Five days slipped by like sand through fingers, and soon the spring festival had dawned upon the Kartier Duchy. The entire estate and city pulsed with restless anticipation. Voices filled the air in a lively chorus—vendors bartering, children laughing, carts creaking beneath crates of flowers, ribbons, and lanterns. The perfume of fresh bread mingled with the sweetness of blooming lilacs and the tang of spiced wine simmering in great kettles. The festival fever touched everyone—save the woman who was meant to lead it.
Duchess Gwendolynn, oblivious to the frantic preparations, paraded through the town square as if the world existed solely for her amusement. Her jeweled hand rested languidly in the crook of her daughter's arm, their laughter echoing as they paused at stalls, pointing at dresses and strands of pearls. Gold glinted in the sunlight as coins exchanged hands, her carefree smile a stark contrast to the chaos of laboring servants and bustling townsfolk.
"Fati, pass that box in your hands to my handmaidens. The Duke summons you to his study," Emilia announced, her voice steady but her eyes watchful. She had lingered long enough nearby to catch the Dominique's words to a passing maid and took it upon herself to deliver them. "Yes, Your Highness." Fatima lowered her gaze and bowed, carefully transferring the box of festival trimmings into the woman's arms. Emilia's lips curved into a brief smile before she drifted away, her silken skirts swishing like whispers on stone.
The news of the Duke's return spread quickly, casting ripples of surprise through the household. Fatima, however, felt only relief. She had caught a fleeting glimpse of him upon his arrival a few weeks ago —stepping down from his carriage, posture straight yet betraying the faint tremor of exhaustion. His pallor, almost waxen, and the sharp angles of his frame struck her immediately. Once broad-shouldered and robust, he now seemed diminished, worn thin by unseen burdens. Her heart tightened as she wondered what cruel demands the capital had placed upon him.
By the time Fatima climbed the grand staircase to his study, her palms were damp with unease. A maid, her knuckles pale against the polished oak, rapped gently on the double doors. "Fatima has arrived, your grace." "Let her in," came the muffled reply, his voice hoarse yet commanding. The butler, Damian, swung the heavy doors open, and Fatima stepped across the threshold. She offered him a polite nod, but the gesture faltered when her eyes found the Duke. She froze.
Dominique's face, once dignified with warmth and quiet strength, now bore the marks of affliction. His cheeks had hollowed, sharp shadows cutting beneath his cheekbones, while bruised circles clung stubbornly under his eyes. The skin around them was stretched and ashen, the faint sheen of sweat painting his forehead. He looked more specter than sovereign, and the sight made her stomach sink.
"You may leave, Damian," the Duke murmured, never breaking eye contact with her. The butler hesitated, his jaw clenched, then exhaled heavily. "As you wish, your grace." With reluctance etched in every step, he withdrew, closing the doors with a soft but final click.
Fatima curtsied, her voice gentle but formal. "I present my sincere greetings to the master of the household." A flicker of irritation crossed Dominique's face, pulling his brows together as he leaned forward against the desk. His long fingers interlocked, knuckles pale as he studied her intently. "How do I convince you to drop the decorum in private, princess?"
Her throat tightened under his gaze. She looked anywhere but at him—the spines of leather-bound tomes, the flickering glow of a half-burnt incense stick—before replying softly, "Your Grace?" "No." His tone was calm but firm, as though the word itself carried weight. "Grand Master?" she tried again, a teasing lilt in her voice. He groaned, dissatisfied, and the sound tugged a giggle from her lips despite her unease. "Dominique?" she said at last, stepping closer, her cotton dress swaying across her knees.
"That's right," he said, a faint curve at the corner of his mouth. "Do not forget who you are. Despite your present circumstances, you remain Calliope Rose Fatima Vicksburg—the crown princess of Syphus." Before she could answer, a harsh cough ripped through him. Dominique snatched open the nearest drawer, fumbling for a handkerchief. He pressed it to his mouth and nose, his shoulders shuddering with the force of it. The muffled, wet sound filled the room, sharp and ragged, and Fatima froze, her pulse hammering in her ears.
When at last the fit passed, he sank back in his chair, breath uneven. But the metallic tang of blood clung to the air, faint yet unmistakable. Fatima's wide eyes caught the way he tried, too quickly, to shove the stained cloth deep into the drawer. "Dominique," she whispered, horror trembling in her voice, "what on earth was that? Why are you suddenly like this?"
