The scent of fresh bread and polished wood mingled faintly in the air, carried by the breeze that drifted through open corridors of the villa. Everywhere, the sounds of hurried footsteps and rustling skirts echoed — maids darting from hall to hall, their hushed chatter threading through the rhythmic creak of the grand staircase.
Inside his study, Nathaniel sat ensconced behind a wide mahogany desk that gleamed beneath the light. Papers lay strewn across its polished surface, the ink on some still glistening wet. His quill scratched briskly against parchment, his elegant signature curving with practiced precision. Despite his composed posture, a faint tension rested between his brows — the mark of a man caught between duty and desire.
Through his conversation with Syler, the emperor's messenger, Nathaniel had received a summons — an urgent command to return to Alkaraz immediately for Princess Emilia's wedding. The order had not surprised him, yet its suddenness struck like a cold wind. Beneath his calm exterior, dread coiled tightly within his chest at the thought of leaving Fatima's side so soon. "Make the preparations in haste. We leave first thing in the morning," he said, his voice low and firm, never lifting his gaze from the document before him.
Gabriel, who had just approached the half-open door, froze mid-step, his knuckles hovering above the frame. "As you command, your Highness," he replied, entering with a stack of papers tucked under one arm and another bundle in hand. His polished boots made a soft thud against the carpeted floor as he crossed the room. "I've brought the paperwork you requested earlier," Gabriel continued, placing one stack neatly on the desk. "And these are the ledgers from the delegation. I've already reviewed everything — all that's left is to sign and stamp them." Nathaniel nodded faintly. "Good work, Gabriel. I'll get to them shortly." His tone was calm — almost gentle.
Gabriel blinked, startled. Did he just… praise me? The words reverberated through his skull like a foreign sound. The prince's approval was as rare as spring rain in the desert. He leaned in slightly, his brows knitting as he studied Nathaniel's expression for any sign of fever or delirium. Before he could dwell on the thought, a soft, hesitant voice drifted from the doorway. "Your Highness?"
Gabriel jerked upright as Fatima peeked in through the ajar door, her silvery hair spilling like moonlight over her shoulders. The faint scent of lavender and rosewater followed her into the room. "My apologies," she murmured, eyes darting between the two men. "The door was open, and I didn't wish to intrude—" "Come in," Nathaniel interrupted, his tone immediately softening as he lowered the papers from his grasp. "How are you feeling, Princess?" Gabriel asked with a relieved smile, stepping aside to make space for her. "Much better than before, thanks to everyone's care," she replied warmly, her crimson eyes gleaming with gratitude.
"Gabriel, I thought you were leaving," Nathaniel said with a mild scowl — one that lacked its usual bite. "Ah—yes, sire. My apologies." Gabriel bowed swiftly. "I shall see you later, Princess." His second bow, deeper and more courteous, made Fatima's lips curve into a small, amused smile. "Of course, Sir Gabriel," she answered gently.
When the door clicked shut behind him, silence settled between her and Nathaniel — not uncomfortable, but thick with awareness. "It seems I imposed on your work, Your Highness. My sincerest apologies," she murmured, clasping her hands before her. Nathaniel stood, the corners of his lips tugging upward into a faint, rare smile. As he approached, the morning light caught the strands of his red hair, turning them to liquid flame. His gait was smooth, regal — every movement purposeful, as though gravity itself bent to accommodate him.
Fatima found herself watching him too closely, her pulse quickening. There was something radiant about the way the sun kissed his amber eyes, something that made her chest flutter and her breath catch without reason. "You're allowed to impose on everything related to me, Fati," he said, his voice deepening with quiet affection. Her breath hitched. Did he just…? Her cheeks flushed a brilliant shade of crimson. What is he saying? Did he drink something strange this morning? Or—did someone cast a spell on him? Her thoughts tangled as his words replayed in her head.
"Your face is bright red," Nathaniel murmured, stepping closer. "Are you getting sick again?" Before she could protest, his palm brushed lightly against her forehead. His touch was warm — too warm — sending a shiver straight down her spine. "Are you serious?" she muttered under her breath, flustered beyond repair. Then, without realizing, she blurted aloud, "I'm all flustered because of you!"
