The soft patter of rain whispered against the window, carrying with it the earthy scent of wet soil and distant thunder. Inside, the air was heavy with the mingling aromas of melted wax and damp linen. Candlelight flickered in uneven pools of gold across the walls, casting long, restless shadows that danced over Fatima's pale face as her eyes fluttered open.
Her lashes trembled before parting to reveal hazy, unfocused irises. The world swayed slightly, as though she were drifting between dreams and waking. She blinked a few times, her gaze sliding toward the chaise near the window where a tall figure reclined, one arm draped over his face, his posture taut even in repose. When the fog lifted from her vision, recognition struck like a bolt of lightning. The sharp lines of his jaw, the fall of red hair glinting like molten copper under the candlelight—it was Nathaniel. The Prince of Alkaraz. Her rescuer. Her unlikely savior from Irrys's hands. It hadn't been a fevered dream. It was real. All of it.
A sharp tightness pulled her attention to her abdomen, an unrelenting pressure that made her breath hitch. It felt as if an invisible corset was cinched cruelly around her waist. Her trembling fingers drifted down and brushed over a rough bandage. Someone had dressed her wounds.
A sigh escaped her cracked lips—then a strangled cry. Pain seared through her stomach like hot knives twisting into flesh. Her frail body recoiled as she tried to sit, sweat beading on her forehead.
Across the room, Nathaniel's arm dropped from his face the instant he heard her. His amber eyes snapped open, alert and burning with concern. "Fati," he breathed, already rising. "You must lie down. Your wounds haven't healed yet—for some reason, they're not closing." But lying down didn't help. The pain throbbed deeper, sharper, until her whole body trembled. Something wet and warm seeped beneath the bandages, sticking to her skin. Gasping, she kicked off the tangled sheets—and froze. The lower half of her nightgown was soaked crimson, the blood glistening darkly under the candlelight.
Then came the smell. It rolled through the air thick and heavy, a nauseating stench of rot and decay. Fatima's stomach turned; she scrunched her nose and whimpered, unable to understand how such a foul odor could come from her own body.
"Help!" Nathaniel's voice cracked as he shouted, "Get in here, Lindina! She needs help now!" The doors slammed open. A young woman hurried inside—tall, brisk, with hair pulled into a strict bun and round spectacles perched on her nose. She was already clutching a wooden box of supplies, her fingers shaking as she placed it beside the bed.
"Hurry and close her wounds already!" Nathaniel barked, his voice rough with panic. "Can't you move any faster? She's in pain!" "I—yes, yes, Your Highness. I am moving as fast as I can." Lindina stammered, sweat glinting on her temples as she fumbled with bandages and salves. When she finally peeled away the blood-soaked wrappings, a sharp gasp tore from her throat. Her face blanched, eyes wide with horror. For a moment, she only stared—then bolted away from the bed, shoving a hand over her mouth before retching into the basin.
Nathaniel froze. His heart hammered painfully against his ribs. Against his better judgment, he stepped closer and looked. His breath hitched. The color drained from his face, and for a fleeting moment, tears threatened to spill from his eyes.
Fatima, trembling, forced herself upright despite the throbbing pain. Her fingers hovered over her abdomen before finally pressing against the wound. It was hot and slick, pulsing faintly beneath her touch—swollen and sticky with blood. She lifted her trembling hand, and a strangled sob escaped her throat.
Tiny white shapes writhed in the crimson mess on her palm—maggots, alive and wriggling in the half-clotted blood. Her world tilted. The pain, the stench, the horror—it all crashed down in one brutal realization. "Irrys…" she whispered, voice trembling. "She used a poisoned dagger."
**
"I removed every last one of them. Are you feeling alright?" Nathaniel's low voice cut through the haze of pain, steady but hoarse, as he wiped his bloodstained hands with a fresh linen towel. The room was still steeped in the thick, metallic scent of blood. The candles had burned lower, their flames bending and trembling under the draft from the rain-laced wind that slipped through the slightly ajar window. A single drop of water struck the sill with a soft plop, mingling with the faint, acrid scent of disinfectant that now permeated the air.
