Empress Beatrice sat in the armchair of her study, her eyes focused on the paper she was scribbling on. She took a sip from her tea and let out a contended sigh as she signed her name, the delicate swirls of which made the letter look like a piece of a treasure. She reclined in her chair, her shoulders finally relaxing when her eyes fell on the wall clock before her, its tick tock a soothing balm in the quiet of the night. She shut her eyes and exhaled softly, already dozing off when one of her handmaidens burst through the doors with a loud bang, her chest heaving as she gasped for air. "Your majesty!" The empress' eyes instantly narrowed, a sharp edge of concern cutting through her composed exterior. "What is it?" she asked, slowly flicking her eyes open, her voice calm and steady but laced with an undercurrent of alarm. Alicia hesitated, bowing low as though carrying the weight of the news upon her shoulders. "It's his Majesty, the emperor. We just received word that he suddenly fell unconscious after reading a secret letter. He is currently being examined by the palace physician in his quarters, but no diagnosis has yet been made." Alicia said between breaths, her voice trembling under the weight of her words. Beatrice stiffened, her hand flying to her chest, pressing lightly as if to still the sudden flutter of unease. A secret letter? Could it have been from the prince? She pondered deeply. Despite the distance, he remained a thorn in his father's side. At seventeen years of age, he still clings to the tantrums and stubbornness of an adolescent. The empress shook her head almost imperceptibly, a look of frustration passing over her pallid features when a polite knock echoed through the chamber, sharp against the tension simmering within.
"Pardon the interruption, your Majesty. Her Highness, Princess Yurivera, requests a private audience with you," the guard announced from behind the door. The empress exhaled a low, measured sigh, running a fingertip along the edge of her ornate desk. What new antics would her daughter bring this time? "She couldn't have come at a worst time." Beatrice sighed and straightened the faint crease forming between her brows and gestured with a graceful sweep of her hand. "Let her in. Leave us, Alicia." She said to her handmaid. "As you command, your Majesty," Alicia responded, gathering her composure before making her exit.
The princess entered, gliding into the room with an overzealous practiced poise, her eyes bright and cheerful. "May the glory of Alkaraz shine upon her majesty. Good day, mother." She dipped into a dramatic curtsy, the hem of her gown sweeping the polished floor. The empress' lips curved into a small, tight-lipped smile, one hand resting lightly on her hip while the other smoothed her gown. A faint, almost imperceptible shake of the head accompanied her expression, part exasperation, part fond indulgence. Beneath her composed surface, worry for her husband swirled within her, pulling at her chest like a shadow she could not shake. Her trembling fingers tapped lightly on the top of her mahogany chair, betraying the tension she struggled to mask.
**
With the royal palace of Syphus shimmering in the distance—its spires bathed in molten gold under the glow of countless lanterns—Fatima's heart thundered like a trapped bird within her chest. The rhythmic gallop of the horses echoed in her ears, each beat seeming to pull her both closer to home and deeper into the whirlpool of her emotions. Her palms were damp against the folds of her skirt, and she found herself holding her breath, chest rising and falling with barely contained excitement. I'll finally see them again… The mere thought sent a bright, trembling smile to her lips. How shocked they would be to learn she had been alive all along.
At their last stop, Nathaniel had insisted—once again—that she ride beside him. Fatima had agreed, albeit hesitantly, brushing aside their earlier awkwardness like dust swept under a rug. Now, as the carriage rumbled along the cobblestone road, she glanced sideways at him. The faint lamplight flickered over his features—his sharp jawline, the slight furrow in his brow, the glint of amber in his eyes—and her heart gave a helpless flutter. Interesting things always happen whenever we're together, she mused, her lips curving in an almost shy smile. It's almost as if we're meant to be.
"The streets of Syphus sure are lively even at night," he murmured, pressing a hand to the window, his breath fogging the glass. "This," Fatima replied, her soft voice low and measured, "is called a night market. An event held every weekend so merchants can sell what's left of their stock at half price. Some stay until dawn—just to soak in the atmosphere."
Fatima's eyes sparkled. "Isn't it beautiful?" she said, her voice alight with childlike wonder. "I used to sneak out just to wander the stalls. The smells, the colors… it's impossible not to feel alive here."