He forced a light chuckle, though the effort cracked around the edges. "Do not worry your tiny head, princess. It is only a bad cold, nothing too serious." He closed the drawer firmly, as if sealing away her suspicions along with the evidence. But his words faltered against the storm in her expression. Her lips quivered, her voice broke into softness. "How long has this been happening?" She stepped closer, tears stinging at the corners of her eyes. "Please… be honest with me, Dominique."
He leaned back slowly, his body weary, his sigh heavy enough to bow the air around them. For a long, suspended heartbeat, silence reigned. Then his words came low, raw, undeniable: "I'm dying, princess." The world tilted. Her body stiffened, a chill seeping into her bones, and her heart lurched violently against her ribs. "What balderdash are you spouting?" she burst out, staggering back, eyes wide in disbelief. "How could you joke about death so casually?"
Her protest rang hollow against the weight in his tone. The duke's study, once a place of comfort where he taught her the history of Alkaraz and filled her mind with knowledge to keep despair at bay, now seemed suffocating. Their bond—more tender than her own with her father—had woven itself into her heart over time. And now it frayed before her eyes. Her chest ached as memories of her lost brother flickered back. Why does everyone I love keep leaving me? I don't want to be alone. I hate it. Tears spilled, streaking her cheeks in hot trails.
"Take a look, princess." Dominique's voice softened as he slid a framed photograph across the desk. She blinked rapidly, brushing at her tears with trembling fingers before reaching for it. Beyond the wooden frame, a woman with serene eyes cradled an infant. The child's tiny face was framed by wisps of golden hair, her mouth curled in a sleepy pout. "Her name is Juliette Sutlin—Julie, we call her," Dominique said, his voice threaded with both pride and regret. "She's my second daughter. And the woman holding her… she is the one I love." His sigh that followed was long and weary, almost shamed.
"W-what?" Fatima's voice broke, stammering. Shock widened her eyes. Of all revelations, she had not expected this—that the duke, the pillar of Kartier honor, would harbor such a secret.
**
Meanwhile, the Kartier mansion swelled with restless energy as the festival preparations consumed every corridor. The clatter of hurried footsteps, the rustle of skirts, and the sharp calls of servants overlapped into a ceaseless din. Trays clinked, doors banged, and the air itself seemed heavy with the scent of baked bread, spiced wine, and the faint perfume of too many bodies pressed into narrow halls.
Cutting through the chaos came Nathaniel's voice—sharp, commanding, like a blade against glass. "You." Amie froze mid-step, her pulse stuttering as his shadow fell over her. She turned slowly, clutching the basket in her arms so tightly her knuckles blanched. "Y–yes, your highness," she murmured, her voice a thread barely audible above the noise.
Nathaniel closed the distance between them with the prowl of a predator, his boots striking the polished floor in a deliberate rhythm. His gaze was unrelenting, glinting like cold steel beneath the faint glow of the chandeliers. "Your name is Amie, correct?" His tone was low, but it carried the weight of an accusation. Amie instinctively stepped back until the wall pressed against her spine, her breath shallow.
"I can't find Fati anywhere," Nathaniel said, planting his hand flat against the wall beside her head, his presence swallowing the space between them. His nearness carried the faint musk of leather and steel, a sharp contrast to the sweet perfumes drifting down the hall. "Have you seen her?"
Her throat tightened, and she swallowed hard, eyes darting anywhere but his piercing stare. "She was—" Amie's voice cracked before she forced the words out. "She was called to his grace's study earlier… but was seen running from the mansion in tears." The words tumbled out like a desperate prayer, her chest rising and falling too quickly.
Nathaniel's expression remained unreadable, his jaw tightening as though weighing the answer against his temper. Amie dared not blink. She could feel the heat of his body close enough to smother her, and her heart hammered so loudly she feared he could hear it. Then, as swiftly as he'd appeared, he was gone. No parting word, no rustle of clothing save for the faint echo of his boots vanishing down the corridor. Amie exhaled a shaky breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Her knees nearly buckled in relief, though her hands still trembled around her basket.
"Amie! Quit dawdling and get a move on—we must get everything to the wagon before it departs for the town square!" Edith's voice cracked like a whip from the far end of the hall. The prince's shadow was gone—only the bustling staff surrounded her now. Relief washed through her in a dizzying wave. "I'm coming, Miss Edith," she called back quickly, though her voice still wavered. Hugging the basket close, she forced her feet to move, her body still trembling from the encounter, haunted by the impression of being trapped beneath Nathaniel's gaze.
**
Nathaniel strode briskly through the estate grounds, his gaze scanning every corner with restless urgency. The trimmed hedges and marble fountains glimmered faintly under the afternoon light, but he paid them no mind—he was listening, straining for the faintest echo of Fatima's voice.
