The night wrapped around the stables in a cloak of stillness, broken only by the soft crackle of firewood and the occasional whicker of horses behind the wooden walls. A bonfire glowed at the center of their small circle, its flames casting long shadows that danced across the packed earth. The air smelled of smoke and simmering broth, rich with the savory scent of stewed meat mingled with the faint musk of hay.
Fatima knelt near the pot, her face warmed by the firelight as she stirred the bubbling soup with practiced care. The flickering glow caught in her red eyes, giving them a spark as she leaned back and ladled a portion into a bowl. "Mmm," Clover hummed, holding an empty bowl close to her face as though she could drink in the aroma alone. She inhaled deeply and sighed in satisfaction, her lips curving into a smile. "It smells divine. I can hardly wait to dig in."
The bonfire had become their hearth—its warmth a comfort against the chill of night. Sparks lifted into the velvet sky whenever the flames licked higher, briefly illuminating the logs they sat upon. Nathaniel had made certain they were well-equipped for such nights; he and Dimitriu had insisted on buying them sturdy pots and a set of reusable utensils. Fatima remembered how hesitant she had been to accept such kindness, afraid of the danger their generosity might invite. But the young men had vowed to protect them, no matter the cost.
With a gentle motion, Fatima extended a steaming bowl toward Nathaniel, the rising steam curling between them. "Is the young master busy again? Is that why he isn't here tonight?" she asked softly. Nathaniel's expression stiffened. The warmth in his eyes dimmed as quickly as the firelight wavered in a sudden breeze. His answer came curt, clipped. "Yes. It's just me here tonight. Dimitriu is occupied at the moment."
The sharpness of his tone stung. Fatima lowered her gaze, sighing faintly, and turned to retreat back toward the pot. But before she could take another step, a familiar voice drifted from behind her, rich and steady, carrying with it a presence that seemed to bend the night around it. "Who's busy?"
Fatima froze, her heart lurching. Slowly, she turned, and her breath caught in her throat. "Young master!" Her voice lifted with sudden cheer, her cheeks flushing as Dimitriu emerged from the shadows. He strode toward them with unhurried grace, the pale firelight catching on his white tunic and loose black trousers. His hair, bound in a careless ponytail, spilled in stray strands around his face, softening his sharp features. To Fatima, the sight was enough to send her heart racing wildly, a warmth rising in her chest that had nothing to do with the bonfire.
"Please, have a seat while I prepare your serving," she offered eagerly, brushing dust from the spot beside Nathaniel until the surface was clean enough to sit on. Nathaniel's eyes narrowed slightly as he watched her. The firelight deepened the shadow on his frown, and he muttered under his breath, his tone edged with irritation, "One would think she's hosting the emperor."
**
The air was cool and smelled of damp earth, hay, and the lingering aroma of stew. Crickets chirped in steady rhythm from the grass, and every now and then the restless whicker of a horse drifted from the shadows within the stable, mingling with the occasional thud of hooves against wooden planks.
The large pot of soup now sat overturned and bare, its bottom gleaming in the firelight as though mocking its emptiness. Dimitriu, who had arrived last, wiped his mouth contentedly after his fourth bowl, the flames painting golden highlights across his tousled blond hair. Fatima's hands had never once failed to refill his bowl, her movements almost automatic, though her heart fluttered with every small "thank you" he gave her.
Nathaniel, in contrast, seemed untouched by the warmth of the meal or the fire. After only two bowls, he set his dish aside and sat rigid, shadows clinging to the sharp angles of his face. His eyes, reflecting the fire's red glow, remained distant, stormy, as though some inner weight pressed heavily against him.
Ivy and Clover were less restrained. Their laughter had gradually softened into groggy murmurs as their bodies gave in to the fullness of their bellies and the lull of the night. Clover leaned against Ivy's shoulder, her lids half-shut, a tiny hiccup escaping her lips. "Fati…" she slurred, her words dripping with sleep. "I'm so full… and sleepy all of a sudden." "Me too…" Ivy yawned, her voice light and drowsy, eyes narrowing against the glow of the fire before slipping shut again.
Fatima finally sat down before the bonfire, the warmth of the flames kissing her cheeks as she stared into the fire. Sparks leapt into the air like fireflies, vanishing into the vast, starlit sky above. The heavens were clear tonight, the moon a pale sentinel watching silently over them. Yet despite the beauty around her, her thoughts were pulled backward—drawn to the salt-stained days aboard the merchant ship. Corora's voice echoed in her memory, sharp and lively.
