The rhythmic clatter of hooves mingled with the whisper of the sea breeze as Princess Irrys and Nathaniel rode along the sun-warmed coastline. The air was heavy with the scent of salt and kelp, and every wave that broke against the rocky shore left behind a hiss of white foam that shimmered in the waning light.
Above them, seagulls wheeled and cried, their shrill voices cutting through the hush that had settled between the riders. Nathaniel's chest rose and fell with the steady pace of his horse, yet his thoughts wandered—drawn inevitably toward the glowing horizon. The sun hung low, a molten disk of crimson and amber sinking into the edge of the world. The sea caught the light and turned into a restless expanse of fire and gold. Nathaniel slowed his steed, his amber eyes reflecting the brilliance before him. He had always dismissed Syphus' famed sunsets as mere local boasting—a tale to draw in travelers—but now, faced with the truth of it, he could only stare.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Irrys' voice broke the silence, soft but carrying an ache that the wind could not quite carry away. "Indeed," he murmured, unable to tear his gaze from the horizon. When he finally looked her way, the princess's expression struck him. The glow of the dying sun caressed her porcelain face, catching the sheen of tears that slid soundlessly down her cheeks. "My parents used to come here almost every day to watch the sunset together." She laughed faintly—an airy, broken sound—then closed her eyes, letting the salty wind brush against her skin as if it could cleanse the sorrow away.
They had ridden for hours, and the faint ache in Nathaniel's shoulders was a dull reminder of the distance between them—physical and otherwise. The memory of the night before clung to him like a shadow he couldn't shake, making the silence feel heavier with every passing moment. Then came the sound—distant, rhythmic, urgent. Another horse, galloping fast. Nathaniel turned his head just as a cloud of sand rose from the shore road. Raul appeared from the fading light, his cloak snapping in the wind as he reined his horse to a halt. The animal snorted, spraying flecks of foam.
"Pardon my rudeness, Your Highness. Prince Kazein." The man's voice was hoarse, breath quick from the ride. "I've come to report something urgent to the princess." Nathaniel's fingers tightened on his reins. It's him again. This time, though, Raul's manner was clipped, deferential. Still, there was something in the way his eyes darted—an unease that didn't belong to mere protocol.
He leaned close to Irrys, whispering something too low for Nathaniel to hear, or so he thought. The change in her was immediate. Her eyes widened; the color drained from her face until she looked ghostly against the dimming sky. Her knuckles whitened around her reins. "I…" She swallowed hard, forcing her lips into what might have passed for a smile if not for the tremor that betrayed her. "My apologies, Your Highness. It seems I have some urgent matters to tend to. We must return to the palace at once."
Her voice quavered despite her effort to steady it. She turned her horse sharply, the sound of hooves striking the sand echoing over the restless surf. Nathaniel lingered a moment, watching her retreat, the uneasy rhythm of her movements betraying panic beneath poise. The sunset burned brighter for a heartbeat before it began to fade.
**
Inside the palace, the world was still. Fatima lay upon a bed draped in silks that smelled faintly of jasmine and dust. Since her return, she had done little but sleep. Each time Raul brought her meals, she ate numbly, her eyelids heavy long before the plates were cleared away. The food left a strange aftertaste—sweet, cloying, and thick enough to make her tongue feel sluggish.
Her limbs felt light, almost hollow, as though her bones had been drained of strength. When she tried to sit, her head swam; the golden light that seeped through the curtains made the room blur and spin. Outside, the muffled clink of armor broke the illusion of peace. Guards were stationed everywhere—even on the balcony, their presence casting long shadows through the gauzy drapes. The scent of metal and sea air drifted in each time the wind stirred them.
What is going on? she thought weakly, her gaze blurring on the canopy above her. Mother… Father… they must have heard of my return by now. Why hasn't anyone come for me? Her thoughts unraveled like a loose thread. Drowsiness crept up her spine, numbing her fingers, her lips. The pillow seemed impossibly soft, pulling her downward until her body swayed like a leaf caught in a current. With a faint sigh, she surrendered to the darkness again.
**
The moon hung high outside the tall, arched windows, its pale light spilling through the sheer curtains and casting ghostly patterns across the marble floor. A faint breeze stirred the drapes, carrying with it the delicate scent of blooming flowers from the gardens below — a fragile sweetness at odds with the heavy tension in the room.
Irrys reclined languidly on her white velvet settee, her body draped in a pale pink nightgown so thin it caught the light like mist. The fabric clung to her every breath, pooling lightly around her crossed legs as she swirled a goblet of crimson wine. The liquid shimmered like blood beneath the lamplight. "The three funerals must proceed as planned," she murmured, her voice low and smooth — almost melodic, but cold beneath the softness.