Outside, the night pulsed with color and sound—laughter and chatter spilling into the streets like a joyous melody. The air was thick with the scent of roasted chestnuts and the sweet aroma of pastries. Paper lanterns swayed above the crowd, their orange glow reflecting off puddles left from an earlier drizzle. Scruffy old men, gap-toothed and carefree, twirled to the beat of a hand drum, while barefoot children dashed between them, giggling uncontrollably. A basket of apples toppled over, rolling across the stones in a scatter of red and gold.
"Now look what you've done!" the fruit merchant cried, hands on her hips. But her scolding melted into laughter when a nearby carpenter stepped forward with a grin. "I'll take them all," he said, tossing her a coin pouch heavy with clinks.
Nathaniel watched the exchange in silence. The lamplight caught in his eyes as his lips softened into an almost imperceptible smile. "It's no wonder you're always happy," he muttered, more to himself than to her, the warmth in his voice betraying something unguarded—something tender.
Fatima's breath caught. It's that smile again… That quiet, unintentional one that made her chest tighten and her pulse trip over itself. She turned away quickly, staring hard out the window as if the palace lights demanded her full attention. Her reflection wavered in the glass, eyes glistening with a swirl of affection and guilt. This may be the last time we're together like this, she thought. Once I return to the palace, I'll clear everything up… ask them to keep my return secret until we uncover who tried to kill me.
Her hand balled into a small fist, trembling with resolve. Yet beneath the determination lingered fear—fear of what he'd think when the truth came out. I truly hope you won't hate me too much when you find out who I really am… a coward who couldn't tell you the truth despite all the chances I've had.
She turned back toward Nathaniel, forcing a smile. He raised an eyebrow, eyes narrowing slightly, catching the flicker of unease behind her expression. "What's that look for?" he asked, his tone casual, but his gaze sharp—almost teasing. "Nothing," Fatima said too quickly, her voice lilting like a fragile note in the warm night air.
The laughter and music outside swelled, the scent of sweet bread drifting through the open window. Inside, only the steady clatter of the carriage wheels filled the silence that followed—an unspoken rhythm between two hearts teetering on the edge of revelation.
**
The heavy iron gates groaned open as the delegation's carriages rolled their way inside, the Syphus palace courtyard unfolding like a dream bathed in silver and firelight. The cobblestones, polished smooth by centuries of footsteps, glistened faintly beneath the moon, their inlaid quartz catching the light of lanterns that hung from wrought-iron posts. Each lantern was crafted in the shape of blooming lotus, the flames within casting soft golden petals of light across the ground.
At the heart of the courtyard, flanking the grand central path, stood two monumental statues of white wolves. They faced one another with regal poise, fangs bared not in menace but in eternal guardianship. The sculptor had captured every strand of fur with painstaking precision, so that even in stone, their coats seemed soft, touched by the moon's glow. Their eyes crafted from polished sapphire, glimmered an otherworldly blue, catching stray lantern-light as though alive. These wolves were not merely works of art, they were symbols of purity and strength embodied, guardians of the sovereign's power and the kingdom itself.
Beyond them, the reflecting pool stretched wide and glassy, doubling the heavens above. Stars rippled faintly across its surface, their constellations broken by the occasional stirring of the wind over the water. Fountains at either end of the pool sent crystalline arcs into the air, the streams falling back with a sound like whispered bells. The perfume of jasmine and night-blooming lilies lingered in the air, softening the cool sharpness of the stone.
Marble statues of kings and war heroes lined the outer edges of the courtyard, their features half-veiled in darkness, half-lit in amber flame. Between them, braziers cast long, flickering shadows across clipped hedges and towering cypress trees. Magnolias, their pale blossoms luminous under the moonlight, stood like scattered lanterns of nature, petals drifting silently to the cobblestones below. At the far end rose the palace itself, an edifice of alabaster and gilded stone, its domes and spires touched by moonlight until they gleamed like frozen peaks. From tall arched windows, stained glass spilled muted colors-emerald, ruby, and sapphire into the night, giving the impression that the palace itself was breathing with hidden light and secrets. "My word!" one of the servants inside the carriage gasped, her hands covering her mouth in awe. "It's as if we've entered a scene from a fictional book. Someone pinch me so I know I'm not dreaming." She added, her forehead pressing against the cold glass when a sudden pain twisted on her forearm. "Ow!" she winced, retreating from the window while rubbing the reddish spot. "I spoke merely in jest, Kathy." The maid yelled, her whiny cry summoning cheerful giggles from the others.