"Say it correctly. Co-ro-ra!" she demanded with a mischievous tilt of her lips. Fatima could almost smell the brine and smoke again, see Corora tossing pirates into the sea as though they were no more than sacks of grain, hear the roar of laughter in the galley as their botched attempts at cooking left them covered in soot. Those memories clung as strongly as the sea air once had—painful, but precious. And their parting at Alkaraz's dock… it still stung like a half-healed wound.
"What are you thinking about so deeply?" Nathaniel's low tone cut through her trance. His eyes glowed faintly in the firelight, intent and suspicious, as though he'd been studying her for some time. "It's nothing," she sighed, though her heart still ached with the ghost of Corora's farewell.
Beside him, Dimitriu had slumped into sleep, his head leaning on Nathaniel's shoulder as his golden hair spilled forward, obscuring his face. The strands irritated Fatima—it felt unfair, how even in sleep he managed to hide what she longed to see.
Her heart hammered in her chest as she rose. Nathaniel's gaze followed her closely, the light catching in his eyes like embers sparking against flint. She leaned forward, reaching with trembling fingers to tuck Dimitriu's hair back behind his ear. Her touch lingered longer than it should have, warmth blooming in her chest as she took in his peaceful face. She couldn't help the small, breathless smile that curved her lips, or the way her cheeks flushed as hot as the fire's glow.
"You should quell your feelings for him as soon as you can," Nathaniel muttered, his sigh curling like smoke into the night. He turned his head, the shadows hiding the hardness in his expression. "The sooner, the better."
Fatima lowered herself into a crouch in front of Dimitriu, burying her face in her palms. "I know this could cost me my life," she whispered, her voice catching in the quiet. "But I don't think I can stop now. He's… the kindest soul I've ever met. Everything about him draws me in. It makes me want to know more, to do more, even to be—" Her words faltered, their weight too heavy to finish. She let out a shaky laugh. "Sorry. I'm rambling."
She stood again, retreating to her seat, but the air between her and Nathaniel hummed with unspoken things. Despite the warning in his words, there was no judgment in his gaze—only a strange, protective bond that had deepened with time, a quiet safety she had not known in years.
"It's getting late," Nathaniel finally said, his voice soft but steady as he shook his shoulders, trying to stir Dimitriu awake. The blond man only mumbled, sinking deeper into sleep's embrace. "Right," Fatima muttered, her voice subdued against the night's quiet. "I'll take care of these two and clean up. Thank you again, Sir Nate." She bowed her head slightly.
Nathaniel was already rising, Dimitriu's limp arm hooked across his shoulders, his hand firm at the man's back. The fire behind them snapped loudly, sending a flurry of sparks swirling upward as their shadows stretched long across the stable walls. Overhead, the moon glowed pale and watchful, casting its silver light over the tired little camp as the night deepened into silence.
**
Nathaniel's boots struck hard against the gravel path, each step echoing his simmering irritation. His crimson hair caught the lantern light in fleeting glimmers, his sharp jaw tight with restraint. He tightened his grip on the arm he dragged beside him before halting abruptly near the threshold. His patience snapped like a frayed bowstring.
"How much longer are you going to pretend to be asleep, Dimitriu?" His voice cut through the stillness of the hour, sharp and menacing. With a sharp jerk, he let go. "Stand on your own two feet, or I will not hesitate to drop you." The warning came too late. Dimitriu hit the gravel with a muted thud, followed by an exaggerated groan. "Ah! You didn't have to throw me to the ground! Ow—my buttocks hurt." He rubbed the back of his trousers, his expression a blend of indignation and mischief even as he winced.
Nathaniel loomed over him, his shadow long and severe in the lantern light. "You heard everything, did you not?" His eyes narrowed, glowering down with a heat that rivaled the flames dancing in the lanterns above them.
For once, Dimitriu faltered, terror and confusion flashing briefly across his features before his habitual smugness returned to mask it. "I've always been popular among the ladies, your highness. You know that." His chuckle was dry, forced, as he pushed himself upright, brushing dirt from his palms. Straightening his tunic with practiced nonchalance, he added, "Besides, she is but a mere bond servant of my estate. What do you expect me to do?"
