The silence inside Dimitriu's study pressed down like an invisible weight, broken only by the relentless ticking of the cuckoo clock and the muted clash of wooden practice swords from the training grounds beyond the windows. The scent of old parchment and polished oak lingered in the still air, as if the room itself held its breath.
At the mention of Melissa, he turned his head sharply aside, the gesture abrupt and strained, as if even hearing her name left a bitter taste on his tongue. "With all due respect, your highness… please do not bring up the past." Dimitriu's voice came low, almost hoarse, the sound scraped from somewhere deep in his throat. He did not meet Nathaniel's gaze; his eyes skated away, settling on the rows of neatly stacked ledgers as though they might shield him. His jaw clenched, muscle twitching beneath skin stretched tight, and his lips flattened into a grim line.
"Is that so?" Nathaniel's words cut through the room's heavy stillness, sharp and deliberate, like a blade testing the grain of wood. His expression betrayed nothing—cool, unreadable—but his gaze bored into Dimitriu with a piercing intensity. Behind that carefully measured mask, his thoughts seethed, coiled in quiet disdain, though not a single flicker of it reached the surface. The tension between them hung thick, as palpable as the ticking clock that seemed louder now, marking every second of unspoken conflict.
Although his engagement to my sister was arranged by our parents, Emilia's affections for him ran deep. I saw it in her eyes, in her every breathless smile. But his reactions—always passive, always lukewarm—proved her devotion was one-sided. What in God's name does she see in this bastard? He leaned forward, the chair creaking faintly under his weight. His elbows came to rest on his thighs, fingers locking together in a deliberate gesture. His amber gaze bore into Dimitriu's, hard and unwavering. "Then riddle me this, Dimitriu," he said in a low, unhurried voice. "Why is it that her parents are scouring the empire in search of her?"
The words struck like a thunderclap. Dimitriu jolted upright, his chair scraping harshly against the floor. His usually composed features contorted with shock; wide eyes and parted lips betrayed his loss of composure. "What? What did you just say?" Nathaniel watched the shift with quiet satisfaction. He knew Dimitriu's reputation well: affable, approachable, a man whose easy charm made people lower their guard. To Nathaniel, however, that mask was both irritating and entertaining. And now, at last, he had struck the nerve he sought.
"Your highness, what are you talking about?" Dimitriu's voice cracked, his breath catching in his throat. "Melissa even left a note saying—" "I went ahead and compared it to her old reports." Nathaniel's interruption was merciless, his words as sharp and cold as a blade drawn in shadow. "As expected, the penmanship did not match. And when I dug deeper, I discovered a missed punch on her time clock the very day of her alleged departure."
Dimitriu's face paled, his composure unraveling before Nathaniel's eyes. "What? That's impossible. I would've—" His voice faltered. The realization hit him like ice down his spine. He was the one tasked with reviewing employee records, with catching such discrepancies before wages were issued. But on that day… he remembered. His stepmother had intruded, her shrill voice dripping venom about his father's infidelity, distracting him, dragging him into her poisonous schemes. Nathaniel's lips curved into a cruel, knowing smirk. "Indeed. Melissa Dougherty likely never left the premises at all."
The truth—or what felt dangerously close to it—landed with crushing force. Dimitriu's hand flew to his chest as though his heart had been pierced. He staggered back, his knees giving out as he collapsed into his chair. The bundle of papers he had been clutching slipped from his trembling fingers, scattering across the floor like snowflakes. His breath came ragged and shallow, his green eyes unfocused with dread. Nathaniel did not move to help. Normally, friendship would have compelled him to close the distance, to steady the man who now sat hunched and broken. But the image of Emilia, his sister, weeping into her hands—her shoulders trembling as she confided her heartbreak to him again and again—seared itself into his mind. Cheating on her had been betrayal enough. But allowing the gossip to fester unchecked, to let her agony stretch on with no resolution—that was unforgivable.
So, Nathaniel stood where he was, his eyes cold, his heart as unmoved as the marble beneath their feet. He had waited for this moment. When he learned Dimitriu would join him in exile, he had not dreaded the company but instead relished it. At last, he had the chance to exact penance, to draw out of him more tears than Emilia had ever shed.
