A week had crawled by since the night of the festival, yet the memories clung to Nathaniel like a stubborn shadow. They replayed vividly in his mind—the music, the lights, and above all, Fatima's presence. Since then, he had been dodging her at every opportunity, though it proved useless; her nearness lingered like a scent he couldn't escape. Whenever she entered the same space, his chest throbbed violently, his pulse hammering as though it sought to break free of his ribs. The sensation unsettled him, gnawed at him, and most of all, infuriated him, for he couldn't make sense of it.
"Finally… some peace and quiet," he muttered under his breath, raking his fingers through his hair in frustration as he entered the room. The motion stilled when his gaze fell upon the girl's slender back. He frowned. Fatima sat rigidly at the edge of the bed, her posture frozen, her silver hair spilling forward like liquid moonlight. Before her lay Dominique, pale as parchment, his chest rising shallowly beneath silk sheets. Since the festival, the duke had been confined to his bed—his lips bloodied by violent coughing, his body wasting away with a sickness no physician could name. Damian had found him collapsed on the floor of his study, and ever since, the air of the household had soured with dread.
The chamber itself smelled faintly of herbs and damp cloth, but the bitter tang of iron from Dominique's coughing still lingered in the air, clashing with the cloying sweetness of burning incense sticks. Candles sputtered along the ornate sconces, casting a weary, golden light across velvet drapes and polished wood. The atmosphere was heavy, thick with despair.
"Are you certain about this, Dimitriu?" Emilia's voice cracked softly, her features pinched with worry as she stood at the foot of the bed. Her brows knitted together, and her fingers clutched at her skirts in agitation. "The girl is nothing more than a bond servant. How could she possibly—" "Emilia." Dimitriu's sigh was taut with strain. He rubbed his forehead with a trembling hand, weary from both worry and her ceaseless protests. "Enough." His tone, low and sharp, silenced the chamber for a moment. The faint sound of Dominique's rasping breath filled the gap.
While they exchanged words, Fatima sat unmoving, though inside she was crumbling. Her lashes quivered, her breathing shallow, her heart pounding as if it could betray her fear at any moment. Her fingers twisted together in her lap, pale from the pressure of her nervous grip. The muffled voices of Emilia and Dimitriu only deepened the chaos inside her head, their words blending with her own frantic thoughts until she could no longer distinguish them.
"Will the two of you stop this childish bickering?" Nathaniel's voice cut through the noise, his sharp tone snapping the room into silence. His amber eyes burned as they pinned his sister and her fiancé with a glare that allowed no argument. The two flinched like children caught misbehaving, averting their gazes under his scolding.
In the sudden quiet, Fatima finally gathered the courage to move. She drew in a trembling breath, steadying herself, then reached out with both hands to cradle Dominique's frail, clammy one. His skin was cold, his once strong fingers limp within her grasp. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to sink into the trance—her senses sharpening, her mind's vision drawn inward.
A ripple of power moved through her. Nathaniel, lounging on a chaise across the room, felt it like a spark crawling across his skin. His body stiffened, eyes narrowing on her trembling figure. For just an instant, something achingly familiar washed over him—an immense surge of divine energy that hummed in the very air. Fatima's eyes flew open, glistening with tears that spilled down her cheeks in silent rivulets. She gently set Dominique's hand back onto the coverlet, her chest heaving as she tried to contain her despair.
"What is it?" Dimitriu's voice cracked as he swallowed hard, his throat dry, his features tightening as he braced himself. Though he had scoffed at his father's strange request to summon Fatima, desperation now gnawed at his doubt. Her lips trembled, her breath catching painfully in her throat as she forced herself to speak. "There is… a black hole within the master's heart." Her voice wavered, breaking as she bit down hard on her lower lip. "Demonic energy seeps from it… spreading through every organ."
The words seemed to curdle the air. "What?" Dimitriu choked, his eyes widening until they threatened to leap from their sockets.