Nathaniel blinked, then chuckled softly, the sound rich and warm. "What I said was not wrong," he teased, withdrawing his hand. "You said yourself that we're friends. I simply assumed that meant we were close enough to disturb each other without feeling apologetic about it." Her heart, which had been leaping with wild confusion, immediately sank into mortified embarrassment. "O-oh… I suppose you're right," she mumbled, her voice small. "Come," he said after a pause, gesturing toward the reception area. "We have something to discuss."
They sat across from each other on the velvet-lined settee. The air between them was heavy, tinged with the faint aroma of ink, paper, and sandalwood. Fatima's hands curled tightly over her skirt as she studied his face — the distant frown that hadn't been there moments ago.
Finally, Nathaniel exhaled slowly, his amber eyes meeting hers. "I… must leave Chilsela tomorrow morning." The words fell like a blade between them. "W-what?" she breathed, eyes widening, her heart plummeting as though the morning light had dimmed all at once.
**
Nextera palace shone in the morning sunlight that spilled across the polished marble floors, catching the golden filigree on the walls. The air was filled with the mingling scents of lemon polish and fresh linens, stirred by the hurried footsteps of maids and footmen rushing through the grand corridors. A palpable tension of excitement and duty clung to the atmosphere—Prince Nathaniel was returning home.
"You must clean every corner of this palace spotless!" Chamberlain Leonardo's voice rang out, deep and authoritative, echoing down the opulent hall lined with portraits of the prince and his ancestors. His gloved hand swept across a mahogany side table, leaving a faint streak in the thin film of dust. His eyes narrowed. "I want everything in pristine condition before the end of the day."
"Yes, sir!" came a flurry of voices in reply as servants scurried by—skirts rustling, boots clicking, and silver trays rattling faintly. One young maid, cheeks flushed with effort, hurried past him with a laundry basket balanced at her hip, the scent of soap trailing after her. "Chamberlain Leo, look! Dame Cali ate her entire meal. Look at her go." the servant chirped, pointing excitedly toward the gilded falcon cage by the window.
Inside, Cali, Nathaniel's prized falcon, tore into her food with fierce enthusiasm—her talons gripping the perch, feathers glinting bronze under the morning light. Her beak clicked sharply, and a few brown plumes drifted down like snow. Leonardo arched a brow, both surprised and relieved. "Well, that's a first," he muttered.
Across the chamber, sprawled upon Nathaniel's canopy bed, Louis the black panther lay motionless, his sleek fur glistening like midnight silk. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest was the only sign of life, though his tail flicked lazily at the sound of footsteps.
Leonardo sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as memories of the panther's nightly invasions returned. He had tried everything—bolting windows, locking doors, even bribing Louis with smoked venison—but the beast always found his way back to the prince's bed. The maids, terrified by his golden eyes and low rumbling growls, refused to so much as touch him let alone chase him away.
"Return to your chores. I shall take care of His Highness's bedroom myself," Leonardo ordered, his tone softening. "Yes, sir," came the obedient reply before the maids dispersed like startled doves. Leonardo turned toward the bed once more, muttering under his breath, "And then there's the matter of grooming them both. These cumbersome tasks never end."
Just as he rolled up his sleeves, a bright, singsong voice echoed down the corridor. "Chamberlain Leo!" He stiffened, the corners of his mouth twitching. That voice could only belong to one person. Turning, he bowed gracefully as Princess Yurivera approached, her silken gown shimmering with pearlescent embroidery that caught every glimmer of light. "May the glory of Alkaraz be with you, Princess Yurivera. What brings your highness to these parts?" His tone was courteous, but his expression betrayed faint amusement.
Her light pink curls bounced as she hurried forward, eyes sparkling with anticipation. "Is it true the crown prince is finally returning to the palace?" she asked breathlessly. Leonardo inclined his head. "It is, your highness. His arrival is expected tomorrow before noon." Her entire face lit up like the dawn breaking over the palace spires. "I knew it! Oh, how wonderful! I can finally propose to him directly!" she squealed, clasping her hands over her heart.
