The first rays of dawn spilled like liquid gold through the tall glass windows of Nathaniel's suite, washing the marble floor and gilded furniture in a soft amber hue. The faint chill of early morning lingered in the air, softened by the warmth of sunlight that caught on the folds of the velvet drapes. Nathaniel sat upon a deep mahogany leather sofa, still dressed in his dark sleepwear—loose, unbuttoned at the collar, the fabric clinging lightly to his chest. His legs were crossed, one arm resting casually along the armrest while the other held open a freshly printed newspaper whose faint scent of ink mingled with the aroma of his morning brew.
His amber eyes moved steadily down the columns of text, their gleam shifting between boredom and intrigue. At one headline, his brows arched slightly—scandal after scandal, each line bleeding with the gossip of Lisara, the bustling capital of Ipera. The name that surfaced most often among the smudged print made the corner of his mouth twitch: Prince Jonathin. The so-called jewel of high society, now tarnished by whispers and poisoned words.
Nathaniel's gaze lingered, his lips curving into a quiet, humorless smile. "The same women who once threw themselves at him," he murmured under his breath, "are now badmouthing him. What a drastic turn of events." The dry chuckle that followed filled the otherwise still room, briefly startling a bird perched outside on the balcony railing. With a lazy motion, he folded the paper, its crisp edges sighing as he set it down beside him.
Through the open archway leading to the balcony, Bettie moved about briskly, the clatter of porcelain and the rustle of a linen tablecloth punctuating the tranquil air. The scent of warm bread and sweet cream wafted inward, drawing Nathaniel's gaze toward her. Steam curled from the freshly poured coffee, dancing in the sunlight like fine silk.
"Did you say something, your highness?" Bettie called out, her voice carrying a hint of puzzled amusement as she peered back through the arched glass door, a stray lock of hair escaping her neat bun. "How is Fatima faring this morning?" Nathaniel asked, his tone calm but touched with something that sounded almost like concern. He leaned back, inhaling deeply as the scent of breakfast filled his lungs—fluffy scrambled eggs, the buttery sweetness of crepes, and the crisp tang of ripe fruit glistening on a silver tray.
"She is much better than yesterday, your highness," Bettie replied, setting the last dish in place. Her face softened, though her brows knit with disbelief. "Her recovery was nothing short of miraculous. She's already moving about as if her fever never existed."
Nathaniel's gaze drifted, his expression contemplative. The morning light reflected faintly in his eyes as thoughts of Bethanie Porche—the woman now fussing over his table—tugged at his mind.
Bethanie Porche: once the elegant wife of Count Dalliance, the infamous hotel magnate of Alkaraz. Her past life was one of champagne dinners and ballroom soirées, but scandal had stripped her of all that finery. Nathaniel still remembered the gossip—how her husband's business had soared after their divorce, as if her disgrace had fueled his fortune. And yet, fate had a cruel sense of irony. Had his late mother not happened upon her that fateful day, cast out into the streets with nothing but tears and torn dignity… what would have become of her?
He frowned faintly at the thought, his eyes following Bettie as she returned to his side, her face alight with animation as she spoke of Fatima. The way she smiled—openly, fondly—was rare. "She even offered to polish the knights' armors," Bettie said with a small, incredulous laugh. "Can you believe it, your highness? I've never seen anyone so eager to work before." Her cheeks flushed as she clasped her hands, momentarily lost in the memory. But when her gaze met Nathaniel's puzzled stare, her enthusiasm faltered.
"M-my apologies, my prince," she stammered, nudging her round spectacles higher up her nose. "I may have gotten carried away." "Have a seat, Bettie," Nathaniel said quietly, gesturing toward the chair across from him. His voice carried an amused undertone, though his eyes were still sharp with curiosity. "I'm sure you're dying to know who she is—and why she's here. Go on. You have my permission to ask."
But Bettie merely smiled, a knowing warmth softening her features. "There's no need, your highness. You're no longer the boy who needed my meddling to survive court life." Her tone was gentle, almost maternal. She dipped her head in a respectful nod. "I shall call for the maids to prepare your bath while you eat."
Nathaniel watched her retreat, her figure framed by the sunlight pouring through the balcony doors. The suite was quiet again, save for the soft rustle of the morning breeze stirring the sheer curtains. He reached for his coffee, letting the steam warm his face as he thought—of Fatima's resilience, Bettie's rare praise, and the curious threads of fate that bound them all within his orbit.
**
The courtyard behind the hotel buzzed with activity under the clear midmorning light. The scent of leather, horse musk, and sun-warmed hay mingled in the air, carried by a gentle breeze that swept across the eastern exit. Knights bustled about, tightening saddle straps, brushing the dust from the carriage cushions, and checking their gear one last time before departure. The rhythmic clatter of buckles and jingling reins echoed faintly beneath the distant hum of the city.
"This is the last of the saddles, Sir Gabriel," Fatima panted, her voice soft but breathless. She held out two brown saddles, her arms trembling slightly from the morning's exertion. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on her brow, catching the sunlight as her chest rose and fell with every breath. Her silver hair—once neatly pinned—had loosened into stray strands that clung to her temples.