The carriages rolled slowly forward, its wheels crunching against the cobblestone as the maids' muffled giggles threatened to slip past the windows. The braziers flared, as if in honor of the guests, casting the towering statues of the white wolves into stark relief, their sapphire eyes blazed under the firelight, watching the arriving procession with unblinking intensity. A hush fell among the servants nearest the statues, as though the wolves themselves might judge the worth of those passing between them.
Footmen in black and white livery approached the carriages, their white-gloved hands steady as they opened the doors and bowed low. A pair of heralds sounded golden trumpets, their notes echoing off the marble walls and dancing across the still waters of the reflecting pool. The air itself seemed to hold its breath as the first figure of the delegation emerged. I must say, I was not expecting such a grandiose welcome. "Your royal highness, it is with great pleasure that we welcome you to our kingdom. My name is Carson, the palace grand steward and shall be your guide this evening." The man's voice was low, smooth and reverent. The gray strands of his hair caressing his temple as he bowed. Nathaniel gave a solemn nod, brushing the invisible dust off his sleeve before proceeding to follow the steward, unaware of the moving shadow that traced the edges of the palace courtyard, quietly slithering through the bushes, evading every flicker of light in her path as she moved closer to the rear entrance of the palace kitchen. A secret passage that only a select few knows of its existence.
**
The palace was cloaked in silence, its grand corridors bathed in the muted glow of lanterns flickering against the gilded walls. Each flame cast long, restless shadows that danced over the marble floor as Nathaniel and his knights trailed behind the steward. Their boots barely whispered over the blue carpet, the nighttime air smelling faintly of polished wood and the distant sweetness of blooming night jasmine wafting through the arched windows.
As they passed beneath towering columns, the line of portraits along the walls seemed to watch them. Each painting, framed in ornate gold leaf, bore the likeness of long-dead royals—men and women whose eyes gleamed with cold authority, their postures frozen in the pomp of a vanished age. The deeper they went, the heavier the air seemed to grow, thick with memory and solemn grandeur.
Nathaniel's pace slowed, his feet came to a full stop, the echo of his halt breaking the fragile stillness of the hall. His gaze snagged on one particular painting, and his breath caught in his throat. There she was. At first, he thought his eyes had deceived him—perhaps exhaustion from the long journey had conjured the image. Yet the longer he stared, the more undeniable the truth became.
The woman in the portrait stared back at him with eyes the color of finely cut rubies, her silver hair cascading like liquid moonlight over her shoulders. A ruby-studded tiara glimmered upon her head, and her faint, knowing smile held the arrogance of royalty… and the haunting familiarity of someone he once knew far too well.
His heart thudded painfully in his chest. No. It can't be. His lips parted but no words came, the palace butler stopped beside him and inclined his head, voice low and reverent. "Our late Princess Calliope-Rose Fatima Vicksburg D'Syphus," he announced. "Peace be with her."
Nathaniel's eyes widened. The sound of his own heartbeat roared in his ears, drowning out the muffled rustle of the knights behind him. His gloved hands clenched at his sides, leather creaking against his palms as he stared up at the portrait. What is the meaning of this? he thought, the question clawing at his mind as if the painted eyes before him could somehow answer.
The butler's voice softened, tinged with nostalgia. "Her Highness was the first to be named crown princess before she came of age. I'll never forget the day of her investiture… it was as if the angels themselves descended from the heavens just to bless her." He chuckled faintly, his tears glimmering in the lamplight as they traced lines down his wrinkled cheeks.
Nathaniel could hardly breathe. Every brushstroke of that portrait echoed the image etched in his memory—the same girl whose silver hair once tangled in his fingers, whose defiant gaze had met his without fear. Even his knights, usually composed, stopped behind him, their whispers carrying softly through the corridor.
