Though the news had only just reached her, Duchess Gwendolynn wasted no time displaying the full measure of her refinement. Few could match her talent for orchestrating hospitality on short notice. Within the span of an hour, she had not only arranged chambers for Princess Emilia but also lined the estate's sun-drenched courtyard with the most polished of her household staff. Rows of servants—men and women alike—stood stiff-backed, the heat beading sweat at their temples, yet their uniforms were immaculate, their posture flawless.
"May the glory of Alkaraz shine upon her highness," they chorused, voices ringing with rehearsed cheer as they bowed low, their words rising into the shimmering summer air. At the center of the brick paved pathway, Duchess Gwendolynn herself dipped into a curtsy, every movement precise, her silken skirts sweeping the stones in a calculated display of grace. Yet her painted smile faltered for the briefest instant when she saw Emilia descend from the carriage alone. "Welcome, your highness," the duchess said smoothly, her voice honeyed but her eyes quietly probing. She had been told a man was accompanying the princess, and his absence unsettled her.
Emilia lingered at the carriage step, her gloved hand clutching the ivory fan that shielded her mouth. The sun's glare caught the jewels in her hair, sending fractured light across her pale features. She masked her surprise at the warm reception, though her pulse quickened. She had meant for this visit to be a secret. Could her brother have betrayed her plans? No—his disdain for the duchess and her daughter ran too deep for that. "My goodness! What a hearty welcome, Duchess Gwen. It has been far too long, my dear," Emilia said, her voice low behind the flutter of her fan, her eyes narrowing with a glint of suspicion as they locked with the duchess'. "It is the best we could do on such short notice, your highness," Gwendolynn replied with a placid smile, her tone steady as still water, though the tautness in her jaw betrayed the strain beneath. She stepped gracefully aside, a faint perfume of rose and amber trailing with her movement. "Shall we head inside?" "I look forward to your hospitality, Duchess Gwen," Emilia said as she swept past her, the crisp rustle of her gown brushing the air between them.
Though the exchange brimmed with pleasantries, a faint undercurrent crackled between the two women—a tension so palpable that even the servants, their heads bowed dutifully, felt its weight. Not a single one dared to raise their gaze until the duchess and the princess had vanished into the cool shadows of the manor.
**
The news of Emilia's arrival had just reached Dimitriu in his study, and to the maid's surprise, his reaction wasn't at all what one would expect from a fiancée. "What did you just say?" Dimitriu's voice cracked like a whip, startling the maid who stood trembling before his desk. He pushed himself to his feet so abruptly that the chair scraped harshly against the floorboards. His dark eyes widened in disbelief, as though her words belonged to some cruel illusion.
Fatima, dusting an empty shelf, froze mid-motion, her cloth pressed to the wood as she strained to hear. "H-her highness, Princess Emilia, has just arrived and was escorted to the tearoom by her Grace, young master." the maid stammered, her gaze skittering away from his, her fingers twisting nervously at her apron. Dimitriu dragged a hand through his golden hair, exhaling sharply as he moved around the desk toward the coat stand. "Very well," he muttered, voice low, strained. "You may leave."
The maid nearly fled, grateful to escape the suffocating air of his study. Fatima's eyes followed him cautiously, her heart tugging at the rare sight of him unsettled. He stood motionless before his coat, staring at it as though its presence alone bore the weight of his decision. Anxiety etched faint lines across his usually composed face, and something inside her ached at the sight. She parted her lips, hoping her words might steady him, even slightly. "Young master, are you—" "You leave too, Fati," Dimitriu cut her off, his tone firm, leaving no room for protest. He seized the coat with a swift, almost impatient gesture, sliding his arms into the sleeves with practiced precision.
The rejection fell heavy, like a stone in her chest. Fatima lowered her head, her disappointment hidden behind the veil of obedience. "As you wish, young master," she whispered, her voice scarcely more than a sigh. She turned and departed, the door closing softly behind her, leaving Dimitriu to his silence, his thoughts, and the storm that was clearly brewing inside him.