The exuberant sound startled Louis, who lifted his head from the bed with a low, guttural growl that reverberated through the chamber. His golden eyes fixed sharply on the princess. Yurivera blinked and took a nervous step back. "Ah—hello, Louis…" she murmured, her bravado faltering for a heartbeat.
Then, as though to reclaim her poise, she twirled in place, her perfume—delicate jasmine with a trace of honey—spreading in her wake. Her ornate skirts fanned out like a blossom in bloom, catching the light as she giggled, lost in the excitement of her imagined reunion. Leonardo's lips curved faintly into a knowing smile. Here she goes again with the same antics, he thought, watching her spin with all the grace of a child in a ballroom. "Things are about to become very interesting again in the palace." He murmured.
**
The light of dawn had yet to grace the skies of Chilsela, but the villa's courtyard was already alive with movement. The steady clatter of hooves echoed against the cobblestones, mingling with the muffled grunts of servants heaving luggage onto carriages. The air was cold and damp, carrying the scent of dew-soaked earth and faint traces of horse leather and smoke from the torches flickering along the villa's gate.
Nathaniel stood before Fatima, his crimson hair dulled to russet under the pale, uncertain light. His lips parted as if to speak, yet no words came—only a shallow exhale that misted in the chill air between them. His amber eyes wavered, soft with an emotion he could not voice.
"I do not know how long I will be gone for," he began quietly, his voice roughened by fatigue and restraint, "but you can stay here for as long as you like." The faintest breath left him, visible in the cold like a sigh of hesitation made flesh.
Fatima's fingers tightened in the folds of her cloak. She wanted to reach out—to plead that he not go, or, if he must, to take her along with him. She wasn't ready to be alone, not after what took place in her homeland not long ago. But she swallowed the words that threatened to break free, feeling them burn in her throat like swallowed tears. Who was she to demand such a thing of him? She was already too indebted, too entangled with him. Still, her chest ached, and her vision shimmered as she blinked against the sting gathering behind her eyes.
Nathaniel's tone softened, almost playful, though the tremor beneath it betrayed him. "Be strong and wait for me. I will come back to you before you can say bread."
Bread. The word echoed strangely in her mind—mundane, almost absurd in its tenderness. If I say it now, what would he do? Would he waver? Even for a heartbeat more? Her lips parted, but nothing came out.
When his carriage finally rolled away, the sound of hooves fading down the misty road, Fatima's resolve broke. She stood rooted in the courtyard until the last trace of him disappeared into the dawn haze—then the tears she had fought so hard to contain spilled freely.
Miss Bettie and the other maids, who had lingered nearby in silence, hurried to her side. Their arms encircled her trembling shoulders, murmuring soft comforts drowned by her quiet sobs. The scent of lavender from Bettie's shawl mingled with the cold morning air, grounding her in that fragile moment of grief. Then, the maids suddenly stiffened, Bettie's startled voice echoing through the still air. "Y-Your Highness?"
Fatima gasped and turned, her heart leaping to her throat. Through the thinning fog, she saw him—Nathaniel—dismounting a black horse, his cloak whipping with the wind as he strode toward her. The world tilted, her pulse roaring in her ears. If Bettie hadn't spoken first, she would have thought him a phantom born of her longing.
"It suddenly dawned on me we did not properly part ways, princess," he said, his voice breathless, his cheeks flushed from the ride. His sudden nearness made the maids instinctively retreat, leaving the two of them standing amid the pale light and mist. "Please forgive my manners," he murmured, spreading his arms slightly, his breath visible in the cold. "May I… embrace you?" "Yes! Yes, of course you may!" she cried, her voice breaking as she nodded, tears still glistening on her lashes.
They fell into each other's arms, and for a moment, the courtyard stilled. The murmurs, the hoofbeats, the cold wind—all faded into silence. The dawn itself seemed to pause, holding its first light just beyond the horizon, as if unwilling to intrude upon their farewell.
