Upon the knight's announcement, a ripple of movement swept through the chamber—chairs scraped against the floor, skirts whispered, and every person rose in unison. Heads bowed low, the gesture precise and reverent, as the herald's voice boomed: "His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Nathaniel of Alkaraz."
A hush followed—thick, heavy, and stifling. The air seemed to tighten, clinging to Fatima's throat like invisible fingers. Her lungs burned with every shallow breath as she kept her head lowered, staring at the gleam of the floor. She didn't dare raise her eyes—not until he permitted it.
Footsteps echoed rhythmically through the long corridor—a firm, confident stride, followed by the synchronized steps of armored knights and servants whose footsteps beat against the marble in steady unison. Every sound resonated through Fatima's chest like a drumbeat.
Then came the murmurs. They began softly, like the stirring of wind before a storm, then swelled into a chorus of whispers that prickled her ears and tightened her stomach. The atmosphere shifted—stagnant, electric, as curiosity flared among the onlookers. When a pair of glossy black boots came into her view, Fatima's head lifted on instinct. Her breath hitched. The man before her wasn't the one she expected.
He was the picture of poise and perfection—broad shoulders wrapped in the deep navy of the royal mantle, his golden insignia glinting in the sunlight. His silky red hair parted neatly on his forehead, revealing eyes the color of molten amber that locked onto her like a spark meeting dry tinder. Fatima's heart stumbled. He leaned slightly forward, lips curving into a soft, teasing smile. "You look as though you've seen a ghost, Fati. In case you're thinking of getting upset with me, remember the promise you made."
Her name on his lips sent a chill down her spine. The surrounding whispers swelled again, buzzing like flies. Every curious gaze, every murmured word pressed against her skin until she thought she might break beneath their weight. This isn't Sir Nate… or Nathan. He's not a knight but the crown prince himself.
Her pulse roared in her ears. The realization struck like ice water pouring down her back—sudden, merciless, undeniable. He had never truly hidden the truth. His bearing, his authority, his confidence, all of it had been there before her eyes. The truth had simply been waiting for her to see it. I can't even accuse him of deceiving me, she thought bitterly. I've been doing the same… and now I'm about to be found out. A cold sweat gathered at the base of her neck.
"Your Highness?" A lilting female voice broke the charged silence. A soft tap landed on Nathaniel's shoulder, delicate but insistent. Nathaniel didn't turn. His amber gaze remained fixed on Fatima, eyes gleaming with an intensity that pinned her where she stood. He looked expectant—almost eager—as if rehearsing this very moment had kept him awake for nights.
Fatima exhaled shakily. "Haaa…" The sigh slipped from her lips before she could stop it, her shoulders drooping like a marionette with its strings cut. "Ha? Is that all you wish to say to me?" His brows furrowed, bewilderment flashing across his princely features. Fatima opened her mouth—only for a strangled sound to escape, an incoherent jumble of vowels that made her want to crawl into the nearest crack in the marble floor. What is wrong with me? she screamed inwardly, mortified.
"Your Highness, please turn around and face me," the same woman demanded again, her voice rising with impatience. Nathaniel's jaw tensed. He exhaled through his nose, lips thinning into a frown before he finally turned.
Fatima's eyes widened. She recognized the young woman instantly, she had seen her only minutes ago in passing, though now her demeanor was wholly different. Her eyes sparkled with infatuation as she pinched the sleeve of Nathaniel's jacket, swaying bashfully like a child craving praise. The sweet scent of her perfume—roses and sugar—wafted toward Fatima, cloying and heavy.
"At ease, everyone. You may all return to your duties," Nathaniel announced, his voice deep and commanding, echoing through the hall. The gathered attendants bowed low once more before resuming their chatter and movements, though their eyes darted discreetly toward the trio.
Then, in a softer tone meant only for her, Nathaniel murmured, "Will you ride in my carriage later if I ask politely?" Fatima hesitated before offering a small, reluctant nod. "Very well," he replied, the faintest smile curving his lips. "I look forward to it." He turned away, the young woman's arm now looped through his. The sunlight caught in his red hair as he walked, gilding him in warmth and grace. Just before he disappeared into the corridor, he glanced over his shoulder, that smile still lingering—a subtle, knowing flicker that left Fatima breathless.
Her hand pressed against her chest, her pulse racing wildly beneath her fingertips. I've never seen him smile like that before. The thought echoed in her mind, soft and dangerous. Is that why my heart feels so restless? Her gaze lingered on his retreating back long after he was gone.
