One instant, Irrys's dagger gleamed inches from Fatima's throat; the next, the stranger's shadow swept through the air like a living gale. The figure moved so fast that Fatima barely registered the moment between danger and flight. A rush of wind hit her face, her body weightless for the briefest heartbeat before a strong arm caught her firmly around the waist. The world tilted and blurred — the crunch of shattered glass under boots, the rush of cold night air, then the powerful lurch of descent as they plunged from the balcony.
Marble became open air, then tree branches until they landed hard on a waiting horse, the beast snorting and pawing the ground before surging forward with explosive speed. Fatima's head lolled weakly against the man's chest, her disheveled hair whipping across her bloodstained face as the world around her became a smear of moonlight and shadows.
The speed at which the horse crossed the courtyard below left both Irrys and Raul stunned for the briefest moment. Then, Irrys's voice rang out, sharp and furious. "Shut the castle gates! Now!" But the gates never stood a chance. The rider's control was inhuman — reins pulled tight, body leaning in perfect rhythm with the galloping beast. The horse burst through the half-closed gates before the chains could drop, scattering guards like frightened birds. Arrows whistled through the night, some clattering against stone, others lost in the trees as the dark forest swallowed them whole.
The stranger didn't speak. Not once. Only the rhythmic thundering of hooves and Fatima's labored breathing filled the night air. "This is pointless," she whispered faintly, the words trembling against the cold wind brushing the hair off her face. "I won't make it…"
Blood spattered the rider's cloak, warm against his chest. Each gallop sent a new jolt of pain through her torn abdomen; it felt as though her insides were being wrung like cloth. Her hands, slick with blood, clutched weakly at his sturdy chest. The forest blurred — trees, moonlight, shadow — all folding into one endless tunnel. Her breaths came short and broken; her skin glistened with sweat, yet her body was unbearably cold.
"There they are! Fire!" a knight shouted behind them. The forest came alive — arrows slicing through branches, striking bark with sharp thuds. The man leaned forward, shifting his weight; the horse veered sharply, dodging through a narrow ravine. "Your people are quite the persistent bunch, princess," came a deep, familiar voice — calm, amused even. She barely managed to lift her head. "Lucky for you, they are no match for a Sant of my caliber. Don't you worry though, they'll go silent in three…" he chuckled, his voice low and measured, "two… and…"
A deafening thud split the night. The earth shuddered; trees snapped like brittle bones. Then — silence. The sudden stillness rang louder than the noise before it. Only the cracking of fallen branches and the startled neighs of horses echoed faintly behind them. The soldiers' confused shouting grew distant, tangled with the groaning of crushed wood. Fatima blinked hazily — she could just make out the faint shimmer of wires glinting among the branches. A bear trap. Nathaniel nearly feel in it on his way to the palace earlier had it not been for Blaze's keen senses. The beast jumped so high it startled him. "I suppose I owe Gabriel my thanks for training you properly." Nathaniel murmured to himself, the memory fading from his mind.
"Prince Kazein Nathaniel VonTicus." Came Fatima's raspy voice, a faint cough escaping her lips. The wind rose as if answering his name. It tore his hood free, and in the moonlight his hair blazed — a cascade of silken red, catching every silver glint of the night. His eyes, when he turned slightly, were like molten amber, fierce and impossibly alive. "The one and only," he said with a grin that could have split the darkness. He glanced down at her, the smile softening only slightly. "Don't worry, I didn't hurt them… much. But we can't linger here. We'll talk later, princess."
Fatima wanted to reply, to thank him, to ask why he'd come back and done something so dangerous — but her tongue felt heavy, her body limp. Her vision flickered like a candle about to die. The rhythm of the horse's gallop became a lullaby of pain and fading warmth. Her lashes fluttered once, twice. The cold seeped deeper into her bones. "I'm… sorry," she whispered, the words nearly lost to the wind. "I'm so sorry I lied to you." She wailed and sniffled, choking up as her body trembled in his arms. "Save your breath, princess. I'll collect all the apologies you have when you recover completely." Kazein rode on beneath the moon, her unconscious form cradled in his arms, crimson stains marking their path like ghostly petals in the night.
**
The dawn moon hung low over the terrace of the Syphus royal palace, its glow reflecting off the polished floor where Irrys stood behind the stony rails of her balcony. The night air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of dew-soaked roses from the gardens below. The wind billowed her ornate red dress, her raven hair cascading behind as she stared at the horizon. The fire crackled in the hearth, its flame trembling in the wind, much like the maids serving her morning tea.
"It seems our men fell into a hunting trap in the Silon forest, your highness," reported Raul, his voice quivering though he tried to keep his composure. "A rescue team was promptly dispatched to pull them out. Shall we…" "Kill them all." Her interruption was soft—so soft it should have gone unheard—but the calm venom in her tone froze the air itself. "P-pardon?" Raul stammered, his throat tightening as his breath misted in the cold morning.
