Despite the crown prince's unanticipated arrival, the celebrations did not falter for long. The spring festival pressed forward with renewed vigor, the air alive with laughter, the faint sweetness of crushed flower petals drifting above the crowd, and the hum of conversation carried on warm afternoon breezes. Bright banners swayed lazily from poles, their vibrant colors mirrored in the silk-clad nobles and the garland-draped commoners who filled the square. The murmur of unease that had rippled through the people at the prince's presence faded quickly, swallowed by the excitement of the next grand spectacle: the flower competition.
Contestants in crisp aprons and floral-dusted hands assembled behind long oak tables lined with their painstaking arrangements—roses wound into delicate spirals, lilies pressed into starbursts, wildflowers clustered into natural chaos. The fragrance was dizzying, a mélange of lavender, jasmine, and freshly cut stems, tinged with the earthy scent of soil. This year, the stakes were higher than ever: the winner would claim not only a gold-plated wreath but also two years of relief from the duchy's taxes—a prize that glittered as much as it promised freedom.
The host's booming voice cracked through the festival's din, echoing against stone walls adorned with ivy. "And the winner of this year's flower competition is…Madam Fortfilia of Little Houseplant flower shop! Let us welcome the madam with a round of applause!"
A roar erupted from the crowd—cheers, whistles, and the rhythmic clap of hundreds of hands rising into the air. Madam Fortfilia, silver-haired and poised in a gown of soft violet, stepped forward. Age had not dulled her grace; every step carried the practiced elegance of a woman who had long since mastered dignity. Her smile, serene and knowing, glimmered beneath the sunlight.
From behind her, Fatima watched with quiet fascination. A smile tugged at her lips, though her heart tightened under the weight of her own role. She followed in Fortfilia's wake, hands steady on the polished trays that bore the trophies. It was her duty to pass them to Princess Emilia, who would then crown the victors. That task, though small, set her squarely in view of the nobles and villagers alike. Why had Emilia chosen her, a bond servant, when any faceless maid would have sufficed? Is it mockery, subtle provocation against the duchess, or merely Emilia's private amusement?
Fatima's nerves prickled like pins along her skin. The princess' attendants—always too kind, too smiling—were no comfort, their warm gestures making her doubt even more. They approached her the moment she descended the stage. "Miss Fati, how about a quick break? We can take it from here," Edwina whispered brightly, arriving at her side with the other handmaiden. Lucille, cheeks flushed pink from the heat, pressed a cool cup of water into Fatima's hand. Droplets slid down its sides, catching sunlight like crystal.
"You must be parched, standing in this sun," she urged warmly. Fatima accepted it carefully, her fingers trembling slightly as the clear surface rippled. "I do appreciate your concerns… but shouldn't we alert her highness first?" Her voice was low, wary, even as the cup's chill soothed her burning palms. "There's no need to fret," Lucille replied with an encouraging smile. "Her highness sent us herself, so you might rest."
Fatima's eyes lifted instinctively to the stage, searching for truth. Could princess Emilia truly be so… generous? Her chest ached with doubt. Perhaps it was a reward for her honesty during that painful conversation, or perhaps it was merely another of her games.
Despite her calm façade, Fatima's thoughts spiraled toward Dimitriu. Confessing the truth of her bond to him had been agonizing, yet it steadied her—forced her to accept the things as they were. No matter how deeply her heart fluttered for him, there was no path that led them together. A bitter smile ghosted across her lips as she whispered silently: I wish them the very best. Still, her chest constricted, a sharp ache stealing her breath as she closed her eyes.
The sensation of being watched jolted her from her thoughts. She glanced up and found Emilia's eyes fixed on her, sharp yet softened with a smile. A nod from the princess sealed the handmaidens' words. Fatima lowered her head in a quick bow, her voice gentle as she murmured thanks to Edwina and Lucille.