**
Duchess Gwendolynn stalked the corridor like a caged predator, the sharp click of her heels echoing against the polished marble floor in an unsteady rhythm. Her manicured fingers trembled as she gnawed at her nails, the acrid tang of blood mingling faintly with the sweet perfume clinging to her silken sleeves. Candle sconces flickered along the walls, their wavering flames casting long, distorted shadows that seemed to lunge and twist around her as though mocking her restless pacing.
Her chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths, torn between dread and a dark, simmering anticipation. This wasn't the plan, her mind hissed. He was supposed to die in the capital, not here, not now. She froze before the towering double doors of her husband's bedchamber, the gilded handles gleaming like molten gold in the dim light. The sheer size of them seemed to dwarf her, looming over her like the weight of her circumstances.
Her lips pressed into a thin line as frustration clawed at her. The will. Where did he hide it in this endless labyrinth of stone and velvet? Ever since she had learned of his mistress's pregnancy, venom had been pooling inside her heart, thick and poisonous. The thought of his bastard stealing what was rightfully hers—and Florette's—was unbearable. But now, with death crouching so near, the threads of her scheme threatened to unravel. She gnawed at her thumb until the sharp sting of broken skin spread across her mouth, copper filling her tongue. She didn't stop.
"Mother!" The plaintive cry rang down the corridor, shattering the tense silence. Gwendolynn's eyes flicked up briefly, catching the sight of her daughter's flushed face framed by honey-blonde curls as she swept toward her. Florette's gown rustled with every agitated step, perfumed skirts whispering against the cold marble, but Gwendolynn barely registered her presence. Her pacing continued, frantic and mechanical, as though she were spellbound by the doors.
"The crown prince is nowhere to be found," Florette complained, her voice quivering with indignation. "Every day he wastes his time with those filthy bond servants, and now he's vanished completely. Can't you do something, Mother?" Her tone dripped with both desperation and petulance, and Gwendolynn finally halted, her temples throbbing as she pressed her fingers against them. "Be silent, Florette. You are interrupting my train of thought."
Florette faltered, her pout deepening. Her gaze flicked uneasily to the motionless guards flanking the chamber doors. Their armor glinted in the low light, faces impassive, their stillness so complete it was unsettling—like carved statues watching, listening, judging.
"Is Father very ill?" Florette's whisper trembled, her eyes wide and searching. "Your father is gravely ill indeed," Gwendolynn sighed, forcing her face into a mask of sorrow, every line of it carefully rehearsed. Her voice carried a sorrowful cadence, though the sharp edge beneath it betrayed her true delight. "That is what he deserves for his… indulgences." Florette scoffed, folding her arms in defiance, her bracelets jingling sharply against the silence. Gwendolynn's jaw tightened. She shared her daughter's fury, but her mind, ever calculating, knew better than to let Florette's bitterness spark rumors that could fracture their fragile standing.
Her head turned sharply, the cold gleam of her eyes pinning the guards. "Escort my daughter to her chambers. Now." The command sliced through the corridor like a blade, her voice deceptively soft yet brimming with iron authority. "But Mother—" Florette began, her whine echoing pitifully, only to be silenced by a glance sharp enough to draw blood. "Not another word. Do as I say." Florette's lips twisted into a sulky grimace. "Yes, Mother," she muttered, her tone dripping with resentment. With a dramatic spin, she stormed away, skirts flaring, the rhythmic stomp of her slippers fading as the guards followed at her heels.
At last, the corridor was empty. The hush returned, heavy and expectant, broken only by the faint crackle of torches along the walls. Gwendolynn inhaled deeply, her shoulders relaxing as the faint scent of beeswax and iron filled her lungs. A slow, serpentine smile curled across her painted lips. "Perfect timing, my dear Florette," she murmured under her breath, her words coated in venomous amusement. She turned on her heel, the sweep of her gown whispering conspiratorially across the stone as she made her way toward her husband's study—the one place she had never been able to pry open under the watchful eyes of his knights.
Tonight, with the floor finally stripped of its guards, she would slither her way inside. And perhaps, at last, she would unearth the treasure of ink and paper that could secure her future.