"…It's her…" one of them said in a hushed tone. "My word…" another breathed, eyes wide with disbelief. The sound banished the last of Nathaniel's doubt. "Fatima…was never a bond servant to begin with." He murmured to himself, then, straightened, forcing his audible voice steady though his pulse raged beneath the calm. "My sincere condolences to the Syphus crown," he said, offering a slight nod to the painting. But inside, his thoughts were a tempest. His blood surged with something between dread and anger, a storm of realization swirling beneath his composed mask.
So this is who you truly are, he thought, his amber eyes lingering on the portrait's faint smile one last time, his chest tightening as he murmured silently, "Welcome home… Princess."
**
The palace kitchen was alive with feverish energy. The air shimmered with heat from roaring stoves, heavy with the mingling scents of roasted meats, butter, and simmering broth. Copper pots clanged, knives struck wood with rhythmic precision, and every surface glowed faintly under the amber light of hanging lanterns. Chefs in crisp white coats shouted over one another, their voices ricocheting off stone walls.
"Not like that! You'll ruin the consistency—stir gently!" one barked, clapping his hands sharply. "I asked for that spoon an eternity ago! Where is it?" another thundered, while a maid scrambled past him, her cheeks flushed from the heat. "There it is, chef!" came a timid reply, barely audible beneath the orchestra of noise.
Fatima slipped out of the chaos, the cacophony fading into a muffled hum as she turned down a dimly lit corridor. Her slippers made soft, whispering sounds against the cool marble floors. The faint scent of baked bread and caramelized onions lingered on her dress as she passed a reading nook she didn't recognize—a small alcove bathed in moonlight filtering through tall, arched windows. Shelves of old books lined the walls, their spines gleaming like relics, and a fire crackled faintly in the hearth. The cozy stillness called to her, tempting her to linger—but she couldn't afford it. Her heart thrummed with quiet urgency. She needed to reach her room first and foremost, everything else can wait.
As she pressed on, the hush of night returned in full force. The laughter of guards drifted from ahead—two men speaking in low, animated tones about roasted chicken and ale, their mirth echoing faintly. Fatima held her breath, her pulse drumming in her ears as she slipped past their shadows.
The stairs loomed before her, wide and carpeted. She climbed quickly, the sound of her soft breaths blending with the faint creak of each step. At the top stretched a long hall lined with statues of armored soldiers, their expressionless faces half-lit by flickering sconces. The air grew cooler here, tinged with the faint scent of polished brass and old stone.
She slowed, glancing around. The corridor felt foreign—as though she had wandered into someone else's palace entirely. Am I lost? The question tightened her chest. A sudden burst of laughter echoed from the far end—the maids again. Their chatter grew nearer. Panic fluttered through her like wings. Fatima darted behind one of the statues, pressing herself against the cold marble as the group passed, their skirts brushing against the carpet and their perfume—floral and sweet—wafting in the air.
She waited until their giggles faded into the distance, exhaling a shaky sigh of relief. But she wasn't alone. From the opposite end of the hall, another presence stirred—silent and steady, footsteps as soft as a whisper. When Fatima finally stepped out from her hiding place, she turned—and collided with something solid. "Ow!" She groaned, rubbing a hand on her forehead.
Her breath caught when she realized it wasn't a stone statue she bumped into, but a firm chest. The faint rustle of a cloak made her jolt as she tilted her head upward—only for a gloved hand to clasp over her mouth before her startled cry could escape.
The sharp, metallic scent of rust and damp wool filled her nose. Her eyes widened—until recognition dawned. He released her slowly. "You scared the living life out of me, Sir Raul," she gasped, her voice trembling before softening into relief. "What a relief it's just you. How have you been? It feels like such a long time since I've seen you." Her smile, small but radiant, reached her eyes.
Raul's gaze softened, though the tension beneath his composed exterior betrayed him. His expression remained calm, but his heart churned like a tempest. "You can imagine my surprise as well, princess. Who would have thought you were alive? Pray tell—where have you been all this time? How did you find your way back home?" His voice was low, almost reverent.
