Fatima sat stiffly, her arms folded tight against her chest, her silver hair gleaming like molten silk as she tried—unsuccessfully—to steer their conversation elsewhere. Nathaniel, however, with his amber eyes ablaze and a stubborn tilt to his jaw, refused to let her off the hook. "Just tell me your true opinion of him," he pressed for the tenth time, his voice sharp with insistence.
Fatima's patience snapped like a twig underfoot. With a dramatic sigh, she surrendered. "Fine! If you must know—" she began, recounting the maids' whispered conversations she had overheard while dusting Emilia's endless shelves of porcelain.
But rather than placating him, her words struck tinder. Nathaniel's brows furrowed into a storm, his fists curling on his knees as if he could wring the gossip out of existence. Soon, the air inside the carriage was vibrating with the heat of their shouting match. Their voices rose and clashed, echoing beyond the lacquered walls, to the point that the horses outside flicked their ears in irritation.
Finally, Nathaniel erupted, his voice booming like a war drum: "Get out! I cannot stand another second in this space with you!" The carriage instantly lurched to a halt. Fatima shot to her feet, her crimson eyes glittering with defiance. "I'll have you know the feeling is mutual, Sir Nathaniel," she spat, placing far too much emphasis on his title. She swept out of the carriage, her skirts flaring dramatically, before stomping off with the exaggerated vigor of someone trying to crush every pebble on the road.
From the window, Nathaniel thrust out his head, his red hair blazing in the sun like an angry banner. "And cease your stomping at once!" "For your information, Sir Nathaniel," she hollered over her shoulder, voice dripping with mockery, "I do as I please!" She punctuated her words with another series of loud, purposeful stomps, as if the earth itself should sympathize with her outrage.
A servant, her head halfway out the neighboring carriage, whispered to another, eyes wide as she watched the absurd spectacle unfold. "Should we… intervene?" Perched atop his brown stallion, a knight gave a slow shake of his head, lips twitching to suppress a grin. "Best not. They look ready to duel each other with words alone."
Now separated from Nathaniel's searing gaze, Fatima's fury ebbed as quickly as it had boiled over. She replayed the spark that had ignited it all—the line she had so carelessly repeated. I heard he assaulted his close friends last year and was temporarily banished… serves him right for being a brute. She had spoken the words as if they were nothing but idle chatter, but the way Nathaniel's face twisted, the way he'd stomped his feet as if she'd committed blasphemy, burned itself into her mind. Even now, the memory made her cringe.
"He badgered me as if I were the one who initiated the rumor in the first place," she muttered under her breath, silver lashes lowering in indignation. "Why should I be blamed for repeating what everyone else is saying?" Still grumbling, she found herself standing absentmindedly before the open door of the second carriage, holding up the entire delegation behind her. A polite cough startled her back to reality.
"Come on in, miss," a servant prompted gently, trying not to smile at the sight of her pouting expression. With a flustered gasp, Fatima ducked inside, muttering something inaudible as the carriage door shut behind her. Outside, the knights exchanged knowing looks, silently agreeing that this journey was bound to be far more entertaining than they'd expected.
**
The east wing of the Syphus palace lay in a numbed hush that afternoon, sunlight slanting through high, latticed windows and catching on motes of dust like a slow, gilded rain. From the queen's chambers came the ragged music of grief — hiccupping sobs, soft, frantic sniffles, the occasional keening that bent the rafters of the ornate room. Heavy drapes, embroidered with the royal insignia, were drawn halfway; their damask swallowed light so the room felt dim and intimate, the sort of small, sacred darkness that makes sorrow feel larger. The air hung thick with the sour-sweet smoke of sandalwood incense, the scent curling into the gilt and velvet, mixing with the powder of perfumed linen and the faint metallic tang of tears on silk.
"My baby! My sweet Calliope!" the queen's voice cracked, each word a brittle shard. She rocked on the chaise, fingers knuckled white around a handkerchief, mouth trembling as if she could not quite force breath past her grief. Around her, handmaidens moved like pale ghosts — patting her back, rubbing her shoulders with the hollow, rehearsed motions of people who had been taught how bodies betrayed the breaking of hearts. Their whispers skittered against the carved wainscoting and died.
Princess Irrys sat at the very edge of the bed, the red velvet of her gown an angry slash against the room's muted colors. Her cheeks were wet and glistened with recent crying, but there was a tautness to her jaw that no grief could soften. The incense smoke seemed to press against her face like a humid veil and made her eyes sting; she pushed herself up with a delicate, brittle sigh and stepped away from her mother as if the room itself threatened to choke her. Her footsteps on the polished floor were measured, the soft sweep of her skirts whispering over marble.