**
A few weeks earlier, a troubling report had arrived for Dimitriu. It told of the Duke collapsing during his return journey to the territory, a strange spider's bite forcing him into the care of a nearby temple. Priests and healers had rushed to purify his blood of toxins, but instead of recovery, his body only weakened further. The bruise once blooming on the back of his neck had faded as suddenly as it appeared—a relief at first—until fevers seized him nightly, his body racked with bloody coughs that stained the linens. The sickroom still carried the sharp tang of iron and bitter herbs, heavy in the stagnant air.
"If I may, young master…" Fatima's voice was soft, trembling with both fear and urgency as her slender hand hesitantly lifted. The flicker of candlelight caught the faint pallor of her face. "You may speak freely, Fati. Tell us everything you know," Dimitriu answered, his tone gentled by concern. His eyes, darkened by nights of worry, softened when they met hers.
He was already astonished by her gift—how swiftly she had uncovered what even the most practiced priests and physicians had overlooked. By touching the duke's hand alone, she had sensed a corruption hidden deeper than any spell or prayer could reach. Even Alkaraz's greatest mage would falter before such insight, Dimitriu thought, his gaze fixed upon her lowered lashes as she tried to hide her discomfort, staring instead at the veined marble beneath her feet.
"Was there perhaps a description of the spider mentioned in the master's report?" she asked, her voice cautious. Such cases often came with testimony, sometimes sketches, though memories could twist under fear. Still, any detail could guide her. "One of our knights made a sketch on their way back to the duchy. Perhaps it will be of use?" Dimitriu replied, handing her a folded sheet of parchment. The paper crackled in her grasp.
Before she could examine it, Emilia's sharp voice cut through the heavy air. "What does a mere spider bite have to do with the demonic energy rotting his heart? This makes no sense!" Her arms folded tightly across her silken bodice, her narrowed eyes flicking to the young bond servant sitting by the duke's bed. "Settle yourself, Princess, and let her finish." Nathaniel's calm baritone rolled in from the window, where he lounged against the sill, one leg draped over the other. Pale light poured in behind him, gilding the edge of his red hair. Unlike the others, his gaze lingered quietly on Fatima, his trust in her unshaken.
The tension thickened, pressing like humidity before a storm. Fatima steadied her breath, forcing composure for the duke's sake, though her pulse thudded against her ribs. "Do you know what kind of spider bite we're dealing with here?" Dimitriu asked, his brows drawn tight with worry. "This is ridiculous!" Emilia snapped. "We are wasting time when we could summon a healing mage—" "Princess Emilia," Nathaniel's voice sharpened, his amber eyes hardening as they cut toward her. "Continue to disturb this room, and I will escort you out myself. Consider this your last warning."
Emilia stiffened, her glare darting between him and Fatima before she turned away with a huff. The air pulsed with unspoken hostilities, until finally Dimitriu placed a hand on his fiancée's arm and led her out, leaving silence in their wake. Now only two remained. The awkwardness is killing me. Fatima's thoughts coiled, her throat tightening. The sickroom, dim and oppressive, suddenly felt unbearably close. If not for the duke, she would have fled as well.
"You can focus now that the obstacle is gone," Nathaniel said quietly, his tone clipped but steady. "Do what you must, but don't overstrain yourself." She gave no reply. Her silence was a wall, built from a week's worth of his indifference, and now his sudden concern grated all the more. "You can scold me later," he murmured, catching the muttered curse under her breath. "Right now, the duke needs you more than I do."
Her fingers tightened around the sketch until the parchment wrinkled under her grip. How does he always know? It was as though her very soul lay open before him, every unspoken thought laid bare. She had once longed for such understanding, never imagining it would come from someone so enigmatic… so infuriating. Nathaniel tilted his head, studying her in silence. The faint flush rising to the tips of her ears betrayed emotions she would not voice. His chest tightened. Her heart is racing. Is she truly that angry with me?
At last, her voice broke the silence. "This… is called an aracnocrobe." She held up the sketch, her tone firm despite the tremor in her hand. "A demonic spider, often dwelling in the dampest, most secluded forest grounds. They are most prevalent during—" "What did you just say?" Nathaniel's voice cracked, his eyes widening in shock, cutting her words short.