By the time night cloaked the sky in shades of indigo and violet, the weary convoy finally rolled to a stop before the Chilsela Villa. The air was heavy with the earthy scent of rain-soaked soil and pine drifting from the nearby woods. Lanterns hanging from the stone archway flickered dimly, casting golden halos upon the cobblestone path as the horseless carriage wheels crunched to a halt. The journey had taken longer than expected, and a detour through the Kartier duchy station had been necessary since Chilsela lacked its own.
Inside the automobile, Fatima slept soundly, her silver hair spilling over the velvet seat. Her breathing was soft, steady—a fragile calm in contrast to the storm of worry that shadowed Nathaniel's amber eyes. He hadn't left her side for even a heartbeat. That alone stirred whispers among the knights; their prince, stoic and ever-disciplined, had chosen to remain beside the slumbering princess for the entire journey.
When they reached the villa, the fragrance of night-blooming jasmine greeted them. Nathaniel's boots clicked against marble as he lifted Fatima carefully, his crimson hair brushing against her forehead before he passed her into the arms of waiting maids. "Handle her with care," he murmured, his voice low, tired, yet threaded with command. "Yes, your highness." The maids curtsied deeply, their lanterns quivering in nervous hands as they carried the sleeping princess away.
Moments later, Nathaniel convened his knights in the villa's private sitting room—a chamber walled with oak panels and lit by the subdued glow of the hearth. The fire crackled, the scent of burning cedar mixing with the lingering chill of the night air. The men stood stiffly, their expressions tense. None dared to speak until Nathaniel turned, his face half-lit by the fire, shadow pooling beneath his eyes.
"Your highness," one knight began hesitantly, fingers tightening on his sword belt, "I don't understand… How could the princess do that to her own sister?" His voice quivered, the disbelief cutting through the hush like glass.
The room fell silent except for the faint hiss of the flames. Nathaniel exhaled slowly, his shoulders heavy beneath his crimson cloak. "From what I've gathered," he said at last, voice low and roughened by fatigue, "it seems she wants the throne all to herself." His gaze flickered toward the fire as if the truth itself scorched him. "And that's not all." He paused, the silence thickened. "Apparently, she was the one who killed her younger brother… and the mastermind behind her parents' assassination."
A collective gasp rippled through the room. The knights exchanged horrified looks; the flickering firelight caught the pallor spreading across their faces. "Y-your highness, what are you—what are you saying, my prince?" Bettie stammered, stepping forward. Her hands trembled against her skirt, her eyes wide and glassy. "H-how could… how could one's own—" Her words strangled in her throat. The color drained from her cheeks before she collapsed, her body folding soundlessly to the carpet. "Miss Bettie!" cried one of the maids, rushing to her side.
The room erupted into motion—the scrape of boots, the flutter of skirts, the crackle of fire filling the stunned silence that followed. Nathaniel stood motionless amidst the chaos, his expression carved in stone, though his eyes burned with a quiet storm. The truth had been spoken, and the night outside seemed to grow colder for it.
**
The morning light had barely crept past the lace-draped windows of the Kartier manor when a frantic knocking shattered the quiet. "My lady, please open the door. We merely wish to check on you," came the muffled plea of a maid, her voice trembling through the heavy oak.
"What is all this commotion at such an early hour of the day?" Gwendolynn's voice cut through the corridor like a whip. The Duchess descended the staircase with authority, her silken robe trailing behind her in rustling folds, the faint scent of roses marking her presence. Her eyes, sharp and sleep-deprived, landed on the cluster of pale-faced servants gathered by her daughter's door.
"We found her ladyship rummaging through the kitchen's cutlery and took… a knife to her room," the servant confessed, wringing her hands so tightly that her knuckles blanched. Gwendolynn's blood ran cold. "Florette Kartier! Open this door immediately!" she thundered, slamming her fist against the polished wood. The sound echoed down the marble corridor, mingling with the distant hum of morning doves beyond the courtyard.
She had better not be doing what I think she's doing. The thought clawed at her chest. Florette has been unwell ever since she learned of the prince's tryst with the Syphus princess. "Get me the master key, now!" Gwendolynn barked, her voice cracking under the weight of panic. "Yes, your grace!" the maids cried in unison, lifting their skirts as they hurried down the grand staircase.
The duchess pressed a trembling hand against the door, her nails digging into the grain. You can't do this to me, Florette. Not again. It hasn't even been that long since I found you lying in a pool of your own blood. "Mother! Is something wrong with Florette?"