Nathaniel's jaw clenched until his teeth grated audibly. "Stop stringing her feelings along. Tell her the truth, then end it." His words hissed between his teeth like a blade unsheathed. "Why does the truth matter to a bond servant?" Dimitriu spread his hands carelessly, his tone light, dismissive. "I fail to understand your point, your highness. I'm sure what she feels is just a passing fancy she'll get over soon enough." He said jokingly, waving a dismissive hand.
The lanternlight sharpened the fury in Nathaniel's gaze as his voice dropped cold and cutting. "There is your true color at last, you lousy coward." He spat the words, though beneath his rage a deeper, unexplainable disquiet stirred—why did the thought of that girl's feelings getting hurt twist so uncomfortably inside him? "I'm afraid I do not understand what you're upset about, your highness." Dimitriu shrugged, offering his best impression of innocence.
Nathaniel let out a weary breath, dragging a hand through the strands of crimson hair that now clung to the damp night air. "Forget it. I'm going to bed." Without waiting for a reply, he strode past, his coat swaying behind him in sharp, impatient movements.
Dimitriu stood frozen in place, plastering on a smile until the heavy estate doors closed with a hollow thud. Only then did his knees give way, and he slumped back to the gravel. His breath trembled as he muttered to himself, "I…I can't feel my legs." The night swallowed his words, leaving only the whisper of the wind and the faint hiss of the lantern flame.
**
The morning air still clung to a crisp chill, its faint dampness carrying the earthy scent of dew-soaked soil and hay. A pale gold light spilled across the farmyard, stretching long shadows of the iron fences and the stacked bundles of straw. Fatima's hands were stiff with the weight of the iron tools as she hauled them out of the warehouse, the rough wood handles scraping against her palms.
The quiet rhythm of her work was broken by the sudden appearance of a maid, her figure emerging like a phantom through the silvery mist that still lingered over the fields. "Young Master Dimitriu has requested your presence in his study today," the maid announced softly, her voice calm and strangely gentle against the morning's silence. Draped neatly over her arms was a plain cotton dress, its fabric freshly laundered and faintly perfumed with lavender. She placed it into Fatima's grasp with an almost reverent touch before stepping back. "This is the attire that you must wear to enter the mansion. I shall await you near the entrance." With a small bow, she retreated into the pale light, her shoes crunching faintly on the gravel path until she vanished from view.
Fatima stared down at the garment, her breath uneven, the cool fabric heavy across her arms. She had spoken with many maids during her days in the Kartier estate—when she still dared to steal moments in the duke's vast library—but none had ever looked at her with such unforced kindness. Distrust prickled beneath her skin.
"Okay," she murmured, though the word was no more than a breath carried on the morning air. Turning back, she slipped into the dim warehouse, where dust motes danced lazily in shafts of light streaming through the high cracks in the wood. The scent of earth, oil, and iron filled her nose as she set the tools aside.
Her fingers trembled as she pulled the dress against her frame, her thoughts twisting into knots. This had to be another ploy, another cruel game spun by the duchess. The memory of that dreadful night still lingered in her mind, the phantom sting of the cruelty she suffered sent gooseflesh across her arms. Was this summons truly from Dimitriu—or a trap laid in the shadows of the mansion's marble halls?
The warehouse suddenly felt colder, the silence heavier. Fatima shuddered, straightening the short sleeve of her dress, a single thought pressing against her ribs like a blade: If it is a trap… will I survive this time?
**
The sun had already climbed well into the morning sky, scattering beams of pale gold across the bustling heart of Alvarest. A pristine white carriage, lacquered until it gleamed like polished ivory, rolled through the towering wrought-iron gates of a grand hotel. The imperial crest glimmered on its doors, catching the light with every turn of the wheels. Above the arching entrance stood bold, elegant letters spelling out Maison Blan, their golden paint catching fire under the sun. The hotel was a vision of artistry and indulgence. Its entrance was framed by towering columns draped in fragrant garlands, each flower freshly cut, their perfume mingling sweetly with the crisp morning air. Majestic stone statues stood watch across the front gardens, the most prominent being a commanding likeness of Dominique himself, captured forever in stone with a great eagle poised upon his arm. Beds of tulips, roses, and violets exploded in vibrant patches of color beneath the sunlight, their petals trembling lightly in the breeze.