Raul stood several paces away, posture stiff and deferential, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. The golden trim of his uniform glinted faintly as he bowed his head. "Very well, your highness. What should be done with the princess in the meantime?" he asked, his tone respectful but tinged with concern. "Feed her one last dose of the substance," Irrys sighed, her gaze never leaving the swirling wine. "I'll handle her afterwards." She paused, tilting the glass to catch the reflection of the candlelight in the dark liquid. "That reminds me—where is the sacred item I asked for, Raul?" "Right here, princess." Raul gestured toward the black rectangular box resting on the side table beside him. The faint gleam of the lock caught her eye, and a slow, wicked smile spread across her lips. "Magnificent," she whispered, her tone dripping with satisfaction. Her blue eyes darkened with malice as her thoughts coiled inward. This time, dear sister, I'll kill you with my own two hands.
Raul watched her with careful restraint. "I am overjoyed to see you regain your spirit so quickly, princess. I was worried you'd become truly affected by the recent events." "Oh, Raul, Raul, Raul…" she purred, setting her glass down with deliberate grace as she rose to her feet. Barefoot, she crossed the rug toward him, each step slow and feline, her nightgown whispering against her skin. "It seems you still have much to learn about your future queen," she breathed, stopping just before him. The scent of wine and roses clung to her breath as she leaned closer, her words brushing the shell of his ear.
He stood rigid, unflinching even as her lips ghosted along the line of his jaw — a fleeting touch that sent a pulse through the air between them. When she reached his mouth, she pressed a teasing kiss there, tasting his hesitation. "Now then," she murmured against his lips, "your queen is in dire need of your services, Raul. What do you say? Will you perform for me again tonight?" Her whisper was a command more than a question. Raul's breath faltered, his composure straining under the weight of her proximity. "I am at your service, my queen," he managed, his voice barely above a whisper.
Irrys's smile deepened as she pushed lightly against his chest. He stumbled back, landing on the edge of her grand bed, its silken canopy swaying with the motion. The soft perfume of lavender and wine filled the air as she moved closer, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulder like a curtain of ink. Her eyes gleamed with predatory satisfaction — the look of a woman not seeking comfort, but control. Raul knew better than to resist. The night outside deepened, shadows flickering across the room as the candles guttered in their holders, and the air thickened with unspoken command and submission.
**
A few days slipped by in silence, and the day of the funeral arrived with a heavy, mournful sky. The grand temple of Syphus, its marble spires reaching high into the pale daylight, loomed over the capital like a silent sentinel. Normally a symbol of sanctity and peace, it now seemed cloaked in shadow — its bell tolls deep and hollow, echoing through the city like the heartbeat of grief itself.
Inside, the air was thick with incense and sorrow. The fragrance of burning myrrh and lilies hung heavy, sweet yet suffocating, curling into the rafters in thin ghostly trails. Rows of mourners filled the pews, a sea of black veils, gloved hands, and bowed heads. The faint echo of sobs, stifled sniffles, and rustling handkerchiefs drifted like a fragile symphony beneath the vaulted ceiling.
At the altar, a young priest draped in immaculate white stood beneath the stained-glass windows, sunlight spilling through in muted shades of crimson and gold that danced upon his solemn face. His voice — soft, tremulous — carried the weight of loss as he read the obituaries of the departed.
"What a tragedy," murmured one woman behind her lace fan, her voice barely rising above the priest's low chant. "My heart breaks for the princess, who is now all alone," another whispered, her eyes glistening as genuine tears rolled down her powdered cheeks. "Her Highness must be devastated… to bury not one but three of her loved ones in a single day. I can't imagine the pain." "There is also the matter of the crown that is to become her responsibility now," a third added quietly. "Goodness! I've not thought of that at all."
A web of whispers rippled through the pews — soft, scandalous, and pitiful — until the first deep notes of the funeral piano rose above them, silencing the crowd. Each keystroke was like a heartbeat, slow and deliberate, filling the chamber with an aching finality.
The priest descended the pulpit with deliberate grace, the hem of his robes brushing against the marble steps. A golden censer swayed gently from his hand, its delicate chains gleaming in the dim light as tendrils of perfumed smoke spiraled outward. He paused before the three mahogany coffins lined in front of the altar — each adorned with white lilies and the royal insignia — and whispered a quiet prayer. His brows knit in reverence as he lifted the censer, sweeping it over the coffins. The smoke billowed, curling like pale veils around them — a fragrant offering to the heavens, a promise that the souls within might find peace beyond this mortal sorrow.
