Fatima's wails bled into the night, carried away by the stillness of the dark forest. Though she sat merely beneath a great oak tree just off the paved path, her sobs felt as though they could echo for miles. She had left the stables in search of fresh air, hoping the cool night breeze would ease the tightness in her chest, but her restless feet had carried her farther than she intended. It wasn't until the low, haunting hoot of an owl reverberated deep from the shadows of the woods that she realized how far she had wandered. Heart hammering, she stopped before daring to step deeper, sinking down instead beneath the tree's massive trunk.
She hugged her knees tightly, the fabric of her cotton dress wrinkling beneath her grip as her damp lashes blurred the distant sight of the stables glowing faintly with lantern light. The memory of Dimitriu—his mouth claiming the princess's lips with fevered intensity in broad daylight—stabbed through her like a blade. Her heart constricted painfully, a lump swelling in her throat as she tried to choke back tears. But her body betrayed her. She gasped, shuddering as though someone's invisible hand had closed around her heart, squeezing until she could no longer hold her sobs inside.
Nathaniel sat quietly beside her, his sudden presence as steady as stone. He hadn't announced himself—only let the warmth of his shoulder brush against hers. His amber eyes, usually cold and unreadable, now churned with a storm of unspoken emotions as he studied her trembling form. Each of her cries unsettled him, each tear igniting a fierce desire to storm into Dimitriu's chambers and make him pay for her pain. His fists twitched at the thought, but he quelled the urge. Not now. The broken girl beside him needed him more than his rage did.
Yet, Nathaniel was not a man who knew how to comfort others. He had been raised to mask his feelings, to be steel and intellect, not warmth. He felt awkwardly stripped of his usual indifference, conflicted as he watched her sobs shake her small frame. Other people's despair had never pierced him before—but Fatima's sorrow cracked something inside him. She startled when she finally noticed the weight of a blanket draped over her shoulders. Turning her wet face, she found him seated casually on the ground, one knee propped up while the other leg stretched out before him. His gaze was tilted toward the sky, his profile solemn in the moonlight.
"Sir Nate? When did you get here?" she asked, her voice trembling with both surprise and embarrassment. "I couldn't sleep," he murmured, shifting his eyes from the stars to her tear-stained face. "I thought a walk might clear my head. That's when I found you here." Her brows furrowed, suspicious of his explanation. "You take midnight strolls… with a blanket?" she asked, brushing at her cheeks and staring at him blankly. "I—sometimes," he said quickly, clearing his throat and glancing away, heat creeping into his ears. Why in God's name did I say that? he cursed inwardly. But he couldn't admit that he had overheard her earlier conversation with her friends. A sigh escaped him before he could stop it.
"I see…" Fatima whispered, leaning gently against his shoulder. "You always seem to find me at my worst." Her body quivered despite the blanket's warmth, her breath hitching faintly as she sniffled. Nathaniel frowned, concerned she might be feverish. His hand hovered uncertainly, nearly brushing her forehead, but he hesitated the moment he heard another faint sob slip from her lips. Slowly, he drew his hand back, clenching it against the ground. "Just so you know… I'm upset with you too, Sir Nate," she murmured, pulling away to wipe her eyes again, her voice breaking with every word. His brows knit. "What did I do this time?" "I…" Her voice faltered, the memory choking her. "I saw the young master… kissing a woman earlier. Then I learned she was the princess, and they are betrothed—"
"That's enough, Fatima." His tone was firm but low, a current of anger beneath his calm. He couldn't bear to let her wound herself further with the memory. "You don't need to explain." He inhaled deeply, his jaw tightening. "I should have told you sooner. I have no excuse. I am sorry." The apology fell heavy, weighted by guilt—and by the silent fury he nursed toward Dimitriu. Wait until I find that scoundrel.