Fatima's lips parted as she hesitated, searching for words. "Ah, well, I was—" The sound of approaching footsteps cut her off. A group of maids appeared, balancing laundry baskets and gossiping freely, their chatter bright and oblivious.
"Have you seen the Crown Prince of Alkaraz?" one gushed, nearly tripping over her own feet. "I caught a glimpse of him earlier—by the hall of portraits! Good heavens, he's so handsome!" another squealed, clutching her flushed cheeks. "Might I remind you that you are married, Christelle?" Another chided playfully. Their laughter filled the corridor, echoing between the marble walls before fading into the distance once more.
Hidden in the deep shadow of the statues, Fatima and Raul exchanged a look—their eyes meeting in silence, the faint rhythm of their breaths the only sound between them.
**
Moments later, Fatima and Raul finally arrived at her old room—a sanctuary of stillness tucked away in the quiet corridors of the palace. The flickering torchlight from the hallway spilled briefly across the threshold before the heavy oak door swung shut behind them, sealing them in a hush so complete that the soft tick from the wall clock sounded almost deafening.
The room was just as she had left it: her bed neatly made with crisp linen sheets, the silk canopy drawn back and untouched by time; her books stood in perfect order upon their shelves, spines gleaming faintly under the light of the single candelabrum; and in the hearth, freshly cut logs were arranged with meticulous care, waiting for a match.
Yet beneath that comforting familiarity, unease slithered through her chest. The hairs on her arms rose, her skin prickling as though unseen eyes lingered upon her. For a fleeting moment, she thought she heard a whisper—a faint rustle behind the curtains—but when she turned, there was no one else but Raul standing behind her.
She forced a smile, brushing away the tension as she took a step deeper into the room. The soft carpet muffled her movements, the cold air wrapping around her ankles as though reluctant to let her go.
"Please stay in your room for now, and do not come out or open the door for anyone other than me, Your Highness," Raul's deep voice broke through her daze like a blade scraping against steel. His posture was rigid, the candlelight catching the edge of his black cloak. "I shall report your arrival to His Majesty right away." He said, bowing before turning on his heels to exit the room.
"Sir Raul?" Her soft voice stopped him mid-step. He turned sharply, his gloved hand still resting on the doorknob. His eyes met hers—dark, steady, unreadable. "Yes, Your Highness?" "Thank you. I always appreciate your help." Her smile was small but genuine, her hands clasped demurely in front of her simple cotton dress. Against the opulent backdrop of velvet drapes and polished mahogany, her attire looked almost foreign—like a memory misplaced in time.
"It is always a pleasure, Princess," he replied smoothly, but there was an undercurrent in his tone—something sharp, almost venomous—that made the corners of her smile falter. "Please get some rest." He turned on his heel once again, the faint clink of his boots echoing softly before the door closed behind him with a gentle clack. The silence that followed was absolute.
Fatima let out a long breath she hadn't realized she was holding. "I'm finally home," she murmured, her voice barely more than a whisper as she let herself fall back onto the soft bed. The mattress dipped beneath her weight, the familiar scent of clean linen and lavender wrapping around her like an embrace. Her muscles, heavy with fatigue, began to loosen; the dull ache of travel melted into the plush comfort beneath her.
As her eyes fluttered closed, the firelight dimmed and danced across the room, casting long, shifting shadows that reached toward her in silence—like the ghosts of her memories waiting to welcome her home.
**
The royal dining room glowed dimly beneath a canopy of crystal chandeliers, their golden light flickering across the polished marble floors like restless fireflies. Shadows danced upon the carved pillars and velvet drapes, giving the chamber an illusion of movement—as if the palace itself breathed in quiet unease.
Princess Irrys sat at the head of the long mahogany table, the seat normally reserved for the monarch himself. Her back was straight, posture regal, chin lifted with an air of unshaken confidence. The soft gleam of her sapphire necklace caught the candlelight, mirroring the cool composure in her dark blue eyes. Before her stretched a feast that looked more suited for a coronation than an impromptu dinner—platters of roast duck and honeyed ham, trays of stuffed pheasant, steaming bowls of soup, towers of glazed fruits and pastries, and the rich scent of garlic butter and spiced wine filling every corner of the room.
