The grand marble hall of the imperial palace stretched endlessly before Dimitriu, sunlight from the tall arched windows pouring across the checkered floor in muted gold. Dust motes drifted lazily through the light, glinting like suspended stars — a cruel contrast to the heaviness that gripped his chest. His steps faltered halfway down the corridor, the echo of his boots dulling against the polished stone as regret clawed at him from within. He stopped beside a cold, stoned pillar veined with faint silver, then sank to his knees with a soft thud. His forehead pressed against the pillar's smooth surface, the chill biting into his skin as if to remind him of his folly. His shoulders trembled with each shallow breath, and his voice, cracked and low, broke the silence of the hall. "He's going to kill me when he finds out I'm the one who came up with the idea," he murmured, his words quivering like a prayer to no one. "What was I thinking?"
A moment later, the still air was disturbed by hurried footsteps echoing against the stone — sharp, rhythmic, growing louder. Dimitriu's tear-brimmed eyes flicked up just as a familiar voice called out from the far end of the corridor. "There you are, your grace! I've been looking everywhere for you!" Efraim's voice carried a mix of urgency and relief, his breath ragged as he sprinted toward Dimitriu. The younger man's dark-brown hair stuck to his forehead in disarray, his boots scuffing faintly against the marble. When he finally reached him, Efraim bent forward, one hand braced against his knee, the other clutching a sealed letter.
"Just—just a second, your grace," he panted, trying to catch his breath. "His Majesty… has issued the date of your initiation ceremony." Straightening his back with visible effort, Efraim extended the envelope with both hands. "This is the official letter, my lord."
The paper was crisp, sealed with a scarlet wax bearing the imperial crest — the faint scent of ink and warm parchment wafting from it. Dimitriu hesitated before taking it, his fingers brushing the seal as though it burned. The morning light caught the weary lines around his eyes as he unfolded the letter, his gaze scanning the elegant script. A bitter sigh escaped him. "My wedding is in a couple of months," he said softly, his tone distant. "And the ceremony is to be held two weeks from now. There isn't much time to get everything done." He folded the letter carefully, the creases sharp and deliberate, then handed it back to Efraim. The younger man accepted it reverently, sliding it back into the envelope.
"Efraim," Dimitriu muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose as though to stave off an incoming headache, "I'm afraid we'll have to work on a tight schedule starting today." "Sir! Yes, sir!" Efraim barked, snapping upright like a soldier before his commander, his expression lighting up despite the exhaustion still clinging to his face. Dimitriu managed a faint, humorless smile, the corners of his lips barely lifting. "You sound quite thrilled for someone who's about to work overtime," he muttered dryly.
As he turned toward the palace's grand exit, sunlight pooled across the crimson carpets ahead, and the faint scent of lilac from the courtyard gardens drifted in through the open doors. Dimitriu clasped his hands behind his back, his steps steady but heavy, each one echoing with the weight of unspoken dread. Efraim followed closely behind, the tap of his boots a loyal shadow to his master's weary stride.
**
The delegation's carriages rolled through Bolance village like a moving wall of gold and shadow. Sunlight glinted off the brass fittings of the harnesses and the polished brown leather armor of the guards who marched alongside — tall, broad-shouldered men whose heavy boots thudded against the cobblestones. Horses snorted clouds of white breath, their hooves clattering in steady rhythm with the deep, mechanical groan of carriage wheels turning over the uneven street.
Villagers pressed themselves against the walls of narrow shops, clutching baskets and shawls as the convoy passed. Their eyes followed the carriages in uneasy silence — suspicion and awe mingling in their murmured tones. The air was thick with the scent of dust, sweat, and the faint sweetness of bread wafting from a nearby stall, but even that homely fragrance could not mask the tension in the air.
Inside one of the carriages, however, the air felt no lighter. The muffled clamor of the outside world faded behind velvet curtains, leaving only the soft creak of wheels and two clashing hearts. "What can I do to make you yell at me less?" Nathaniel's voice was calm, almost measured, but his amber eyes betrayed a hint of impatience — the kind that comes from hearing the same silence too many times. He sat across from Fatima, his back straight, his gaze fixed on her as if trying to will an answer out of her.