Walking at her side was Raul, captain of the royal knights, his armor left at the outer door but the weight of duty hunched in his shoulders. He kept close as a shadow, eyes sharp beneath his furrowed brow. Around them servants paused in the corridor as the pair passed: heads bowed, the rustle of silk and the faint clinking of chains on a page's attire filling the space between each bowed greeting. Several curious glances flitted to the princess — to the mismatch of her tear-streaked face and the hard set of her mouth — and then looked away, dutiful and frightened.
"You may want to ease up your face, your highness," Raul murmured against the hall's warm stone, voice low enough that only she could hear. "Your expression isn't one of a grieving sister right now." Irrys's mouth curled into a scowl that felt practiced and dangerous. Her dark blue eyes — usually so carefully arranged — sharpened like a blade. "Might I remind you that you are addressing a princess, Raul?" Her tone dropped. The reprimand sent a prickle down Raul's spine. He broke into a quick bow, the skin at his temples beading with sweat as the afternoon's heat pooled beneath the armor he no longer wore. "My deepest apologies, your highness."
For a moment, they simply stood — statue-still — the princess's heels kissing the marble, the captain's boots planted a respectful pace behind her. When she turned, the velvet of her dress fanned and caught the light; the fabric smelled faintly of rose oil and old wealth. "Follow me," she ordered, voice flat. She walked on before he had a chance to respond, the hem of her gown whispering, the motion of her shoulders controlled with military precision. "You had better be bringing me good news, Raul," she added without looking back. "How are the funeral preparations?"
Raul exhaled and placed a hand over his chest as if to steady his heartbeat. The hall seemed to shrink around them, the carved stone columns pressing in with their cold, echoing promise of consequence. He answered in a low, steady tone, though his words scraped with the effort to keep fear from leaking through. "All is in order, your highness. Except—" He paused, fingers rubbing at the hollow beneath his collarbone. "The princess' heirloom has not been recovered. We suspect she took it when she supposedly fled to Ipera."
Irrys's lids lowered, and for an instant the heat of the corridor was a different thing — a pressure that coiled in her chest. She moved like a cat that had been accidentally cornered: swift, controlled, lethal in its stillness. With one smooth motion she gripped Raul by the collar and pinned him with her back against a fluted stone pillar. The cold of the marble bit through the fabric at his shoulders; his breath came sharp and fast. Up close, her perfume was an intoxicating blend of roses and something darker, and Raul found himself struggling not to inhale the scent too deeply.
"Do you even realize the gravity of our situation?" she hissed, teeth barely sinking into civility. Her voice was a low growl, threaded with the terrible, poised patience of someone used to being obeyed. Her gloved hand tightened around his cravat; the leather whispered against cloth. Raul's face drained of color as the coarse grain of the pillar pressed into his back.
"You must find and kill her before my coronation," she said, every syllable a quiet, iron command. "Ensure her corpse cannot be found. Do you hear me, Raul?"
The words hung in the corridor like a frozen thing. Raul's mouth opened and closed; he tried to catch air as pressure against his throat tightened like a brace. When she released him, it was sudden and slightly theatrical; her fingers dropped away and she straightened, the motion possessing the practiced composure of a ruler reassembling a façade. She stepped back so the space between them measured power. Raul rubbed at his sore throat, a dry cough escaping him as the chill of fear finally gave way to the afternoon sweat pooling on his brow.
"We searched Ipera thoroughly," he said, voice hoarse. "Movements are restricted there, but we went through every market, every guild house, every tavern. No sign of her, and no lost locket."
A slow smile unfurled across Irrys's face then — not warm, but shaped to look innocuous. The shift was so sudden it unnerved him: the menace melted like frost under a false sun, replaced by a perfumed charm intended to soothe. She stepped toward him until the air between them was charged; the breath he drew smelled faintly of honey and threat. When she leaned in, her bodice brushed his chest and Raul had to wrench his gaze upward. The closeness made his heart trip; her voice dropped to a lighter note. "We'll make a replica, then. Precisely like the original. We will present it to my father as identification. Only then will he be convinced that his precious daughter had truly passed away."
Relief — immediate and ugly — washed across Raul's features. "Yes, your highness. I will do as you say." He bowed, head lowered, and left in a small flurry, the clack of his boots echoing down the corridor as he moved away to set the plan in motion. His shoulders were tighter than they had been on the walk here, and his hands trembled as he checked the corridor for ears.