Gwendolynn turned sharply. Dimitriu was striding toward her, barefoot and disheveled, his nightshirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest. The morning light framed his form — broad-shouldered, golden-haired, eyes still heavy with sleep — a picture of careless nobility. For a fleeting second, the duchess forgot herself, her thoughts scattering as her gaze lingered where propriety forbade.
"Mother?" he repeated, his voice a mixture of concern and command. "R-right! Florette is merely throwing a tantrum, as always. Do not worry, your grace. I will handle her," she stammered, smoothing her robe and forcing composure back into her tone. He studied her briefly, suspicion flickering in his eyes, but nodded. "Very well. I shall leave you to it, then," he said, turning away, his footsteps fading into the quiet hall.
"Here's the key, your grace," a maid gasped, holding it out with shaking hands. Gwendolynn's gaze flicked down to the gleaming brass before cutting back to the servant with barely contained fury. "Open it," she ordered, her voice low and venomous. The key scraped inside the lock with a reluctant click. The moment the door gave way, Gwendolynn pushed past the maid and rushed in — only to halt mid-stride.
The curtains were drawn tight, suffocating the room in dimness. A faint metallic tang laced the air. Her heart thudded in her throat as her gaze landed on the bed. "Florette…" she called in a shaky voice. Her daughter laid unmoved, face pale as moonlight against the crimson-soaked sheets, a knife limp in her blood-slicked hand. The morning sun broke through the curtain at last, spilling gold across the scene — a cruel illumination of the horror before her. "Summon the physician!" Gwendolynn screamed, her voice splintering.
The maids froze in terror as the duchess stumbled forward, gathering her daughter's lifeless wrist in her trembling hands. The scent of iron filled her lungs; the warmth of the blood seeped through her robe. "No… not again," she whispered hoarsely, her composure unraveling with every breath. Outside, the capital stirred awake — oblivious to the tragedy unfolding within the Kartier manor.
**
Sunlight streamed through the gauzy curtains of the Chilsela villa, bathing the room in a soft golden warmth. Dust motes drifted lazily in the light as Fatima stood before the tall mirror, her reflection framed by carved oak and trailing ivy vines from the windowsill.
Have I lost weight or is this tall mirror playing tricks on me? she wondered, fingertips tracing the faint outline of her ribs. The air carried the faint scent of lavender oil from the nearby table, mingling with the sharper sting of old herbs used for healing. Slowly, she began to unwind the bandages from her stomach, Irrys's cold voice still echoing at the edges of her mind.
Though the wounds had long since closed, she had chosen to leave the scars—pale ridges across her skin—like cruel reminders of how close she had come to death. They caught the morning light, glistening faintly like silver threads. She would have forgiven her sister's cruelty if it had ended with her own suffering. But Irrys had gone further—too far—drowning their family in blood and betrayal, staining Syphus's honor with her greed.
Fatima's jaw tightened. "I don't know how I'm going to do it," she whispered, her voice trembling as she crouched closer to the mirror, tears blurring her reflection. "But I must bring her to justice… one way or another." Her tears fell silently onto the marble floor, darkening the pale stone. Then came a soft knock at the door—two measured taps that sent her heart skittering. She glanced up at her reflection, startled by the disarray: hair tangled like silver silk after a storm, eyes swollen and rimmed with red.
"Ah, heavens…" she muttered, rising quickly. She dabbed at her face with trembling fingers, wiping the tears that only smudged faint traces of sleep still clinging to her lashes. As she reached for the doorknob, her hand hesitated in midair. "May I come in?" came a familiar, deep timbre through the door—steady and calm, yet with a warmth that made her chest tighten. Fatima's heart sank to the soles of her bare feet. Nathaniel.
She spun back toward the mirror, attempting to smooth her hair, to straighten her nightgown—anything to seem composed. But the more she tried, the worse it looked. Her hair refused to be tamed, her cheeks flushed unevenly, and her watery eyes betrayed everything she wanted to hide. Why am I trying so hard? she thought bitterly, pressing a hand to her chest. He's already seen me at my worst… again and again. A soft, self-deprecating chuckle escaped her lips as her arms fell limp at her sides.
"I'm coming in," Nathaniel said gently. The door creaked open, and the morning light spilled across his figure—tall, broad-shouldered, framed by the faint scent of cedar and steel. He paused in the threshold, his amber eyes widening as they met hers. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Then, his lips twitched. A faint sound escaped him—half gasp, half laugh—as his hand flew up to cover his mouth. "You… You look well," he managed, turning his head aside to hide his grin. Fatima sighed, shoulders slumping in surrender. "You can laugh," she said softly.
