Sunlight slanted through the tall windows of the Kartier drawing room, painting the polished floor in rectangles of gold. The room smelled faintly of lemon oil and old paper—leather-bound books on the shelves and the ghost of expensive tobacco pipes from a hundred private conversations. Afternoon dust motes hung in the air like tiny realms slowly drifting past the crystal chandelier. The hush of the household was a living thing: the soft tick of a distant clock, the whisper of silk against upholstery, the occasional clink of porcelain from the servants' wing.
A ripple of movement broke the stillness as a young man in outrageously bright extravagant clothes was escorted in. His long fur coat was a riot of color — vermilion, teal, and embroidered gold — so loud it seemed to laugh at the room's somber decor. He moved with the theatrical confidence of someone used to turning heads, leopard-print shoes rhythmically clacking the marble floor, arms thrown wide as if greeting an invisible audience. A careless cologne trail followed him: sweet spice and too much musk, the kind that lingers on a room after the wearer has gone.
"It has been too long, my dear sister— or should I say, Duchess Kartier." His voice was honeyed and loud, theatrical to the point of parody. He grinned as if he had just revealed a private joke; his eyes darted about, bright and insolent. Gwendolynn rose from the sofa with a cold precision. Every measured step toward him was a reprimand. She wore the duchess's inevitable black that day: a dress cut to command, fabric whispering with each movement, a thin line of pearls at her throat. Her face was pale under the daylight, but the color in her eyes was alive—a hard, trimmed flame. She slid into a seat opposite him with the practiced grace of someone who has learned how to make patience into a weapon. A vein tightened at her temple; irritation narrowed her gaze to a blade.
The young man sneered theatrically and inclined his head. "This place looks rather glum today. Did someone pass away?" He clapped a hand over his mouth and feigned shock, then produced a wrinkled handkerchief and dabbed at eyes that had not been wet. His mock-sob was a rasping, insincere sound that grated against the hush. Gwendolynn's reply was a cold, low threat that fell like iron. "Shut your mouth, Dietrich, before I stuff rocks down your throat and sew those lips of yours." The words were sharp, edged with a cruelty that silenced the room more effectively than any raised voice.
Dietrich Harris—her half-brother, gilded and ruined in equal measure—was a study in entitled decay. He had been disowned by their elder brother years ago for the predictable reasons: wine, women, and debts. Yet he returned like a parasite with a smile, living off secrets and favors. He had been given a title and a place at her husband's retinue, safely useful because he was convenient in the precise way a coin is useful: easily spent and easily replaced.
"How dare you change my plans without my consent?" Gwendolynn asked through gritted teeth. He shrugged with a theatrical flourish as if the world's calamities were a trifle. "Correction, dear sister, it was our plan to rid ourselves of the duke. Therefore, I have as much right as you to make changes as I see fit." His smirk was casual, but his eyes were hungry, flinty. He met her glare with insolence, as if nothing she could say could bruise him.
Gwendolynn stood and the movement carried authority. Her hand closed on his collar with the strict, practiced force of a woman who had raised armies with a look. The room seemed to hold its breath. "Do you realize what you've done, you incompetent fool?" she snapped. The slap she administered cut through the decorative silence like a cracked whip. It was not a staged, melodramatic strike but a clean, precise one—an audible, terrifying punctuation. Dietrich's head swung as if the sound had physical weight; his mouth hung open in startled incomprehension. The smell of his cheap cologne mingled with the faint, metallic tang of sudden anger.
If her elder brother had not been the one to pry into her secrets, if fate's small cruelty had not violated her careful compass, she might have had Dietrich disposed of and erased like a blot on a ledger. But he had found leverage in a moment of her weakness, and she had been forced to keep him close. He is, she admitted with a private contempt, a useful dog with a bite she could not permit.
Dietrich pushed her hands away, fussing with the now-crumpled collar as if that single affront mattered most. "Oh, sister, sister, sister," he sighed, a rapid, theatrical shake of the head. His voice took on faux sympathy, thin and oily. "You must be going through quite the ordeal, my dear. Your husband's funeral—so soon, no? How are my darling niece and nephews taking the news?"