Fatima's silver hair shimmered faintly under the filtered light pouring through the carriage window. Her red eyes flicked toward him, then away again, her lips tightening as frustration bubbled up her throat. For three relentless weeks, the same question had followed her — morning, noon, and night. It was a test of patience she was growing dangerously close to failing.
"Nathan," she breathed, her voice low, her fingers curling in her lap to keep herself composed. "As I said before, I do not dislike you." She tilted her head back, pinching the bridge of her nose, exhaling sharply. "It's just that sometimes you infuriate me so much, I wish I were tall enough to flick your forehead."
A glint of amusement sparked in Nathaniel's eyes. Her words, carelessly flung, seemed to stir something mischievous in him. His lips curled into a grin — lazy, teasing, but somehow genuine. "If I allow you to flick my forehead right now," he murmured, leaning slightly forward, "can you swear you'll forgive me for whatever I do in the next few days? There's something I want to show you once we reach Ipera."
The name struck her like a slap of cold wind. Fatima froze, the word echoing in her ears — Ipera. Her stomach twisted. Memories of whispered histories and forbidden tales came rushing back.
Centuries ago, Ipera had been a kingdom of brilliance and pride — until hubris shattered its peace. A warlock's failed summoning had torn open a gate to the netherworld, spewing demonic beasts into their streets. Flames devoured marble towers; the air had reeked of iron and ash. The screams of mothers, children and soldiers alike filled the nights for months on end. Salvation came in the form of Alkaraz — but it was no gift. The Alkarazians offered to put an end to their predicament in exchange for their governance, chaining Ipera's sovereignty in gilded shackles. Worse still, their former ally, Syphus, turned against them, igniting centuries of cold hatred across their borders.
Fatima blinked, pushing the dreadful images away. She forced a brittle smile, her voice breaking the tension. "Sure, sure, I promise. Now bring forth thy forehead, Sir Nathan." She cracked her knuckles, feigning enthusiasm.
Nathaniel clicked his tongue, smirking. "Easy, Fati. You don't want to break your frail little fingers before you get a chance to flick me, do you?" "Ha!" she scoffed, placing her hands on her hips, rolling her eyes in mock arrogance. "You underestimate me. I'll have you know, back in Syph—" She stopped herself abruptly, lips pursing as her gaze darted away. "Anyway, let's begin."
Good grief! I almost spilled my guts again. Her inner voice screamed. What's wrong with me? "Here you go," Nathaniel said, brushing his red hair back to reveal his forehead. The gesture exposed the elegant lines of his face — the faint stubble along his jaw, the warmth in his gaze that always seemed to unsettle her. "Ready when you are."
Fatima lifted her hand, curling her thumb and finger into a circle, ready to strike. But when her eyes met his — half-lidded, calm, waiting — the world around her seemed to shrink. The steady rocking of the carriage faded. All she could hear was her own heartbeat, pounding so hard she thought he might hear it too.
Her hand trembled slightly. His proximity was intoxicating. The scent of sandalwood and faint rose oil lingered on his clothes. Her breath hitched. "What are you waiting for?" Nathaniel asked softly, one eye peeking open. Before she could respond, the carriage jolted over a bump. Fatima gasped — and their foreheads collided with a dull thud.
"Ow!" they both exclaimed in unison, their eyes widening in shock. For a brief moment, silence reigned before Fatima broke into laughter, pressing her fingers against her brow. Nathaniel turned toward the window, biting back a grin, his chest trembling from suppressed amusement. "Can I ask you something, Nathan?" Fatima finally said, still smiling. He cleared his throat, keeping his voice steady. "What is it?" Her expression sobered, her tone softening to something fragile. "Is our destination really Ipera?"
Nathaniel tilted his head, watching her carefully. Has she guessed it already? he wondered. His eyes lingered on her face — delicate yet storm-touched, her unease written plainly across it. After a pause, he hummed quietly, rubbing his chin. "Ipera is only a brief stop," he said finally. "Our main destination… is Syphus."
