Nathaniel's brows furrowed deeply, his chest tightening as he watched Fatima's silence weigh between them. Her lashes wet with fresh tears, and he found himself clenching his fists, imagining ways to deal with whoever dared to cause her such grief. His voice dropped into a low, tense rumble. "Did something happen?" he asked, his frown shadowing his face. "Who was it, and what did they do to you?" Her lips parted, her answer so faint it nearly dissolved into the quiet air. "Nothing happened." The words wavered, fragile, soaked with a sadness that clung to her like morning mist.
The sight of her like this always unsettled him. It coiled something sharp in his chest, a strange ache he had never known, not even for his late mother or Emilia. Why her? Why does she so easily unsettle his calm and makes him feel so maddeningly protective? Is it because she had called him her friend once? That one word had nearly undone him, had left his heart hammering in a way he had thought impossible. The memory flickered through his mind now as he stared at her, trying to decipher the truth hidden in her tear-streaked face.
"Sir Nate?" Her voice cracked as she lifted her head, eyes shining with tears that streaked her flushed cheeks. "What is it?" he asked briskly, irritation biting at his tone, though it wavered once her gaze locked with his, softening the edge of his anger. "Are people like me allowed to join in the festivities?" she asked, her voice tentative, almost childlike in its curiosity. "No, bond servants aren't permitted to leave their master's premises without a chaperone," Nathaniel said, forcing his voice into steady matter-of-factness. "However, since Princess Emilia requires your presence, you will likely be in attendance."
As her expression shifted, sorrow melting into the fragile curve of a smile, his chest constricted again. "Are you upset because of Dimitriu, again?" His voice sharpened, his jaw tight. "You said you were over him. Was that not the truth?" His hands curled tighter around the box hidden at his side, as if bracing himself. A heat rose in him, fierce and bitter, at the thought that she could still be carrying feelings for his friend.
"That's not it!" Fatima burst out, her protest so sudden it startled him. For the first time in minutes, a ghost of a smile tugged at his lips, though he forced it back with an awkward cough. Extending the box toward her, he muttered gruffly, "Here. I bought you something." Her wide-eyed surprise made him feel far too warm, his neck prickling as she hesitated before accepting the gift. The sight of her delicate fingers brushing against the satin ribbon made him turn sharply away, lest she sees the heat flooding his face.
"What is it?" she asked softly, tracing the yellow bow with her gaze. The polished box gleamed with luxury, its mystery sparking her curiosity. "It's a surprise." He didn't look back at her. "Go and wash up. Wear everything inside then come out. I'll wait for you at the side gate." Without another word, he strode away, leaving her clutching the box as though it were a lifeline.
Why am I even doing this? he thought bitterly, leading his horse from the stables toward the small gate. His boots crunched against gravel, but his thoughts drowned out the sound. The more time he spent near her, the less he recognized himself. Since when did Nathaniel, of all people, go to such lengths for anyone, let alone a stranger? And yet, something about her unraveled him, drew him in like a tide he couldn't resist.
He swung onto the horse, his expression carved with confusion as he stared off into the dimming horizon. "Um, Sir Nate?" Her soft call broke the air, and he nearly lost his balance in surprise. His head snapped toward the gate where her face peeked out shyly. "Why are you hiding behind the gate?" he asked, blinking at her uncharacteristic hesitation. "I… you see, I--" Her words trailed off as her cheeks flushed scarlet. She exhaled nervously, fingers twisting together. "Promise me you won't laugh." She blurted, her tone a tad too loud. His pulse kicked at the earnest plea. Did I choose the wrong size? The thought buzzed in his head, though his eyes flickered to her hair—sleek, styled differently now. "I won't laugh," he said, his tone softer than he intended. "So come out already."
Slowly, she stepped past the gate. The breath caught in his throat. She wore a light pink floral dress, its hem embroidered with delicate white baby's breath, paired with white shoes that gleamed faintly in the fading light. Her braid spilled down to the back of her knees, neat and elegant, tied at the end with a bow that mirrored the blush of her gown. She looked… unreal. Like a vision stolen from a fairytale. His grip on the reins faltered, and he almost toppled off his horse in disbelief.
"How do I look, Sir Nate? Please be honest." Her voice wavered, her ruby eyes searching his face with both hope and dread. But he couldn't give her an answer right away. Couldn't even manage his usual biting remark. His gaze locked on her, unblinking, as though the rest of the world had dissolved into mist. "Your hair…" his voice cracked slightly before he finished, dazed. "…is so long."
She flushed at his words, her face and neck blooming crimson. "Ah—yes. It has never been cut not trimmed since I was born. If it's too distracting, I can tuck it away. I don't want to—" "Absolutely not," he cut her off quickly, his voice softer than he realized. "It's perfect." He dismounted clumsily, standing before her with unsteady steps. "I mean—it's fine. Don't worry. Long hair is…good. Very good in fact, because, well it's your hair, and it's…really long and looks quite…healthy." His words tangled uselessly as he struggled, for once, to form anything coherent.
She tilted her head, amusement flickering in her gaze, her lips trembling with laughter. And then, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds, she laughed, warm, bright, unrestrained. The sound wrapped around him, pulling the tightness from his chest, scattering the awkward tension that had weighed down their every word.
Nathaniel found himself smiling despite himself as he helped her onto the horse. Together, they rode toward the town square, the soft rhythm of hooves echoing beneath the echo of her laughter. He finally did it! At last she's laughing because of something he did.