**
The soft chime of porcelain clinking filled the sunlit drawing room as Duchess Gwendolynn lifted her delicate teacup, the porcelain painted with tiny violets that matched the embroidery on her gown. A sly grin tugged at her painted lips as she asked, voice honeyed with false politeness, "How are things in the capital, your highness?"
Seated across from her on a velvet-upholstered chair, Princess Emilia stirred her tea with slow, deliberate movements, the silver spoon chiming lightly against the porcelain rim. The fragrance of bergamot and rosewater curled up from the steaming cup, mingling with the faint scent of polished mahogany and beeswax that lingered in the room. Her expression was serene, though her dark lashes half-lowered over eyes that missed nothing. "Well," she replied, her tone as smooth as cream, "rumors continue to spread faster than the wind, and the gossip never ceases. The usual."
The sugar cube dissolved at last, and with a graceful flick of her wrist Emilia set the spoon neatly onto the saucer, the sound sharp in the otherwise hushed room. She lifted the teacup and sipped, her lips curving into a smile as though struck by a sudden thought. "Ah!" she exclaimed lightly, her voice lilting with feigned casualness. "His Majesty and duke Dominique send their regards." The words hung in the air like perfume with a bitter note beneath. Only the emperor had spoken of her, but Emilia's deliberate addition of her husband's name was a subtle spark tossed into dry tinder. She watched the duchess closely as she set her cup back into its saucer. The faintest tightening of Gwendolynn's jaw, the fleeting hard glimmer in her otherwise genteel eyes—yes, the reaction was delicious. The duchess's smile remained fixed, but a sharpness flashed behind it, like steel concealed under silk. "I must say, Duchess," Emilia continued smoothly, allowing her gaze to wander about the room, "this estate is as elegant as ever."
The drawing room glowed beneath shafts of daylight streaming through tall windows, every polished surface gleaming—the ornate gold-framed mirrors, the freshly lacquered side tables, the velvet curtains heavy with tassels. Emilia's eyes traced the subtle changes from her last visit: the replaced chairs, the reupholstered settee, the marble-topped console. "Oh my, I'm glad her highness noticed." Gwendolynn's voice pitched higher with feigned delight as she clapped her hands together. A girlish giggle escaped her lips, though her eyes glinted with pride. "We recently redecorated the entire place and replaced some of our outdated furniture."
"As always, your impeccable taste never ceases to amaze me, Duchess Gwen." Emilia's tone was velvet-smooth, but her gaze suddenly caught on something across the room, and she gasped, nearly spilling her tea. "Good heavens!" She straightened in her seat, eyes wide, her voice sharp with awe. "Is that what I think it is?" Her finger, pale and slender, pointed toward the vitrine standing proudly near the far wall. Behind the glass floated a golden staff, faintly radiant as if breathing its own light.
"Your highness has a good eye for rarities." Gwendolynn leaned forward ever so slightly, unable to resist basking in the moment. Her tone swelled with triumph as she declared, "This is indeed the sacred staff of Arambara. It was purchased during one of Golden Gavel's bidding events just last month." Her words dripped with pride, each syllable heavy with the unspoken boast: I have what even the crown prince cannot possess. The golden staff pulsed faintly within its case, ancient etchings carved into its shaft catching the sunlight. Legends whispered of its former master—the most powerful Sant in history—and of healing powers still locked within it. Emilia's gaze lingered, her lips pressed together as unease pricked at her thoughts. Could this be the reason her brother is so unwilling to leave this place? Before the thought could unravel, a soft knock came from the door, followed by a maid's gentle voice. "Pardon the interruption, your highness, your grace. The young master is coming in."