**
Despite the pall of mourning that hung over the kingdom, the royal palace of Syphus thrummed with life that morning. The scent of burning incense and freshly polished wood mingled with the faint fragrance of lilies arranged along every corridor. The clatter of servants' shoes echoed through the marble halls as they hurried about, carrying bolts of black silk, garlands of white roses, and trays of offerings for the late crown princess' funeral.
Within her private chamber, Irrys stood precariously atop a small stool as her handmaidens busied themselves around her. Sunlight filtered through gauzy drapes, catching the flecks of gold in her black hair as pins and ribbons were fastened into place. Her reflection in the mirror before her was a study in contrasts—her mouth pressed into a thin line of frustration, yet her eyes glimmered with a strange satisfaction.
Each tug on her corset, each brushstroke through her hair, seemed to pull at memories buried deep beneath her carefully curated poise. The laughter of a younger version of herself rippled faintly in her ears—the sound of a child once adored by all. She could almost smell the sweet milk tea her mother used to serve her in the sun-drenched gardens, hear the court musicians playing soft tunes just for her amusement.
From her birth until the arrival of her brother, Irrys had basked in the radiant affection of both her parents. The king's counselors bowed low before her as if before a budding monarch; her every whim was met before she could voice it. Even now, she remembered the weight of jeweled tiaras that once felt like promises upon her head. She carried herself like royalty before she even understood what it meant to rule.
Her pride had blossomed under that attention, intoxicating and absolute. Irrys had practiced her mother's graceful gestures before the mirror—the tilt of her wrist, the serene smile—but secretly mocked the queen's softness. How does someone so meek command an empire? she had often thought, watching her mother's gentle smile as she forgave yet another servant's mistake.
Then came the day that shattered her world. "Come greet your little brother, Irrys. His name is Matthias. Isn't he the most precious baby in the world?"
The nursery had smelled of warm milk and herbal medicine that day, but to Irrys, it was suffocating. Her mother cradled the newborn, glowing with a joy that no longer belonged to her first child. The court gathered around, cooing, the air thick with celebration. But Irrys' small fists trembled at her sides as she stared at the wriggling bundle. His cries pierced the air, sharp and grating. Something heavy and unfamiliar coiled in her chest—envy, grief, rage, all indistinguishable. Forcing her trembling lips into a smile, she swallowed the bitterness coating her throat.
"Welcome to the world, Matthias," she whispered, her voice almost too gentle. "I am Irrys, your big sister." The room erupted in laughter and praise—how sweet, how precious—but no one noticed the single tear sliding down her cheek or the glint of malice that flickered in her eyes.
Years trickled by, but the thorn of resentment only grew sharper. Every failed attempt to rid herself of her brother festered like a wound that refused to close. The king's vigilance was unyielding, his affection for his son a constant reminder of her own irrelevance.
And then—another child was born. This time, joy did not fill the palace halls. Whispers slithered through them instead, cruel and incredulous. A baby with silver hair and eyes like liquid rubies—a sight so unnatural it chilled the blood of all who saw her. The queen's cries of exhaustion had barely faded before accusations took their place. The scent of incense turned acrid that day as the court murmured the word adultery. Irrys had stood at the threshold of the queen's chambers, her pulse pounding with savage delight. Finally, the perfect queen had stumbled.
But the temple's decree came as a blow—Irrys could still recall the moment the high priest's voice echoed through the grand hall: "This child bears the king's divine blood." Her disappointment had been visceral. The rage that followed, incandescent. How dare her mother escape humiliation when she so richly deserved it?
The Syphus kingdom's capital, Chastain, glowed with celebration when Matthias came of age to be crowned. Late morning sunlight spilled across streets garlanded with banners of sapphire and gold. Music thrummed in the air—drums, flutes, and maracas beating in wild rhythm as citizens danced. Vendors shouted above the din, their voices fragrant with the aroma of grilled meats and sweet pastries. Foreign dignitaries in vibrant silks drifted among the crowd, smiling politely as they sampled Syphus' famed street delicacies.
To Irrys, the laughter and color of the day were mockery. Her heart was an obsidian stone, cold and pulsing with intent. Today, the game would end. Today, her carefully chosen ally—her silent shadow—would prove his loyalty. "I trust you'll keep an eye on Calliope, Irrys," the queen said, her hand lingering on her daughter's cheek, voice taut with fatigue. "Do not let her wander. I've worked too hard to make this day perfect." "I understand, Mother," Irrys replied, her smile radiant, her tone honeyed. She squeezed Calliope's small hand just a bit too tightly, the child flinching without a word.
