glimmer of girlish admiration sparking in her eyes. "What are you troublemakers doing here of all places?" Dimitriu's voice rang sharp, directed at his brother. "They saw you talking with the girls," Octave replied evenly, with a lazy shrug, "and begged me to bring them along."
Dimitriu's brow knit into a brief frown before he let out a long sigh. His shoulders sank as though weighed down by responsibility. "You know full well you aren't permitted to be anywhere near them. Mother will be furious when she learns of this." Jeffrey, with tousled brown hair and hazel eyes shining with stubborn hope, stepped forward and pouted. "Can't we just make an excuse, brother?"
"No." Dimitriu's tone softened but remained firm. His head shook, a gesture of disapproval that brooked no argument. "Brother, I have an idea." Octave advanced, his posture brimming with confidence. His voice carried conviction. "What if we practice archery and pretend they are assisting us?" Their appeals hung in the air, persistent and insistent. The girls, uncertain and wary, instinctively took a step back.
Fatima felt her thoughts twist into knots. Why? Why would the sons of nobility—children of the very woman who despised their kind—plead for such closeness? They should have turned their noses away with scorn, as their mother and sister so often did. Yet here they were eager, almost desperate to bridge the line between master and servant. The contradiction rattled her, dredging up memories of the annex—cold walls, unspoken horrors that had left her with no visible scars, but a deep, gnawing fear planted in her heart.
"If I may, young masters," she said at last, her voice trembling as she cleared her throat, willing her nerves to still. "Yes, Fati. Go on." Dimitriu turned toward her, his expression softened, eyes shining with sincere interest. Her heart lurched violently. Their gazes locked, and in his she saw kindness, untainted and earnest, something she wasn't meant to have. A wave of warmth rushed to her face, dizzying her senses. His smile—gentle, courteous—nearly unraveled her restraint.
Fatima shook her head quickly, breaking the trance. "I don't think it wise to engage in playtime with the young masters, my lord," she stammered, forcing her eyes downward. "As bond servants, we have rules we must obey no matter the circumstances, and the consequences of breaking them… will be ours to bear alone."
Her words pressed heavily into the air, dimming the playful mood. Behind her, she felt the girls' longing stares, their yearning palpable, but she couldn't bend. Not with danger so close, unseen but certain. Octave studied her sharply, his eyes narrowing. "Say, Fati… I noticed that your manner of speech is nothing like that of a servant. Are you sure you aren't from a fallen noble family? Where are you from?"
The question cut through her like a blade. She trembled, her body stiffening as her gaze dropped to his polished black shoes. She cursed herself silently. She had forgotten—forgotten to mask her tongue, to bow her voice in submission. The duke's warnings echoed in her mind. Be cautious. Be careful. Never reveal yourself—not even to them.
"That's enough, Octave," Dimitriu interrupted swiftly, laying a firm hand on his brother's shoulder and nudging him forward. His tone carried a protective edge, but his expression remained composed. He turned back toward the girls, flashing them a bright smile that seemed almost too radiant for the tension clinging to the moment. "Now then, fair maidens, how about assisting us in our physical activities today?"
**
Upon Dimitriu's quiet approval, the children spilled into the forest like a burst of life, their voices quick to shatter the stillness beneath the canopy. Sunlight streamed through the tangle of branches overhead, falling in broken patches across mossy stones and gnarled roots. The air carried the mingled scents of damp soil, crushed greenery, and the faint sweetness of wildflowers, each breath grounding them deeper into the wilderness.
They quickly busied themselves with childish pursuits—little hands tugging weeds from the earth, darting feet chasing rabbits that vanished into burrows, laughter echoing as they stooped low to catch shimmering beetles scuttling over bark. Ivy crouched on a log, her nimble fingers guiding Octave in bending pliant twigs into the shape of a bow, her voice brimming with the pride of a teacher. Not far off, Clover's dress swayed as she knelt among mushrooms, her basket steadily filling as Jeffrey and Waynon trailed after her, squealing whenever they found a patch of fungi half-hidden beneath leaves. Their giggles rose in playful shrieks, tangling with the rustling of the forest as though the woods themselves delighted in their joy.
Away from the children's merriment, Fatima walked beside Dimitriu in a silence that felt far from peaceful. The air between them carried a taut, unspoken tension, broken only by the weary sighs that slipped from her lips. She had thought earlier of all the things she needed to tell him—questions that weighed her down, confessions burning in her throat—yet now, with him at her side, her tongue betrayed her, tied into silence by the heat rising to her cheeks.
"How are you feeling, Fati? Yesterday must have taken quite a toll on you, hasn't it?" Dimitriu's voice was gentle, low enough to stir the fine hairs at her ear. His eyes flicked to her, and Fatima faltered. She had been staring at him—his sharp features, and the soft flutter of his blonde hair. She turned her face away swiftly, hoping he would not notice the flush climbing her cheeks like wildfire. "I'm fine, all thanks to you, young master. Thank you… for saving me yesterday." Her words spilled quickly, half-murmured, her voice trembling with sincerity she dared not show in her eyes.