The heavy oak door swung open, and Dimitriu stepped into the light, his presence shifting the very air in the room. "Darling!" Emilia's entire demeanor changed in an instant. Her face bloomed with unguarded joy as she leapt from her chair, silk skirts rustling like a whispered song. She rushed to him, smile radiant, and without hesitation threw herself into his embrace. The warmth of him enveloped her, his familiar scent grounding her as though she had been waiting for this moment all day.
Across the room, Gwendolynn's eyes narrowed ever so slightly, her painted lips curling in a restrained smile. Beneath her lace gloves, her fingers twitched against her teacup. She rolled her eyes, her annoyance veiled but unmistakable as the pair clung to each other in her drawing room.
**
The estate's garden basked beneath the midday sun, its carefully tended paths winding through waves of vibrant blossoms. The air was perfumed with the mingling scents of roses, lilacs, and lavender, carried by a soft breeze that whispered through the tall hedges and rustled the leaves of the old oak trees. Birds trilled overhead, their calls weaving a cheerful melody into the calm hum of bees darting from flower to flower. Marble benches and carved fountains stood at intervals, their pale stone gleaming against the vivid greens of the manicured lawn. It was a sanctuary of elegance and serenity, yet beneath its peaceful beauty lay the faint tension of two souls reacquainting after long absence.
"This place is as beautiful as ever. The bucolic atmosphere of being surrounded by nature is astoundingly pleasant, to say the least," Emilia remarked, her voice lilting with admiration as she strolled gracefully alongside Dimitriu. Her silk skirts brushed the tips of the flowers, and her delicate fingers grazed their petals as though savoring their softness. "You should have told me in advance if you were planning to visit; we would have had more time to prepare for your arrival," Dimitriu replied in a low, measured tone, his eyes fixed on her slender back as she crouched to examine a bed of tulips blooming in fiery reds and golden hues.
"Are you implying I'm burdening your workers, Dimitriu?" Emilia asked coolly, not turning her head, her long hair swaying slightly in the soft breeze. "Of course not. I was merely concerned for your safety, as you traveled quite a long way with so few personnel and—" His words faltered the instant she rose sharply to her feet. Her eyes, glacial and unflinching, locked onto his, their piercing chill enough to freeze him mid-sentence. "We have not seen each other for nearly two years, yet you do not seem the least bit happy to see me. I must say, I am rather disappointed, darling." Her voice was smooth but edged with restrained hurt, each word a subtle accusation.
Realization struck him like a blow. With a soft gasp, Dimitriu stepped forward and gently clasped her hands in his, his thumbs tracing over her knuckles as though to soothe the sting of his misstep. His sigh came heavy, weary, and almost trembling, betraying the weight of unseen burdens. The dark circles beneath his eyes, shadows that no nobleman's dignity could conceal, drew Emilia's attention. Her rigid expression softened, concern seeping into her gaze as she studied his drawn features. The anger she held moments ago began to dissolve, replaced by reluctant tenderness.
"The past few weeks have been rather stressful, what with the preparations for the spring festival and all," Dimitriu murmured. His voice, roughened with fatigue, carried the heaviness of long nights and endless duties. "Color me confused, darling. Isn't your mother supposed to be the one overseeing the whole affair of the spring festival?" Emilia tilted her head slightly, brows drawn in puzzlement as her words cut gently through the silence. "To my knowledge, your sole duty is to review and approve the ledgers in your father's stead." "Correct." Dimitriu exhaled, the sound nearly a groan as he released her hands and turned, resuming their slow walk along the gravel path. "However, she changed her mind the moment my father left for the capital."
"Oh, I see." Emilia's lips curved into a knowing smile as she pieced the matter together. Of course. Ever the dutiful son, Dimitriu would never refuse his stepmother, lest he risk sowing discord between her and his father. That is simply who he is—a man bound by loyalty and responsibility, even when it frayed him to exhaustion. Her eyes gleamed with playful cunning as she studied him, her frustration forgotten and replaced by mischief. "You trust me, don't you, darling?" Her smirk was both a tease and a promise as she reached up to rest her hands lightly on his shoulders.