**
Sunlight spilled through the towering arched windows of the Alkaraz palace, scattering over the marble floors in golden streaks. The air shimmered faintly with heat from the day, carrying the mingled scents of polished wood, incense, and freshly cut roses that lined the corridor vases. Footmen hurried across the gleaming hallways, the rhythmic clatter of their boots echoing off ornate walls adorned with gilded tapestries. Maids, breathless and brisk, weaved between nobles preparing for the long-anticipated audience, their whispered exchanges swallowed by the vastness of the palace chambers.
At the far end of the grand throne room, Emperor Exzavier lounged on his gilded seat, his body slanted lazily but his mind anything but idle. One hand propped against his chin, his index finger tapped a slow, deliberate rhythm on the armrest. His sharp blue eyes swept over the gathered aristocrats—anxious figures standing in impeccable lines, all gazes locked upon the double doors at the end of the crimson carpet. It's been nearly two years since we've seen each other, he mused, his chest tightening beneath the weight of memory. I wonder if he's just as nervous as I am right now.
The grand herald stepped forward, his voice booming with ceremonial vigor. "Enter, Crown Prince Kazein Nathaniel VonTicus! All hail the small sun of Alkaraz!" The doors swung open with a resonant groan. A rush of sunlight spilled into the hall, framing the figure that stepped through. Nathaniel's crimson hair gleamed like molten silk, catching the light as he strode forward, each step steady, measured, and deliberate. His amber eyes—so much like his mother's —swept across the chamber, calm yet commanding.
"Welcome home, your highness!" chorused the nobles, their voices rising as they bowed in perfect unison, their jewels and medals clinking softly. Exzavier's lips curved faintly, pride and longing colliding within him as he drank in the sight. This rascal hasn't lost a drop of his radiance. The young man who stood before him was no longer the boy who left two years ago. Nathaniel's shoulders had broadened, his presence heavier, magnetic. There was a quiet confidence in his bearing now—a gravity that commanded respect without a word. "Welcome home, son." Exzavier's deep voice reverberated through the hall as he rose from his throne, descending the dais with a rare softness in his expression.
**
Later, when the ceremony concluded and the courtly murmurs faded into silence, father and son found themselves alone in the emperor's private parlor. The room was quieter there—lit by the waning sunlight filtering through ivory curtains. A faint scent of jasmine tea and aged parchment lingered in the air. The fireplace crackled idly, though the day was still warm.
Nathaniel sat across from his father, one leg draped elegantly over the other, arms folded across his chest. His expression was cool, inscrutable, but his fingers tapped once against his sleeve—a small tell of restlessness. Exzavier, opposite him, leaned back in silence, his brows knitted and his sighs heavy, almost weary.
"Allow me to apologize, son. Back then I—" he began. "That is already water under the bridge, your majesty," Nathaniel interjected smoothly, though his voice lacked warmth. "Then does that mean you forgave your old man?" Exzavier's voice cracked faintly as he leaned forward, searching his son's face. "Yes, I forgive you." Nathaniel's reply was even, his gaze distant—his expression unreadable.
His thoughts drifted back to the Kartier duchy—to the quiet countryside, the scent of rain on soil, and a silver-haired girl with laughter like bells. Fatima. She had once chided him after one of their petty quarrels, her red eyes shining with exasperation and fondness. "Holding a grudge for too long will shorten your lifespan. You must always try to rid your heart of resentment as quickly as you can," she'd said, pressing a hand over his chest as if to soothe the bitterness there.
She must have learned that from the Syphus Temple, Nathaniel thought, a faint sigh escaping him. "I was in the wrong too, Father," he admitted quietly, unfolding his arms. "I should have explained things back then instead of staying silent. Please forgive me for acting so childishly."
Exzavier's brows knitted, tears pricking his eyes. "A child is supposed to act, think, and behave childishly, and you were no different. I am sorry for everything, son. I hope that in the future, you will find it in your heart to truly forgive your old father."
Nathaniel's gaze flickered with something unspoken—half tenderness, half calculation. It seems he's caught on to my scheme, he mused silently. I meant what I said, but I also intend to learn the truth about Fatima.