A young knight named Gerome hurried up to him a heartbeat later, breathless and earnest. "Captain, are you alright? You're sweating—are you ill, sir?" The boy's worry was plain in the tremor of his voice, as bright and trusting as polished bronze. Raul's reply was clipped; he swallowed the panic down like bitter wine and forced a steady voice back into his throat. "Mind your business. Gather the special forces at the usual spot." He straightened, palms blanching at the rim of his sword belt as he reshaped himself into the unflappable captain expected by subordinates. "Yes, sir!" Gerome saluted, boots ringing as he sprinted away.
Beyond the fluted pillars and the carved tapestries, the palace's ornate clocks ticked on — indifferent metronomes to the conspiracies that moved within. Outside, afternoon light pooled sharper now as the sun dipped; inside, the queen's sobs resumed their ebb and flow. The corridor smelled of stone and oil and fear, the scent of a kingdom leaning too close to the edge of a blade. Princess Irrys lingered a moment at the threshold of her mother's chamber, fingers brushing the silk of the doorframe, eyes dark and unreadable. Then she turned away with the cool efficiency of someone who had already decided the shape of the world she would build — or destroy — to reach it.
**
The Kartier study was cloaked in the muted hush of night, lit only by the steady glow of an oil lamp resting on the vast mahogany desk. Its amber light flickered against the dark-paneled walls, stretching long shadows across the carpet, and gleamed faintly on the spines of hundreds of leather-bound books that lined the towering shelves. A faint scent of aged parchment and polished wood hung in the air, thickened by the lingering smokiness of the extinguished fireplace.
Seated in the grand chair behind the desk, Dimitriu leaned forward, his elbows braced on the polished surface as his eyes remained fixed on the small wooden box before him. The butler had placed it there earlier, and ever since, it had commanded all his attention. The box seemed inconspicuous at first glance, yet its presence radiated a strange weight—one that set his jaw tight and furrowed his brow.
How many times had he caught the duchess lingering here, her hands twitching with nervous intent as though this room contained something forbidden? He ran a thumb along its worn edges, the faint scrape of wood against his skin sharpening his curiosity. "What is in the box, Damian?" Dimitriu asked again, lifting it to eye level as the lamplight cast intricate shadows across its engraved surface. His voice was low, steady, yet tinged with the restless edge of suspicion.
The butler, tall and composed, adjusted his monocle with a precise motion before clasping his gloved hands behind his back. His face was unreadable, as always, but his tone carried a trace of regret. "His grace never mentioned it, my lord. However, from the cut of the lock, the key must be no larger than a nail."
Dimitriu tilted the box, shaking it gently. A faint rattle whispered within, echoing in the otherwise still room, and he stilled. So, there is something hidden inside. Jewels, perhaps? A necklace? Earrings? His mind turned over the possibilities, but the secrecy gnawed at him more than the thought of treasure. "Have the servants search for the key. Quietly. Bring it to me as soon as it is found," he ordered, his voice carrying the subtle iron of command. Damian bowed slightly. "As you wish, master."
The silence stretched for a heartbeat before Dimitriu's tone shifted, colder, weighted with impatience. "And what of Fatima's bond servant deed? Have you found it?" His eyes narrowed, the golden light catching on the sharp lines of his face. Damian's shoulders lowered a fraction, his bow deeper this time. "Regrettably, no, your grace. None of the records make mention of her."
Dimitriu leaned back, reclining against the leather chair, his long fingers dragging through his silky blonde hair as he exhaled a sharp breath. His reflection caught in the sheen of the desk's surface, his eyes glinting with restrained anger. "Why can't I find any record of the sale?" he muttered, half to himself, the words heavy with suspicion. The study seemed to close in around him, the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece suddenly loud, like a heartbeat pressing against the silence. Fatima's name, her very existence, felt like a puzzle his father had left behind. A puzzle that refused to yield its solution.
At last, his voice rang firm, resolute. "Turn this estate upside down if you must, Damian. Leave no stone unturned until you find it." The butler straightened, giving a final bow. "Yes, your grace." Without another word, Damian's polished boots clicked softly across the carpet. The heavy door opened with a muted groan before shutting with finality, leaving Dimitriu alone with the faint rattle of the locked box and the oppressive silence of the night.
**
"This is the key to a box that contains part of the truth you seek, your highness. Please return the treasure within to its rightful owner in my stead."