**
Morning arrived gently as Fatima stirred to the sound of birdsong, their calls unusually loud against the hush of dawn. A cold breeze brushed her cheeks, rousing her from slumber. She blinked, disoriented, as the blur cleared into the familiar sight of the stables in the distance. Something soft and heavy was cocooned around her body—Nathaniel's blanket. Turning, she found him asleep beside her, his back against the tree's rough bark, his chin tilted slightly downward. Even in rest, his brow furrowed, as though burdened by unseen thoughts. She studied him with cautious curiosity, her lips curving at the contradiction of his peaceful but frowning face.
"He is quite handsome," she whispered, a soft chuckle escaping her as her gaze traced the sharp lines of his features. When her eyes caught on the small black mole along his cheekbone, she instinctively reached out, brushing his crimson hair aside with delicate fingers. "He should keep his hair back like this," she murmured, her face inching closer as she tucked the strands behind his ear. "The maidens would flock to him despite his gruffness." She paused, realizing just how close she had leaned in. But she did not pull away. When else would he allow her such proximity? The longer she looked, the more she discovered—the faint shadows beneath his lashes, the stubborn set of his lips. She smiled softly, warmth rising in her chest.
"What are you doing… to my hair?" Nathaniel mumbled groggily, his voice rough with sleep as his eyes blinked open. Fatima jerked back instantly, retreating under the blanket as heat flushed her face. "I—I was just looking at your mole," she stammered, burying herself deeper. He groaned, pushing himself upright with sluggish movements. "Shall we get going?" When she staggered to her feet, her legs buckled, and Nathaniel caught her with a steady hand. "Lean against the tree," he instructed. Kneeling before her, he carefully took her legs, stretching and massaging them one by one. His touch, though practical, was surprisingly gentle. She watched him in silence, her cheeks warming. The Nathaniel who scowled at everyone, who carried himself like a storm bottled in human form, was now quietly tending to her. It softened something in her broken heart.
"How does it feel now?" he asked, voice low, his eyes lifting to meet hers. She wiggled her ankle experimentally and found the tingling gone. "It's fine. Thank you, Sir Nate." She smiled shyly, dropping her gaze as her fingers tightened around the blanket. "Your eyes are swollen from crying all night," he noted, standing and extending his hand to her once more. "Come. Let's take care of that before the day begins." She slipped her hand into his without hesitation. Confusion fluttered in her chest at this new tenderness of his. Why is he acting this way? Does he pity me? Or… is it something else? The thought made her giggle softly, her mood unexpectedly lighter. Nathaniel glanced at her, his lips twitching faintly as relief washed through him. She's laughing now. Good. He walked beside her toward the stables, unaware that her curious smile lingered—her mind replaying every detail of the young man who had silently kept her safe through the night.
**
Dimitriu dragged himself down the marble corridor of the Kartier estate, his gait uneven, the quiet scrape of his boots against the floor betraying the weight of every step. When he finally reached his study, the familiar scent of parchment, wax, and ink greeted him, usually a comfort, but today it only deepened the throbbing in his temples. Pushing the heavy doors open, he halted mid-step.
Emilia was already there, seated near the window where the late afternoon light spilled in golden ribbons, casting her porcelain face in a warm glow. Her fan rested forgotten on her lap. The moment her eyes landed on him, wide with shock, she sprang to her feet. "Dimitriu!" Her voice trembled between alarm and tenderness. She rushed forward, skirts rustling like whispering silk, and caught his arm, bracing his weight as he limped toward the desk. Her perfume—rosewater mixed with powder—curled into his senses, clashing with the sharp copper tang of dried blood clinging to his bruised lip. When she tilted his chin toward her, her fingers were cool yet trembling, her eyes glassy with disbelief. "Whatever happened to your handsome face? You're all bruised up." Her breath hitched, and for a moment her voice broke into a gasp of horror as she traced the swell of a fresh welt near his brow.
