The next morning, a chorus of birdsong stirred Fatima awake. Soft rays of golden light filtered through the sheer carriage curtains, painting her cheeks in a warm glow. The air carried the scent of dew-drenched grass and damp earth—fresh, clean, and alive with morning promise. Her lashes fluttered as she blinked away the haze of sleep. The instant she tried to sit up, a sharp pulse of pain throbbed behind her temples. She winced, her fingers twitching toward her forehead, but before she could move, a firm arm around her upper back kept her still. The weight of that touch—steady, protective, and unyielding—made it nearly impossible to move.
She tilted her head upward, her vision swimming until the image before her came into focus. Nathaniel. His face was barely an inch from hers, his eyes still heavy with sleep, his red hair tousled and gleaming like molten silk in the light. The soft rise and fall of his chest brushed faintly against her shoulder. Fatima's breath hitched—then escaped her lips in a startled yelp loud enough to rouse him fully.
Nathaniel's brows creased as he blinked himself awake, a soft groan escaping his lips. Fatima's hand flew over her mouth in panic, her wide eyes locking with his. For a suspended heartbeat, neither moved—just stared, caught in the fragile, awkward silence that hummed between them. Then, with a quiet exhale, Nathaniel sat up and gently eased her onto the padded seat beside him. Fatima opened her mouth to speak—to demand an explanation—but instead a sickening churn twisted in her stomach. Her words caught in her throat, replaced by a dry, retching sound.
"I'll get the door," Nathaniel murmured groggily. He pushed the carriage door open, cool morning air rushing in. Then he turned, extending a hand toward her. But Fatima was already gone—a blur of silver hair darting past him. Her bare feet hit the grass with a soft thud as she rushed toward the nearest bush, bending over it with a muffled groan. Nathaniel rubbed the back of his neck, sighing through his nose as he looked up at the endless blue sky. "I have a feeling that it's going to be a very long morning." He murmured to himself, closing the door.
**
After a short while, the two sat at a small wooden table the maids had hastily set under the shade of an old oak. The gentle clatter of porcelain and the rustle of fabric blended with the faint hum of bees in the meadow beyond. A tray of simple breakfast fare sat untouched between them. Nathaniel's gaze lingered on Fatima. She avoided his eyes, her fingers toying with the hem of her sleeve. The silence was tense, awkward—thick with memories neither dared to voice.
A servant approached quietly, head bowed, a silver tray trembling faintly in her hands. On it rested a crystal-clear cup of water and a small vial filled with a luminous green liquid that caught the morning light. "I have brought the medicine you requested, sir," the maid whispered. Her eyes flickered briefly toward Fatima—concern flashing in them—before she set the tray down and retreated with a respectful bow. "Did… something happen to me last night?" Fatima murmured, her fingers brushing against her temple as she winced. "I can't seem to remember anything." Nathaniel tapped his index finger against the table, the rhythmic sound betraying his irritation. "You drank alcohol," he said curtly. "I did what?" Her voice cracked. She looked up sharply, searching his expression for a hint of jest. His golden gaze remained flat, unamused.
He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, and one leg lazily folded over the other. A teasing smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he watched the dawning panic spread across her face. In that moment, bathed in soft daylight, his posture carried an effortless regality—his every movement composed and commanding. Fatima swallowed, her cheeks flushed pink. I have officially lost my mind, she thought, shaking her head to scatter the traitorous thoughts forming in her mind. "I… I don't know what to say," she muttered, a nervous laugh escaping her as she lowered her gaze to hide the warmth on her face. "Well, you could start by apologi—" "I'm so sorry!" she blurted out, cutting him off. "I swear, I thought it was apple juice! I would never have touched it otherwise—let alone poured myself a cup!"