Dimitriu blinked, her gratitude weighing oddly in his thoughts. Saving her? From what—or from whom? His brow furrowed faintly as he sifted through memories of the market, until the corner of his mouth quirked into a quiet chuckle. "Ah yes, his high—" He caught himself, throat tightening as he stilled the slip, his gaze darting away before returning with forced composure. "I mean Sir Nate can be rough around the edges sometimes, but I assure you he's a good fellow… deep, deep, deep down." He pinched his fingers together with playful exaggeration, his tone coaxing a lightness into the heavy air.
Fatima pressed her lips together to hold back her smile, but it escaped anyway—a soft giggle that tinkled like a bell between them. "Young master is absolutely right," she agreed, her voice warm yet shy. But inside, her heart quivered. Walking beside him was both comfort and torment. Each brush of his gaze against her skin sent a flutter through her chest, her breath catching as though the air had turned too sweet, too heavy to bear. It was suffocating, intoxicating—a kind of sweetness that made her heart pound so loud she wondered if he could hear it.
Dimitriu, for his part, could hardly keep his own eyes from wandering back to her. The way her laughter brightened her face, how her deep red eyes glittered like cut rubies in the dappled light, how her delicate features seemed as though they belonged to a master's sculpture rather than a child of flesh and blood. There was a fragility to her beauty, yet also a grace so vivid it made him forget the world beyond this moment.
"Young master Waynon—stop! Do not touch that mushroom!" Fatima's voice rang out suddenly, slicing through the fragile spell between them. Her small feet pounded against the earth as she sprinted toward the boy, panic etched in her face. The light in her eyes shifted from tender warmth to sharp fear, her cotton dress flaring around her as she rushed forward, desperate to shield him from harm.
**
Meanwhile, in one of the most lavish wings of the imperial palace, a parlor gleamed beneath golden chandeliers whose light shimmered off polished marble floors and velvet-draped windows. The scent of bergamot tea and freshly cut roses lingered faintly in the air, intermingling with the rich musk of aged leather. Dominique lowered himself onto a brown leather sofa, its cushions sinking beneath his rigid posture. His cape pooled about him like a heavy curtain, though his tense shoulders betrayed how little comfort he took in the luxurious surroundings.
Across from him sat a figure who seemed carved from nobility itself. Emperor Exzavier, a giant of a man, lounged with casual command, his long legs crossed with the ease of one who knew no mortal dared challenge him. His neatly parted crimson hair caught the light like burnished copper, the front strands brushing his temples in a carefully tamed sweep. A neatly trimmed beard the same fiery shade framed his strong jaw, his fingers idly stroking it whenever a thought amused him. Yet it was his eyes—deep, glacial blue, glinting with the cold majesty of the northern seas—that truly unsettled Dominique.
Those very eyes now fixed on him, unreadable and sharp, as the emperor lifted a porcelain teacup to his lips. He took a slow sip, tilted his head to one side, then the other, as though weighing his cousin like a puzzle piece that did not fit. Dominique sat frozen, the dread etched on his face as clear as ink upon parchment. His stomach churned with the knowledge that the words he had been dreading hung precariously between them, waiting for Exzavier to loose them.
"Is it true," the emperor finally asked, voice smooth as silk and twice as dangerous, "that Countess Jasmine—your mistress—is with child? And tell me, cousin, how in the seven hells did you manage to conceal such important news until now?"
Dominique's eyes widened. Heat flushed his cheeks as though the walls themselves had betrayed him. "Your Majesty, I surely hope you did not summon me here to discuss my personal life—" Exzavier's laughter burst forth, deep and booming, shaking the room as surely as a thunderclap. "Come now, Dominique, we're family! What's with the secrecy? As if no one knew about your beloved mistress!"
Dominique clenched his jaw. Family. That was precisely why he had kept it secret. The last thing he wanted was his cousin's merciless teasing. Yet of course, he had forgotten—Exzavier was emperor of Alkaraz. The man had eyes in every corridor, ears in every market, and an appetite for mischief at his cousin's expense.
The duke forced himself to swallow his irritation, but his composure cracked further when Exzavier leaned forward, smirking as he caressed his short red beard. "You do know, don't you, that Duchess Gwendolynn will be furious once she hears this? I daresay she's already receiving a mountain of letters as we speak."
Dominique pinched the bridge of his nose. That, above all, was why he had guarded the pregnancy with such desperation. The entirety of high society despised Jasmine, and his wife was armed with claws sharp enough to shred a reputation in a single stroke.