"From here on out," she said, turning to him slowly, her gown whispering against the floor, "I will not tolerate any failure from anyone. Not even you, Raul." The words hung between them like a guillotine blade. Her gaze—sharp and glacial—met his, and he swore he felt it cut into him. The maids behind him trembled so violently that the porcelain cups on their trays clattered, spilling tea that hissed as it met the cold floor. One maid glided across the veined marble floor, quickly wiping off the small puddle of tea before anyone else notices.
"Now that our goal is finally within reach, I cannot afford to have any weaknesses. Our obstacles may be no more, but their supporters are still at large. Those who aren't with me are against me and they will all reap the fruits of their insolence soon enough." Irrys said, eyes glistening with malicious determination. Raul forced a steady breath. "Duly noted, Princess," he managed to say, his hand pressed to his chest in salute. "May we continue the chase, Your Highness?" "That will not be necessary," she replied, turning back toward the horizon. "Whoever it was should have realized by now their efforts were all futile. This time, I'm certain she is gone for good." The darkness of dawn swallowed her words. Somewhere below, the sound of cicadas resumed, faint and brittle.
**
The candlelight in the hotel room quivered weakly against the walls, casting restless shadows that seemed to breathe with every whispered word from the servants. The air was thick, stifled by the scent of rain seeping through the cracks of the window frame and mingling with burning wood from the hearth. Beyond the glass, the midday sky had turned the color of ash; the sun was swallowed whole by clouds that churned like dark tides.
A sharp vein of lightning split the horizon, followed by the growl of thunder that made the floor tremble beneath their feet. The downpour began as a whisper and swelled into a torrent, drumming against the windowpanes with a desperate rhythm. "I'm so worried… what if something bad happened to His Highness?" one maid murmured, her reflection pale and quivering in the glass as she turned from the rain-streaked window. "It's already midday—the prince should've returned by now," another fretted, tossing fresh logs into the fireplace. The wood hissed and cracked, sending a spray of sparks upward, but the warmth failed to ease the chill that had settled in their bones.
Their anxious chatter grated against Gabriel's frayed nerves. His mind was a storm of its own, replaying the events of the night before until every thought tangled into confusion. He rubbed his temples, jaw tightening. The image of the Crown Prince—usually so composed, so distant—riding off into the night in a frenzy clawed at his thoughts. It was as though the man he knew and served for years had vanished in an instant, leaving a stranger in his place. "Miss Bettie," Gabriel said finally, stepping forward, his voice low and controlled though the muscles in his face betrayed his strain. "Shall I go search for him?" His gloved hands clenched and released at his sides, each movement stiff with tension.
Bettie hesitated, her eyes flicking toward the window where rain blurred the world into silver streaks. She rubbed her forehead, sighing, the lines of worry deepening around her mouth. "Very well," she said softly. "Take two men with you and—"
The doors burst open with a violent crack. A gust of rain-laden wind swept through the room, scattering candle flames and carrying with it the sharp, metallic tang of blood. All heads whipped toward the doorway. There, framed by the storm, stood the Crown Prince. Nathaniel's face was ghostly pale beneath the dripping strands of his crimson hair. His soaked uniform clung heavily to his frame, every thread darkened by rain and streaked with mud. He smelled of iron and wet earth. In his arms, wrapped tightly in Gabriel's cloak, he carried something—or someone.
"Your Highness!" Gabriel's voice broke through the stunned silence as he rushed forward. The prince stepped into the room, the floorboards creaking under his boots. With each step, droplets of dark red pattered onto the marble. "Your Highness! Blood!" a maid shrieked, her trembling hand pointing toward the crimson smear on his collar. For a heartbeat, the only sound was the steady drip of blood hitting the floor—thick and deliberate, like the ticking of a dreadful clock. Bettie's stomach turned, her thoughts racing. Who would dare to attack the prince?
"Calm yourselves," Nathaniel ordered, his voice low, raw, and hoarse from exhaustion. "It is not my blood, but hers. I am perfectly fine." The wave of relief that rippled through the room was short-lived. There was something in his eyes—amber, usually steady and unreadable—that now glimmered with naked fear. "Did something happen, Your Highness?" Gabriel stammered, nearly tripping as he followed Nathaniel to the bed. "Gabriel," the prince said tightly, laying the cloaked figure down with a care that made his hands tremble. "Fetch me Lindina. You'll likely find her near the research tower." He raked his fingers through his soaked hair, his movements strained. "Yes, sir!" Gabriel barked, spinning on his heel and vanishing down the hall, his boots echoing like gunfire against the marble.