The young mage, Lindina, had long fled the chamber. She hadn't returned—not since the moment she saw what had festered beneath Fatima's skin. The mere memory of her retching echoed faintly in Nathaniel's ears, but he couldn't blame her. The sight had been ghastly, even for him.
Fatima lay trembling against the pillows, her skin pallid and clammy with sweat, her breathing shallow. The pain had been unbearable when Nathaniel acted in haste—the feeling of each creature being plucked from her wound, the sting of the cleansing solution biting into her flesh. At one point, her vision had dimmed entirely, the room spinning away into a blur of pain and heat. Yet somehow, she endured, clutching the sheets until her knuckles turned white.
Now, as the prince discarded the crimson towel into the basin, the faint echo of dripping water mixed with the storm outside. He looked exhausted—his red hair plastered slightly to his forehead, sleeves rolled to his elbows, streaks of blood marking his wrists. The golden hue of his eyes was dulled, shadowed with worry.
"You shouldn't have done that yourself," Fatima rasped, her voice thin and frayed. "I couldn't stand by and do nothing," he replied quietly. His gaze softened as he studied her face—the faint tremor of her lips, the way her lashes fluttered like fragile wings. "Besides," he added, almost as if to reassure himself, "you're still breathing. That's what matters."
Her throat tightened. "The poison… must have been made out of demonic blood." Nathaniel's hand stilled mid-motion. A faint shiver crawled through her body as she tried to move, only to wince again when the wound throbbed sharply beneath the fresh dressing. "A poison that can kill a Sant…" he murmured, his words drifting between them like a confession. "It must have been mixed with a very powerful demon's blood."
Fatima nodded faintly. "That's why my body was rejecting every attempt at healing. Each time I tried to close the wound, it only deepened. I get it now." Her expression darkened with the weight of realization. "What is it?." Nathaniel asked, his tone was heavy, threaded with concern. "The only way forward is purification. I have to destroy the poison's essence first—to pulverize it from within. Only then can true healing begin." Fatima breathed, her gaze fell to her abdomen, where the bandages were newly wrapped and faintly damp beneath the linen. She could almost feel the poison still stirring beneath her skin, like embers smoldering in dying flesh. "How long will it take?" He whispered.
Fatima hesitated, her brows knitting together as she shut her eyes wearily. "Longer than I'd like," she admitted. "The rot's already set in for part of the flesh. The purification will stop the spread, but my body needs time to regenerate what was lost." Nathaniel whipped his head back, exhaling shakily. His voice came faint, almost wistful. "So it'll scar, won't it?" For a moment, Fatima said nothing. Then, she opened her eyes, a flicker of determination flashing across her features. "Only if I want it to."
A fragile silence lingered between them—punctuated by the rain's steady murmur and the soft crackle of candle wicks nearing their end. The night felt heavy but sacred, like the aftermath of a battle neither had expected to win.
**
The forest was alive with the soft hum of summer. Shafts of sunlight filtered through the thick green canopy, scattering golden patches of warmth across the mossy earth. A lazy breeze carried the scent of ripened grass and distant flowers, rustling the broad leaves above and teasing strands of Clover's hair as she lay sprawled upon the grass.
"It's nice that we can relax now that the entire family went to the capital for the master's wedding. Blissful peace at last!" she sighed, stretching her arms before resting them behind her head. Dappled sunlight danced over her freckled cheeks, and her lips curled into a smile of pure relief.
Ivy sat with her back against the thick trunk of a mango tree, her gaze distant as she studied the heavy branches overhead. The tree had grown impossibly well, just as Fatima once predicted. Its broad leaves gleamed a rich, dark green, and small fruits hung from the branches—round, plump, and still pale with youth.
A wistful ache tightened Ivy's chest. You were right, Fati. The thought drifted through her mind like a whisper carried by the breeze. By the time these mangoes ripen, I hope you'll be here to see them yourself.
"Ivy?" Clover's soft voice broke the silence. She rolled onto her side, propping her head with one hand. "Do you think Fati is faring well over there? I don't know why, but I've been having a bad feeling lately." Her tone faltered, the playfulness from moments before slipping away.