"A mere scuffle between friends is all it was," Dimitriu muttered, his voice tight with suppressed groans. He sank heavily into the leather chair behind his desk, the wood creaking under the force of his weight. His hand pressed discreetly at his ribs, but the pale grimace that flitted across his face betrayed the pain. "How are the spring festival preparations coming along?" "Preparations?" Emilia's voice rose with indignation, her brows knitting tightly. "How can I focus on that when you return to me in this state? Who did this to you, darling?" Her tone softened at the last word, but fire burned in her eyes. She knew full well no knight would dare bruise the heir of the duchy, no matter how fierce a spar. Yet there was one exception—her brother.
Her lips curled as she took a step back, anger flooding her posture. "This is unacceptable! I'm going to let Kazein have a piece of my mind." She gathered the folds of her dress and turned on her heel, but before she could storm out, Dimitriu's hand shot forward, clutching her wrist with a surprising urgency. "Do not probe any further, Emilia. Please." His plea was raw, his voice hoarse with both weariness and warning. His hand trembled as it slid back to his side, where another groan escaped him.
The tense air was broken by a firm knock at the door. "Pardon the interruption, young master," came Damian's measured tone. "Fatima has arrived." At that name, Emilia froze. Her lashes lowered ever so slightly as she recalled hearing it whispered from Dimitriu's lips in restless sleep. "Let her in, Damian," Dimitriu ordered, adjusting himself upright though his jaw tightened in discomfort.
The door groaned open, and in slipped a slender figure. Fatima moved like a wisp of wind, silent, graceful, her head bowed low in deference. The faint light caught on her silver hair, bound neatly in a low bun, a few wisps escaping to frame her delicate face. Though her dress was plain, its simplicity hugged her figure in a way that lent her an almost ethereal, doll-like presence. "I present my greetings to the small moon of our realm, and my lord," she said softly, her voice carrying a refined cadence, though tinged with an accent Emilia couldn't place. Something about it stirred a faint recognition.
Dimitriu did not look at her. His eyes stayed locked on the papers spread across his desk, his voice colder than the draft sneaking in through the half-open window. "From now onward, you are to report to Princess Emilia just as you have been doing with me, and assist her with the preparations for the spring festival. Do you have any questions, Fatima?" Fatima lowered her head further, hands twisting in her skirts, her voice trembling as she answered, "I shall do as the young master commands." She dared not lift her gaze, though her knuckles whitened. The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the steady tick of the grandfather clock behind her, each second echoing like a hammer in the stillness.
Emilia, sharp-eyed, caught the strange weight that hung between them—the careful distance, the refusal of his gaze, the nervous energy that clung to Fatima like a second skin. Something was there, hidden beneath layers of restraint. She pressed her fan open with a flick, shielding the lower half of her face, though her eyes narrowed. Was it merely her imagination, or was there truly something Dimitriu wished to hide? "Follow me, Fatima." Emilia's words cut through the silence as she glided past, brushing close enough that Fatima felt the faint stir of her skirts. A fleeting side glance, sharp and assessing, was the only acknowledgment Emilia gave as she moved toward the door. "For now, you are to serve me tea until I decide on your next assignment." "Yes, your highness," Fatima murmured, bowing slightly. Her tone was obedient, but beneath it lingered a soft ache, a sadness Emilia could not ignore no matter how much she told herself to.
**
The Kartier kitchen pulsed with life, a hive of movement and noise. Copper pots clanged together, wooden spoons struck against the rims of steaming cauldrons, and the sharp scent of freshly chopped herbs mixed with the yeasty warmth of rising bread. Maids bustled from counter to counter, skirts brushing against each other, their voices weaving a tapestry of gossip and laughter that filled the air like a constant hum. Near the oven, a cluster of servants huddled together, their tones hushed yet tinged with irritation.
"His Highness just left with a basket full of snacks," said a freckle-faced woman, dragging the back of her damp hand across her flushed cheeks before wiping it on her apron. "Is he feeding those bond servants again?" another maid exhaled sharply, her lips curling in disdain. She had once seen the prince herself, stooping to hand a basket to Fatima, and the memory still left a sour taste in her mouth. "Honestly, how much longer must we endure this?" muttered a third, shaking her head so that the stray wisps of hair sticking to her temples came loose. The mere thought of those "lesser beings" chewing on sweets intended for noble mouths made her clench her jaw in fury.