The name struck her harder than any physical blow. "Syphus?" she echoed weakly. Her pupils dilated, her breath caught. The blood drained from her face. Before Nathaniel could say another word, her body swayed. He lunged forward, catching her as her limbs went limp. "Fati!" he called out, his voice tight with panic. Her chest heaved erratically, her breaths shallow. The color in her lips faded as a high-pitched ringing filled her ears.
"Stay with me," Nathaniel urged, tapping her cheek gently. "Come on, Fati, keep your eyes open." His heart pounded, each second stretching into eternity. Her lashes fluttered once, twice — then stilled. Her chest went still in his arms. "Stop the carriage!" Nathaniel roared, his voice splitting through the air. The convoy screeched to a halt, the guards outside freezing at the fury in his tone.
**
In the wake of Fatima's sudden collapse, the delegation pressed through the cobblestone streets of Ipera beneath the waning glow of dusk, their carriage wheels rattling against the road as urgency carried them forward. By the time they reached the arched entrance of the Grand Hotel Royale, a day earlier than expected, the city's gas lamps had begun to shimmer through the fog, casting golden halos on the carriages below.
Inside, the scent of polished wood and lavender oil greeted them. Footsteps echoed crisply across the marbled floors as Nathaniel's servants scattered through the gilded halls, their uniforms billowing as they hurried. The air buzzed with low murmurs and the soft rustle of linen as orders were exchanged.
"Bring more towels—and a change of clothes," commanded Bettie, the chief maid, her firm yet steady voice slicing through the commotion. She sat at the edge of the bed, her aged face composed beneath a veneer of control, though her eyes betrayed her exhaustion. The lamplight glimmered faintly against the strands of gray in her bun as she leaned close to check Fatima's fever.
"She's still burning up," Bettie murmured, withdrawing her trembling hand from Fatima's flushed forehead. The heat radiating from the girl's skin clung to her palm, a reminder of her helplessness. Her knuckles whitened around the blanket as she released a shaky breath that misted faintly in the cool air of the room.
The suite was heavy with the scent of damp cloth and herbal medicine. The crackle from the nearby hearth did little to ease the tension curling through the air. "Poor thing… she must be in so much pain," whispered a younger maid, wringing out a towel and pressing it against Fatima's limp hand. The cool droplets trickled over Fatima's pale skin, glistening briefly before sinking into the heat.
Each servant moved with quiet desperation, their soft sighs and the rhythmic sound of wet fabric against skin filling the silence between them. Still, nothing eased her fever. The ornate clock on the mantel ticked relentlessly, marking every second of their growing dread.
Then—Fatima stirred. Her lashes quivered as she forced her eyes open, the blinding brightness of the chandelier above piercing her sight. A dull throb pulsed behind her temples, each heartbeat sharp and heavy. The murmurs around her blurred, distorted, then slowly came into focus—anxious voices, hurried footsteps, the faint clatter of porcelain on a tray.
What is this place? she thought, her gaze wandering toward the ceiling. A magnificent mural stretched above her—a celestial throne surrounded by winged figures rendered in soft pastels. The sight left her breathless. The painted angels seemed to glow in the lamplight, their expressions serene, otherworldly. Am I dead? she wondered faintly, a fragile smile tugging at her lips before fading into despair. Am I never going to see my family again?
"She's awake!" a maid gasped, the sound breaking through the stillness. The others rushed to Fatima's side, skirts swishing, cheeks flushed with relief. Smiles bloomed across their weary faces as they pressed closer, hands clasped over pounding hearts. Fatima tried to sit up, but the nearest maid gently pushed her back down, her touch light yet firm. "Please, Miss Fatima—you mustn't move," she urged softly, her voice trembling with concern. "Your fever is still dangerously high."
Fatima's eyes darted from one face to another, taking in their worried expressions and tear-streaked cheeks. The sight stirred warmth in her heart. She wanted to thank them, but her throat was dry, her voice barely a whisper. Then Bettie's sharp voice rang out from the hallway, startling everyone. "I asked for a bucket of freshwater ages ago! Where is it?" "It's right next to your feet, Miss Bettie!" a maid stammered, gesturing toward the pail at her side.