Dimitriu stiffened, recognizing that glint in her eyes too well. Memories of Emilia's many spirited maneuvers in their childhood flashed before him, each one a calculated strike of charm and wit. His voice wavered as he forced a smile to his lips. "Emilia…" he stammered, a faint note of apprehension betraying his otherwise steady composure.
**
The afternoon sun filtered through the canopy in fractured beams, gilding the mossy earth and tangled roots beneath Fatima's steps. The air was thick with the smell of damp leaves and the faint musk of earth, every breath carrying the hush of the forest. Fatima's cotton skirt swished lightly against the ferns as she strode ahead, her chin tilted stubbornly forward. Behind her, the steady crunch of boots was broken again by Nathaniel's heavy sighs, each one dragging through the silence like a stone in water. Her lips twitched in irritation as she caught him in the corner of her eye, trailing behind with all the enthusiasm of a prisoner in chains. He should've just declined if he wasn't up to it. Why did he agree to come along?
"I believe we've ventured deep enough into the forest for today," Nathaniel said at last, his voice flat, carrying faintly over the whisper of branches. "We should start heading back if we want to make it out of here before sunset." Another sigh followed, louder this time, as though to punctuate his misery. Fatima ignored him and crouched down, her gaze catching on something half-buried among fallen leaves. She brushed the damp foliage aside, revealing a woven cradle of twigs. Her eyes lit up, and she turned, her smile radiant with childlike delight.
"Look, Sir Nate—it's a bird's nest!" she exclaimed, holding it out for him. Inside, pale speckled eggs trembled gently in their fragile home. Nathaniel recoiled instinctively, frowning, but Fatima's joy was so unshaken that she barely noticed his aversion. "It must've fallen from that oak," she said, tilting her head toward the towering tree above them, its branches clawing high into the light. "Thankfully, the eggs are still intact. Will you put it back, Sir Nate?" Her smile only widened, the kind that pricked warmth into his chest despite himself.
Before he realized it, Nathaniel had taken the nest from her hands, the rough twigs scraping against his palm. "Leave it to me," he muttered, jaw set, as though determined to prove himself. He clenched the nest gently between his teeth and began climbing, his boots scraping bark, his hands gripping coarse ridges in the trunk. She argues with me at every chance she gets, and now she dares make a crown prince an errand boy. The thought simmered as he scaled higher, though his movements were sure and practiced.
"Be careful, Sir Nate," Fatima called up, her voice tinged with concern that softened her teasing tone. She opened her mouth to say more—but a startled gasp tore free as Nathaniel suddenly dropped down before her, landing with a thud that rattled the earth. "Done," he chuckled, brushing dust from his hands, his grin sly as he caught the terror still written on her wide eyes. Fatima pressed her lips together, exhaled sharply, and then scoffed, tossing her hair back. "Showoff!"
Nathaniel's smirk faltered. His body stiffened, his head lifting abruptly as the air shifted. A presence—a weight heavier than silence—pressed down on the clearing. His gaze locked onto the elongated shadow stretching across the ground behind Fatima. "Fati," he called, his tone sharp, cautious. His right hand slid toward the hilt of his sword, fingers curling around cool steel.
Fatima blinked, frowning at his sudden change in demeanor. "What's the matter? Why are you—" She froze when she followed his gaze and found the silver blade gleaming, angled toward her. Her eyes widened, tears brimming as confusion and dread coiled in her chest. She stumbled back, shaking her head, her lips trembling soundlessly. Nathaniel's brows knitted tight, every line of his face drawn with focus.
"Stay quiet, and do not move an inch," he ordered, his voice low, a blade itself. He moved with slow, deliberate steps toward her, his eyes never leaving the looming shadow. The ground seemed to vibrate faintly under its weight, and when the silhouette shifted, it rippled like a storm cloud ready to break. From the shape of it, I reckon it's a bear. If it strikes, she won't survive. One swipe of its paw and she's gone. His jaw clenched, frustration burning in his throat as he swallowed hard. How did it get this close without a sound?