"The rest of you," Nathaniel commanded, "clean her wounds." His voice cracked beneath the weight of urgency. "Now." He exhaled sharply, running both hands through his drenched hair before planting them on his hips. His composure—his ever-immaculate, royal poise—was gone. What stood in his place was a man unraveling before their eyes. Bettie swallowed hard and stepped closer, her voice faltering. "If I may ask, Your Highness… who is this person?"
"Bettie…" he said, turning toward her. His movements slowed, deliberate, reverent, as he knelt beside the bed. "See for yourself." With careful fingers, he loosened the cloak. The fabric fell away in damp folds, revealing a pale face beneath tangled silver hair.
Gasps rippled through the room. It was her—Princess Calliope, known to them as Fatima. Her skin, once radiant as moonlight, was now ashen and cold. Blood clung to her lashes and streaked the torn silk of her gown. Her lips were blue, her body limp and frighteningly still. The faint scent of rain and iron clung to her like a shroud. She looked less like a living girl and more like a fallen specter, half-drowned between life and death.
"Your Highness, I don't think—" "I forbid you to say another word, Bettie." His voice cut through the air, hard as steel. "She's going to be fine. Fatima will pull through this time as well. She must." His hands gripped the sheets until his knuckles turned white. For a moment, the prince's mask cracked completely—his voice trembling with desperation that no amount of discipline could hide.
"My apologies, Your Highness," Bettie murmured, bowing her head. "I spoke carelessly." "We'll discuss this later," he said, straightening abruptly. "For now, prepare her for treatment. Lindina should arrive soon." He turned to leave, pausing at the door. His gaze lingered on Fatima's still form. His voice, when it came, was low but sharp enough to chill the room. "I'm entrusting her to your care. Tell no one of her presence here. Should word spread… the consequences will be severe."
The door closed softly behind him, yet the echo of his command lingered, heavy and suffocating. The maids stood frozen, pale and trembling, until Bettie's voice cracked like a whip. "What are you standing there for? Warm water! Clean towels, bandages, salves—move!" Her words came out firm, but her heart quivered beneath them. She turned to the bed, to the fragile girl breathing shallowly against the pillows, her silver hair glinting faintly in the candlelight. "—and a miracle," Bettie whispered under her breath.
The storm raged outside, thunder groaning like some ancient beast, while inside the room the air hung heavy with dread. A chill crept through Bettie's chest as she watched Fatima's still face. Something had followed her here. Something unseen, yet terribly close.
**
Thunder rumbled faintly beyond the tall, rain-lashed windows of the Ipera Palace's drawing room, its echoes weaving through the distant patter of rain against glass. The sky was a murky shade of pewter, casting the room in a moody half-light that danced over the gold trims and velvet drapes. The air smelled faintly of cedarwood and old paper, the fireplace's embers giving off a gentle crackle that did little to warm the chilled tension in the room.
Prince Jonathin Wells lounged on the plush emerald settee, one leg crossed over the other, a folded newspaper in his hand and a gleam of mischief in his eyes. His laughter broke through the sound of the rain, rich and unapologetic. "What utter rubbish." he said between chuckles, the corners of his lips curling upward with wicked amusement. "Anyone could tell at first glance who is fanning the flames of this ridiculous scandal. Does this face look like someone who's infatuated? I knew the woman was shrewd, but she went too far with this one. My goodness!"
His voice echoed slightly in the cavernous room, bouncing off the marble floor and the grand oil portraits of their ancestors that loomed on the walls. A flash of lightning illuminated his face, highlighting the smirk tugging at his mouth as he read aloud from the scandal sheet: "Crown Prince Kazein was spotted leaving the princess's bedchamber late into the night. Is this the beginning of a budding romance between the two?" "Crown Prince Kazein did not want to leave Syphus after the funeral."
"Will you stop laughing already, brother? I can hardly concentrate with you being so noisy." Crown Prince Demarcous barked, his voice sharp as the thunder that followed a heartbeat later. The second prince sat across from Jonathin near the window, back straight, his royal blue coat immaculate despite the stormy gloom. He held a leather-bound book in his gloved hands, though his golden eyes betrayed mounting irritation. A lock of dark hair fell over his brow as he looked up from the page.
Jonathin leaned back lazily, grinning as though he didn't hear a word of Demarcous's complaint. "Do you think the Syphus princess has truly fallen in love with him? What's your take on this, Caleb?"
From the corner of the room, by the fireplace's dying glow, Caleb John Wells, the youngest of the trio brothers, looked up from his newspaper. His eyes were cool and thoughtful, the faintest ghost of a smile curving his lips as he breathed a faint sigh. His posture was relaxed, yet there was always something quietly calculating about him — a shadow of awareness that never quite left. "I'm not sure," he said evenly. "One thing I know for certain is that these types of scandals tend to follow him everywhere he goes. It'll die down soon enough."