Bettie exhaled heavily, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I must be losing my mind," she muttered, before fixing the others with a glare that sent them scattering like startled birds. "And what are you all waiting for? Move! Are you trying to suffocate the poor girl?"
The servants sprang into motion again, the room filling with hurried steps and whispered apologies. Fatima blinked drowsily, her lips parting. "Where… am I?" she managed, her voice faint and raw. "We're at the Grand Hotel Royale of Ipera, Miss Fatima," Bettie replied, softening her tone as she approached the bedside. She closed the door behind her, sealing off the outside noise. "You gave us quite the fright when you fainted so suddenly. His Hi—Sir Nathaniel was especially worried for you." She caught her slip, biting her tongue before continuing. "I've never seen him display so many emotions at once. It was quite the shock for us all."
Fatima's gaze drifted across the room. It was vast and opulent—velvet drapes cascaded from ceiling to floor beside tall glass windows that framed the glittering city below. A mahogany table sat near the fireplace, its surface adorned with a vase of freshly cut lilies whose sweet, heady scent filled the air. The flickering firelight danced over the intricate carvings on the marble mantle and the oil paintings adorning the walls—each depicting birds in flight and blooming gardens so vivid they seemed to move.
A soft, wistful smile curved her lips. For a fleeting moment, she imagined herself within one of those paintings—a fairytale world untouched by pain or fear. Her eyelids grew heavy again. The crown prince must be furious about the delay I caused, she thought hazily, her consciousness slipping away. If he blames Nathan… Her thoughts faded before she could finish.
Bettie watched her with a tender gaze, her stern expression softening. Gently, she pulled the blanket up to Fatima's chin, tucking it around her shoulders. The girl's breathing steadied, the feverish flush on her cheeks still aglow beneath the dim lamplight. "I don't know who you are," Bettie whispered, brushing a loose strand of silver hair from Fatima's face, "but I hope you stay by his side for a long time. He needs someone like you."
Her voice trembled at the end, the faintest ache threading through it as guilt pricked her conscience. With one last look, she turned down the lamp, letting the golden light fade into a gentle, forgiving dusk.
**
Moonlight and lamp-glow tangled together in the great dining hall, turning the gilded cornices and crystal chandeliers into a wash of pale gold and trembling silver. Night pressed against the tall windows like a black velvet curtain; inside, the air was warm with the scent of roasted meat and rich sauces. The long table itself was a river of candlelight: plates of steaming food steamed little clouds that hung and dissolved in the light, and every surface caught a smear of reflected flame.
Nathaniel sat like a statue carved into the center of that blaze — his posture perfect, a trained restraint in every line. His hair, the color of burnished copper, gleamed where the candlelight struck it; his amber eyes, however, were hard and thin as chips of glass. Anger lay beneath his composed face, a cold pressure behind his jaw; the irritation showed in the slight narrowing of his eyes and the way he pressed his lips together before allowing himself to take another careful bite. Around him the scene unfolded like a grotesque pageant.
On either side of King Cornelius two servants hovered, one spooning food into the monarch's mouth with an exaggerated attentiveness, the other patting a napkin against his chin when crumbs escaped. The same humiliating choreography was performed for Cornelius's sons — except for the deposed crown prince, whose concubine was perched on his lap, feeding him with an intimacy that looked less like care and more like spectacle. A second attendant dabbed at the prince's lips with a practiced, perfunctory motion. The sight prickled Nathaniel's skin; the palace's hospitality felt staged, theatrical — an intentional affront.
Cornelius sat at the head of the table, his smile thin and tremulous, the laugh-lines at its corners hardly reaching his eyes. "I trust the dishes are to your liking, your imperial highness," he said, voice smooth but strained, palms lifted in a show of conviviality as he indicated the lavish spread. He added, with a boastful tilt, "I took great care to instruct the chefs for tonight." The words were loud enough to fill the room; the shame that laced them was quieter, visible only in the way his fingers fluttered.