The deep toll of the temple bell marked the end of the ceremony. Outside, the somber murmur of voices gave way to the creak of carriage wheels and the muffled clatter of boots on cobblestone. Nobles and foreign envoys, dressed in black and white finery, mounted their carriages one by one, forming a long procession toward the royal graveyard. Nathaniel stood apart from the gathering — his tall figure still, eyes fixed upon Princess Irrys. She knelt before her family's tombstones, her frail shoulders trembling with sobs. A veil of fine black lace draped over her head, concealing her face entirely as she pressed her gloved hands against the earth. Around her, the air was cool and damp, the scent of rain mingling with the faint perfume of crushed flowers beneath the mourners' feet.
Nathaniel's amber eyes darkened as he recalled Raul's whispered words, which his preternatural hearing had easily caught. She knows of her sister's existence… yet still she proceeds with this funeral? His jaw tightened, unease stirring beneath his calm exterior. What could her intention be? The question gnawed at him, festering in the quiet corners of his mind. "Your Highness," came Bettie's voice, cutting through his thoughts like the slice of a blade. "It is time to leave, for we must prepare for our departure this afternoon." He turned toward her, expression composed yet distant, his lips pressed into a thin, unreadable line. "Lead the way, Bettie," he said quietly, his tone edged with distraction.
As he walked away, the rustle of his cloak brushed softly against the grass. Yet something compelled him to look back — one last glance over his shoulder. The breeze stirred then, light but insistent, catching the hem of Irrys's veil and lifting it from her face. Sunlight pierced through the gray clouds just enough to illuminate her features — and Nathaniel froze. For beneath the delicate lace, the princess was smiling. Not the tremulous smile of a woman clinging to hope, but a chilling grin that stretched from ear to ear — sharp, gleeful, almost triumphant.
The sound of the temple bell echoed one last time across the graveyard, and Nathaniel felt a shudder crawl down his spine. The solemn air that once hung heavy with grief now tasted of something else.
**
Afternoon sunlight streamed through the latticed archways of Syphus' royal courtyard, the honeyed glow spilling across the marble floor and dancing over the gold-threaded drapes that fluttered with the wind. The air was perfumed with incense and wilted lilies—remnants of mourning that clung to every breath, every shadow. Conversations hushed and rippled among the gathered nobles like the rustle of silks, their curiosity almost tangible.
Princess Irrys, adorned in gauzy black that shimmered faintly under the sun, stood before Nathaniel. Only her eyes, rimmed with faint traces of exhaustion, were visible through the delicate lace of her veil. A faint smile curved her lips beneath it—soft, deliberate, enigmatic. Nathaniel did not return the gesture. His eyes held steady, sharp with unspoken thought. Beneath his calm exterior, his mind churned like stormy tides—pondering how best to unravel the secrets of Syphus, its rituals, its politics, its alluring mysteries. The foreign scent of myrrh and ash unsettled him, though he could not say why.
"I would really appreciate it," Irrys began, her voice lilting with a velvet smoothness that carried through the courtyard, "if His Highness could consider assisting my coronation, which is in a month." She said shyly, her gloved hand reaching forward, cupping his own. The gesture was intimate, disarming. Nathaniel stiffened at the contact, her touch cool and deliberate against his skin. "Would you consider staying?" she added softly, her gaze flitting toward Bettie, as if the maid might grant her the permission Nathaniel would not.
Bettie, ever composed, dipped into a quiet bow. The murmurs in the courtyard swelled—whispers chasing one another like the wind through leaves. To the crowd, the princess's actions painted a scene of closeness, of something delicate and unspoken blooming between the Prince of Alkaraz and the grieving heir of Syphus. But Nathaniel knew better. He had only tolerated her peculiar forwardness out of respect for Fatima—for what little remained of that bond.
"A rather tempting request, Your Highness," he said finally, his tone measured, every word brushed with the weight of diplomacy. "However, I must painfully decline. As you already know, our countries are yet to be allied due to the delays in negotiation. Therefore, I—" "That is truly a shame," she interrupted, a wistful sigh escaping her as she withdrew her hand.
The veil fluttered with her movement, and beneath it, her eyes gleamed with unspoken calculation. Irrys knew the boundaries of royal diplomacy all too well. An alliance could not be forged by sentiment or whim. It required decrees, councils, and contracts—each step a slow, agonizing process. And yet, for a man like Nathaniel… she would endure it all.
"Then…" she murmured, reclaiming his hand once more before he could retreat. The contact startled him—her grip firmer this time, as though she sought to bind him to the moment. "Would it be alright if we kept in touch through letters?" The hush that fell upon the courtyard was almost physical. The nobles leaned in, their fans half-raised, eyes glinting with intrigue.