"Your Majesty," he said at last, sighing as he leaned back, gripping his teacup like a lifeline, "I must beg you to instruct the Crown Prince to leave my estate at once." The emperor blinked, momentarily wrong-footed. "Why? Was it not your idea to have him spend time with your daughter, to strengthen their bond?"
"That," Dominique interrupted with a grimace, "was my wife's idea." His tone landed with the finality of a judge's gavel. Exzavier's smirk vanished, his features hardening into a scowl. His voice sharpened, like a blade drawn across whetstone. "Are you saying you don't want your daughter to marry my son? He is a good child—refined, strong, everything a husband ought to be. And I hear your daughter is infatuated with him."
The emperor's indignation rattled the air, and Dominique's aides immediately rushed to whisper fretting pleas for calm. Dominique, meanwhile, kept his silence, his own heart thundering in his chest. He loathed sparring words with his cousin like this—it frayed the emperor's already fragile health. Must he truly be this reckless with his own life just to win an argument? the duke thought bitterly.
Finally, Dominique spoke, his brows knitting with genuine concern. "Your Majesty, I have only one daughter. You, however, were blessed with two, both already betrothed to my eldest sons. Does it not seem… excessive to throw Florette into the mix as well?"
For a moment, silence loomed heavy. Then Exzavier waved a dismissive hand, his mood shifting as swiftly as a breeze. "Fine, fine. I'm sure you have enough to worry about. You may send Prince Kazein back when you return to your duchy. I'll send a letter ahead to smooth things over." Relief surged through Dominique like a tide breaking free. He shot to his feet, bowing low. "If that is all, your Majesty, I bid you good day."
"Wait—hey! Where do you think you're running off to—hey!" Exzavier's shout followed him, but Dominique was already halfway to the door. His cape flared dramatically behind him, the gust toppling a stack of papers and setting the roses in their tall crystal vase swaying precariously.
"That damn geezer!" Exzavier thundered after him, beard bristling as he jabbed a finger at the door Dominique had just fled through. "How dare he run away from me in the middle of a serious conversation?" Yet even as his outrage simmered, his hand crept back to his beard, stroking it in thought. His scowl softened into a wry grin. "Hmph. I was going to ask him about the princess."
**
Fatima's heart slammed against her ribs the instant she saw Waynon pluck the strange mushroom from the mossy trunk. Her instincts overtook reason, and before she realized it, both her hands had seized his cheeks in a desperate grip, pulling his face away from his fingers. His skin was warm beneath her trembling palms, but her mind spun with concern.
"Fatima, could you let go of my cheeks now?" Waynon mumbled, his words distorted into a comical jumble by her iron squeeze. His eyebrows scrunched together, somewhere between annoyance and bewilderment.
"Ah!" Fatima jerked back as though scalded, her hands flying to her chest. "I—I beg your pardon, young master. I didn't mean to touch you. I just… panicked and—" Her voice cracked, and the panic she had tried to stifle began to bleed into her features.
Tears threatened the corners of her eyes as old memories surged forward. The image of Duchess Gwendolynn's cruel smile carved itself into her thoughts. She could almost hear the duchess' cutting voice declaring punishment for her insolence. What if they told her of this? What if she claimed these sullied hands had defiled her son? A punishment, or worse—the loss of her hands—would be certain.
Her dark thoughts spiraled deeper, gnawing at her chest like a swarm of beetles. Her breathing grew shallow, her lips trembled, and her face paled until she looked almost ghostly. The other children who knew her history exchanged uneasy glances, their hearts aching at the despair written so starkly across her countenance. The boys, oblivious to the depth of her fears, only stared with furrowed brows, confusion and worry tugging at their features.
Then—laughter. Waynon's light, boyish chuckle broke through her spiraling storm. Fatima's head snapped up, eyes wide, her tears unshed but glistening. "I wasn't upset at you touching my face at all," he said, his grin softening the forest's oppressive air. "So, you don't need to apologize. I was just startled is all."
Fatima blinked, stunned. The words didn't make sense. A noble child, brushed by the hand of a bond servant—unpunished? Even smiling about it? Her confusion left her breathless. "I'm grateful, actually," Waynon continued, turning toward the mushroom with a faint frown of realization. Sunlight slanted across his golden-brown hair, making him appear almost radiant as he gazed at the danger he had narrowly escaped. "Who knew such poisonous things grew here?"
Fatima crouched before the mushrooms, the hem of her cotton dress brushing against the damp forest floor. The earthy smell of soil rose around her as she prodded the fungi loose with a brittle twig. "This one," she said, her voice steadier now, "is called a death cap mushroom. Its poison is so potent that even a morsel could kill a child your age instantly."
The words struck the boys like icy water. Their faces drained of color, shoulders shivering with a silent dread. Their eyes flickered from Fatima's grave expression to the pale, ghostly caps sprouting at her feet. Slowly, instinctively, they shuffled backward, as though distance alone could shield them from danger.