A maid moved to adjust Nathaniel's silverware with a softness that was meant to be deferential; she leaned forward as if to protect his hands from making an awkward effort. He halted her with a single, firm lift of his palm. "That will not be necessary," he said, low and precise. The tone carried an authority that made the maid bow so deeply her skirts brushed the floor. The servants retreated like shadows withdrawn from a flame.
Across the table, Jonathin curled in his chair like a child with his favorite toy. He accepted another spoonful of soup with a slovenly appetite; vegetables shimmered in the broth, and a string of steam fogged the air between him and Nathaniel. Once the empire's golden boy, Jonathin's face now carried the soft bloom of indulgence and the sallow pallor of nights ill-spent. He had been brilliant once — a prince whose promise had been spoken of in the corridors of power — but the carriage crash on the eve of his wedding had unspooled him. Since then he had become flesh and whim, a man more likely to be found in the perfume-saturated haze of a harem or the grime and stupor of the slums than in state rooms. Nathaniel watched him now with a quiet contempt that made the cut of his jaw more severe.
Jonathin's smirk widened as he leaned into provocation. "I heard an interesting rumor… Is it true you're planning to step down, your highness?" he asked, words slithering in the warm air. Another spoonful of soup was fed to him, oblivious to the way his father's gaze cut him like a blade. The man beside him — another of Cornelius's sons — let his eyes glitter with the dangerous amusement of those who think power is a game.
Nathaniel answered with the effortless calm of someone who had learned to keep storms below the surface. He lifted his glass and tasted the wine — it was dark, full-bodied, a bruise of flavor against his tongue — then set it down with deliberation. "If such were so," he said quietly, "do you think I would waste my time leading delegations at the emperor's request?" His voice carried, but it did not tremble. It was the small, unshowy certainty of steel.
Jonathin crossed his legs and shrugged, the motion lazy but sharp with intent. "If you leave your post empty too long, people like me will start getting ideas. You know what they say, 'Mind your treasures before someone else takes them'." His eyes flashed with a mixture of mockery and threat; his hand rested possessively on the arm of the chair where his mistresses clustered.
Nathaniel's response was a small, dangerous thing: a soft exhalation and a look that cut. He patted the napkin to his mouth in one measured motion, then rose. The scrape of oak against marble as his chair slid back split the low hum of conversation; all faces turned as if the sound had been a gong. The room tightened. Candle flames shivered in their sockets like men waiting to see which way the wind would blow.
He walked the length of the table in slow, precise steps — the polished floor absorbed the sound until only the soft whisper of his hem, and the distant clink of silver remained. Each stride was a statement; every breath he drew seemed to lower the temperature by a degree. When he stopped beside Jonathin, the prince's mistresses melted away like a cluster of moths disturbed from a lamp. Nathaniel's hand came to rest on Jonathin's shoulder; the contact was firm enough to make him wince.
He leaned in so his voice brushed Jonathin's ear. The words themselves were almost a whisper, but the sound of them seemed to fan the flames in the room. "A deposed prince who couldn't protect his position poses no threat to me," he said, the amusement in his voice jagged. His gaze swept the table slowly, deliberately, lingering on King Cornelius, whose eyes darted away to the empty plate before him. "As for your brothers, your father, and any would-be usurpers — I can end them in their slumber without lifting a single finger. You'd be wise to behave while I am asking nicely." The bite in those words was surgical.
Silence fell like a weight. Someone somewhere swallowed; a servant's breath hitched. Even the candles seemed to hold their flames in stunned attention. Jonathin's face paled beneath its powder, the smirk gone, replaced by a thin, fragile look that belonged to someone finally seeing the cost of his foolishness. Nathaniel straightened, the smallest hint of a chuckle escaping him — not joyful, but cold and controlled — and returned to his seat as though nothing remarkable had occurred.
The meal resumed in a different key: thin pleasantries whispered, knives cut more quietly, and the warmth of the hall felt diminished, as though the night outside had drawn its cloak closer. Nathaniel ate his steak deliberately, the meat juicy and well-seasoned, the sound of his fork on porcelain ordinary and unremarkable. But beneath that ordinary rhythm was the knowledge that the balance in the room had shifted, and that some things could not be unmade merely by the passage of a candle's hour.