"I truly appreciate the support you've shown me during my most painful hours," she continued, voice trembling with artful sincerity. "And I feel a budding friendship between us. I would hate for distance to take that away. What do you think, prince Kazein?"
Gasps fluttered through the gathered crowd. To them, it was a scene of tender diplomacy—two young royals bridging nations through compassion. The afternoon light caught on her veil, turning her into a symbol of both grief and grace. But Nathaniel saw the truth beneath the silken illusion. Everything—the setting, her words, the witnesses—was orchestrated. A delicate snare disguised as sentiment. He could almost hear the gears turning behind her composed smile. And now, before so many eyes, he had no choice. To refuse would be to wound her pride and risk a diplomatic fracture neither nation could afford at the moment.
"For the sake of goodwill," he said at last, forcing a thin smile, "I agree, Princess. Let us keep in touch." A sigh of relief rippled through the audience, as though peace itself had been restored. "Marvelous!" Irrys breathed, her voice lilting with gentle triumph. Now let go of my hand so I can leave, Nathaniel thought bitterly, maintaining his polite expression even as her fingers lingered. The distance between them felt suffocatingly narrow, her perfume—something floral but heavy—curling around him like a slow poison. When she finally released him, he stepped back, his smile fading into something unreadable. Something about her is terribly unsettling, he thought, the weight of unease pressing in on him like the shadow of a storm. And I can't, for the life of me, figure out what it is.
**
The delegation's carriages rumbled through the winding forest road, their wheels screeching and jolting over uneven stones. The night was thick and heavy, the air damp with the scent of pine and earth. Every strike of the horses' hooves cracked through the stillness like the beating of war drums. A pale moon hung behind a shroud of drifting clouds, spilling silvery light that flickered across the lacquered carriage windows.
A sharp rap suddenly broke through the monotony—three firm knocks against Nathaniel's window—followed by a muffled voice, familiar and respectful. "The border is just up ahead, Your Highness. Once we cross over, you can expect to arrive at the Iperian hotel by midday tomorrow."
Gabriel's tone carried a restrained weariness, the kind that came from too many sleepless nights on the road. Nathaniel did not reply. He merely stared through the dark glass, his reflection faint against the moving shadows of the forest. His silence was answer enough—one Gabriel had grown used to interpreting. The prince exhaled, a sound almost swallowed by the creak of the wheels. His shoulders sagged beneath his formal coat, and his gloved fingers pressed to his temples. This had to be the most tiresome journey I've ever endured. The thought echoed in his mind as the sway of the carriage lulled him into a half-trance. A respite… yes, a respite is long overdue. His eyelids fluttered closed, if only for a breath of peace— and there she was.
Fatima's smiling face materialized in the darkness of his mind, soft and luminous, like a memory caught between dream and reality. The way her silver hair shimmered under candlelight. The way her eyes—those deep, burning red eyes—seemed to see straight through him. He frowned sharply, a knot tightening in his throat. Why does this still bother me? The memory twisted like a thorn. She played me. Lied to me. A bond servant—hah! His jaw clenched as his thoughts grew darker, sharper. His hands curled into fists atop his lap, leather gloves creaking with the strain. The more he dwelled on it, the more fury coiled inside his chest, burning away the remnants of restraint. Until finally—
"Stop the carriage!" His voice cut through the night like a whip. The horses neighed and the wheels screeched to a halt as he slammed his fist against the wooden wall. Outside, the night air rushed in—cold and biting—as Nathaniel threw open the carriage door and stepped into the moonlight. The forest whispered with restless leaves, and his breath fogged in the chill. "Are you feeling unwell, Your Highness?" Bettie's voice came first, hurried and anxious as she ran toward him. Her skirts tangled around her legs, her face flushed with worry. "Do you need to rest?" she panted, eyes wide as she tried to match his pace. From behind, Gabriel dismounted his horse in alarm. "Your Highness!"
Bettie froze when her gaze finally met Nathaniel's. His expression was cold—too calm for the storm simmering beneath his skin. Her heart sank. She knew that look. Once Prince Nathaniel decided upon something, no one—no plea, no command—could sway him. She swallowed hard, voice trembling as she said, "Promise me you'll be careful." Her fingers twisted in the folds of her skirt.
Nathaniel's tone softened just enough to sting. "Do not worry yourself over my safety, Bettie. I'll be just fine." He turned from her without hesitation, boots crunching on gravel as he strode toward Gabriel. The knight barely had time to react before the prince snatched the reins from his hands with a sharp tug. Gabriel flinched, startled. Nathaniel's eyes gleamed beneath the moonlight as he mounted in one fluid motion. "Hyah!"