The emperor straightened in his seat, the warmth in his eyes cooling to imperial composure. "Now then, son. Shall we get to the important part of this private audience?" The air between them grew taut once more, humming with the weight of secrets yet to be spoken.
**
The emperor's words lingered long after the private audience had ended, clinging to Nathaniel's thoughts like smoke that refused to disperse. What began as a cordial exchange between father and son — layered with warmth and apology — had carried undertones too deliberate to ignore. Every word had been measured, polished to a sheen, concealing truths too dangerous to name.
As Nathaniel strode down the long imperial corridor, the gleam of polished marble mirrored his strained reflection — amber eyes clouded, jaw rigid, and a storm brewing behind his gaze. His boots struck rhythmic echoes against the floor, each step cutting through the oppressive quiet that ruled the palace halls. The air was thick with the faint scent of burning myrrh and aged parchment, the perfume of tradition — sacred, dignified, and suffocating.
Fragments of conversation looped in his mind, sharper now in the silence. Fatima's uncle — Grand Duke Sebastian. It had been he who arranged her rescue, defying a kingdom's politics to shield his niece from her sister's ambition. Yet, instead of honor, he was rewarded with chains, condemned as a traitor before truth could ever find voice. The realization curdled within Nathaniel's chest, bitter as ash.
His fists clenched. The pieces fit too seamlessly — too conveniently. Someone had orchestrated this narrative, and it reeked of manipulation. He could still recall the last ordeal between the sisters: the flicker of venom in Irrys's eyes when she held that dagger at Fatima's throat. Had he arrived at the scene a minute later, the unthinkable might have occurred. For all her poise and royal grace, no crown could hide the wickedness that gleamed there.
He exhaled slowly, the sound hollow in the cavernous hallway. The weight of revelation pressed upon him, settling on his shoulders like a sodden cloak. By the time he reached the arched exit of the imperial wing, the day had ripened into late afternoon. Shafts of sunlight spilled through high windows, gilding the courtyard below. The distant gurgle of fountains mingled with the clipped voices of guards changing posts, the faint ring of metal on metal punctuating the stillness.
Outside, his carriage awaited — a sleek vessel of white lacquer, the royal insignia flashing gold under the descending sun. The horses pawed restlessly, snorting clouds of breath that glimmered in the light. Nathaniel climbed in without a word, his movements deliberate, controlled. The velvet lining of the seat brushed against his fingertips, soft and cool, yet offering no comfort.
The wheels began to turn, the steady rhythm of hooves against cobblestone echoing his turbulent thoughts. His father's apology had been heartfelt — he believed that — but there had been a hollowness beneath it, a silence that spoke louder than words. He murmured the emperor's words in his mind, tasting their weight as though they'd been carved into stone: "Princess Irrys coveted Fatima's position as crown princess and sought to eliminate her to claim it for herself. Her uncle, Grand Duke Sebastian — a close friend of mine — discovered her intent and staged a counterattack. That is how Fatima landed in Alkaraz."
The truth grounded what little knowledge he had of the situation. However, one question remained unanswered, his father had deliberately held that piece of the puzzle captive in his mind. Fatima's uncle, grand duke Sebastian's true whereabouts. He'd overheard the Syphus knights whispering about his escape from Bassup prison during the chaos, but no one knew where he had gone. It was as though he'd vanished into thin air.
Outside the window, the scenery blurred into streaks of green and gold — the manicured gardens, the glittering spires of the palace receding behind him as the carriage rolled toward the detached estate. The air beyond the glass shimmered with late sunlight, and when the horses finally halted before the gates of Nextera, dusk had begun its slow descent. The sky blushed in hues of amber and rose, the scent of honeysuckle threading through a breeze tinged with the mineral tang of stone after rain.
The grand doors opened before he could reach them. Two rows of maids stood aligned in greeting, their crisp uniforms immaculate, their eyes bright with quiet reverence. The echo of his boots against the marble entryway hushed them into awe. Chamberlain Leonardo stood at the end of the line, ever composed, a faint smile softening his sharp features.