Ivy pressed her lips together, her eyes lowering to the wildflowers at her feet. Their delicate petals swayed gently in the wind, oblivious to human worries. "You're right," she murmured. "I've been feeling the same. No matter how hard I try to push the thought away, it keeps coming back. Like something's gone horribly wrong."
Before the uneasy quiet could settle too deeply, a familiar voice called from behind the trees. "There you are! I've been searching the entire estate for you two." Clover's face brightened instantly. "Amie!" she cried, leaping up so quickly that bits of grass clung to her dress. She ran toward the newcomer with gleeful energy. "What's in the box? Is it food? A present? Something else?" "Behave yourself, Clover!" Ivy scolded, smacking the back of her head lightly. "Ow! That hurt, Ivy!" Clover pouted, rubbing the spot as Amie approached, her laughter like the gentle chime of bells.
Amie's dark curls were pinned neatly beneath her bonnet, and the wooden box in her arms exhaled the comforting aroma of fresh bread, herbs, and roasted vegetables. The midday sun glinted off the clasp of her apron as she set the box down on the grass. "I came to bring lunch as usual," she said, kneeling gracefully beside them. "How are you two holding up?"
Ivy smiled faintly. "You ask us that every day." Amie chuckled, a hint of fondness softening her expression. "Old habits die hard. I heard the delegation will start making their way back to the capital soon." Clover froze mid-bite, her eyes widening before she broke into a grin so wide it nearly reached her ears. "Which means—" she gasped. "Fati's coming back! Yay!" she shouted, spinning in circles with her hands thrown into the air. "Fati! Fati! Fati! Woohoo!"
Amie and Ivy exchanged a look—a bittersweet, unspoken understanding—then sighed in unison. With quiet smiles, they settled down on the grass, letting Clover's joy fill the forest around them. "I can't wait to see her again," Clover said breathlessly, her chest rising and falling with excitement.
"Same here," Ivy replied softly, taking a bite of the warm food Amie had brought. The savory aroma mixed with the sweet scent of mango blossoms drifting from above. For a moment, as laughter echoed through the sunlit forest, Ivy let herself believe that perhaps, just perhaps, Fatima would return to them safe and sound.
**
"Look! It's the crown prince!" One passerby whispered to her companion.
The midday bustle of Ipera's grand train station erupted into a wave of chatter and gasps. Sunlight spilled through the iron-framed glass ceiling, scattering over the crowd like molten gold. The air smelled faintly of coal smoke, steel, and roasted chestnuts from a nearby vendor. Porters shouted over the din, their uniforms dusted with soot, while pigeons fluttered from beam to beam above the chaos.
The prince's arrival drew all attention like a magnetic force. His presence—calm, poised, utterly unhurried—contrasted the frenzy that surrounded him. Whispers rippled through the gathered onlookers as he crossed the platform with unhurried steps, his cloak trailing in the breeze.
"The crown prince!"
"Over there—look, he's boarding!"
"What's that in his arms?"
"It looks like… a clump of bedsheets?"
The murmurs deepened as they caught sight of what he carried—a small, delicate bundle pressed protectively against his chest. The faintest wisp of pale silver hair peeked from the folds of linen, stirring curiosity and disbelief alike.
Gabriel, standing a few paces behind, straightened his posture as he followed. The prince's sudden decision to travel by train—rather than the royal carriage—had caught him off guard. Still, he had arranged everything meticulously, ensuring the journey would be quiet and private. The aristocrats who had been forced to give up their first-class seats had protested furiously, even after being reimbursed double. Their complaints still echoed faintly in his mind as he stepped into the luxury compartment behind his liege.
Inside, the air was cooler, carrying the faint scent of polished wood and fresh leather. Sunlight slanted through the curtained windows, casting amber light over the velvet seats.