Pushing himself upright, Nathaniel's movements were measured, deliberate. The scrape of the chair echoed in the tense quiet. He turned toward the door, his shadow stretching long across the study's floor as candlelight wavered. "It's getting late," he said flatly, his voice heavy with finality. "We will discuss the rest of this affair tomorrow. I bid you goodnight, Dimitriu." The door slammed shut behind him, the sharp sound reverberating through the study like the toll of a bell. Dimitriu sat slumped amidst scattered papers, his chest heaving, his thoughts clawing at him in chaos. Sleep, he knew, would not come. Not tonight. Perhaps not ever again.
**
Weeks later, in Emperor Exzavier's private parlor, Dominique sat stiffly in a high-backed chair, the polished wood pressing against his weary shoulders. The room was lavish as ever—walls draped in crimson brocade, gold-leaf trim catching the early light spilling through tall windows—but beneath the finery lurked a heaviness that made Dominique uneasy. Even the scent of sandalwood incense, meant to soothe, seemed cloying, wrapping around him like a net.
Across the table, Exzavier's face shone with disconcerting delight, his grin wide, his eyes too sharp. The emperor's cheer felt almost aggressive in its intensity. Dominique suppressed the groan rising in his throat and raised his teacup, hiding his fatigue behind the rim as he let the bitterness of the brew anchor him.
"Dominique!" Exzavier's voice rang out, startlingly loud for so confined a space. He set his own teacup into its saucer with practiced precision, porcelain tapping against porcelain like a note of finality. "What a rare thing to see you so early. Tell me, how fares your newborn? A healthy girl, I trust—judging by the state of you, she must be keeping you thoroughly occupied." His gaze lingered, unabashed, on Dominique's unkempt hair and the shadows carved beneath his eyes. "Ah, and my gifts? You received them?"
Dominique pinched the bridge of his nose before answering, exhaustion bleeding through his voice. "Your Majesty, though the gesture is appreciated, three carriages of baby gifts were…a touch too excessive."
Exzavier's laugh erupted, booming and full, shaking his shoulders until even the crystal pendants of the chandelier trembled faintly. "Nonsense! For my only living relative, there is no such thing as excess." But Dominique's wariness sharpened. His cousin had shown none of this enthusiasm for the children of Duchess Gwendolynn; the warmth now felt unnatural, like a fire kindled for reasons he could not yet see. Something was amiss. "Your Majesty," Dominique said, setting his cup firmly on the table. "Enough preamble. Why am I here?"
The emperor's expression shifted like a blade flashing in dim light. His laughter cut off mid-breath, replaced with a sudden solemnity that chilled the room. With a flick of his wrist, he dismissed the guards, the servants, even his secretary. The chamber emptied in a flurry of hushed footsteps and rustling skirts, until the heavy oak door shut with a dull, echoing thud. Exzavier leaned forward, his voice a hushed growl meant only for Dominique. "News has reached us—the Syphus crown princess has returned to her palace—as a burnt corpse. Her funeral is to be held in a month."
A thin, mirthless chuckle slipped from his lips, but it rang hollow, as though he were laughing at fate itself. The sound unsettled Dominique more than any outburst of anger could.
Dominique's chest tightened. He managed a nervous laugh, though his palms had gone clammy. "You cannot be serious, your majesty. Surely… this is one of your darker jests?" His eyes searched desperately for the flicker of amusement, the sudden roar of laughter that usually followed such grim statements. But Exzavier's face remained carved in shadow, eyes hard, unblinking.
In the silence that followed, Dominique felt it—the shift in the air, heavy and cold, as though the walls themselves were listening. Something larger was stirring beneath the emperor's words, something dangerous, and Dominique realized with a sinking heart that whatever game Exzavier had entangled him in was only just beginning.
**
A few weeks had slipped by since Fatima's encounter with Princess Emilia, and to her quiet surprise, the young royal sought her company far more often than Dimitriu ever had. On this warm afternoon, the two sat beneath the ivory canopy of a sunshade pavilion, the silken fabric swaying gently with each breeze. The garden bloomed in riotous color around them—yellow daffodils bowing their golden heads in the sunlight, while hibiscus lent their crimson perfume to the air, a fragrance sweet and heavy enough to make the world feel drowsy.
