The heavy doors swung inward, her presence sweeping into the room like a cold draft. She moved with deliberate arrogance, the heels of her shoes clicking sharply against the polished marble floor. Her lips curled into a wide grin—too sharp, too eager—stretching to her ears, yet her eyes, narrowed like a hawk's, glimmered with hostility as they fixed upon the princess seated at the center of the room.
Every gesture dripped with false courtesy. She wanted nothing more than to have her servants haul the sofa, occupied by the girl, outside to burn in the courtyard, yet she restrained herself. Emilia of all people was not the one she could afford to expose her malice before. "Pardon the intrusion, your highness," she said at last, her bow perfunctory, every inch of her posture rigid with reluctance. "I came to offer my assistance. I have a wide selection of capable maids well-versed in the demands of preparing for the spring festival. Please—use them as you see fit, Princess."
Fatima, perched stiffly on the edge of the embroidered sofa, exhaled as if a weight had shifted from her chest. Relief mingled with unease; this unexpected "help" meant she would not have to linger here much longer, nor within the suffocating walls of this estate. Even so, the duchess' presence made her skin crawl. The fine hairs on her arms prickled as if she had brushed against nettles, but she forced herself into stillness, clinging to composure while silently counting each second until she could flee.
"I truly appreciate your help, Duchess Gwen," Emilia replied smoothly, her voice light yet edged with control. She turned her gaze back to Fatima. The bond servant's fingers clutched at the brocade cushion beneath her, knuckles white, betraying her unease. "Brilliant!" the duchess declared, clapping her jeweled hands together with theatrical delight. Then, her expression hardened into disdain. "Now, will the two of you deal with that…girl on my sofa? Quickly!" With a snap of her fingers, she sent her maids scurrying forward.
The women rushed to Fatima, their grips firm and merciless as they seized her arms, tugging her up from the seat as though she were no more than a rag doll. Fatima staggered in their hold, her breath caught in her throat—until a calm, commanding voice cut through the sudden flurry of movement. "Not so fast, ladies."
The maids froze mid-step, their heads snapping back toward the princess. Emilia rose from her seat, her every motion deliberate, regal authority radiating from her as she strode across the room. The rustle of her silken mauve rose gown whispered against the marble floor as she closed the distance. The maids faltered, exchanging uneasy glances before flicking their eyes toward the duchess, silently begging for direction. They found only her scathing glare and a dismissive scoff.
Emilia's smile was poised but glacial as she addressed Gwendolynn. "While I do appreciate your offer, Duchess, I do not recall granting you permission to command my subordinates as if they were yours. I suggest you refrain from such overreach in the future. That includes my aide, whom you seem so eager to discard." Her voice softened at the last word, but her gaze snapped to the maids, sharp and cutting.
They quailed under her stare, hastily releasing Fatima, who slumped to the ground, her legs folding beneath her as though all strength had drained from them. The duchess's painted smile faltered. "I assure you, I meant no disrespect, your highness. I simply thought—" Emilia's interruption was swift, her tone suddenly brusque. "I shall overlook this slight only once since we are to be family soon. However, I expect it will not happen again. And next time, do announce your visit, yes?"
The air grew stifling, the atmosphere thick with unspoken threats—two predators circling in the same cage. Fatima's heart hammered in her chest as she dared a glance upward. The duchess' eyes blazed with fury, their heat searing into her. That venomous glare made Fatima shudder violently, shrinking into herself like prey before the strike.
Humiliation flushed Gwendolynn's cheeks. For the first time, she seemed smaller, diminished in the eyes of those who watched—her own maids, whom she tormented daily, and Fatima, a mere bond servant. Without a word, she turned sharply on her heel, skirts whipping at her ankles, and stormed from the chamber. The sharp clatter of her heels against the stone echoed in retreat, until the sound mercifully faded.
A hush lingered in her absence, broken only by Emilia's steady voice. She crouched before Fatima, her tone gentler now. "You're trembling like a newborn fawn. How can you serve me properly if you fall apart every time you encounter her?" Fatima's wide eyes stared blankly, her ears deaf to the words. Her body rocked faintly, breath shallow. Emilia's brow furrowed before she turned, her voice snapping back into authority. "One of you—fetch some cold water. And send for my handmaidens."
The maids who had once sneered at Fatima shifted uneasily under Emilia's command. Their faces were masks of disdain, but their voices were meek, obedient. "Yes, your highness." In a flurry of skirts, they hurried out, leaving behind only the silence and the faint sound of Fatima's unsteady breathing.