"Welcome home, Your Highness," they chorused, voices rising like a single breath. Nathaniel stepped past them, and the cool air of Nextera's grand foyer enveloped him. The scent of lilies and sandalwood hung in the air, mingling with the faint draft that carried the whisper of distant rooms. Stained-glass windows threw fractured light across the floor — emerald, ruby, sapphire — painting fleeting colors on his dark attire. The beauty of it should have soothed him, but tonight, even home felt heavy. The silence was not peace but waiting.
Leonardo approached, deft hands removing Nathaniel's coat. "Your Highness's bath is ready, and dinner will be prepared by the time you finish." Nathaniel paused at the foot of the staircase, eyes lifting toward the gilded corridor that led to his chambers. "How have things been in my absence?" he asked, his tone calm but edged, a quiet test. "Anything I should know about?"
Leonardo's hands stilled. A fleeting stiffness crossed his expression — a shadow of memory, of chaos barely contained. The maids exchanged uneasy glances, the faint rustle of their skirts betraying their tension. "Everything has been peaceful since your departure, Your Highness," Leonardo said at last, bowing his head — the lie smooth but heavy. Nathaniel's amber eyes lingered on him, sharp as glass. "Has there been any word from the Kartier Duchy?"
Leonardo blinked, startled by the question. "None, Your Highness." Nathaniel's gaze darkened, unreadable, before he turned away. "Very well." He ascended the staircase slowly, each step resonating through the grand hall like a quiet heartbeat. The light shifted as he climbed, golden hues deepening into the cool blue of dusk. Behind him, the murmurs of servants faded into silence. Ahead, the shadowed corridor seemed endless — a place where truth waited, patient and unseen.
**
The morning sun spilled like molten gold across the grassy expanse behind the Kartier Duchy's stables, painting everything in hues of amber and jade. The air was rich with the mingled scents of hay, soap, and damp earth, punctuated by the rhythmic swish of horse tails and the occasional soft snort from the stalls.
Ivy stood near one of the mares, sleeves rolled up and hair sticking to her flushed cheeks. She ran her soapy hands through the horse's glistening coat, only to sigh in dismay as the foam spread like a snowdrift over its flank. "Clover, could you bring me another bucket of water? I think I've used too much soap again—the foam's getting everywhere," she muttered, propping her wet hands on her hips.
"Okay!" Clover chirped, her braids bouncing as she grabbed an empty bucket and scurried toward the lake nearby. The sound of her hurried footsteps faded into the gentle rustle of leaves and the distant murmur of water.
"Ivy." called a familiar voice, soft but carrying over the open yard. Ivy turned, squinting against the sunlight. "Oh—hello, Amie. Is it lunchtime already?" she asked, brushing her forearm across her forehead, smearing a streak of white foam across her tanned skin. "Lunch was over an hour ago," Amie sighed, adjusting the wooden box in her hands. Her apron was still crisp despite her apparent haste. "Miss Edith decided to conduct an impromptu inspection in the maids' quarters."
"Oh, that sounds like her," Ivy groaned good-naturedly, shaking her head as she took the box. "I'm always grateful to you for your kind gesture." "Oh, think nothing of it." Amie said, waving a hand. "Amie!" Clover's bright voice cut through the air. She came running up the hill, face alight with excitement, the hem of her skirt fluttering around her knees. In her enthusiasm, she dropped the bucket halfway there.
"Clover! Don't just leave the water there—bring it closer!" Ivy called, exasperation mingling with affection. "Oops! Sorry, Ivy!" Clover laughed, spinning on her heel to retrieve it. Before any of them could speak further, another voice carried across the fields—clear, melodic, and achingly familiar. "Ivy, Clover! Amie!"
They turned as one. A figure approached from the main road, sunlight catching on her long silver hair until it shimmered like spun moonlight. The gentle breeze tugged at her skirts, and her eyes—those unmistakable crimson eyes—glowed with warmth and relief. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to still.
Then, "Fati!" Clover screamed, her voice breaking with joy as she broke into a full run, Ivy and Amie right behind her. Their laughter rang across the stables as they rushed to meet her, the horses lifting their heads curiously as the long-awaited reunion unfolded beneath the bright, sun-dappled sky.