Dominique's last words echoed through Nathaniel's mind like a tolling bell, heavy and unrelenting. He turned the small iron key over between his fingers, holding it aloft in the dim lantern light of the carriage. Its dull metallic sheen caught a glimmer, but revealed nothing of the secrets it promised. His chest tightened as questions piled upon questions, weighing him down until his head felt clouded. What use was a key without a lock? Dominique could have spared him this torment with a single instruction—a hint, a location. Instead, the duke had cloaked truth in riddles and left Nathaniel to grapple with yet another burden on a night already muddied by Fatima's lingering presence in his thoughts.
The prince pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering a vow under his breath: When I return, I'll tear the Kartier estate apart brick by brick if I must. That treasure will not remain hidden from me. "Your highness." The quiet voice drifted in from the carriage window, steady but tentative. Nathaniel blinked, realizing it belonged to Gabriel, his most trusted knight. His brows knit together, irritation flickering across his face. "What is it, Gabriel?" he snapped, his voice sharper than intended.
"Since the sun has already set, we're setting up camp in the forest for the night. Would you care to join us, sire?" Gabriel's tone was laced with hope, as though dangling bait, wishing the prince might emerge from his solitude. Nathaniel exhaled through his nose. Outside, the forest loomed under a sky already drenched in midnight blue. The air smelled faintly of pine and damp earth, a freshness sharpened by the recent autumn breeze. Though he had weathered countless journeys and nights under the stars, tonight's silence pressed heavier on his chest than usual.
"Inform everyone that the crown prince will dine and rest in his carriage for the night," he replied flatly, crossing his arms as if the gesture itself could shield him from further intrusion. He shut his eyes, straining to shut out the echo of a voice that haunted his thoughts—Fatima's voice. "Will you be alright, your highness?" Gabriel's voice cut in again, hesitant. Nathaniel's amber eyes cracked open, flashing with annoyance. "What are you referring to, Gabriel?" His sigh carried the weight of his fraying patience.
"I only meant…if you felt any discomfort. Because of…erm—" Gabriel faltered, the words hanging like unfinished smoke in the air. The knight knew too well that the prince's temper had been precarious ever since his quarrel with that girl. "You need not worry about me," Nathaniel said briskly, his voice clipped and cold. "Now will you serve me dinner, or must I starve while you linger at my window, babbling nonsense?" Gabriel stiffened, bowed quickly, and withdrew, leaving Nathaniel alone with the gnawing restlessness inside him.
That wretched impediment of mine… no wonder he kept peering in after Fati left. The prince shook his head and brushed aside the velvet curtain, peering out into the camp.
The scene was warm with life—guards erecting tents beneath torchlight, sparks from the bonfire scattering into the night air. The fragrance of roasting meat mingled with woodsmoke, settling in the cool breeze that carried through the trees. Nearby, maids huddled around a campfire in laughter, their skirts brushing the grass as they passed bowls of stew and mugs of drink.
"Come sit with me, Miss Fatima," one of the servants beckoned with a cheerful wave. "Am I truly allowed?" Fatima asked brightly, her silver hair shimmering under firelight as she clutched a cup of brown liquid to her chest. "Of course, you silly girl. Come here," another maid chuckled, patting the empty spot beside her. "Everything she says is adorable," a third chimed in, laughter bubbling over.
Nathaniel's breath caught. His lips curved upward despite himself as he watched her smile, radiant and unrestrained. She is freedom itself, he thought, captivated by her ease, by the way her laughter rang without restraint. For a fleeting moment, he let himself shut out the rest of the world, his sharpened hearing isolating only her voice—light, lilting, the most beautiful melody since his senses had fully awakened.
"Now, now, Miss Fatima," one servant teased. "Tell us how you met our commander?" The word jolted Nathaniel like a spark. He pulled back from the window, spine stiffening, arms crossing tightly. "Commander?" Fatima repeated, tilting her head in confusion. "He whose name shall not be mentioned. Are you two perhaps… you know—are you two lovers?" the maid whispered, nudging her elbow with a grin. Fatima blinked, then laughed softly. "Oh, do you mean Nathan?"
A collective gasp rippled through the circle. Faces stiffened, most of all the elder woman overseeing the group. Fatima shrank, eyes darting nervously between them. "We aren't lovers!" she blurted suddenly, cheeks flushing crimson. "Nathan and I are just friends. Just friends! Please do not misunderstand." Laughter erupted once more, echoing beneath the trees, flames casting playful shadows across their faces.