When the heavy doors of the throne room groaned open, a hush fell over the assembly. All eyes turned expectantly toward the blue carpet meant for the prince's grand entrance. But instead of fanfare—came the clatter of boots. A knight stumbled in, his silver armor streaked with soot, his face ashen and wild. The stench of smoke and burnt flesh clung to him like a curse.
"Your Majesty," he gasped, falling to one knee. "On our return from the parade…the prince's carriage… it caught fire. The flames wouldn't die, no matter how much water was thrown. We… we brought what remains we could, but…" His voice broke. "There wasn't much left."
The hall erupted in screams, gasps, the sound of a kingdom breaking. The queen collapsed where she stood, her cries echoing through marble and grief. But behind closed doors, far from prying eyes, Irrys lifted a goblet of wine to her lips. Her laughter was soft, almost musical, as she reclined across her bed. Her hair spilled like tar over the pillows, her gown creased and carelessly untied. "Finally," she breathed, voice trembling with ecstasy. "It's done. My darling, loyal dog has done it." The muffled sounds of mourning outside only made her smile widen.
**
The soft knock on the half-opened door cut through the heavy silence of the chamber, snapping Irrys' drifting thoughts like a taut string. Her head whipped toward the sound, a sharp motion that sent a few loose strands of her raven hair swaying across her cheek. The late-morning light spilled through the tall windows, catching the edge of her scowl as it darkened her delicate features. The maid standing in the doorway froze—her knuckles still hovering mid-air—her face paling as Irrys' dark blue eyes narrowed with quiet displeasure.
"A-a small package has arrived for you, your highness. I shall place it on the dresser as usual," the maid stammered, her trembling voice barely audible. The faint rustle of her skirts filled the silence as she tiptoed across the polished marble floor. The air smelled faintly of rosewater and ink—an odd contrast that seemed to cling to the room's tension. When she reached the carved mahogany dresser, she set the small, wrapped parcel upon its glossy surface with exaggerated care, her fingers brushing away as though it burned. She curtseyed and turned on her heel, nearly tripping over the hem of her uniform as she fled.
"Right on time," Irrys murmured under her breath, the corners of her mouth twitching in the ghost of a smile. Stepping down her stool with unhurried grace, she moved toward the dresser, her silken gown whispering against the floor. With a subtle wave of her hand, she dismissed the remaining attendants. They bowed deeply, eyes lowered to avoid her gaze and retreated toward the double doors. The faint click of the latch echoed as the last of them slipped away, leaving the room cloaked in tense stillness.
"This little thing," she said softly, tracing a finger over the edges of the package before unwrapping it, "will decide the fate of my doubting parents today."
Her voice carried a chill—smooth, deliberate, yet laced with an undercurrent of satisfaction. The wrapping fell away to reveal a silver pendant, its chain pooling like liquid moonlight across her palm. The red gem set at its center caught the sunlight streaming through the window, scattering crimson glimmers across the walls. For a fleeting moment, those glimmers reflected in her eyes, and the color reminded her—painfully—of Fatima's gaze.
Her breath caught. The air in the room seemed to still. Slowly, Irrys closed her eyes, her lashes quivering as she drew in a deep breath as though she could breathe away the memory that clung to her heart.
"As always, you've proven how valuable an asset you are to me, Raul," she whispered, the pendant dangling from her fingers. But her tone softened, weighed down by something almost wistful. For a heartbeat, her expression faltered—the mask of poise slipping enough to reveal the faint ache beneath her calm exterior. Then, just as swiftly, she steadied herself once more, the gem's red glint flashing against her pale skin like a drop of blood in the sun.
**
The grand courtroom, bathed in the warm, golden light of late morning, was eerily still, save for the soft echo of Irrys' voice. "Father, mother." Her words trembled slightly, delicate as the whisper of silk against polished marble. With a dramatic flourish, she sank to the cold floor and extended a small cushion before the royal dais. Deep crimson velvet embroidered with intricate golden patterns framed the object she carried—nestled in its center was a trinket that instantly drew every eye in the room. Gasps fluttered through the noble assembly, hushed whispers curling like smoke around the high vaulted ceilings.