**
In the heart of the Syphus Kingdom's royal palace, the queen's parlor—usually a sanctuary of refined elegance—had become a stage for heartbreak. The chamber sprawled almost as wide as the royal courtroom, its vaulted ceiling adorned with pale murals of angels and silver-edged vines. The scent of freshly cut lilies and white roses drifted from porcelain vases lining the walls, clashing with the salt of tears. Pastel-colored curtains billowed faintly at the windows, stirred by a breeze that did little to cool the heaviness in the room. Beneath it all, the red carpet—embroidered with the royal insignia in gleaming gold thread—felt muted, as though the room itself grieved with its occupants. The polished white marble floors reflected the pale blue wallpaper, their brightness at odds with the sullen, suffocating atmosphere.
At the center of it all sat the queen, her usually regal poise shattered. Her silk gown pooled around her like spilled cream as she knelt on the carpet, shoulders trembling. Her sobs came in raw, wrenching waves, echoing off the marble and making the delicate crystal chandeliers tremble ever so slightly. Mascara smudged beneath her red-rimmed eyes, her lips quivered as she choked out, "Where could my Calliope be? What happened to my baby?" Her voice cracked and reverberated through the parlor, carrying both command and devastation, a sound that made even the armored knights avert their gazes. The ladies-in-waiting hovered like pale specters at her side, blotting their own tears, pressing handkerchiefs to trembling lips, and offering tentative pats to her back.
"Mother, please don't cry…" Irrys's voice, steady but thick with grief, broke through the queen's lamentation. The elder princess's hands—small, trembling, yet firm—reached to lift her mother from the floor. Her tears spilled freely down her cheeks, catching the glow of the chandeliers as she knelt beside her. "I'm sure Calliope will come back to us safe and sound very soon." Her words were soft, like a promise whispered over a wound.
"That's right, Irrys." The queen's grip tightened suddenly, claw-like in its desperation, as she clutched her daughter's arms. Her commanding tone trembled, shot through with anguish. "Your sister must return to resume her duties as the crown princess. You must find her as quickly as possible."
Irrys' throat bobbed with a silent swallow, her composure slipping for just a moment as she pressed her palm to her mother's gaunt hands. "No need to fret, Mother," she said with a steadiness she did not feel. "I've dispatched several new troops to search the nearby towns and the borders. We will find her." Her fingers brushed against the cold skin of her mother's knuckles, a gentle caress to anchor them both.
"Thank you, my dearest daughter," the queen whispered, her voice fraying like thin silk. She cupped Irrys' tear-streaked cheeks, thumbs trembling as they swept away the droplets. "You are the only one I can truly depend on, my sweet darling." Her breath hitched, and she leaned into her daughter's presence as if it were a lifeline.
Irrys guided her mother to her feet and toward the bedchamber beyond the parlor, her mind a flurry of unspoken worries. She has been locked away in her grief for a year now, Irrys thought, glancing at her mother's pallid face and hollow eyes. If I don't find Calliope soon, her sorrow may consume her entirely. The princess' sigh was silent but heavy, sinking into her chest like a stone as she resolved to hold herself steady—for both of them.
**
The brick pathway to the Kartier estate stretched beneath budding branches heavy with pale blossoms, their petals drifting down in slow spirals whenever the breeze stirred. Fatima walked close at Nathaniel's side, her arms curled around the warm paper bag of pastries, the buttery sweetness wafting up to mingle with the faint scent of damp stone and new grass. Yet her thoughts were not on the road ahead.
Her mind had strayed homeward again. To her father's deep and stern voice, to the way sunlight once caught on her sister's hair as they ran laughing through the palace gardens. She missed her sister with a bone-deep ache, so fierce it visited her even in sleep. Night after night, childhood memories slipped into her dreams, sweet and haunting, sometimes tugging a laugh from her even as she tossed beneath her covers.
Nathaniel's voice cut into the silence, low and steady. "What's the matter? You've been sighing since we left the bakery." She startled slightly, hugging the bag closer. "It's nothing," she murmured, though her tone was thin with wistfulness. Out of the corner of his eye, Nathaniel studied her. The distant look in her gaze, the way her lashes fluttered as though fending off tears she didn't want him to see—it stirred something unfamiliar in him. His stride slowed just enough to match her hesitant steps, as though unconsciously adjusting to her mood.
They had been thrown together often lately, their paths tied by festival duties. Fatima had noticed his easy familiarity with Princess Emilia, her sharp tongue and fiery temper matching his so closely it was uncanny. Fatima had wondered—more than once—if blood tied them, but Emilia had dismissed the idea with quick clarification. Still, Fatima puzzled over it. "What's going on in that tiny head of yours?" Nathaniel teased after a stretch of silence, his lips quirking though his eyes lingered on her more seriously than his tone suggested. "You keep making the strangest expressions."