Nathaniel could scarcely believe the abundance. This is enough to feed a regiment, he mused. Yet when his gaze drifted down the table, he caught sight of his men awkwardly sampling nearly every dish within reach—forks darting between plates like guilty thieves at a banquet. A small chuckle escaped him, quiet but genuine. He raised his wine glass to his lips, the deep crimson liquid glinting under the candlelight, but as the first sip touched his tongue, an unwelcome memory intruded.
His smile faded. His gaze fell to the half-eaten steak before him, its juices glistening darkly on the porcelain plate. He remembered the moment of his arrival—the awkwardness of foreign customs. In Syphus, noble greetings were sealed with a kiss upon each cheek, regardless of gender. Such gestures were utterly alien to an Alkarazian like himself. When the princess leaned in—her perfume a subtle mix of jasmine and rose water—and pressed her soft lips once, then twice against his cheeks, he had nearly frozen. Her breath brushed dangerously close to his lips, and even now, recalling it made his pulse quicken and his appetite fade. The memory lingered on his skin like an unwanted warmth. He set his fork down gently, resting it on his napkin as if to steady his nerves.
"I am glad to see that our selection for tonight's dinner has met your standards, your royal highness." Princess Irrys' silken voice broke through his thoughts, smooth yet commanding. "It seems I worried for naught." Her smile was faint, polite, and calculated. "I am grateful for the hospitality you've shown us thus far, Princess," Nathaniel replied with a slight bow of his head, masking his unease. "I must apologize on behalf of the King and Queen," she continued, her tone lilting with practiced grace as she lifted her wine glass. The ruby liquid swirled within the crystal, catching the soft light as her gaze never left his. "With your arrival scheduled for tomorrow, they decided to take a one-day trip to Bassup."
Nathaniel inclined his head. "I'm sure they could use the fresh air—and the time alone with one another." "You are surprisingly quite the romantic, prince Kazein." Her lips curved in a delicate smile, but something about it unsettled him. Behind the perfect posture, behind the effortless poise, there was something missing. No sorrow, no tension, no tremor in her voice. For a woman mourning her sibling, she seemed far too at ease. Could she be concealing her grief for my sake? he wondered, his chest tightening. Should I tell her the princess is alive?
Before the words could leave his mouth, a sudden knock echoed through the chamber—sharp and hollow. "Pardon the interruption, Your Highness," came a voice from behind the doors, muffled but urgent. "I bring grave news concerning the King and Queen."
The warmth in the room vanished. Irrys' expression stiffened, the smile dying from her lips as she slowly turned toward the door. The clink of utensils ceased. Nathaniel's men exchanged uneasy glances, their forks halfway to their mouths. The same chill that had pricked their spines upon meeting the princess now returned with twice the strength, creeping beneath their uniform like an omen.
"You may speak!" Irrys commanded sharply, her voice slicing through the tense silence. "But… Your Highness—" "How dare you question my command, peasant?" she snapped, the words ringing across the vaulted ceiling. The flames in the lanterns quivered as if frightened, shadows jittering across her pale face. "My deepest apologies, Your Highness," the knight stammered. "I shall obey."
Nathaniel's eyes widened slightly. The shift in her demeanor was jarring—one moment gracious and composed, the next, venomous and unrestrained. The messenger cleared his throat, his voice unsteady. "It is with great sorrow that I announce the passing of King Adrian Barthelemy Vicksburg D'Syphus, and Queen Leticia Bel Vicksburg D'Syphus. On their return from Bassup Prison, their convoy was ambushed by assassins. They… did not survive the attack. Their remains are currently being transported to—"
"Noo!" The princess' anguished cry shattered the air. Her chair toppled backward, clattering loudly against the marble floor as she shot to her feet. The wine glass slipped from her trembling fingers, bursting into crimson shards at her feet. Her voice broke with a rawness that ripped through the suffocating stillness, echoing through the grand hall like a wounded animal's wail.
Nathaniel stood frozen, the world around him suddenly feeling far too quiet, the flickering light too harsh, the scent of spiced wine now bitter in his nose. For the first time that night, Princess Irrys looked less like royalty—and more like a woman whose world had just been torn apart.