He tried to hold it in, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him. A stifled laugh escaped—low at first, then unrestrained. The sight of him laughing so freely pulled a reluctant smile from her lips. Soon, Fatima's laughter joined his, bubbling through the heaviness in her chest until it spilled into the sunlit air. The sound—bright, unguarded, human—filled the quiet villa, washing away the morning's shadows, if only for a moment.
**
Fatima sat before the mirror, watching the gentle reflection of Nathaniel standing behind her. His crimson hair shimmered under the sunlight, strands glowing like burnished copper as his deft fingers worked carefully through her silvery locks.
Earlier, when he insisted on helping her with her hair, she thought he was bluffing—merely jesting to lighten the heavy air between them. Yet the calm precision of his movements told a different story. "Amazing," she breathed, her tone carrying a mix of awe and amusement. "I never would have guessed that your highness would be familiar with such an unconventional method. Drizzling the hair with water truly was the perfect way to tame these stubborn bed hairs of mine."
Nathaniel's lips curved into a small, knowing smile as he wrung out the damp cloth. "Growing up with a temperamental twin sister made me learn things I normally wouldn't," he replied, his voice low and unhurried. "I do hope you keep this a secret. No one else knows of this… skill of mine."
He stepped away and sat at the edge of the bed, his hand patting the empty space beside him. "Come here, Fati," he said softly. It was not a command—merely an invitation. Yet her heart, fragile as spun glass, trembled at the sound of his voice. Despite the ache that still gnawed at her chest, she felt an almost childlike urge to run into his arms. What was it about him that drew her so effortlessly? Why did his nearness quiet the storm inside her? Who was Nathan to her—or perhaps, who was she to him?
"May I hold your hands?" he asked, his tone tender, hesitant. As though her body moved of its own accord, her hands were already reaching for his. His palms were warm—firm yet careful—as his fingers threaded between hers. The gesture was simple, but it melted the last of her restraint.
"Fati," he murmured, his eyes dark with sincerity, "I don't know how to comfort you. If anything, I'm more prone to rub salt on your wounds than anything else. I can't imagine the pain you must be enduring right now, for I've never gone through it myself. But I hope that, in time, you'll find the strength to return to your old self—to be the same Fati you've always been."
His voice trembled slightly, betraying the emotions he tried so hard to conceal. Even his hands shook faintly against hers. For a man who claimed not to understand comfort, his presence alone seemed to cradle her breaking heart. She had fought to keep her emotions hidden since the moment he entered the room—to mask the turmoil beneath polite smiles and shallow laughter—but his words unraveled her composure thread by thread.
He squeezed her fingers gently. "I'll hold your hand," he whispered, his voice nearly breaking, "so cry as much as you want to." And at that, the fragile dam within her finally gave way. The morning light shimmered through her tears, painting the room in soft gold and sorrow.
Meanwhile, the maids who had witnessed the exchange between Fatima and Nathaniel, expressed their bewilderment. "Is this the same crown prince we're used to?" one maid whispered, clutching her feather duster like a talisman. "Is the world to end soon?" Another maid gasped dramatically, her eyes wide with mock terror. "Is our prince on death row?!" a third added, drawing a stifled laugh from the others. "Safi! You say the strangest things," someone scolded between giggles.
Their voices echoed softly against the high ceiling, a blend of disbelief and amusement filling the air. The maids huddled together like a flock of gossiping sparrows, the ribbons on their aprons fluttering as they whispered.
If I hadn't witnessed it myself, thought Bettie, standing a few paces away, arms crossed and brows knitting, I would never have believed it. The image of the crown prince—usually so aloof and sharp-tongued—softening as he spoke to the princess still lingered in her mind. He actually sympathized with her. The memory stirred something strange in her chest—something close to hope. Little by little, step by step, he's changing right before our eyes.
"Go back to work, all of you," Bettie snapped, her tone cutting through the giggles like a blade. Her sharp glare sent the maids scattering, their hurried apologies echoing down the hall. "Y-yes, Miss Bettie!" Their footsteps faded quickly, leaving behind only the quiet creak of the old villa settling in the morning warmth.
A low chuckle drifted from the far end of the hall. "They're as lively as ever," a man's voice remarked pleasantly. Bettie turned, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. "Sir Syler," she greeted with a polite dip of her head. "What brings you all the way here?"
The knight strode closer, his boots clicking steadily on the marble. His silver-gray cloak fluttered faintly with each step, carrying the scent of travel and horse leather. When he stopped before her, his usually composed face was shadowed with urgency. "I came bearing urgent news from the capital," he said, his tone grave enough to silence the air around them. The faint breeze through the open window stilled, and Bettie's heartbeat quickened. Whatever warmth the morning carried seemed to fade as the weight of his words settled in the hall.