Flustered, she looked down, her voice a little sharper than intended. "Why did we buy so many pastries, Sir Nate? The bag is heavy." His soft laugh slid into the cool air. "Because you were practically drooling over every single item your eyes landed on." He didn't look at her right away, letting his gaze rest ahead, but when he did, his eyes caught hers briefly, a flicker of warmth there before he turned back.
He raised the lighter bag in one hand, his other hand extending toward her, palm open. "Here. Give me yours. Mine's lighter." She hesitated, biting her lip. "You should have stopped me… now I feel guilty for making you spend so much money." Her guilt, so plainly spoken, drew another chuckle from him, softer this time, as if meant only for her ears. "Don't. I'm sure Ivy and Clover will enjoy them as much as you do. You light up around pastries…" his voice dipped a fraction, thoughtful, "…it's worth it just to see that."
Fatima blinked, warmth flooding her cheeks, but Nathaniel had already turned his eyes forward again, as if nothing had slipped. Ahead, the estate gates loomed, and with them the sound of raised voices. "Our daughter hasn't returned home in two years. All we're asking is for his grace to investigate her whereabouts." A man's desperate plea rang against the iron bars. His fingers clutched at the metal, knuckles white with strain. Beside him, a woman leaned on a cane, her frame shaking with sobs that broke through the air like cracks in glass.
"Please, I beg of you," she wept, her voice ragged. "Please find our Melissa. She is our one and only child." Fatima slowed, her chest tightening at the sight of the woman's grief. Nathaniel, however, strode forward instinctively, his jaw set, a furrow darkening his brow. "For the last time, sir, madam," one guard barked, voice brimming with irritation, "your daughter ran away with her lover. Now leave before we lose our patience." The other clicked his tongue in disdain, arms folded across his armored chest.
The woman lifted her head, tears streaking her cheeks, and snapped back, her voice quivering with steel. "We did not raise such a daughter." Her husband wrapped one arm around her shoulders, his grip gentle but firm as he urged her away from the bars. His anguish was etched deep into the lines of his face. "Melissa loved her post. She would never abandon it. Why can't you just tell us the truth? What happened to her? What have you done to my child?"
Silence hung heavy, thick as storm clouds. But no answer came. At last, the couple turned, retreating slowly from the gates, the woman leaning hard on her cane as her husband guided her away. Just as they passed the curve of the hedge, a low voice whispered sharply from beyond the bushes near the iron fence. They froze, exchanging a startled glance, before inching toward the shadows, hope flaring in their eyes.
**
Melissa Dougherty had always been her parents' pride—a single star in their modest household. Her father, Williad, shaped wood with calloused hands that smelled faintly of cedar and pine, while her mother, Kirisia, filled their small home with the fragrance of roses, lilies, and wild herbs from her flourishing shop. Melissa grew up surrounded by the mingling scents of fresh-cut lumber and blooming petals, and from a young age her sharp eyes and sharper mind outpaced those of other children.
At only ten years of age, she strode through the gilded gates of the imperial academy, her braid swinging behind her, cheeks pink with both nerves and determination. Though the marble halls echoed with the voices of children from noble lineages, Melissa's place had been secured by sheer brilliance. She devoured lessons like a starving bird, her small hands smudged with ink as she scribbled notes in the margins of scrolls and tomes. History captured her most—its relics, its fragments of forgotten worlds. Soon, she developed a private habit: wandering the quiet halls of Alvarest's museums, where dust motes drifted lazily in sunbeams and shelves groaned with centuries-old treasures. It was there, often between the glass cases and gilded frames, that her path began to cross with Nathaniel's. Both would pause before the same artifacts, eyes gleaming with reverence for things left behind.
Her promising future, however, shattered with the dull thud of wood against stone. Kirisia fell from a ladder while hanging vines along her shopfront. The crash of terracotta pots, the startled cries of neighbors, and the piercing pain in her mother's leg marked the beginning of the family's unraveling. Medical fees bled their savings dry, and Melissa could no longer stand idly by. On the eve of graduation, she packed away her ink-stained quills, folded her scholar's robes, and walked away from the academy's gates, her heart clenched but her resolve iron. Against her parents' protests, she secured a position within the Kartier duchy—vowing silently that one day, she would make them proud.