He raised his brows with exaggerated concern, the motion mechanical as a puppet's. For a split second, a flicker of fear crossed Gwendolynn's face: a private, vulnerable afterimage she quickly extinguished. Dietrich's smile widened at that, enjoying the sight like a small triumph. His laughter, a forced cackle, scraped along her nerves.
Gwendolynn's hands relaxed only long enough to fold back into her lap. She let the light land on her fingers and watched him carefully, like a hunter watching the way a rabbit's nose twitches. When she spoke again, it was with the quiet of someone releasing a coiled thing. "Well, my dear brother, thanks to you, our plan failed rather miserably." The words were precise, each one measured. "W-what?" Dietrich stammered, eyes with disbelief. She sank back into the cushions, crossing one ankle over the other and letting her chin rest in her fist with a soft, satisfied tilt.
Dietrich's theatrics collapsed into something like genuine shock. He sagged to the floor as if the room itself had betrayed him, knees folding, breath hitched. His voice was small and tremulous. "What do mean, Gwen? I don't understand. This can't be." He crawled toward her like a supplicant around a coffee table, the colorful fabric of his coat forming a garish spill over the polished marble. "Gwen, my sweet sister. You won't let them take me, right? Right, sister?" He laughed nervously, the sound a brittle thing. The plea slithered into threat—old habits of blackmail and dependence braided together.
Her fingers closed in his hair with the surety of someone who does not hesitate. He groaned as the pain flared; the scent of spilled pomade and sweat rose in a minor, human cloud. "Pull another trick like this again and I will personally separate your head from your body, Dietrich." Her voice had dropped to a tone that left no room for jest. It was a promise folded into a threat, a thing that made the hairs on his arms prickle. "Nod if you understood." She loosed him and wiped her hand on the sofa as if it bore any stain from him. He nodded repeatedly, eyes wide, sullen and suddenly docile—like a man who had always known how dangerous her patience could be.
She patted his shoulder with a small, final gesture of domination. "Good boy," she murmured, the words almost tender—an insult disguised as comfort, and the room, once again, returned to its slow, deliberate quiet: the clock's tick, the rustle of leaves beyond the glass, and the faint, lingering aroma of musk and lemon that would, in the end, outlast them all.
**
The city of Chilsela gleamed like a jewel beneath the afternoon sun, its marble towers rising elegantly above winding cobbled streets that shimmered with heat. The air carried a heady mix of scents—freshly baked pastries wafting from street vendors, the tang of sea brine drifting from the nearby port, and the faint perfume of garden blooms clinging to balconies adorned with hanging vines. Despite the hum of city life beyond its walls, the secluded villa where Fatima was resting stood apart—nestled in a quiet quarter shaded by cypress and olive trees, its iron gates warding away curious eyes.
Inside the villa's drawing room, the silence was heavy. Nathaniel sat slouched in an ornate, high-backed chair, its gilded frame gleaming faintly in the muted sunlight filtering through brocade curtains. He rested his head against his fist, crimson hair falling in soft strands across his furrowed brow. His amber eyes, usually sharp with command, seemed clouded with agitation as his boot tapped a restless rhythm on the polished floor. The faint creak of leather accompanied each impatient shift of his leg. His index finger drummed repeatedly against his thigh, a habit betraying the storm brewing behind his otherwise poised demeanor.
Across from him, Dimitriu perched on the edge of a velvet seat, his back stiff, his papers trembling slightly in his hands. He had been recounting details of the duke's painstaking recovery, but his words faltered when he noticed the dark scowl shadowing Nathaniel's face. The prince's presence radiated an oppressive heat, as if the room itself bowed to his mood. Dimitriu swallowed, his throat dry, before daring to speak.