Their mutters died when their gazes drifted toward the entrance. Fatima stood there, pressed against the wall like a shadow, her ruby eyes cast downward. The pale light streaming in through the doorway softened the tension in her posture, but inside, confusion churned. Their words had unsettled her, the truth striking harder than she expected—so it wasn't Dimitriu who had been secretly sending food, but the crown prince himself. Why?
Her fingers fidgeted with each other, her nails grazing against her knuckles in nervous habit. She had never once exchanged words with him, never even crossed his path in the echoing halls of the mansion. The thought gnawed at her, unsettling as a half-formed dream. "You!" The sharp bark of a voice cut through her daze like the crack of a whip. Fatima flinched, lifting her head, only to meet the scalding eyes of one of the maids. "Why are you standing there like a statue?" the woman snapped, her lips twisting into a cruel smile. "I—" Fatima's voice faltered, but before she could continue, another lash of words struck her. "What are you staring at? Lower your gaze when you speak to us."
Heat prickled at her cheeks, but she dropped her eyes at once, her throat tightening. Confrontation was the last thing she wanted. She would see these women often now that she was bound to serve the princess—better to swallow humiliation than ignite their scorn. "Get over here," the maid barked, pointing toward a tray gleaming with porcelain teacups, their steam curling upward in delicate tendrils. "Take this to the princess. Now." "Yes, miss!" Fatima rushed forward, her steps quick and light, as though walking on fragile glass. The maid loomed with hands braced on her hips, watching her every movement.
"It had better not grow cold before you arrive," she warned in a low, venomous tone. "Or you'll suffer the consequences." Fatima bowed her head, gathering the tray carefully in both hands, the china rattling faintly against the silver as her trembling fingers struggled to steady them. Then she darted out the door, her pace quickening like prey fleeing from hunters. As the door swung shut behind her, the maids exhaled their disdain like smoke. "What's with that grim face of hers?" one sighed, clicking her tongue. "She should be grateful to serve the princess at all, bond servant or not." "Honestly," another muttered while stacking polished dishes back into their places, "what is her highness thinking, letting that thing near her? She could catch some disease." "Mark my words," the stoutest of them said with a scowl, her arms folded firmly across her chest, "anyone who touches what she's touched should wash their hands before laying a finger on anything else." "Yes, Miss Edith!" the others chorused, their slippers squeaking faintly on the flagstone floor as they hurried to obey, the kitchen once again resuming its endless rhythm of clattering pots, bitter gossip, and the lingering scent of bread.
**
The tearoom was steeped in a gentle golden haze, the late-afternoon sunlight spilling through the tall open windows and catching motes of dust that drifted lazily in the air. The faint fragrance of roses from the manicured garden outside mingled with the sharper scent of fresh parchment spread across the table. A playful breeze slipped past the curtains every so often, lifting the heavy silence that had clung to the room when they first entered.
Emilia sat poised by the window as though the world beyond belonged entirely to her. She held her teacup with the grace of someone born to command attention, her delicate fingers steady even as she flipped through a neat stack of documents. Each turn of the page made a whisper-soft rustle that blended with the clink of porcelain against her saucer. Her fiery red hair, almost alive in the sunlight, tumbled loosely about her pale face, catching the light with every subtle movement of the breeze. Closing her eyes, she exhaled a soft sigh—an almost imperceptible release of tension, as though she were inhaling the quietude of the moment and claiming it as her own.