Nathaniel's lips curved into a mischievous grin as he watched her fidget and stumble over her words. Adorable—that was the word that slipped into his thoughts, though he quickly smothered it before it could reach his tongue. He picked up the vial, removing the tiny cork with a sharp pop! The sound made Fatima flinch. Her eyes darted to him, wary. "Drink this," he instructed calmly, though the gleam in his eyes betrayed the amusement behind his tone. "All in one go. Then chase it with the water." "O-Okay…" she said, accepting the vial cautiously.
Fatima tipped her head back and poured the liquid down her throat. The bitter taste struck instantly, forcing her eyes shut. Her body shivered as she fought the urge to spit it out, but she grabbed the cup and gulped down the cold water in one breath. Droplets slid down her chin and dripped onto her hand. When she exhaled, it came out as a long, blissful sigh. Setting the cup down, she swiped the back of her hand across her mouth. Nathaniel blinked at her, momentarily stunned. His mouth fell slightly open, eyes wide with disbelief—until the faintest chuckle escaped him.
Before either could speak, a voice interrupted from nearby. "We've completed preparations for our departure, Commander. We're ready when you are." It was Gabriel, his expression tight and uneasy. Fatima turned her head, blinking up at the tall, broad-shouldered knight. His face betrayed the faintest hint of dread, as if he had stepped into something he shouldn't. "Is everything alright, Sir Knight?" she asked, tilting her head curiously. Gabriel stiffened. "P-Pardon?" His voice cracked. Then, realizing how odd he sounded, he coughed lightly. "Ah—yes! Of course. I'm fine, miss. Very fine." A nervous laugh escaped him as his hand shot to the back of his neck.
When he glanced down again, his eyes met Nathaniel's—cold, sharp, unrelenting. A shiver raced down his spine. I am so dead, he thought miserably. "Leave us, Gabriel," Nathaniel ordered, his tone smooth but carrying the weight of steel. Gabriel bowed hastily and retreated, muttering a flustered farewell to Fatima. Her brows furrowed. She turned back to Nathaniel, confusion clouding her eyes. Whatever strange tension existed between those two men, she couldn't begin to unravel it—nor was she entirely sure she wanted to.
**
Mid-morning sunlight filtered through the tall arched windows of the imperial palace of Alkaraz, scattering pale golden light across the marble corridors. Beyond the echoing footsteps of servants and the faint rustle of silken robes, the palace thrummed with an undercurrent of ceaseless movement—courtiers scurrying like clockwork beneath gilded ceilings. Yet, in the farthest western wing, hidden behind heavy double doors embossed with the royal crest, the world outside ceased to exist.
Here lay the emperor's internal council chamber—a circular room swathed in shadows, the air heavy with the faint scent of aged parchment and burning cedar oil. The walls, lined with towering bookshelves and banners embroidered with imperial sigils, absorbed every whispered word. Around the great obsidian table sat the empire's most powerful men, each cloaked in their own anxieties, ambition, and restraint.
"If I may be permitted to speak, Your Majesty…" Marquis Valentini's voice broke through the still air. His clasped hands fidgeted over one another, fingers twirling nervously as if to twist courage from them. "Why did the crown prince refuse to return to the capital?"
Emperor Exzavier, seated at the head of the table upon his high-backed throne, slowly lifted his gaze. His sharp sapphire eyes glimmered beneath the light of the chandelier, his expression carved from disapproval itself. The low growl in his throat silenced the murmurs around him. "You phrased your query," he said, his deep, gravelly voice reverberating against the chamber's stone walls, "as though you are unaware of the reason for his behavior, Marquis Valentini." The weight of his voice lingered like a tangible pressure. A flicker of unease crossed the marquis's face as he bowed his head. Then, breaking the hush, came the squeaky pitch of Duke Wrotingthon's voice. "Your Majesty," the duke began, stroking his long, pointed beard with deliberate calm. "I find it hard to believe the prince would harbor lingering resentment over a mere scuffle that occurred so long ago."
