The silence after the servant's announcement was jagged, as though the very air itself had been split open. Nathaniel's eyes narrowed, the dangerous gleam in them dimming slightly, though the tautness in his frame betrayed he was far from calm. Dimitriu exhaled shakily, his fingers still tangled together in his lap, sweat prickling at his temples.
The latch clicked softly, and the heavy oak door opened with a whisper of hinges. Afternoon light poured in from the hallway, spilling across the chamber floor in a golden streak that reached all the way to Nathaniel's boots.
And then she stepped inside. Fatima moved with quiet grace, though the faint rustle of her skirts and the delicate tap of her slippers against the polished wood drew every eye to her at once. The soft scent of rosewater drifted with her, blending with the lilies' sweetness, a fragrance so gentle it belied the storm she was walking into.
Her silver hair caught the sunlight and shimmered like liquid moonlight despite the hour, cascading over her shoulders in smooth waves. The pallor of her face spoke of her recent frailty, yet the steady lift of her chin, the hesitant composure in her crimson eyes, carried a quiet strength that neither man could ignore.
Dimitriu rose first from his seat, his movements filled with the restless vigor of youth. Each stride toward Fatima carried the confidence of a summer breeze yet also the weight of something unsaid. Fatima froze mid-step the instant his towering figure loomed before her, the sunlight catching on his blond hair like a halo. His soft green eyes bore into her crimson ones, steady and unflinching.
The memory came rushing back with the sharpness of a reopened wound: that shadowed chamber where she had fought the strange man, the suffocating darkness, the violent heat in her abdomen like fire eating through her flesh when she came to. Her lungs had clawed for air that refused to come, each breath shallow, jagged. She remembered her heart thrumming wildly, as if it would leap from her chest and shatter against the cold marble floor. Dizzy, reeling, she had swayed backward on the backless chair—certain that death was already reaching for her—until Dimitriu's strong hands had caught her in time. The stricken look in his eyes then, the sheer panic etched on his features, had told her how close she had come to losing everything.
But she was still here. Alive. Breathing. Whole. "How are you feeling, Fati?" Dimitriu's voice was low but fervent, tinged with relief and lingering fear. "Are you in pain anywhere? It is good to see color returning to your cheeks again. Thank goodness…" He reached forward, fingers trembling as they sought hers.
Before contact could be made, Nathaniel's hand cut between them, a sharp smack resounding in the air like a struck chord. "Keep your hands to yourself, young duke," he said coolly. Nathaniel's arm slipped around Fatima's shoulders, the weight of his presence both protective and possessive. The faint scent of his cologne—cedarwood and smoke—wrapped around her as he drew her closer. His amber eyes flicked toward Dimitriu, delivering a silent threat sharpened into a glare. Dimitriu, however, merely curved his lips into a smile, unfazed, the sunlight catching the mischievous glint in his gaze.
Fatima's heart gave a startled jump at Nathaniel's sudden closeness, though her expression remained composed, her voice calm. What unsettled her more than his touch was his daring lack of respect toward a man who could end his service with a single command. The tension between them crackled like flint and steel.
"I am much better now, thanks to your care, young master," Fatima murmured, bowing her head slightly toward Dimitriu, her tone gentle and even. "How fares the master?" she asked softly, though her eyes flicked upward toward Nathaniel, whose grip tightened ever so slightly around her shoulder, his jaw taut as he continued to glare.
There were moments, like now, when Nathaniel felt utterly unfamiliar to her—like a stranger draped in the skin of someone she thought she knew. "Father is faring better all thanks to your help. You truly are incredibly amazing. I don't know how to thank you, Fati." Dimitriu sighed, his voice breaking through the taut silence. His smile was bright and disarming, genuine warmth radiating from it.
A soft nod was her only reply, her lips curving politely, though inside, her thoughts tangled into knots. Once, his compliments would have sent her blood rushing, her face burning as though set alight. Once, she would have clumsily sought his attention—dropping books, brushing too close to his arm, yearning for the thrill of his nearness. That giddy warmth, that suffocating yet sweet heat… it was gone now. Gone as if swept away by a merciless wind, leaving her strangely hollow.
Had it all been a dream? she wondered, unsettled by how swiftly the tide of her heart had changed. "I believe it's time for his grace to return to the duchy," Nathaniel said abruptly, his tone clipped with impatience. Fatima startled, pulled from her reverie, her lashes fluttering as her gaze shifted between them. "I'm sure you have much to attend to, young duke," Nathaniel continued, each word sharpened like a blade. "With your new title, no doubt there are responsibilities you cannot shirk."
Fatima opened her mouth to speak, to bridge the widening gulf, but her voice faltered at the sight of Dimitriu's expression—his lips drawn, his eyes pleading silently, as though begging her to keep him there. Her heart gave a twist, but she looked away quickly, leaning closer to Nathaniel. Rising on her toes, she whispered into his ear, her breath brushing against him, "Doesn't this villa belong to the young master? Why are you sending him away from his own home?"