The forest hummed around them—cicadas buzzing in the canopy, leaves rustling overhead, the dappled sunbeams falling like shards of gold between branches. This season's warmth always brought such growth, Fatima knew, but never had she been so acutely aware of how deadly that abundance could be. Still, thanks to her, Waynon's life had been spared. And without meaning to, she had drawn Dimitriu's gaze. He studied her quietly, his deep green eyes sharp with curiosity. Never had he encountered a bond servant with such knowledge, especially of the forest's hidden perils. Something about her unsettled his certainty of how the world worked. But the lengthening shafts of sunlight warned that playtime was ending. Dimitriu straightened, brushing stray twigs from his tunic. "Shall we head back?" he asked, his tone brisk but laced with fond authority. "Mother will throw a fit if she sees us in this state."
The boys groaned but obeyed, smacking dirt from their trousers and shaking leaves out of their hair. Bits of greenery clung stubbornly, some twisted in their locks.
Trailing behind, Fatima let out a stifled giggle. Her sharp eyes had spotted a muddy handprint smeared across Dimitriu's otherwise pristine gray trousers—right across his left buttock. She nudged the girls walking beside her, covering her mouth as she pointed. The sight was so absurd that her companions nearly choked trying to smother their laughter, their muffled snickers following the noble boys like playful ghosts through the sunlit forest path.
**
Despite their near-death experience in the forest, the children never failed to return, bounding to the woods at least once a week, laughter trailing behind them like ribbons in the wind. Dimitriu, ever watchful, supervised from a careful distance, his sharp eyes both guardian and silent judge. But for Fatima, these gatherings offered something far more distracting than playtime—a chance to see him. Dimitriu.
The golden-haired figure had become a near-constant presence, his tall frame cutting an effortless silhouette against the fading afternoon light. Each time she caught sight of him, her heart gave that treacherous skip, her gaze drawn to the striking sharpness of his jaw, the unruly locks of blonde that caught the sun like spun gold, and those piercing eyes—serene yet dangerous, like a storm waiting for command. God help me, Fatima thought, I'll never grow tired of staring at that angelic face.
"Fati—he's here again," Clover whispered with a mischievous grin, tugging at Fatima's sleeve as they approached the warehouse tucked near the stables. The air smelled of dry hay and old iron, the heavy scent of animals drifting faintly in the breeze. "Who?" Fatima murmured, though her voice faltered as her gaze swept the open fields behind them. Clover stifled a giggle and nodded ahead.
There he was—Nathaniel—casually striding across the field toward them. His presence in the farm always lightened their burdens, though it brought a different weight to Fatima's chest. The playful banter he often exchanged with her during his visits had become the highlight of their days; even Ivy, usually the most serious of them, could not resist watching with a quiet smile.
"What is that in your hand, Sir Nate?" Fatima asked, her tone caught between curiosity and challenge, her eyes flicking to the straw basket he carried. Nathaniel turned, his brows knitting as he shot her a withering look. "Are you blind?" he snapped, his voice low, sharp—but the corner of his lip betrayed a twitch. Unbothered, Fatima scrunched up her face in an exaggerated mimicry of his scowl. "Are you blind?" she muttered in mock imitation, lips pursed dramatically, and Ivy and Clover dissolved into quiet giggles behind her.
Since discovering her knack for cooking, Nathaniel had made it his unspoken mission to bring provisions every evening. At first, Fatima resisted, pride lashing against the charity. But hunger gnawed more ruthlessly than pride ever could, and she could not allow the girls' stomachs to remain empty. So, she cooked—night after night—for the five of them, the warmth of the meals becoming a ritual that stitched them together.
"I brought quite a lot of meat today. The butcher was quite generous at the market," Nathaniel announced, clearing his throat in a vain attempt to hide the satisfied curl of his lips. The basket tilted slightly in his grip, the rich scent of fresh cuts wafting into the cool barn air.
Of course, the butcher was generous. Who would dare deny that face? Fatima chuckled softly to herself, shaking her head. "Meat soup!" Clover squealed, throwing her arms around Fatima's as if her entire being depended on it. "We're having meat soup today, right? Right, Fati? Please, please say yes!" Her eyes shimmered theatrically with tears, though her grin betrayed her. "Clover, behave yourself!" Ivy chided, her voice sharp as she crossed her arms. Yet Clover only tightened her grip, her pout as stubborn as stone.
Fatima's amusement faltered when she glanced back at Nathaniel. He hadn't joined in on Clover's antics, too proud for such dramatics—but his expression gave him away. His eyes lingered on her, on the basket, on the thought of the meal to come. A quiet hunger flickered there, not just for food, but for the ritual of it—the unspoken bond forged around a humble pot of soup. And Fatima, despite herself, felt her lips curve into a smile.