"Silence!" The king's voice cracked like thunder across the chamber. His hand shot upward, the veins along his forearm taut, and the room froze instantly, the murmurs snuffed out as if by magic. He scowled, eyes dark and piercing beneath a furrowed brow. "Speak, princess. What is the meaning of this?"
Irrys' heart pounded against her ribs, each beat echoing like a drum in her ears. The air felt thick, almost viscous, as though it resisted her every breath. Her palms were damp, fingers clutching the cushion like a lifeline. One wrong word, one misstep in expression, could unravel everything she had meticulously orchestrated. And yet, amid the bone-deep fear curling through her veins, there was an exhilarating thrill—a shiver of dark delight at the peril she danced so close to.
"I came to present something that will help us cope with our recent loss, your majesties." Her voice, steady despite the tremor under its surface, rolled across the chamber, carrying a fragile authority. "Behold, this is Princess Calliope's family heirloom."
Gasps ricocheted like chimes through the room as she extended the trinket toward the king and queen. The air seemed to thrum with tension, scented faintly with the wax of polished floors, the sharp tang of incense from the ceremonial candles, and the subtle metallic undertone of her own nervous sweat. The king's gaze hardened, lingering on the pendant with an intensity that made her shiver involuntarily. Beads of sweat trickled from her temples, trailing down her face and splattering onto the cool marble, mingling with the faintly sweet scent of her perfumed hair. A sinister, involuntary smile tugged at her lips, betraying the thrill she felt under the oppressive scrutiny.
His hands clenched the ornate armrests of his throne, knuckles whitening, heart hammering like a war drum beneath his chest plate. Slowly, with deliberate weight in every measured step, the king descended the dais, each footfall resonating against the stone floor like a solemn drumbeat. His mind raced, a storm of questions and unspoken accusations swirling beneath his composed facade.
"The king does not look pleased," whispered a court official, voice barely above a tremor. "Do you think something's wrong with the pendant?" Another nobleman spat, voice dripping with venom and caution. "The princess would never have gathered us here if that were the case. Speak carefully, Count Alberick, lest you find yourself in the dungeon for uttering foolishness about his majesty's eldest daughter."
Alberick clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes at the warning, his irritation bouncing off the indifferent posture of Marquis Stalios, who adjusted his cravat with bored precision, unaffected by the tension around him.
"Irrys." The king's voice dropped, low and sharp, reverberating like iron striking stone. She lifted her gaze, meeting his eyes, wide and gleaming with suppressed panic. Every muscle in her body coiled, the instinct to flee clawing at her mind, but she forced herself to remain poised, a fragile statue of anxious defiance. "This pendant," he said, picking up the trinket and holding it aloft so the sun glinting through the arched windows ignited tiny sparks along its surface, "is a fake."
Her chest tightened, lungs straining as if the air itself had thickened. The king's frown deepened, the harsh light catching on the lines of his face, the rigid set of his jaw. "How could you have been so easily deceived, Irrys? I am rather disappointed in you, my daughter." His voice was quiet now, but each word fell like a stone into the silent courtroom.
King Adrian's jaw clenched, fingers digging into the carved armrests of his throne. A flicker of something unreadable passed over his expression as he stared at Irrys, and she shivered, a bead of sweat trickling down her temple and splattering onto the cold marble below. A faint, almost imperceptible smile curved her lips, sinister and deliberate.
The king's mind involuntarily drifted back, as vivid and unbidden as a waking nightmare, to the forest cottage, to the blood-soaked floor, to the terrified woman with pleading eyes—and to Irrys, her hands steady, relentless, a dagger glinting in the dappled sunlight.
"Why must you be so stubborn, Adrian? The truth is right before your eyes." Duke Sebastian's voice echoed in Adrian's memory, sharp and pleading, the image of the lifeless woman burned into his mind as if branded there. Adrian paced in tight circles, the wooden floor groaning under his weight, each step a futile attempt to outrun what he had witnessed. He knelt beside the woman, tracing her wrist again and again, desperate for a miracle that never came, even as the truth—her truth—screamed through his consciousness.
He could not admit it, not even to himself: his daughter had become something far darker than innocence could account for. And now, staring into her eyes, the same bloodline reflected back at him, he felt the heat of disbelief rise to his cheeks, the tension coiling like a serpent in his chest as realization dawned on him.
The court, still in awe and dread, fell into pin-drop silence. And then, with a roar that shook the chandeliers overhead, the king bellowed, "Irrys!" Every nobleman, every official, dropped instinctively to their knees, the air thick with fear, anticipation, and the scent of history unfolding in real time.