"Goodness, child! You'll snap your neck if you keep bowing like that," Edwina giggled, looping her arm around Fatima and tugging her away from the oppressive sunlight. Lucille lingered for a moment, her gaze following the girl's retreating figure. With a wistful sigh, she clasped her hands together. "Such a well-mannered young lady. How refreshing to see."
And as Fatima's slender frame melted into the sea of festival-goers, the joyous clamor of applause, music, and the perfumed air carried her forward—away from the stage, yet deeper into the unknown intentions of a princess who watched her far too closely.
**
Fatima slipped quietly into the tent reserved for the princess' attendants, its canvas pitched at the far end of the row like a forgotten afterthought. The air inside was still and faintly cooler, the broad parasol shading her from the ruthless sun that had moments ago scorched her skin and made the fabric of her dress cling uncomfortably. Gratefully, she collapsed into one of the low chairs, the leather creaking softly beneath her. She raised her cup to her lips and drained it in one desperate swallow, the cool water sliding down her parched throat and leaving a faint chill in its wake.
When she lowered the empty cup, her gaze wandered nervously across the bustling grounds beyond the tent's flap. The chatter of nobles carried like the constant hum of bees, punctuated by the laughter of courtiers and the clattering of hooves from restless horses outside. Her uneasy survey ended abruptly when her eyes collided with those of Duchess Gwendolynn. The duchess' sharp features were carved into a mask of icy disdain, her stare so piercing it felt like a blade pressed against Fatima's neck. Her lips, faintly painted, curled into the ghost of a smile that seemed more like a predator's anticipation than politeness.
Fatima's stomach turned. A shiver ran down her spine despite the heat, and she shifted in her seat, hands knotting together in her lap to still their tremble. She broke the gaze as quickly as she could, her lashes fluttering down like a curtain, but the weight of that murderous stare lingered, crawling over her skin like a thousand spiders. She forced herself to sit straighter, to breathe evenly, though every instinct screamed to shrink away into invisibility.
Across the pavilion, the crown prince sat enthroned in his chair as though the world around him were nothing more than a tedious performance. One leg draped casually over the other, arms folded with languid authority, he seemed unmoved by the clamor of voices and the whirl of colors from silks and banners. The black mask obscured his expression entirely, its polished surface reflecting fragments of the scene, but even hidden, his presence carried an undeniable weight, like a hawk circling unseen above a field of prey.
Fatima thanked the heavens he hadn't turned his attention toward her—or so she hoped. The mask made it impossible to tell where his eyes lingered, and that uncertainty tightened her chest with unease.
Nathaniel, behind the veil of black, watched. The girl beneath the parasol seemed less like a courtier and more like some ethereal creature that had stumbled into the mortal world—too delicate, too unassuming to be swallowed by its cruelty. His gaze flickered when he noticed the furtive stares of nearby young men, their whispers carried by the breeze like darting arrows. Their hungry admiration needled at him, fanning an anger that drummed impatiently at his fingertips. The rhythmic strike of his index finger against the chair's armrest echoed his restraint, though his mind painted darker images—dragging each of them into shadow, silencing their smirks with his hands around their throats.
Yet, when he turned back to her, the murderous urge softened. She seemed utterly unaware of the fuss she caused. The wind tugged at her long strands of hair, brushing them across her cheek like a lover's caress, and she absentmindedly tucked them behind her ear with a movement so fluid, so graceful, it made the breath catch in his chest. The simple gesture left more than one young man flushed and flustered—and to his shame, Nathaniel was no exception.
All around him the festival pressed on, voices rising, silks rustling, the fragrance of crushed grass mingling with perfumes and spiced wine. Yet for him, the noise dulled, the colors blurred, until only she remained. Fatima, quiet in her shaded corner, was the single point of clarity in the crowd. A restless ache swelled in his chest, unfamiliar and insistent. His body itched to move, to cross the distance, to seize her hand and pull her away—away from the oppressive gazes, from the clamor of the festival, into some private silence where she would gaze upon no one else but him. He tilted his head, his lips curving faintly in puzzlement behind the mask. What is this strange feeling tightening its hold on me?