Fatima, trembling, finally turned to face the dark shape. Nathaniel drew his breath and prepared to strike—but her voice, bright and utterly misplaced in the tension, shattered the moment. "Marcie? Marcie! There you are—I nearly left without seeing you today!" Nathaniel's momentum faltered; his boots slipped in the dirt as he tumbled forward with a grunt. The shadow stepped fully into the fading sunlight—fur a deep brown, eyes glinting like warm amber. Fatima hurled herself at the enormous creature with unguarded joy, her laughter ringing through the clearing as the two collapsed in a heap of fur and cotton.
Nathaniel pushed himself upright, dirt clinging to his palms and sleeves, his sword half-raised and utterly useless. He stared, bewildered, at the sight of Fatima sprawled on top of a massive bear, her face buried in its thick coat as though greeting an old friend.
**
The forest quieted after the charged stillness between Nathaniel, Fatima, and the hulking bear dissolved into the afternoon air. Fatima's voice, bright and melodic, broke the silence. "Sir Nate, this is my friend Marcie," she announced with an open-handed gesture toward the bear. The creature's low rumble vibrated through the air, the sound resonant and commanding, though strangely gentle. Nathaniel stiffened, his eyes widening as his gaze darted between Fatima and the beast.
Why am I being introduced to a bear? His thoughts twisted in disbelief, and though he masked his face in practiced composure, the corners of his mouth pulled downward into the faintest pout. His shoulders remained taut, his palms clammy against his sides. "We met in this forest not long ago. Marcie, this is Sir Nate." Marcie let out another throaty growl that almost sounded conversational. Nathaniel swallowed hard, the dryness in his throat betraying his unease. His instincts screamed flight, but Fatima's hand brushed his elbow in a teasing nudge.
"Say something, Sir Nate. Don't be shy," she whispered, her eyes gleaming with playful insistence. He hesitated, his lips parting, then closing again as if words themselves had abandoned him. After a tense pause, he exhaled, his voice resigned. "A pleasure to meet you, Marcie."
The bear tilted her head and—astonishingly—covered her face with both paws, as though bashful. Nathaniel blinked, utterly baffled, while Fatima gasped in delight. "Oh my, you think so too, Marcie? You should see the young master of this estate; his looks are even more dazzling." She giggled behind clenched fists, the sound ringing like silver bells.
Nathaniel stared, transfixed—not at the bear, but at Fatima. The way her lips curved into an unguarded smile, the way light danced in her red eyes, was a revelation. She had never smiled like that in his presence. Their banter often led to quarrels, sharp as flint against steel, yet he realized now he had never once managed to ignite such joy in her. The thought stirred something heavy in his chest, sharp and unfamiliar. As Fatima continued her lively exchange with Marcie, Nathaniel's curiosity tangled with a strange ache of envy.
"Where is papa bear by the way? He's usually not far behind. What about your cubs? Are they alright?" she asked with earnest concern. The bear rumbled softly, swinging her massive head, and Fatima interpreted for Nathaniel's sake, her tone casual and warm, "Oh, he's watching them." Her joy spilled unchecked as she went on, asking after cub names, listening intently as if Marcie's every growl contained meaning. Nathaniel stood by silently, his heart twisting at the sight of her radiant smile, one he wished—perhaps selfishly—was his to draw forth.