"Your mind seems to be elsewhere, your highness. Is something troubling you?" Nathaniel's jaw tightened at the intrusion. His thoughts kept circling back to her. Ever since that day inside the duke's chamber where he had witnessed Fatima collapsing in a pool of her own blood, fragile as glass, he had been unable to silence the image. It replayed relentlessly, clawing at him. Despite Hayden's assurances, he brought Fatima to Chilsela, where she could get the res she needed to make a full recovery. The only problem is that Dimitriu keeps showing up everyday, each time with a different excuse just to ask about Fatima.
"I thought I told you not to come here anymore, Dimitriu," Nathaniel said coolly, his voice cutting like steel. His irritation coiled tighter the longer he looked at the man's downcast expression—a wounded, pitiful look that only stoked the urge to strike him. Nathaniel's fist clenched hard, the leather of his gloves groaning under the pressure. That dejected face is starting to grate on my nerves.
Sensing the dangerous turn of the atmosphere, Dimitriu suddenly blurted, "Oh! I just remembered." His voice was falsely bright, trembling at the edges as he scrambled for a lifeline. "A letter has arrived for you from the imperial palace."
He fumbled inside his coat and produced a velvet envelope stamped with a golden seal, holding it out with both hands like an offering. Nathaniel's amber gaze narrowed, flickering with suspicion before he snatched it from him. As he broke the seal, Nathaniel's mind unspooled a memory—the conversation with Duke Dominique before his departure to Lithiar.
"Tell me the truth, Dominique. Who is this young girl you're hiding here under the guise of servitude? You may have fooled your household, but nothing escapes me." The duke's smirk had lingered like smoke. "I understand your concern, your highness. But I am not at liberty to disclose such matters. What I can tell you is that your answer lies in Syphus—and of course, you did not hear that from me."
The carriage door shut, wheels rattling as the duke vanished from sight, leaving Nathaniel with more questions than answers. Now, as his eyes traced the elegant script within the imperial letter, his frown deepened. Syphus… The very name soured on his tongue. That kingdom was their enemy. Its alliance negotiations had crumbled the moment their crown princess vanished over a year ago, leaving diplomatic talks to wither in silence. So why now?
"Is something the matter, your highness?" Dimitriu's hesitant voice tugged him back to the present, his words carrying unease as he noted the tension in Nathaniel's brow. Nathaniel exhaled sharply, the sigh rumbling through the room like distant thunder. "It seems," he said, folding the letter with deliberate calm, "I must set off on another journey."
"A… journey?" Dimitriu repeated, his voice faltering. His eyes widened slightly as Nathaniel tossed the opened letter across the table, the parchment fluttering to rest before him. "Indeed," Nathaniel replied, his gaze hardening with resolve. "I have been summoned by the emperor to represent Alkaraz… in the kingdom of Syphus." The air in the drawing room seemed to still, heavy with the weight of what was to come.
**
Fatima's lashes fluttered as consciousness slowly returned to her, the hazy blur of shapes above her sharpening into a cluster of faces. A group of women hovered so close she could feel the warmth of their breaths, their wide eyes fixed on her like she was some rare bird that had just stirred in its gilded cage. The sudden closeness jolted her, her heart leaping into her throat—but instead of recoiling, she forced her trembling body upright, the silken sheets sliding down her shoulders as the women instinctively stepped back.
Where… am I? Her dazed gaze swept across the vast chamber, gilded with afternoon light. The tall windows stretched nearly to the ceiling, their glass panes casting warm ribbons of gold across the polished floor. "She's finally awake!" one young maid cried, her voice bubbling with unrestrained cheer. She clapped her hands together, the sharp sound echoing in the airy space, and the excitement in her tone only seemed to ignite the others.
Fatima's chest tightened beneath the weight of their stares. Their expressions brimmed with wonder, like she was some ethereal vision sprung from the pages of a fairy tale. It was so foreign—so achingly different from the scornful, disdainful glares that had shadowed her in the Kartier Duchy. "My lady, are you feeling well? Does anything ache? Your throat perhaps?" another maid blurted out, pointing nervously at her own neck as she crept closer with hesitant steps, as if approaching a frightened deer.