Exzavier's finger began tapping slowly against the table's polished surface. The sound was soft, but its meaning was unmistakable—an omen of storming wrath. "A mere scuffle, you say?" His tone turned venomous. The council shifted uneasily. A chorus of nervous coughs and throat-clearings filled the silence as their gazes darted toward the emperor, who now stared distantly at nothing at all. The sound of the ticking wall clock faded behind the rising pulse of old memories stirring within him.
He saw, in the dim recesses of his mind, the small boy he once called his pride—Nathaniel, barely five, his red hair glinting in the sunlight as he stumbled to pronounce his father's titles. Exzavier remembered the crushing expectations he had draped over the boy's shoulders like chains of gold. Perfection, he had demanded. Nothing less. His own towering stature and cold reputation had made courtiers tremble. He had vowed his son would never inspire such fear—that Nathaniel would be admired, not dreaded. And so, the emperor imposed upon the child a rigorous life of moral and academic training, stripping away childhood in favor of discipline.
"Your Majesty," one of the tutors had once pleaded, wringing his hands nervously before the throne, "it would be best to cease the prince's lessons temporarily—to allow him time with children his own age. He shows signs of… reclusiveness."
But the emperor, blinded by his own conviction, had dismissed those words without a thought. He could still recall the boy's wide, amber eyes staring up at him years ago—so full of trust. "Kazein, my son, my pride and joy," he said, bending to ruffle the child's fiery hair. "Your abilities must surpass even your ancestors. But remember—power is not to be abused. Rule with grace, and they shall love you."
What he hadn't known was how deeply those words would carve themselves into Nathaniel's heart. The warmth of those early memories soured into pain. The emperor saw again the image that haunted his nights—the bloodied chamber, the lifeless form of his wife, and the boy beside her, staring blankly at her still body with eyes devoid of grief. That was the day he realized that something in the prince had died. And in its place grew silence.
Soon after, whispers had spread across the empire like rot through old wood. "The crown prince is broken." "Alkaraz's only heir is possessed by a reclusive demon." Every broadsheet, every journal carried his son's name, twisting it into scandal. Crowds gathered outside the palace gates, calling for answers that the emperor himself could not give.
A sharp pain pulsed behind his eyes. Exzavier pressed his fingertips against his temple, exhaling heavily as the visions of the past retreated, leaving only the sterile smell of wax and ink. "We must come to a solution to resolve this crisis at once, your majesty," Duke Wrotingthon murmured, his voice cutting through the fog of silence. His fingers tugged thoughtfully at his thick mustache, as if he might draw wisdom from its ends. "Agreed," Count Bartrum said, nodding stiffly. "If the prince runs from trifles, what hope has he to rule? A true leader faces adversity with courage, not avoidance." Marquis Valentini, emboldened again, thumped his fist onto the table. "To make matters worse, his highness has yet to establish his private court! Your majesty, we implore you—" "Silence!" Exzavier's fist crashed down with thunderous force, rattling the table and sending parchment fluttering like startled birds.
Gasps erupted, chairs scraped against the stone floor, and then—stillness. Only the steady tick of the wall clock dared to fill the void. The emperor leaned forward, his elbows pressed to the table, his clasped hands serving as a pedestal for his lowered brow. His face was unreadable now, his eyes shadowed and cold as winter iron. When he finally spoke, his voice came slow and deliberate, like the drawing of a blade. "The crown prince will return to the palace—after the funeral in Syphus. Of that, I am certain." A slow, dark smile crept across his face. The air grew heavy, pressing down on every man in the room like a suffocating fog. Then, quietly—almost hesitantly—another voice broke the tension. "If I may be permitted to speak, your majesty…"
All eyes turned toward the young duke, Dimitriu, who raised one hand beside his head in cautious respect. His tone was soft, almost trembling, yet carried a strange conviction beneath its gentleness. The skeptical glares that met him made him instantly regret opening his mouth—but it was too late. The words he would utter next would change the course of that council forever.