A sharp buzz at his ear jolted him, followed swiftly by a girlish giggle. "Your highness! I'm all better now, see?" Florette chirped, panting as she hurried to match his long strides. Her cheeks were flushed pink from the effort, blonde curls bouncing with each step. "The physicians told me I've made a full recovery! They've even allowed me to join the spring festival. Isn't that marvelous news?" Her voice rose with a forced cheerfulness, her wide eyes lingering on his hand—hovering close, desperate to slip hers into it.
Nathaniel's jaw tightened. Her prattling was a mosquito's whine in his ears, dragging his attention from the only thing that mattered—finding Fatima. A pulse of irritation throbbed at his temple. "Your highness? Are you listening to me?" Florette gasped, darting in front of him, arms outstretched to block his way. He stopped. The silence between them was thick and cold as his piercing eyes lifted to meet hers. The icy glare he leveled at her was sharp enough to cut stone. For a heartbeat, Florette faltered—then, to his dismay, she only giggled again, twirling in place before trailing after him like a shadow, continuing her endless chatter.
I could deal with her as I did last time… His lips twitched with the thought, but Emilia's scolding resurfaced in his mind, souring his mood further. The memory rose with clarity: Emilia standing rigid in his chamber, fire in her eyes, her voice trembling with fury. "Whatever the reason might have been, you went too far, brother," she yelled, brows drawn tight in thunderous disapproval. "Leave me be, Emilia. I'm tired." His reply was dismissive, his steps leisurely as he turned his back on her and headed toward the lounge sofa.
"Unbelievable!" She followed him, fists balled at her sides, skirts swishing angrily with every step. "I thought one year in exile would have softened you, but God help me—I was mistaken. You are the same stubborn idiot who refuses to listen to reason." That stopped him in his tracks. He turned then, his shadow falling over her, veins stark against his clenched jaw. His low voice was enough to make her flinch "What did you just say?" Only Emilia could provoke him so easily. Only Emilia could withstand it, too. He cared for her more than he'd admit, but her meddling grated on him, testing the restraint he fought to maintain. With a weary sigh, she pressed her fingers to her temples. "Anyway, you owe Lady Florette an apology. What you did was dangerous. At the very least, do the decent thing."
His lip curled. "Are you finished spouting your nonsense? If so, get out. I've neither the time nor the energy for your antics." He sprawled across the chaise, arms folded, his posture as sharp as his words. When she refused to leave, he ordered the guards to escort her out. The echoes of her furious voice, her fists pounding the door, her insults hurled like stones, still haunts his ears to this day. The memory alone made his head throb.
"Zen! Lady Florette!" Emilia's voice cut across the garden, light and cheerful this time as she came rushing toward them. "I've been looking everywhere for the two of you." Relief washed over Nathaniel. Perfect timing. If anyone could rid him of Florette, it was Emilia. He schooled his expression, but inside he already planned his quiet escape.
"Greetings, Princess," Florette said sweetly, smoothing her skirts with a shy smile. "His highness and I were taking a short stroll before the festival." She inched closer, reaching for Nathaniel's arm. He stepped neatly away, putting distance between them. He turned his gaze to Emilia and said with his eyes 'Keep her busy while I disappear.' Emilia's sharp eyes retorted, 'Don't tell me what to do.' 'Are you serious right now?' His stare hardened. 'I am still upset with you,' Emilia replied without words, her scoff audible as she glanced at Florette, who was already chattering about her new summer dresses and accessories.
'I don't have time to argue with you. Distract her and we'll talk later.' His jaw flexed, an audible growl slipping through his teeth. Emilia smirked at his loss of composure. 'Fine. But you'll owe me for this one.' She rolled her eyes, then slipped an arm through Florette's with feigned enthusiasm. "Oh, tell me more about those dresses!" As they walked off together, Florette eagerly spilling details, Nathaniel exhaled slowly, tension unwinding from his shoulders. At last, silence.
He resumed his search, footsteps quickening with renewed purpose. The estate quieted around him—the clink of distant carriages, the rustle of leaves along the stable walls. Following his instincts, he rounded the corner and froze. There, tucked behind the stables, Fatima sat curled into herself, knees drawn tight, shoulders trembling with sobs. The sight of her pierced through the haze of irritation like a blade. "Fati," His voice softened, stripped of all the cold edges he'd wielded against others. He stepped closer, one hand hidden behind his back where he cradled a small gift box.