"One question at a time, Cassie," an older woman interjected firmly, her voice steady but not unkind. She laid a hand on the younger maid's shoulder and tugged her back before her eagerness could overwhelm the fragile figure on the bed. "Where… am I?" Fatima's voice came in a soft stammer, her words directed toward the older woman, though her eyes drifted longingly toward the sunlight spilling through one of the windows. The golden glow bathed her pale skin and coaxed warmth back into her body.
The air was alive with the freshness of summer—breezes carrying the faint perfume of roses and the crisp scent of cut grass slipped in from the wide double doors that opened onto a stone balcony. The faint caress of wind cooled her skin, making her feel alive again. Pastel-hued wallpaper softened the grandeur of the space, giving it an inviting, almost domestic warmth. Even the flower arrangements, perched delicately on carved tables, seemed staged with painstaking care, blooms so vivid they could have been painted. Whoever owns this place… they have impeccable taste, Fatima thought, her gaze drifting beyond the balcony where rooftops dotted the distant horizon like tiny toys.
"You are in Chilsela, my lady," the older woman answered at last, her tone gentle, drawing Fatima's eyes back from the sunlit world beyond. Chilsela? The name stirred faint recognition in her, though she chose not to dig deeper—not yet. "Our master brought you here to recover from your accident," Cassie piped up again, her voice lilting with pride as she eagerly thrust herself back into the circle.
"That's right!" another maid chimed in, clasping her hands as her face lit with girlish adoration. "He carried you all the way here in his arms, as though you weighed nothing. Not a drop of sweat on him—so strong, so magnificent!" Her cheeks flushed crimson as she sighed, only to be shoved aside by others trying to add their voices. "Quit pushing, I was going to speak next!" one girl huffed, her frustration almost comical. "You're standing on my foot, Gigi! Ow—move, you're crushing me!" another yelped, hopping in pain as the orderly circle disintegrated into a squabble.
"That is quite enough!" The older woman's voice cracked like a whip, slicing through the chatter. At once, the commotion stilled, though their eyes still sparkled with mischief. Why do they all keep calling me 'my lady'? Fatima's thoughts tangled as confusion tugged at her chest. "I shall fetch her ladyship's meal immediately," Gigi blurted out nervously, her face burning as she scurried toward the door, desperate to escape the embarrassment. "Paulette, Cassie," the older woman commanded, her gaze sharp. Two girls straightened and bowed their heads in unison. "See to it that her ladyship is properly refreshed and presented before she meets with his hi—" She caught herself, clearing her throat quickly. "—our master."
"Yes, madam Francia," Paulette answered crisply, already moving with purpose. She noticed Cassie still standing frozen, dreamy-eyed, and pinched her sharply by the arm. "Ow!" Cassie squealed as Paulette dragged her by the ear out of the room, scolding her the entire way. Fatima couldn't help the soft chuckle that slipped past her lips. The scene stirred fond memories of Clover's playful teasing and Ivy's exasperated attempts at keeping the peace.
Just then, another maid rushed past the open doorway, calling out breathlessly, "Has anyone seen the rose soap the master brought? I can't find it anywhere!" Francia pressed her fingertips to her brow, exhaling a weary sigh. "Please forgive their discourtesy, my lady. They are not usually so unruly. I shall discipline them as soon as—" "That won't be necessary," Fatima interrupted gently, her voice warm, her lips curving into a smile that softened her entire face. "I find their liveliness rather soothing. And though I know you act under your master's orders, I am still deeply grateful for the care you've shown me."
Her smile tugged at Francia's heart, the sincerity in it disarming and tender. The older woman found herself studying the girl with new eyes. So young, yet kind and gracious… We must not let such a rare treasure slip through our fingers, she resolved silently, straightening her posture as her heart steeled with renewed purpose.