**
Now, in the present, Fatima's slippers brushed through the soft grass of the estate lawns, each step releasing the scent of freshly cut green blades into the evening air. She sighed, her gaze unfocused, fixed on the velvet expanse before her feet. "I assume you've been working at this estate for quite some time, Sir Nate," she said, her voice carrying the weight of unspoken thoughts. Her lashes lowered, hiding the storm that brewed in her eyes, before she looked up again. "Do you know anything about Melissa?" Nathaniel's stride slowed. His amber eyes flicked toward her, unreadable, before shifting forward once more. His voice was clipped, colder than the mild breeze that stirred the leaves above them. "For your own sake, I suggest you refrain from prying into dangerous matters such as this one."
Fatima tilted her head, her lips parting in stubborn defiance, curiosity brightening her features like the sudden flare of a candle in the dark. "Dangerous matters?" she repeated softly, then leaned closer as if proximity might coax the truth out of him. "So, you do know something. Tell me, Sir Nate—I can keep a secret. I swear it. Please?" Her voice lifted into a desperate plea as she pressed her clasped hands beneath her chin, her wide eyes shimmering with urgency. Nathaniel said nothing. Fatima studied him, recalling how earlier—during their conversation with the Doughertys—his stern mask had faltered. Concern had briefly shadowed his brow, his mouth tightened at the edges, betraying knowledge he clearly meant to conceal. If she pressed hard enough, she thought, he might slip.
But instead, he handed the brown paper bag of snacks into Ivy and Clover's waiting hands, his motions deliberate, almost dismissive. Then, as though the matter were closed, he gave a curt nod. "I shall see you all in the morning." His boots crunched against the gravel path as he turned, shoulders squared, retreating into the twilight. "Goodbye, Sir Nate! And thank you for the snacks!" Clover called after him, waving vigorously. "Thank you," Ivy echoed, dipping her hand delicately into the bag.
"Wait—no!" Fatima's voice cracked as reality slammed back into her chest. She dashed forward, her dress fluttering around her knees. "Sir Nate, you can't leave just yet! You haven't told me anything about Melissa—come back! Sir Nate!" Her feet pounded the grass until she reached the invisible boundary drawn to keep bond servants from nearing the main estate. She froze there, breathless, the echo of his footsteps already swallowed by the quiet grounds. He's gone… My only source of information is gone. The thought scraped against her ribs, leaving her panting with frustration.
"Did you say Melissa?" Clover's muffled voice interrupted her spiraling. She turned to see the girl's cheeks bulging like a squirrel's, her words slurred around mouthfuls of pastry. "How many times must I tell you not to speak with food in your mouth, Clover?" Ivy scolded sharply, pinching her sister's cheeks just enough to jostle her without spilling crumbs. Fatima blinked at them, her frustration giving way to a spark of realization. These two had been here far longer than she had. If anyone had seen Melissa… it would be them. Her lips curled slowly into a smile, bright at first, then shifting into something sly.
"Say, you two…" she began, stepping closer, eyes gleaming with mischief. Ivy narrowed her eyes and leaned back instinctively. "I don't like that smirk on your face, Fati." "Remember the deal we made the other day?" Fatima pressed, biting her lower lip in mock sweetness. Both girls groaned, lowering their heads with synchronized sighs. That pact, born after their last quarrel, had been made in tears and apologies—where they promised her they'd accept any punishment she chose if it meant mending their friendship.
"Unlike everyone else in the mansion, Melissa was very kind to us from the beginning," Ivy admitted at last, her hands busy weaving ribbons into Clover's hair. "She used to bring us leftovers from tea parties." Ivy added. "Ahhh! Those soft, chewy coconut cookies!" Clover squealed dreamily, crumbs still clinging to her lips. But Ivy's tone grew somber as she continued. "Melissa and the duchess were in constant conflict. The maids whispered about it endlessly. They said Dimitriu always took Melissa's side, and it fueled jealousy—especially since… well, since Melissa was only a commoner." Clover leaned closer, voice lowering. "I heard one maid caught them kissing in the library once…"
Rumors had spread like wildfire, spiraling from whispers to public scandal. Emilia, Dimitriu's betrothed, was said to have raged at the betrayal, threatening to annul their engagement. To save himself, Dimitriu begged Melissa to deny the rumors, but then she vanished. Only a note remained, claiming she'd fallen in love with another and left. The story should have ended there. But to many nobles, the letter smelled of forgery. Distrust lingered, clinging to Dimitriu's reputation like smoke. Dominique had no choice but to send him away on imperial business to stifle the gossip.
**
Meanwhile, in the hush of Dimitriu's study, shadows clung to the carved shelves, and the faint scent of parchment and ink thickened the air. Nathaniel sat across from him, posture rigid, his face an unyielding mask. His amber gaze bored into Dimitriu's cool green eyes. The silence between them stretched, sharp and suffocating, until Nathaniel's voice broke it—low and cutting. "What really happened to Melissa Dougherty, Dimitriu?"