The carriage rocked to a gentle halt on the cobbled drive. Han, dressed in his finely tailored blue suit, stepped down swiftly, his polished boots crunching faintly against the stones. He adjusted the cuffs of his gloves with practiced grace before leaning toward the small window. "We have arrived at our next respite, your highness. As always, I will have the maids see to your luggage." His voice was smooth, steady, steeped in the dignity of his station. He opened the door with a low creak and extended his hand. "Watch your steps, your highness."
A pale gloved hand touched his, light as a feather. Princess Emilia descended with elegance, the morning sunlight catching the silken folds of her gown. The faint fragrance of lavender clung to her as she fluttered her fan, half-hiding the curve of her lips. "Why, thank you, Han." Her voice was calm, but her blue eyes—bright and curious behind her lashes—betrayed her wonder. She tilted her chin up to admire the sprawling structure before her. "So, this is Maison Blan," she murmured, awe slipping into her tone as she crossed the drive toward the entrance.
Two uniformed porters rushed to swing the massive doors wide and out stepped the hotelier—a stately man in pristine attire, bowing low until his auburn hair brushed forward into his line of sight. His voice carried through the morning air, rich and rehearsed. "Greetings to the small moon of our realm. Please allow us the honor of escorting you to the dining hall, your highness. A spread has been prepared in your name, a feast worthy of your companions and yourself."
The princess inclined her head, her eyes glinting like ice catching the sun. She was no ordinary guest—this was Princess Emilia VonTicus, the twin sister of the crown prince, and the weight of her presence was felt by all who watched. "Very well. Let us see how scrumptious this spread of yours proves to be. Lead the way, Han."
Han stepped forward, his stride deliberate yet measured, noticing her darting glances lingering on the grandeur around her. He slowed, allowing her to take it all in at her leisure.
Inside, the lobby was a world of its own. Marble floors gleamed beneath the glow of crystal chandeliers, reflecting the swish of gowns and the sharp rhythm of boots and heels echoing in the grand hall. The scent of beeswax polish and fresh lilies drifted faintly through the air, mingling with the aroma of roasted coffee wafting from the dining hall. Chatter rose and fell in a gentle hum, punctuated by the musical splash of water. At the center of the reception hall stood the Wish Fountain, its waters glittering beneath a dome of skylight glass. Silver and gold coins winked up from the depths as sunlight kissed the rippling surface.
"How often do you think they empty this thing, Han?" Emilia asked under her breath as they passed, her fan twitching slightly to hide a playful smile. "With the number of guests flowing through this place? I'd wager monthly," Han replied softly, a faint chuckle threading his words.
**
Later that day, after Emilia and her attendants had indulged in a luncheon that—much to her surprise—satisfied her imperial palate with its rich flavors and artful presentation, she was guided to her suite. The corridors carried the warm scents of polished wood and faint incense, and her heels clicked softly against the carpeted runners as attendants flitted about like shadows.
Now seated at her vanity, Emilia gazed into the ornate oval mirror while her maid brushed her long crimson hair, each stroke whispering against the strands. Han stood nearby, his tone hushed but steady. "Your highness, it appears duke Dominique's return has been delayed. His mistress' morning sickness has worsened." Emilia's lips curved in a tight line as her thoughts darkened. It's just another excuse to shield Countess Jasmine from the duchess' claws. Her gaze in the mirror hardened, though her posture remained impeccable. "Has the crown prince's return been scheduled?" she asked at last, her sigh escaping like a soft breeze through still air. "Not yet, your highness. But it is only a matter of time before his majesty sends word to the Kartier estate."
A quiet tension stretched through the suite, palpable even to the maids. Emilia's thoughts shifted to her older brother—aloof, easily irritated, hiding from the world in his solitude. Has he finally started taking a liking to Florette? The thought brought a shadow across her face. She had never warmed to that girl, merely endured her for appearances' sake. "Very well. You may all leave. I'll be sleeping for the remainder of the day." She waved her hand with practiced indifference. "As you wish, your highness." Han and the maids bowed low before retreating, their footsteps fading into silence as the heavy door clicked shut.
Left in solitude, Emilia let out a small yawn, stretching as her body sagged with exhaustion. "I wonder what my beloved Dimitriu is up to these days," she murmured, her words barely above a whisper.