Fatima moved with deliberate care as she poured another cup of iced tea, watching the stream of amber liquid glisten against the rim of the crystal glass before sliding it toward Emilia. The princess hardly looked up, her delicate brow furrowed, pale lashes casting shadows against her cheeks as she scanned the long parchment stretched before her. Each dip of her quill feather and rustle of paper seemed to drown out the soft hum of bees flitting lazily among the flowers.
Yet Fatima's mind drifted elsewhere, far from the tranquil scene. She recalled fragments of whispers gathered from the maids—pieces of information she had been stringing together to form a trail toward Melissa. But the lack of freedom to move around the duchy had rendered her investigation nearly useless. Her thoughts lingered on Nathaniel. Perhaps if I could convince him to take me into town again…But the memory of his curt refusals weighed heavily on her chest. Why is he being so stubborn? Her inner storm must have slipped across her face, because Emilia's smooth voice broke the silence, tinged with mischief.
"That's quite the expression you're making. I would hate to be the subject of that scowl, Miss Fati." Fatima jolted, her senses snapping back to the pavilion. "My apologies, your highness! I wasn't scowling at you—I swear I wasn't." Her hands fluttered in the air in frantic denial, as if she could erase whatever furrowed look Emilia had seen. The princess smirked, her lips curving lazily as she lifted her glass of iced tea. "Tone it down with the apologies, will you? I was only jesting." "Oh." Fatima chuckled awkwardly, scratching at the nape of her neck as warmth rushed to her cheeks.
"Right," Emilia replied smoothly, brushing the matter aside as she leaned into her chair. She fanned her face with practiced elegance, her crimson hair catching in the light like threads of silk. "One of my handmaidens told me the strawberry preserves are being jarred today. Be a dear and check on them for me, won't you?" Her eyes gleamed with sly amusement as she tilted her chin toward the pavilion steps, where Nathaniel's tall figure appeared in the distance. "Sir Nate here can accompany you."
Fatima's heart tripped in her chest before finding its rhythm again, oddly reassured by his presence. The maids always avoided his gaze, shrinking into silence whenever he passed; yet to Fatima, his company felt like a shield against the cold disdain of the household. The kitchen alone always felt like stepping onto a scaffold. She met Nathaniel's eyes briefly—his nod was curt, his face as unreadable as ever—but it was enough.
Still, she could not shake the heaviness that lingered between them these past days. Is he still angry about Melissa? The festival loomed just five days away, and Fatima found herself wishing desperately to soften his stance, to sway him toward her cause.
Inside the kitchen, however, that hope dissolved into unease. The threshold had barely creaked beneath their feet when Nathaniel's voice rumbled low and commanding. "Stay here and don't cause trouble. I'll be back momentarily." The words struck the air like a hammer, startling the maids mid-motion as they watched Nathaniel's retreating. Their eyes flicked toward Fatima as though she had trespassed, their glares slicing sharper than the knives flashing on the counters.
She crossed her arms, muttering under her breath, "What trouble could I possibly cause in a place I'm not even welcome?" The kitchen pulsed with noise—pots clattering, spoons scraping, the air thick with the mingled scents of butter, herbs, and yeast. Fatima pressed herself into a corner, hoping someone might hand her a task, but time stretched unbearably, each passing second drawing more hostile stares her way. She felt like a ghost, unwanted but impossible to ignore.
"Hey!" A sharp voice cut across the din. One maid, hand perched on her hip, shot her a withering look. "Go fetch the cookies from the oven." She jerked her chin toward the black iron mouth at the far end of the kitchen, then casually began tugging at her apron strings as though already finished with her work.
Relief surged through Fatima—finally, a chore, however small. "Right away, miss! Just as soon as I find the mittens." "What mittens? Oh—these?" The maid dangled them tauntingly, her grin cruel, her eyes glinting with malice. "I need them. Go find your own." She flicked her hand, dismissing her.