"Thanks to your help, we finished earlier than planned, Miss Fatima. Good work," Gabriel said warmly, brushing a bit of dust from his gloves before reaching over to pat her head. His hand was rough and calloused, but the gesture carried genuine kindness. "We greatly appreciate your help, miss," another knight added, his broad figure casting a long shadow over her. He spoke with a hearty laugh that matched the gleam in his eyes.
"As a token of our gratitude…" Gabriel paused, exchanging a knowing glance with the others, who grinned in silent agreement. "We invite you to join us for breakfast. How does that sound, Miss Fati?" Fatima's eyes widened, and she gasped audibly before clapping a hand over her mouth in horror at her own reaction. Her cheeks flushed a rosy hue. "I—I gladly accept your invitation," she said, voice meek but brimming with excitement. She offered a graceful curtsy, her skirt fluttering lightly around her ankles.
Whyever, would I miss such a golden opportunity to start the day on a full stomach? she thought, her heart skipping as her imagination conjured visions of fresh bread, glistening fruit preserves, and steaming platters of eggs and sausages. The thought alone nearly made her drool. "I heard it's the courtesy of the king himself," one of the knights chuckled as they began ascending the stone staircase toward the main entrance. "It's not every day we get to feast at the king's expense," another said, grinning from ear to ear.
But as they reached the top step, the lighthearted chatter dwindled. Their smiles faltered. One by one, the knights' expressions stiffened as they turned their gazes in the same direction.
A woman stood at the landing—a vision of opulence and composure. She held a pink fan before her face, its silk surface embroidered with golden thread that shimmered in the morning sun. Her parasol bearer stood dutifully beside her, shielding her from the light, while several knights in polished armor loomed protectively behind her. The air itself seemed to grow heavy around her, as though her presence alone demanded silence.
Her hair—silken and pink as cherry blossoms—fluttered in the breeze, each strand catching the sunlight like a ribbon of rose quartz. She moved with a practiced elegance, her jeweled blue gown swaying softly with every step. Diamonds and pearls glittered from her bodice, while the faint scent of lilac perfume followed her like a ghostly trail.
When she reached Gabriel, she stopped. The only sound was the faint swish of her skirts and the soft rustle of her fan. "Her ladyship would like to know the room in which the crown prince is currently staying," her servant announced, bowing deeply.
Fatima blinked, watching as the woman leaned close to whisper something into the servant's ear. So, she doesn't even speak to those she deems beneath her… Fatima mused bitterly. How familiar. My sister used to do the same. A faint frown tugged at her lips. Among the nobility, it seemed, arrogance was considered a badge of honor.
Gabriel straightened, his posture impeccable. "Apologies, lady Lillith. I regret to inform you that I am not at liberty to reveal the prince's suite number to anyone." His tone was polite, his bow precise. Lillith scoffed quietly behind her fan, the corners of her eyes narrowing with disdain. Without another word, she turned sharply on her heel, her perfume lingering in the air like the aftertaste of something too sweet.
"What was that all about?" Fatima whispered, eyes still fixed on the lady's retreating figure. Gabriel exhaled through his nose, his polite demeanor slipping into irritation. "That was lady Lillith Briar, daughter of Duke Leon—the king's younger brother. She met the prince three years ago and has been sending him letters ever since."
"I see…" Fatima murmured, pressing a finger to her chin. "So, she's his love interest?" "Not quite," Gabriel answered quickly, clicking his tongue in irritation. "The prince finds her advances… exhausting. He avoids her whenever he can, but she refuses to take the hint."
Fatima tilted her head, curiosity glinting in her eyes. The crown prince, huh… She glanced toward the ornate doors of the hotel, her mind already wandering. I wonder what sort of man could inspire such persistence in a woman. Perhaps I should find out before we leave.
**
Golden sunlight filtered through the tall windows of the guest chamber, spilling in warm stripes across the polished floor. The silence in the still air thickening, stirred only by the faint rustle of fine fabric and the soft, rhythmic tap of Bettie's shoes as she circled Nathaniel.
The prince stood tall and motionless in the center of the room, his posture rigid, shoulders squared like a soldier before inspection. The rich navy of his formal jacket gleamed faintly in the light, the gold trimmings catching with every breath he took. A faint scent of sandalwood and pressed linen lingered about him, layered with the metallic tang of freshly polished ornaments.
Bettie moved with practiced precision, her fingers deft and unhurried as she smoothed each crease, adjusted each cufflink, and brushed away invisible dust. The silence between them was taut—formal, almost reverent—broken only by the whisper of fabric and the muted clink of gold against button.
Nathaniel's voice broke through at last, low and edged with restrained irritation. "What is she up to now, Bettie?" he asked, tugging lightly at his sleeve as if to steady his thoughts. Without looking up, Bettie answered softly, her attention fixed on the golden aiguillette draped across his shoulder. "Last I heard, she was heading to the lounge to have breakfast with the knights, your highness." Her tone was even, though her hands moved more briskly now, ensuring the cord rested at a perfect angle.