Nathaniel's jaw tightened. Just friends, huh! The notion alone grated on his nerves for reasons he did not yet understand. His irritation boiled over, veins pulsing at his temple. With a violent thud, he pushed the carriage door open. The merriment outside stilled in an instant, all eyes swinging toward him. "Your high—I mean, Commander," Gabriel stammered, stepping forward. "I thought you preferred to remain inside tonight…with the prince?" The title sounded strange, clumsy, yet it was safer than revealing the truth. His people had been ordered to address him only as Commander, though confusion lingered in every glance.
Before tension could thicken, a knight stumbled from a tent, holding up a clear bottle that glistened golden in the firelight. "I found the booze! Who's up for a round?" The maids cheered, cups raised, excitement overriding their fear of Nathaniel's presence. Fatima laughed again, but this time her laughter swayed, body listing gently from side to side as though carried by the breeze.
Nathaniel's eyes narrowed, a flicker of unease rippling through his composure. Something was off. He leaned back against the side of the carriage, the cool lacquered wood pressing against his shoulders as his arms folded across his chest. His amber gaze—sharp and steady—tracked Fatima's every movement. The forest around them murmured softly; crickets sang in the distance, and the air was thick with the mingled scents of damp moss, burning campfire, and faint traces of sweet liquor.
His heart thudded unsteadily, a betraying rhythm beneath his calm exterior. Each breath he took seemed to draw in more of her laughter—the light, tinkling sound of her giggles spilling into the night like silver bells caught in the wind. The corners of his mouth twitched, threatening to soften, until a maid's voice rang out from the circle.
"Can someone fetch more juice for Miss Fatima?" the woman called out. "She's far too young for rum, but we can't have her feeling left out." The fire crackled. A log snapped. Fatima blinked, her lashes fluttering like fragile moth wings. "Juice?" she echoed, voice hazy and uncertain. Her pale fingers toyed with the rim of her goblet as she frowned, confusion marring her delicate features. "But I've been drinking juice this whole time. Though…" She leaned closer to inspect the cup, squinting at the flickering liquid. "It tastes a little different from what I used to drink. Spicy and not fruity…" Her words slurred together, a small hiccup punctuating her sentence.
Silence fell like a heavy curtain. The maids' expressions froze, mouths slightly open, eyes wide as the realization hit all at once. One of them covered her mouth in horror while another whispered, "Oh no!" Fatima, oblivious to their panic, swayed gently on her feet, a dreamy smile spreading across her flushed face. "Did I grow wings? I feel so light all of a sudden." Fatima giggled. Her long silver hair slipped forward, catching the firelight and spilling like molten moonlight over her shoulders.
Nathaniel exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his silky crimson hair, his fingers snagging briefly in the strands before falling limp at his side. "Of course, something like this would happen to her." he muttered, voice low with irritation and reluctant amusement. He pushed away from the carriage and strode forward, his boots crunching softly over the fallen leaves.
Fatima turned at the sound, her eyes glinting playfully beneath half-lowered lashes. "Oh, it's you," she slurred, pointing an unsteady finger in his direction. "Sir… Nathaniel, wasn't it? You look so serious all the time. Like an old man!" She hiccuped again and tried to stand straighter, squaring her shoulders with drunken pride.
Nathaniel's lips pressed into a thin line as he caught her wrist gently, steadying her before she toppled over. "How dare you point your finger at me when you're the one in the wrong right now, child?" he asked, tone firm but not arrogant. Fatima blinked up at him, indignant. "Hmph! I'll have you know I'm not a child," she huffed, her words wobbling on her tongue. "I'm fourteen—a maiden in her prime! Old enough to be wedded and bear children."
A few maids stifled their laughter behind their hands. Nathaniel's brows twitched, torn between exasperation and disbelief. "A maiden in her prime, is that so?" he murmured, fighting the urge to smirk. "Yes!" she declared, cheeks flushed pink as she jabbed a finger at his chest. "And you—you shouldn't look at me like I'm some silly little girl! I could… I could—" She faltered, her bravado crumbling as her gaze caught his amber eyes gleaming with amusement and faint worry. "—I could… win a duel! Or charm a prince! Or…"
Her words trailed into a soft giggle as she leaned against him, the faint scent of rum and honey wafting from her hair. The forest seemed to hold its breath around them—the whispering leaves, the distant owl call, the tender pulse of something strange and unspoken beneath the night's cool breath.
Nathaniel sighed again, softer this time, and gently swept her up in his arms, carrying her toward the carriage. "Come now, maiden in her prime," he said dryly. "Let's get you to bed before you duel the moon next."