Fatima lingered at the doorway, her presence muted by the shadow of the walls. A nervous tightness coiled inside her chest as she observed the woman who, according to every record she had ever read, was both idolized and feared. Emilia Reva VonTicus, the crown prince's twin sister—revered for her beauty, respected for her cunning, and dreaded for her influence that stretched across borders. Fatima's fingers clenched around her simple dress, unease prickling through her as if her very being had trespassed into forbidden ground. The sudden sound of Emilia's voice snapped through the air like a silken whip. "Do you plan on awkwardly standing there all day? Are you not here to keep me company, Fatima?"
Her tone was low, quiet, but it vibrated with a hidden edge that sank like ice beneath Fatima's skin. Emilia set her teacup down with deliberate care, then lifted her gaze. Those piercing blue eyes locked on Fatima with such intensity that the young girl's breath faltered. For a fleeting moment, Emilia's brusqueness reminded her of Nathaniel, and the memory tugged a small, fragile smile onto her lips before she could stop it. "Come and sit here." Emilia's gaze shifted toward the white sofa opposite her.
Fatima's heart gave a startled leap. That sofa, upholstered in pristine velvet and lined with gold embroidery, seemed too sacred for someone like her to touch. A bond servant did not belong on such finery. She parted her lips to protest, but Dimitriu's earlier words came back to her—an unspoken reminder that she could not afford to refuse. She swallowed hard, her throat dry, and with hesitant steps crossed the expanse of the room. Each footfall against the polished marble floor echoed louder than it should have. Slowly, as though lowering herself into the lion's den, she sank onto the cushion, her posture stiff and unyielding. Her fingers fidgeted in her lap, twisting the hem of her dress until the knuckles blanched.
Emilia's eyes flicked down, catching the nervous movement. The faintest shadow of amusement curved at her lips before she spoke again. "My Dimitriu has been calling your name in his sleep of late. Can you believe it?" The words struck like a blow, freezing the air in Fatima's lungs. Her head jerked up, disbelief and dread flooding her eyes. Panic clawed at the edges of her thoughts, tangling them in a chaotic knot. "What exactly is your relationship with my fiancé?" Emilia's voice sharpened to a crystalline edge as her gaze swept from Fatima's lowered lashes to the trembling tips of her fingers.
A shiver coursed down Fatima's spine, her body stiffening as though bracing for impact. Her mind scrambled, searching for words that might dissolve Emilia's suspicions, yet every thought unraveled before reaching her lips. She had coveted him, yes—but never had she realized he was bound to another, let alone a princess. The walls seemed to close in around her, heavy with the weight of truth and consequence. Her lips parted, and after a breath that scraped painfully past her chest, she forced out her reply. "What sort of relationship could there be between a master and his bond servant? I am merely a lowly being who was deemed useful enough to serve the young master. Nothing more, nothing less, your highness."
Her voice wavered despite her effort to keep it steady. With every word spoken, a sharp ache throbbed in her heart. The reality of her chains pressed on her, reminding her of all she's had to leave behind. The name she once bore, the home she once belonged to—all of it erased, replaced with the hollow label of bond servant. Even the duke's promise that her status was only "superficial" now rang empty with each passing day that she remained trapped here. She blinked rapidly, swallowing the sting in her eyes, unaware that Emilia's gaze lingered on her face with hawk-like precision.
"What's the matter?" Emilia's arms folded across her chest, her head tilting ever so slightly. A trace of amusement laced her voice, but her eyes gleamed with sharp interest. "You stared at me earlier, yet recoil the moment I do the same? I am merely reciprocating your curiosity, yet you recoil like a prey." A whimsical smirk tugged at her lips, playful and predatory all at once. Fatima squirmed, her shoulders shrinking as though she could make herself invisible beneath that gaze. She had indeed stared earlier, unable to help herself from studying the woman whose elegance commanded every corner of the vast chamber.
Before she could summon a response, the heavy double doors swung open. The creak of polished hinges echoed sharply, and both women turned their heads. "Pardon me, your highness—oh my! I was not aware you were busy." The duchess stood in the doorway, her hand pressed dramatically against her chest, feigning surprise. Yet her sharp eyes glittered with calculation, stripping away any sincerity from her words.