**
Fatima and Nathaniel's arrival together rippled through the plaza like the flick of a pebble into still water. To Fatima's astonishment, every eye turned toward them, whispers rose, and the noble ladies seated beneath their linen tents straightened in their cushioned chairs, jeweled fans pausing mid-sway. Among them sat Duchess Gwendolynn, her regal posture mirrored by her daughter, both their gazes sharp with curiosity.
Emilia, perched nearby with her handmaidens, noticed the stir instantly. Her lips tightened, her gloved fingers fidgeting in her lap. Too much attention on her again… She swept her eyes over Fatima, then to her brother, whose gaze clung stubbornly to the girl's silhouette. The way he followed her every step, every movement, only deepened Emilia's unease. Strange. I've been watching them for weeks and it seems they are becoming closer by the minute. Could Zen… actually like her? The thought struck her like an arrow, sharp and precise. She shook her head hard, her earrings glinting in the sun. "No," she muttered under her breath, trying to convince herself. "He's just… curious." The sigh that escaped her lips betrayed her uncertainty.
"Lord Dimitriu has finally arrived, your highness," murmured Edwina, one of her handmaidens, pointing discreetly toward the plaza's archway. Emilia turned at once, her whole face brightening as Dimitriu strode forward, flanked by armored knights whose boots rang sharply against the stones. His expression was taut, shadows clinging around his eyes, but the moment Emilia rushed to him with a delighted cry, his stern mask cracked.
"Darling!" she beamed, clutching his arm before he could utter a word. "You're finally here. Where is the duke?" Her searching gaze swept past him, finding no sign of his father. "He decided to sit this one out," Dimitriu said, forcing a small smile. His tone, though smoothed, carried a weighted timbre. "The journey back home has drained him."
"I empathize with him in that regard. Traveling such a long distance tend to take a toll on one's body." Emilia said softly, pretending not to notice the sorrow veiled beneath his words. "Well, I'm sure he will recover soon." Her hand drifted to his chest, a gentle tap meant to reassure him. "Come—let us not let the judges sizzle into nothingness. The sun feels particularly cruel today." Dimitriu offered his arm, which she eagerly took, and the pair were guided toward the podium by a waiting guard.
As Emilia ascended, the sun caught the shimmer of her gown, casting her in brilliance. A wave of clapping surged through the plaza, accompanied by cheers, whistles, and even a boy's unrestrained shout as he waved at her: "Over here, Princess!" A young woman clasped her friend's hand, whispering breathlessly, "She's even more beautiful than the rumors painted her to be."
The adoration of the crowd rose like a tide, yet at the long prize table, Fatima stood in shadow. Her heart twisted as her eyes lingered on the couple. I told everyone I was over him. I even convinced myself of this, but I lied. She swallowed hard, blinking rapidly to hold back tears that threatened to betray her composure.
At a nearby round table, noble ladies fanned themselves while their voices, light as silk and sharp as daggers, turned toward Fatima. "Who's the girl by that table? I've never seen her before." "Likely one of the princess' handmaidens." "No," another interjected, her fan fluttering like butterfly wings. "I heard she was a bond servant." "Ah, a palace servant then. Could the rumors be true?" Fatima's lips twitched into a wry smile as she rolled her eyes. A handmaiden one second, a bond servant the next. Gossip—truly a weapon sharper than steel. She thought, swiping her hand across her forehead. "What rumors?" pressed a woman with an ornate fan, her painted brows arching. "That bond servants in the capital are treated far better than those here," came the hushed reply, eyes darting to the duchess whose gaze remained elsewhere, engrossed in her conversation with the noblewomen at her table. "Are you openly criticizing the Kartier Duchy?" the fan-holder snapped, her hushed voice icy. "Careful, Countess Patricia."
Patricia scoffed, leaning forward. "I've seen one of their bond servants before. Filthy as a stray animal, and not a day over twelve. Tell me that's kindness." Gasps erupted around the table, gloved hands flying to painted lips. Their eyes darted between Patricia and Duchess Gwendolynn, scandal heavy in the air like storm clouds. And yet, all around them the town sang of festivity. Bright pennants and garlands of flowers draped every stall and balcony. The scents of roasted meats, honeyed pastries, and fresh bread mingled in the warm air. Children's laughter rang as they darted between legs, chasing each other with shrieks of delight. Young lovers slipped fingers together, faces blushing crimson as they avoided each other's gaze. The sun blazed overhead, gilding the world in a harsh brilliance, though under the tents the ladies' whispers soured the celebration with venomous murmurs.
Then—suddenly—the air shifted. A hush swept across the plaza as an imposing masked figure ascended the stage, every line of his posture regal. His garment, cut with elegance and embroidered in gold, bore the unmistakable authority of royalty. He didn't need introduction—his presence alone announced. Silence pressed down, heavy and expectant. Fatima's breath caught, her gaze snapping upward. Her eyes widened as she stared at him. Her divinity mark seared, tingling as though needles pricked her skin. She clenched her arm, twitching with the desperate urge to scratch, but dared not move. Fear locked her in place.
"We salute your Imperial Highness!" the crowd thundered in unison, hats removed, heads bowing low, nobles and commoners alike, the words reverberating like a wave crashing across stone. Fatima could only stare, her heart hammering as the air grew thick with reverence—and dread.