**
The crowd had long since thinned, like the retreating tide after a storm, leaving the cobblestoned square scattered with the faint scent of roasted nuts, baked bread, and flickering oil lanterns swaying in the breeze. Colorful paper streamers, remnants of earlier festivities, fluttered gently overhead, clinging to the cool breath of the night. Even as darkness draped itself across the town, a hum of life still lingered. Families bustled toward the hilltops and balconies, laughter and chatter overlapping in a lively chorus as they searched for the perfect vantage point to watch the fireworks display.
Fatima stood at the edge of the square, the glow of lanterns reflected in her wide, eager eyes. Her breath misted faintly in the chilly night air, and a shy smile tugged at her lips as she clasped her hands together. A quiet warmth swelled in her chest, pride curling around her heart at the thought that she had helped bring such joy to this night. Around her, the scent of sugared berries and bread hung heavy, a tantalizing reminder of the festival's treats.
The jars of strawberry preserves had been a particular triumph—two silvers per jar for most yet given freely to those who had competed in the day's games. A small but heartfelt token of her gratitude. In the end, every villager seemed to cradle a jar of crimson sweetness… everyone except Fatima herself.
"I heard it tastes heavenly with warm bread…" she muttered under her breath, the words tasting bitter as she nudged a pebble with the tip of her shoe. "Curse the fate of a bond servant." A voice rose behind her, deep yet teasing, slicing through the quiet like a ripple across still water. "Who are we cursing?"
Fatima's heart jolted, the sound striking like an arrow loosed without warning. "That scared me!" she yelped, stumbling forward as the pebble skittered away, and she caught herself against the edge of a nearby wooden stall. Her palm pressed to her chest, feeling her heartbeat hammer wildly beneath her dress. "Why are you so jumpy?" Nathaniel's voice curled around her again, lighter now, playful. A smirk danced at the corners of his lips as he stepped closer, one hand tucked casually behind his back.
"You suddenly appeared out of nowhere. How else was I supposed to react?" she shot back, exhaling sharply. Her fingers curled over her bodice as though to steady the fluttering in her heart. Nathaniel tilted his head slightly, studying her. The shift in her demeanor—her sulking replaced by this nervous brightness—was not lost on him. "The fireworks show is about to begin," he said at last, his amber eyes glinting as they tracked a group of men hauling crates of powder and rockets toward the launch site. "I know a perfect spot to watch. Would you like to come?" He extended his free hand toward her, palm open.
Fatima accepted it without hesitation. Her small fingers slid into his, warm despite the cool night, and the ease of the gesture sent a quiet jolt through him. Nathaniel had to purse his lips to stifle a smile, clearing his throat with practiced composure as he led her away from the square. "I can't wait to see it!" she said, her voice bright as bells. Her grip tightened around his as though she didn't even realize she was holding his hand at all. Nathaniel glanced down at their joined hands, his face unreadable even as a storm churned beneath his calm exterior.
"Have you never seen a fireworks show before?" he asked, his voice smooth but his heart thrumming harder. "Of course I have," she replied proudly, tilting her head toward the glittering city lights. "Back in Syphus I used to attend such festivities with—oops!" Her words caught in her throat like a bird mid-flight. She clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide, her expression a flash of panic in the lamplight.
Nathaniel's brows lifted slightly. "Is that your homeland?" he asked, his tone soft but his curiosity sharp. Fatima's stammered reply tumbled out like loose stones. "W-well, yes. I-uh… I grew up in a humble home near the slums." She avoided his gaze, her voice trembling with the weight of forbidden truths. Nathaniel studied her, mind drifting. There's more she's not telling me. His fingers slipped from hers, his thoughts spinning, though outwardly his face remained composed.