Fatima scoured the kitchen, only to realize every maid clutched their mittens tightly, unwilling to share. A pit grew in her stomach as she stood before the blazing oven. Perhaps my skirt—no, too thin, it'll scorch in an instant. Heat prickled her skin, her palms damp as she hesitated. "Well? What are you waiting for?" The maid prowled closer, her sneer curling. The others paused in their work, leaning back, watching with gleeful expectancy. Their laughter swelled when Fatima instinctively shrank back, each cackle a thorn digging deeper into her chest.
"If these cookies burn, it'll be your fault. And you alone will suffer the consequences." The venom in the maid's voice sent a shiver racing down Fatima's spine. Then the final jab came, literal and cruel—the maid's finger striking her forehead, shoving her backward. Fatima's balance faltered, her hand grasping wildly—only to seize the handle of a pot teetering on the stove's edge. It tipped, liquid gold sloshing toward her in a boiling arc, but before it struck, a pair of strong arms coiled around Fatima's waist, wrenching her back with brutal swiftness. The pot crashed to the stone floor, the scalding soup splattering across the kitchen in a steaming flood.
"Are you hurt? Did any get on you?" Nathaniel's voice was sharp with panic, his hands firm yet trembling as they scanned her shoulders, her arms, every inch of her dress. His eyes blazed, shadows carved deep into his features. "I-I'm fine," Fatima stammered, breath hitching in her throat as her heart hammered violently against her ribs. "Not a drop on my skin, thanks to you."
The kitchen had gone deathly silent. Whispers slithered among the maids, their faces pale as Nathaniel's glare swept across them like a storm cloud. His words lashed the silence, low and dangerous. "Had she been harmed, I would have punished every one of you for treating this like a game. If anything like this ever happens again, I will make certain you regret it."
The maids flinched, their bravado shattered, eyes wide with terror as they dropped to their knees one by one. Tears streaked their faces, their voices cracked with frantic pleas for forgiveness. Fatima gaped at the sight. Even if he is Dimitriu's guard… what power does he hold over them, to reduce them to this? "Let's go, Fati." His sigh was heavy, yet his arms swept under her as if she weighed nothing. She gasped, wriggling in protest. "Sir Nate, please—I can walk!"
His grip only tightened, his voice rumbling against her ear, rough with suppressed fear. "Do you realize what would've happened if I had been a second later?" His jaw was clenched, veins taut at his temple. Fatima stilled, feeling the rapid strength of his heartbeat where her back pressed against his chest. When they emerged at the pavilion once more, every eye turned to them—Florette, the maids, and even Emilia, who choked on her tea in astonishment. The silence was suffocating until Nathaniel broke it, his words iron edged.
"Princess Emilia. I suggest you never again send Fati into the kitchen. Unless you wish for blood to be spilled." Fatima's stomach dropped. He's threatening a princess? She gasped inwardly, shooting him a worried glance. "What happened?" Emilia asked, tilting her head with innocent curiosity. But her gaze caught Fatima's soiled dress, and her lips parted in a soft gasp. "Fati—your dress! What in heavens—" Fatima flushed, fumbling with her hem, ashamed. "It's nothing, your highness. Sir Nate is… overreacting."
Nathaniel scowled, opening his mouth to protest, only to find Fatima's hand clamped firmly over it. "Nothing happened!" she insisted with a nervous laugh. The gesture made Florette's eyes burn with hatred, her fists curling at her side. How dare she touch him so freely? Nathaniel managed to pull free, his voice sharp. "What do you mean 'nothing happened'? You almost—" "How did you free your mouth without me noticing?" Fatima whispered in disbelief, pinching his arm with just enough force to make him grimace. "Fatima…" he warned, his voice low, but she darted closer, tugging his ear down to her height.
"Not a word more. Promise me." Her whisper trembled with urgency, her cheeks flushed as she leaned so close her breath brushed his skin. He stilled, their foreheads nearly touching, her eyes wide and insistent. For a heartbeat, the tension softened—his expression gentled, and his voice lowered to something almost tender. "Fine. I promise. Are you happy now?" The question, spoken so quietly, so close, made her breath catch. Heat rushed to her cheeks, and she nodded with a stammered, "Y-Yes."
Emilia, observing the exchange, caught sight of Florette quivering with silent fury across the pavilion. She hid her amusement behind the rim of her teacup, lips curving as she thought: Is this really my brother? I never imagined I'd see him undone like this. How very… entertaining.