The morning had been long as travel had begun at dawn, and her body ached with weariness. Though she had wanted to stroll the duchy, to see how much it had changed since her last visit, her limbs betrayed her, heavy with fatigue. She sat on the edge of the vast, inviting bed, silk sheets shimmering faintly in the sunlight that filtered through gauzy curtains. Her eyelids fluttered as another yawn escaped, her vision swimming with drowsiness. The weight of her journey, the hum of distant city noise beyond the windows, and the soft fragrance of lavender from the vases nearby all mingled into one gentle haze. By the time Emilia sank back against the pillows, she was already half lost to sleep.
**
It wasn't until Fatima stood within the threshold of Dimitriu's study that the maid's words seemed to hold any weight. Even then, doubt still clung to her chest like a vice. Her slippers hesitated against the patterned carpet, her body refusing to step further into the room. What am I doing here? she thought, her fingers tightening around the folds of her dress as though clutching the fabric might steady her nerves.
"Ah, there you are, Fati. I have been waiting for you." Dimitriu's voice cut through the still air as he pushed open the door with his shoulder, arms laden with a precarious stack of papers. His energy carried into the room like a sudden gust, shifting the atmosphere. Damian followed behind him in quiet contrast, his presence subdued though his own arms were similarly burdened.
"Why don't you take a seat?" Dimitriu suggested, his smile quick but almost careless as he dropped the unruly pile of papers onto his cluttered desk with a dull thud that made Fatima flinch.
"You can place these on top of those, Damian," he instructed without looking, already moving to unfasten his coat. The butler complied wordlessly, his movements precise, then stepped aside to hang Dimitriu's coat neatly upon the wooden hanger near the wall.
Fatima's eyes darted around, drinking in the unfamiliar space. She had often walked the gleaming halls of this mansion in Dominique's days, but this wing of the estate had always remained foreign to her. Dimitriu's study bore little resemblance to the duke's stately chambers. It was smaller, more shadowed, and decidedly untamed—books of varying size and age lay sprawled haphazardly across the rug, some leaning dangerously against the walls. The desk was a fortress of parchment, towers of documents threatening to topple at any moment. When Dimitriu finally collapsed into his chair, all she could glimpse above the stacks was the tousled crown of his head.
"Do you not wish to sit?" he asked suddenly, his sharp eyes appearing over the paper barricade. "O-on the chair, young master?" Fatima stammered, her voice trembling like glass about to shatter. "Where else?" His reply came clipped, his baritone carrying stern weight, reverberating against the silence that had settled thick and heavy within the room.
Is he angry with me? Her breath caught, her heart beating frantically against her ribs. "If I may, young master…" she began timidly, her words faltering, only to be cut off by his curt interruption. "What is it?" His tone was growing colder, like frost creeping steadily across glass, and her body shivered instinctively. Fear clawed at her throat as she forced herself to speak the thought she dreaded most.
"Am I here to receive…some sort of punishment?" she whispered, the words barely making it past her lips, though the desperation behind them rang clear. Dimitriu sighed, dragging his fingers across his forehead as if trying to rub away his mounting irritation. "What are you on about, Fati? Will you sit, or must I come and make you?"
The finality in his tone made her pulse stutter. Her eyes flicked to Damian, seeking refuge in his expression, but the butler only cleared his throat and discreetly looked away, a silent gesture she couldn't quite decipher.
Dimitriu's patience snapped like a dried twig. He rose swiftly, the chair scraping against the rug in protest. His strides were purposeful, each step echoing in Fatima's chest as he rounded the desk and stopped before her. Before she could retreat, his arms swept around her, lifting her slight frame effortlessly. A startled gasp escaped her throat, her vision blurring as the shock threatened to drown her.
In three strides he reached the sofa, lowering her onto the cushions with surprising gentleness. Yet his looming presence remained unyielding—he bent close, his palms braced against the sofa's back, caging her in. Fatima's heart plummeted, her breath strangled in her chest. His face hovered so near she could catch the faint sweetness of grapes lingering in his breath. Instinctively, she held her own breath, eyelids squeezing shut as though to shield herself from the unknown.
"Must you always be so stubborn?" he murmured softly, his lips brushing dangerously close to her ear. The low timbre of his voice rippled through her, setting her skin alight with shivers. His breath ghosted across her neck, hot and unnerving, while his words coiled around her like a spell. For a fleeting, terrifying moment, Fatima felt as though her very soul was slipping from her body, leaving her defenseless before the storm of his presence.