Nathaniel's jaw flexed. "She's my guest, for goodness' sake. Why is she out eating with them and not me?" He turned abruptly, his coat tails flaring slightly as he did, arms raised stiffly when Bettie gestured for him to hold still. "Well," she began, pausing for a small sigh that carried a touch of exasperated fondness, "for starters, your highness did not invite the said guest for breakfast this morning." Her fingers brushed the back of his head as she spoke, setting a rebellious strand of his silky red hair neatly into place. "Hence, I find it fair that she accepted their invitation. The poor girl has only just recovered from a high fever—surely, she needs her nutrients."
Before Nathaniel could reply, a sharp knock rapped against the chamber door, slicing through the quiet. Both he and Bettie stiffened, exchanging a glance. "Pardon the interruption, your highness," came the muffled voice of a servant. "Lady Lillith is requesting an audience in the hotel's public sitting room."
A weary sigh escaped them both, almost in harmony. Nathaniel rolled his shoulders slightly, the faintest smirk forming on his lips. "Relay to her that I'll be at the canteen in a moment. She may either join me there for tea or return home." "As you wish, your highness." Footsteps retreated swiftly down the hall, the sound fading beneath the steady tick of the ornate clock on the mantel.
Bettie stepped back to appraise her work, her eyes warm and knowing as they swept over the polished figure before her. "Your guest will be very surprised, your highness," she said with a small, approving smile.
Nathaniel's amber eyes glinted as his thoughts turned inward. It's time she knew who I really am. Better before we reach her homeland… His pulse quickened, unease twisting in his chest. And yet, why does the thought of her fury make my hands tremble? I've faced battlefields with steadier nerves than this. The vivid image of Fatima's flushed cheeks and sharp tongue flashed in his mind, both fearsome and strangely endearing.
"It feels like such a long time since I've seen you wear your formal attire, my prince," Bettie murmured fondly, laying a hand briefly on his chest before stepping back. "I daresay his majesty would shed a tear or two if he saw you now."
Nathaniel straightened, brushing off the sentiment with a brisk wave of his hand. "Enough with the trivial remarks, Bettie. Let us get a move on—we've little time to dally today." He strode toward the door, his boots clicking softly against the marble floor, the sunlight catching in the crimson of his hair as he opened it. Holding it open with a faint smirk, he inclined his head. "After you, Madam Porche."
Bettie's head dipped, her expression shadowed by something unreadable. She gave a quiet nod and swept past him into the corridor, her perfume—a faint trace of rose and starch—lingering in the air as Nathaniel followed, the door closing behind them with a soft, decisive click.
**
The canteen buzzed with life that midmorning — a sprawling hall filled with the scent of freshly baked bread, sizzling meats, and the faint sweetness of stewed fruit. Sunlight poured through the high arched windows, splintering into golden shards that danced across rows of wooden tables worn smooth by years of use. The air was thick with the hum of conversation — servants gossiping in hushed tones, the clatter of utensils against plates, the hearty laughter of knights already halfway into their coffee.
Fatima followed the knights through the crowd, her gaze darting curiously around the bustling room. It was the kind of place that felt alive — loud, unrefined, yet strangely comforting. As they reached a long rectangular table near the center, the savory aroma of roasted poultry and buttered eggs wafted up to greet her.
The knights took their seats eagerly, the wood creaking beneath their armor. Trays of golden pastries, thick-cut bacon, steaming bowls of porridge, and fluffy scrambled eggs covered the table like an offering fit for nobility. I was expecting an average breakfast when I walked in, not an entire feast. Fatima's eyes widened as she clasped her hands together, unable to contain the spark of joy in her chest. How many eggs did the chef scramble to make this piece of art? Everything looks so delicious! Her mouth nearly watered as she reached for her fork, anticipation tingling in her fingertips.
But before she could take a bite, Gabriel's booming voice cut through the chatter. "Before we eat, I would like Miss Fati to guide us in prayer." The fork slipped from her grasp with a soft clink, her fingers going cold. The noise of the canteen seemed to fade for a heartbeat, replaced by the frantic rhythm of her own pulse. Her breath caught in her throat as panic curled tight in her chest.
Prayer? Oh no. Her mind scrambled — she didn't know the Alkarazian rites, nor even if their customs matched anything from her homeland. To pray in her own tongue would risk too much. Her palms grew damp, and she clasped them together to keep them from trembling. The knights turned toward her expectantly, their expressions polite yet puzzled. Fatima could feel the heat creeping up her neck. She tried to steady her breathing, searching for words that wouldn't betray her origins. What to do? she whimpered silently, twisting her fingers under the tablecloth.
Just as she parted her lips to speak, the sharp, rhythmic thud of heavy boots echoed from the corridor beyond. Conversations died mid-sentence. The canteen's lively murmur flattened into a reverent hush as every head turned toward the grand double doors. They swung open with a resonant groan. "Enter his Imperial Highness, Crown Prince Kazein Nathaniel VonTicus!" a knight at the doorway announced, his voice ringing with pride. "All hail the small sun of our great empire!"
The words rippled through the hall like a sudden wind. Chairs scraped back as the entire room rose in unison. Fatima's heart gave a violent lurch — the air seemed to still, the golden light catching on motes of dust as if time itself had paused to honor the prince's entrance.