The stallion reared, hooves striking sparks against stone before bolting down the road in the opposite direction, disappearing into the thick darkness of the trees. For a long moment, only the echo of galloping hooves remained. Gabriel exhaled shakily, running a hand through his hair. "At least he took my cloak," he murmured under his breath, forcing a weak smile. Bettie's sharp glare silenced any further comment. He chuckled nervously and turned away, muttering, "Right… right." Then, with a resigned sigh, he climbed into the now-empty royal carriage—its velvet interior still warm from the prince's presence, and the faint scent of his cologne lingering in the air. Outside, the forest returned to silence. Only the whisper of leaves remained, carrying with it the unspoken tension of a man chasing a truth he could no longer ignore.
**
"Irrys, my dear sister!" Fatima's voice broke with unrestrained joy, her steps quickening as though every ounce of her longing propelled her forward. A radiant smile bloomed across her face, softening the traces of weariness that had clung to her during the long, agonizing wait. Her arms stretched wide, eager to close the distance, heedless of the cool, unreadable mask her sister wore. At last. At long, aching last her sister had finally come for her. Relief and elation crashed over her in waves so strong her chest tightened, her heart hammering against her ribs as if it might burst with happiness. She had known Irrys would eventually show up; she had clung to that certainty like a candle flame in the dark, even when Raul's sly words and restless movements filled her with dread.
Fatima paid no mind to the frown gathering on Irrys's face. Swept away by her joy, she flung her arms around her elder sister, clutching her tightly as though afraid she might vanish. "I've missed you so terribly," she breathed, her voice quivering with the force of her emotions. "I feared we'd never see one another again." The words spilled out like a confession, unpolished but raw with truth. She knew Irrys hated to be touched without permission, but in that moment, Fatima couldn't help herself. The sight of her sister crossing the threshold had unraveled her restraint completely. She pulled back only enough to drink in Irrys' face, cradling it between her trembling palms as if she held something precious and fragile. Her thumbs brushed over her sister's cheekbones, and she tilted Irrys' head gently left, then right, her tear-streaked eyes searching every line and curve, as though to reassure herself that this was no dream. A giggle, light and trembling, almost childlike, escaped her lips. "You're even more beautiful than before," she whispered, awe softening her tone.
Irrys did not return the warmth. Her gaze, sharp and unyielding, fixed on Fatima like the tip of an arrow poised to strike. The silence between them was heavy, stifling, and yet Fatima clung to her joy, unwilling to let it falter. Home. She was home now, in her sister's presence. No longer under the duchess' lash, no longer sleeping on a hay bed in the stables.
"Why on earth are you wearing a black dress, Rys?" Fatima asked softly, the question slipping out before she could think. A nervous laugh bubbled up in her throat, brittle and out of place, and she took several steps backward, her pulse quickening under her sister's cold and unyielding stare. "You look rather frightening in it, but it does add an air of mystery to you. I like it!" she giggled, trying to turn her unease into playfulness, her smile trembling but genuine. Fatima's face beamed with relief and joy, but Irrys' expression remained eerily still, stripped of the warmth and love she remembered. There was no glimmer of familiarity in her sister's expression.
Irrys drew in a long, deliberate breath and spoke to Raul over her shoulder, her voice, low and heavy, cut through the air like a vicious blade, "Put out the lights, Raul." The chamber instantly sank into darkness, save for the pallid wash of moonlight seeping through the window. Shadows stretched across the walls as Irrys' icy stare on Fatima slowly shifted to something else. A vicious sneer that instantly sent a forewarning shiver through Fatima's body, and she flinched, her mind reeling with confusion. This is my beloved sister, my own blood, the person I love the most in this world. There is no need for me to feel alarmed or scared. She thought, trying to appease the fear that was starting to creep into her heart. Yet some deep, primal part of her soul whispered otherwise, urging her to flee. I'm safe. I am safe with Irrys. My sister would never hurt me.
The thought had barely taken hold before pain erupted in her gut, sharp, merciless, tearing the breath from her lungs. Fatima staggered, a strangled cry breaking from her lips as her hands flew to her stomach. Her fingers met the hilt of a dagger, its blade buried deep. She lifted her head, her eyes wide with disbelief, her face crumpling into a painful wince as she stared into Irrys's cold eyes. Her elder sister stood before her, the dagger steady in her grasp, her expression still and lifeless. Fatima's heart broke beneath the weight of the moment, her mind refusing to accept it, clinging desperately to the sister she once knew. Tears blurred her vision as she choked out, her voice cracking, "Sister, why?" But the stillness on Irrys's face gave no answer. Only silence.