**
By the time Fatima and Nathaniel parted ways with Marcie, the forest had already bowed to dusk. Shafts of fading gold fractured through the canopy, swallowed slowly by a tide of shadow. The air cooled, crisp with the damp scent of moss and earth as night settled over them. By the time they broke free into the clearing, darkness had claimed the field in full, the sky a deep velvet scattered with the faint shimmer of emerging stars. Crickets sang in relentless chorus, their high-pitched trill weaving with the whisper of grass stirred by the night breeze. The air smelled of dew and the faint sweetness of crushed wildflowers underfoot. "Look over there." Fatima breathed, sinking low behind a thicket of bushes. Her words carried on a wisp of air, no louder than the rustle of leaves. Nathaniel followed her gaze. Across the expanse of field, a single glow bobbed in the gloom—a lamp, its flame wavering like a captive firefly. The light revealed a figure gliding forward, her white nightgown rippling against the wind as though spun from mist. The flickering glow kissed the edges of her pale face and set her silken hair alight in strands of molten brown.
Nathaniel's jaw tightened, muscles ticking beneath his skin. Even cloaked in shadow, there was no mistaking that regal poise. "The duchess," he murmured. His voice was flat, yet the tautness in his posture betrayed unease. Fatima's eyes widened, red irises glittering with intrigue. Her lips parted with a shaky intake of breath. "What is she doing here?" she whispered, her words quivering with forbidden curiosity. Everyone in the estate knew of the annex's sordid purpose, whispered to be a secret haven for clandestine trysts among the servants. Yet the mistress herself… the thought sent a chill pricking over Fatima's skin. She leaned forward, barely resisting the urge to rise. "Should we pry further? I want to see what she's up to." Her whisper was breathless, her eagerness spilling beyond her caution.
Nathaniel hesitated, shadows cloaking his expression as his thoughts churned. He could snuff out her curiosity with the truth—or let her taste it for herself, let the knowledge fester into a weapon she might wield to her advantage one day. His voice, low and deliberate, came at last. "Let's move closer. There's a broken window on the side. You'll see clearly from there."
They crept forward, the field swallowing their footsteps. Grass brushed against their legs, whispering as they passed, and the annex grew before them—an unassuming structure crouched in the dark, its wooden bones breathing faint creaks under the night. A soft radiance spilled through its cracks, staining the shadows with gold.
When they reached the window, a snag presented itself—the sill stood too high for Fatima. She bit her lip, twisting her fingers together, her nerves fluttering through every movement. "What do we do now?" She whispered in panic. Nathaniel crouched, his back offered without hesitation. "Sit on my shoulder," he said, voice steady though his pulse hammered against his throat.
Fatima did not argue. Her hand brushed his hair as she climbed atop him, her palm warm against his crown. When she settled, her slight weight pressed against him, and the closeness sent a sharp breath through his chest. He anchored his hand firmly at her waist, grounding her as he rose to his full height. And then, the sounds hit them. Moans—raw, unabashed—tumbled from within. Groans mingled with the sharp creak of furniture shifting under violent rhythm. Flesh slapping against flesh, a cadence of illicit passion that filled the night air with brazen clarity. "Oh, Elliot! Don't stop!" The duchess's voice rang out, fractured by pleasure.
Fatima froze, her body rigid as ice. Her breath hitched sharply, eyes widening until they shimmered with stunned disbelief. Beyond the cracked pane, her gaze landed upon the sight: the duchess entwined with her lover, their bodies bare, tangled, shamelessly consuming each other in the flickering lamplight. A flush stormed across Fatima's face, burning her cheeks crimson even as her stomach twisted violently. Her throat convulsed, bile rising. She clutched at her mouth, desperate to stifle the retch clawing its way upward. Her breath came in fractured gasps, trembling between horror and disbelief.
"Can you see?" Nathaniel whispered from below, his hand steady on her waist, his voice too calm for the pounding of his pulse. Fatima couldn't answer. Her wide eyes shone with shock, her lips pressed white as though holding back sickness. After a strangled silence, she smacked his head in a frantic, repeated signal. At once, Nathaniel lowered himself, careful, deliberate, easing her feet back onto the earth. Fatima staggered as she landed, her face ghost-pale beneath the moonlight. Her lips quivered, her gaze darting wildly as though searching for escape. Her whole body trembled, the weight of what she had seen crushing her chest until her breaths came shallow and uneven.