Jonathin snorted, tossing the newspaper onto the table. "The Alkaraz capital city must be eating these scandals up with a spoon. I can't imagine the chaos that is currently running amok among the delusional young noble ladies. Speaking of which, I wonder how our cousin is doing." Jonathin said lazily, placing a hand underneath his head. "If I had to guess," Caleb replied without missing a beat, his gaze still fixed on the paper, "I'd say our Lilith is shattering teacups while screaming her head off alone in her room."
Jonathin laughed heartily, his voice blending with the rumble of thunder. "That sounds rather entertaining. I'd definitely pay to see it." The rain intensified outside, streaking down the windows in silvery trails. The flickering light from the hearth made the shadows dance around them, stretching long and thin over the ornate carpet.
"By the way, brothers," Demarcous said suddenly, lowering his book and adjusting his square glasses, "any chance prince Kazein is still lingering in Ipera?" Jonathin shrugged, leaning forward to pour himself a glass of brandy from the crystal decanter on the table. The amber liquid caught the firelight. "Doubtful. I imagine he'd want to get as far away from the heart of the rumor as possible. Why? Do you have business with him, Demarcous?"
"Yes." His tone was firm, cutting through the soft hiss of rain. He looked up, his gaze cold and precise. "You owe him an apology for the stunt you pulled the other day, Jonathin."
The laughter died instantly. Jonathin froze mid-sip, the glass halfway to his lips. When he glanced up, Demarcous's piercing glare met his own — sharp enough to slice through the uneasy silence that followed. "You could have gotten us killed with those remarks of yours. Haven't you caused enough trouble for our family?" The crown prince's composed expression didn't falter, but the weight of authority behind his gaze made Jonathin's shoulders tense.
"What, you don't want to apologize, brother?" Demarcous's voice was calm, but there was danger coiled beneath its surface. I'm getting tired of this… Jonathin thought, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Alright! Alright! There's no need to make a fuss. I shall seek him out and apologize. Happy?" he said quickly, raising one hand in mock surrender.
"Good." Demarcous's lips curled into a faint smile — too calm, too knowing — as he returned to his book. "You had better do it before he leaves, and properly, might I add. As I've already told you, I do not want any problems with the prince of Alkaraz. I hope you consider controlling yourself next time, brother."
That frown… Jonathin shivered involuntarily. The last time he saw it on his brother's face, his harem was downsized by half. The memory alone sent a chill down his spine — one that had nothing to do with the storm raging outside. He set the glass down carefully, forcing out a nervous chuckle as the thunder cracked again, rattling the windowpanes. "Duly noted, brother. It's about time I rid myself of this perpetual boredom anyway." he muttered to himself, the weight of decision heavy on his chest.
**
Meanwhile, inside Nathaniel's suite, the low rumble of thunder echoed through the storm-laden skies, making the windows tremble within their frames. The chamber was dimly lit, the gray light from outside slicing through the drawn curtains in fractured lines. The scent of damp air mingled with the faint aroma of incense burned earlier in an attempt to mask the sterile tang of medicine.
Mage Lindina stood over the still figure of Fatima, her silken blue robes whispering faintly as she leaned forward. Her gaze was sharp, clinical—eyes glowing faintly with residual magic as they traced invisible patterns above the girl's frail body. Fatima's skin was pale as ivory against the dark velvet sheets, her chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths.
Lindina exhaled through her nose, the sound weary and edged with defeat. She descended to sit on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath her weight. One hand rose to press against her temple, fingers massaging in slow circles as if to ward off the headache forming behind her eyes. "Your Highness," she began, her tone gentle but heavy with resignation. "I know I am a powerful mage… likely the best in our realm actually." She boasted, nose pointed toward the ceiling. Nathaniel stood near the window, his tall frame cloaked in the shadow of storm light. The wind howled outside, rattling the panes like a warning. He didn't turn, his jaw tight, fists clenched at his sides. The sound of rain pelting against the glass filled the silence between them.
"…However," Lindina continued, her voice lowering as if afraid to disturb the fragile stillness of the girl's sleep, "I'm afraid necromancy is not my area of expertise." Her gaze flicked to Fatima again, eyes softening with reluctant pity. "You may want to consult a warlock on this matter." She paused, inhaling deeply, the words that followed tasting bitter even as she spoke them. "Or rather… prepare yourselves for the worst possible outcome."
A flash of lightning illuminated the room, revealing the grief carved deep into Nathaniel's face—the tight line of his lips, the way his eyes glistened but refused to break. The thunder that followed masked the sharp inhale he took, the storm outside echoing the turmoil within him.