"I wondered why your accent sounded familiar," he said lightly. "I just couldn't place it before." "I… I have an accent?" she asked, stopping short to stare at him, eyes wide and uncertain. "Yes," he replied with a faint chuckle, mirroring her pause. She lowered her gaze fretfully to the cobbles beneath their feet, the shadows of the lanterns pooling between them like ink. "Sir Nate… could you keep what you just heard a secret?" she asked, her voice soft and pleading. "I don't want anyone to know where I'm from. Please?" Her hands clasped before her chest, trembling slightly.
Nathaniel stared at her for a long moment, weighing his choices. He could press her for the truth, yet the thought of exploiting her vulnerability sickened him. He wanted her trust, not her fear. "Don't worry," he said finally, his voice steady. "I won't tell anyone." "Thank you, Sir Nate. You really are the only one I can count on." Her shoulders eased as she walked ahead of him, relief softening her features. "Princess Emilia asked me to give this to you," he said suddenly, revealing the arm he'd kept behind his back. A glimmering jar of strawberry preserve caught the lamplight, its ruby contents glowing like captured sunlight.
Fatima gasped, the sound high and delighted, and snatched the jar with both hands. She held it aloft, twirling with childlike joy. The scent of sweet berries drifted upward as she pressed the glass to her cheek, her eyes bright with gratitude. "Her highness is truly a saint," she exclaimed. "She's not only beautiful, but kindhearted as well. I must thank her tomorrow."
Nathaniel rolled his eyes at the image of his twin sister playing saint in public, but the warmth of Fatima's joy softened his exasperation. He didn't notice her stepping closer until her arms slipped around his waist. Her voice, soft and earnest, rose from the crown of her head. "Thank you, Sir Nate. I'll enjoy it wholeheartedly."
He stiffened, his breath catching, his heart hammering against his ribs. Her hair brushed his tunic, carrying the faint scent of rosewater and festival smoke. He raised his arms awkwardly, unsure where to place them as heat crept up his face. "Are you alright, Sir Nate?" she asked, pulling back to peer up at him. "Are you not feeling well? Why are you covering your face?" Her fingers reached to tug his hand away, worry flickering across her expression. "I'm—" he faltered, swallowing hard. "I'm fine. Just give me a moment." He had never been this close to anyone like her. Yet Fatima's embrace felt… soothing. Familiar, even, though he didn't know why.
"We should hurry back to the estate," she said, her voice trembling faintly as she grasped his hand. "I'll brew some herbal tea for you." She turned away quickly, but Nathaniel caught the glimmer of tears on her cheeks before she hid them. "I'm perfectly fine," he said softly, halting her with a gentle tug. Then the first loud crack split the sky above them. Fatima's head snapped up, her eyes wide as the night blossomed with twinkling explosions of red, gold, green, and blue. Each whistle heralded another burst, the fireworks raining color like stars over the rooftops. Her smile widened with each flash, wonder lighting her face brighter than the display.
Nathaniel stood close behind her, his amber gaze flicking between the fireworks and her slender back, instinctively moving closer to shield her. He remembered the way men had ogled her earlier and felt a quiet, fierce resolve building in his chest. "Sir Nate…" Her voice drifted back to him, sweet and trembling, a melody only he seemed to hear. "We may not have known each other long, but you've shown me more kindness than anyone else. People like you are rare, so, please… stay by my side. Don't leave me alone. I hate being lonely more than anything."
She leaned against him, her words spilling out like a confession into the night. Her palms covered her face, but her quiet sobs reached his ears in spite of the noise. Nathaniel lowered his head, resting his chin lightly atop her hair, the faint scent of rosewater and salt from her tears filling his senses. "I will never leave your side, no matter what happens," he murmured, the promise slipping from him like a vow. She didn't hear, but something in his closeness soothed her. This is the best I can do for now, Nathaniel thought, closing his eyes as fireworks cracked above them, the light flickering across their joined silhouettes.