Her innocent question drew a quick, surprised chuckle from Nathaniel, which then broke into rich, unrestrained laughter. The sound rolled through the room, booming down the corridors until startled maids dropped their trays in the hall and guards outside stiffened in alarm. None of them had ever heard their stern young prince laugh—not once, not even smile fully. The sound felt almost apocalyptic, as if the world itself had shifted.
"This villa, and the whole of Chilsela, belongs to my parents," Nathaniel declared proudly once he calmed, his chest still rising from the force of his laughter. "Which makes it my personal property—not the duke's." His words rang with boastful triumph, though beneath it lingered a faint shadow of dishonesty.
The truth, however, was not far from his claim. Chilsela had indeed been gifted to him as a test of governance, a small kingdom in miniature to mold him into a future monarch. But as his words faded, so too did his amusement. His features darkened, shadows carving sharper lines into his face as old grief clawed its way back into the present.
The air seemed to thicken as memories of his mother surged forth—the betrayal, the poison, the helplessness of watching the empire bow to Count Hertzman's ambitions. Nathaniel's amber eyes narrowed, burning with quiet hatred as his thoughts returned to that nightmarish time, when the Empress, his beloved mother, had fallen lifeless at a banquet meant to celebrate her.
The echo of her last arguments with his father still haunted him. The weight of her collapse, the sight of her blood, the stench of wine laced with venom… all of it remained etched into him like scars upon his soul. It was the tragedy that shaped him, that carved his heart into steel and fire—and now, in this sunlit room, even amid Fatima's warmth, he could not escape the shadows it left behind.
**
The afternoon sun bathed the rolling countryside in a warm, golden hue as the Alkaraz delegation finally set out toward Syphus. The rhythmic clop of horses' hooves against the hardened dirt road echoed in steady cadence, punctuated by the rattling groans of carriage wheels as they jostled over uneven ground. The air smelled of dust and leather, occasionally pierced by the faint whiff of hay from the baggage carts. Fatima cracked the small carriage window open, a soft breeze rushing in to cool her flushed face and stir the silver strands of her hair.
But the relief was short-lived. The carriage lurched and bounced with every rut in the road, rattling her bones and denying her any chance of rest. Her jaw parted in another stifled yawn, her eyes glassy with fatigue. Ever since dawn, she had been swept along in Nathaniel's unexpected plans, the hurried preparation leaving her no time to collect herself. Even now, she struggled to understand what possessed him to bring her along on a journey involving the crown prince himself. Her heart squeezed uncomfortably at the thought.
Every jolt of the carriage seemed to jangle her nerves. Nathaniel's casual decision still baffled her—why, of all things, had he insisted she accompany them? Gratitude prickled at her for what might almost be called a vacation, yet the tight coil of unease in her chest refused to loosen. Across from her sat the crown prince's shadow in her imagination, a looming presence capable of stripping away her fragile disguise. What if he uncovers me? What if he orders my execution on the spot? Her breath hitched at the thought, and she shook her head vigorously, hair flicking against her shoulders as if she could physically dislodge the images tormenting her mind.
The sharpness of her movement drew Nathaniel's eyes. His amber gaze—bright, feline, and faintly amused—settled on her, and he broke the long silence. "Why are you swinging your head so vigorously?" Caught off guard, she flustered. "Sir Nate—" "Nathan." His interruption was firm, almost lazy, but expectant. "Right. Nathan." She cleared her throat quickly, her cheeks warming as if she had spoken something indecent. Addressing him so familiarly was still strange, a small intimacy she wasn't sure she had earned. Her voice dropped into a softer murmur as her fingers twisted in her lap. "Is it truly alright for me to ride in such a fancy carriage?"
Since awakening at his parents' estate, she had noticed a subtle shift in him. The sharpness, the guarded hauteur he once wielded, had softened. He was almost cordial now, his tone warmer, his words carefully chosen. He had even asked—no, insisted—that she call him by name.
"Besides myself, no one here knows you're a bond servant," Nathaniel replied smoothly, his legs crossing with an air of lazy confidence. The leather of his boots creaked faintly as he adjusted, his gaze sliding to the small window beside him. His lips curved upward in a smirk—boastful, proud. "And so long as you're with me, no one would dare to question your status."
Fatima's eyes lingered on him, watching the way light from the window outlined the fine cut of his features. His posture carried the unmistakable weight of nobility, effortless and commanding, and it stirred in her an unsettling thought. Is he truly that powerful? Her voice, tentative but earnest, broke the quiet. "Wouldn't the prince find it distasteful to share the same vicinity as a bond servant… if my status were ever exposed?"
"The prince does not concern himself with such trivialities," Nathaniel replied without hesitation, his smirk deepening as though the very idea amused him. "His carriage leads the procession. You have nothing to fear." Her body sagged with a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, her shoulders easing back against the cushioned seat. Relief mingled with exhaustion, the tension in her chest unwinding just enough to allow a soft sigh to escape her lips.
Still, curiosity pressed at her, pushing through the veil of her wariness. Her eyes lifted to him, their crimson depths searching. "Are you closely acquainted with the prince too?" she asked, her tone carrying both cautious intrigue and quiet hope that the answer might reveal more of the man who sat across from her.