"Gabriel," the prince's voice broke the brief silence, smooth but edged with fatigue. "What is the meaning of this? Why is no one else here?" Gabriel bowed low. "I took care to book the entire compartment, your highness." "That was unnecessary," the prince grumbled, though his tone lacked real annoyance. He sighed—a sound heavy with both weariness and relief—as he knelt to lay the sleeping princess gently on one of the long seats. The carriage swayed softly beneath them, the rhythmic clank of the station echoing faintly outside.
With slow, deliberate motions, he drew back the linen from her face. A spill of silver hair gleamed beneath the light, and the faintest smile curved his lips—a softness that seemed wholly foreign on the face of a man so accustomed to command.
The other knights exchanged stunned glances. None dared speak, yet their disbelief hung thick in the air. To see the crown prince—renowned for his composure and restraint—cradling someone with such tenderness was something no one could have imagined.
"Ahem!" came Miss Bettie's brisk interruption as she entered, brushing a strand of windblown hair from her cheek. "We have finished loading the luggage, your highness."
The prince rose, adjusting the cuff of his coat, his expression resettling into its usual calm. "Very well," he said, his voice steady once more. He cast one last glance toward the sleeping girl, then turned to face the window as the whistle of the departing train pierced the station air. "Let us depart.
**
The midday sun blazed high above the imperial palace of Alkaraz, gilding its marble towers and sapphire-tiled domes in a deceptive serenity. Inside, however, the throne room simmered with unrest—a storm of whispers, heavy breaths, and the faint, nervous rustle of brocade robes against polished stone. The air itself seemed to tremble beneath the weight of scandal.
"The future queen of Syphus… romantically entangled with the crown prince of Alkaraz?" The words had spread through the court like wildfire, and now, they seared the ears of Emperor Exzavier himself.
"This is outrageous! My son would never get involved with that woman!" Exzavier's voice thundered across the gilded hall as his fists came crashing down upon the carved armrests of his throne. The deep crack that followed echoed through the vaulted ceiling, and the scent of incense and sweat thickened with tension.
His breath came in sharp bursts, chest heaving beneath layers of gold-threaded silk. The veins on his temples stood out like cords, and the imperial signet glimmered faintly on his trembling hand. "Your Majesty, please—be mindful of your health," pleaded Count Bartrum, his voice strained yet sincere. His pale face gleamed with perspiration as he stepped forward, clutching a scroll to his chest. "The court physicians have warned you—"
"That's right, Your Excellency," interjected Duke Wrotingthon, dabbing at his brow with a handkerchief. "Look at it this way, sire. If the two fell in love, then perhaps—" "Over my dead body, Duke Wrotingthon!" The Emperor's words cracked like thunder. His sapphire eyes blazed—filled with disbelief and fury. "I will never approve of such a relationship. This cannot be!"
The courtiers fell silent, save for the nervous shifting of boots on marble and the distant clatter of armored guards outside the chamber doors. Behind the rage, however, doubt gnawed at Exzavier's mind. His thoughts spiraled—Irrys. The very name curdled his blood. He remembered too well the day he investigated Fatima's attempted assassination, the lies she fed her family. That woman is poison, he told himself. A serpent cloaked in silk.
But it was already too late. Nathaniel—his son, his pride—had already joined the delegation. And knowing his boy's rigid sense of duty, Exzavier could not in good conscience summon him back without cause. All he could do now was wait. Kazein… my son… I truly hope this is a lie. There can never be anything between you and that woman. Never.
His knuckles whitened as he gripped the throne's armrests, the sound of his labored breathing filling the tense silence. The chamber felt smaller, suffocating, as if the gilded walls themselves were closing in. Then—
"Your Majesty!" a voice bellowed, cutting through the heavy air like a blade. The great doors burst open with a deafening creak. A messenger, drenched in sweat and dust, stumbled in, his armor dented and travel-stained. He fell to one knee before the throne, his voice trembling but loud enough to shatter the fragile calm. "Demonic beasts are invading Lithiar's borders!"
Gasps rippled through the court. The faint hum of the palace bells began to toll in the distance, echoing like a dire omen through the sunlit halls of Alkaraz—signaling that peace, fragile as glass, had just been shattered.