**
The atmosphere in the drawing room shifted so suddenly that Dimitriu's lungs burned as though he had truly been holding his breath for too long. Nathaniel's low chuckle broke the silence—a sound both sharp and oddly mirthful. A smile lingered on his lips, but instead of easing Dimitriu's nerves, it carved deeper lines of unease into his chest. The prince's amber eyes gleamed dangerously as he stared down at the letter on the table, his expression half-rapture, half-mystery, as if he were lost in some private reverie.
I can't read him at all, Dimitriu thought grimly, his own brows knitting as a knot of unease settled in his stomach. Only moments ago, Nathaniel had looked as though he might storm the capital and throttle the emperor himself, yet now he sat grinning like a boy with a secret. Whatever scheme spun in his mind, Dimitriu wanted no part of it. He exhaled a heavy sigh that rattled faintly in his throat. Clearing it, he spoke with deliberate care, bowing his head slightly.
"As I was saying, your highness. Please allow me to escort Fatima back home. She is, after all, an employee of the Kartier duchy. She cannot remain here longer than necessary." His voice carried an undercurrent of urgency, as though the sooner he could spirit her away, the safer she might be.
But Nathaniel's sharp gaze snapped toward him, burning away any illusion of composure. The prince's jaw tightened. He would not allow Dimitriu anywhere near her—not as protector, not as escort, not as anything. Beneath his princely calm coiled something darker, a fierce, almost possessive unease that struck like a shadow whenever Dimitriu spoke Fatima's name.
"Why," Nathaniel's words slid out like blades sheathed in velvet, "are you so intent on having her close to you? Have you only just realized your feelings for her? Will you now profess undying love, after what you've done?" His brows furrowed deep, his fist clenched against the armrest, and his amber eyes locked onto Dimitriu with a glare so intense that Dimitriu flinched. Heat rushed to his face as he whipped his head away, unable to withstand the prince's murderous stare.
"It's nothing like that, your highness," he stammered, his voice frayed at the edges. "I only wish to thank her for saving my father. When I recall how she was treated before then…" His words faltered, shame weighing them down. "I feel terribly sorry toward her."
Nathaniel's scoff cracked through the chamber like a whip. He leaned back in his seat with slow, deliberate disdain, folding his arms across his chest. "Fatima does not need your pity." The syllables dropped heavy, unyielding. "Your highness, that isn't what I mean. I only wish to compensate her for—" Dimitriu's protest withered when Nathaniel's brusque, calm interruption cut him off, the words delivered almost lazily yet with cutting finality. "If that is the case… then why not simply set her free?"
The question froze the air between them. Dimitriu's shoulders slumped as he rubbed his forehead, a weary sigh escaping his lips. The steady heat of Nathaniel's scrutiny was suffocating, gnawing at the edges of his resolve. "Your highness, it is not so simple," Dimitriu murmured, his hands fidgeting nervously in his lap. "As you already know, there is a process—"
Nathaniel's finger began tapping against his forearm in steady rhythm, each sharp rap a reminder of his impatience. His amber eyes narrowed. "Are you not now the new duke Kartier? You wield the authority. What excuse is there for delay?" Dimitriu swallowed hard, his gaze darting helplessly toward the corner table where a porcelain vase of pale pink lilies gave off a faint, sweet fragrance. Even their delicate perfume could not soothe the tightening coil of dread in his chest. Nathaniel's presence pressed down on him like a predator stalking a cornered prey.
"While that may be true… the news has yet to be made official, so—" he stammered, twisting his fingers together until his knuckles whitened. Nathaniel tilted his head, voice low and dangerous, every word dripping with suspicion. "Could it be… that you're planning to exploit her talent?" Dimitriu's heart lurched. He shook his head quickly, his throat dry. "No, your highness, I would never—" "Then what," Nathaniel interrupted again, his tone sharp as broken glass, "do you intend to do with Fatima?" His eyes glowed with genuine curiosity, though beneath it simmered a warning—answer carefully, or else.
The silence that followed was taut enough to snap. Just when it seemed the room itself would shatter under the weight of their words, a soft knock broke through. "Pardon our interruption, young masters," came the muffled voice of a servant beyond the door. "We have brought her ladyship." The words dropped like stones into the storm.