The afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows of the drawing room, casting fractured gold across the pale marble floor and the soft lavender draperies that swayed faintly with the late summer breeze. The air smelled faintly of bergamot and roses — the remnants of tea just poured.
"Your Highness, could Sir Leonardo leave us for a moment?" Florette asked, her voice a blend of politeness and unease. Her gloved fingers trembled slightly as she reached forward to lift her porcelain teacup from its saucer, the faint clink echoing too loudly in the hush between them. The white bandage wrapped elegantly around wrist caught Nathaniel's eyes, but he chose not to address it, assuming it was another one of her attempts at getting his attention. "I would like for our conversation to be… completely private."
Nathaniel stared at her quietly, his amber eyes unreadable. A muscle twitched along his jaw before he gave a curt nod. "Leave us, Leonardo." The chamberlain bowed and exited, closing the ornate double doors behind him. The faint sound of his shoes faded down the corridor, leaving behind a tense silence.
Nathaniel leaned back against the settee, crossing one leg over the other and folding his arms with casual disinterest. His crimson hair, neatly combed away from his face, caught the light like threads of fire. "You have my undivided attention now, Lady Florette," he said evenly. But even as he spoke, he felt irritation prick at his composure — sharp and bitter. Get on with it already, he thought, watching her hesitate. Every second that ticked by only made the air heavier, the perfumed sweetness of the room almost suffocating. If she intended to discuss their impending engagement, she was wasting both their time. He had already resolved to file an official appeal to annul the arrangement before his departure.
Florette finally opened her mouth, her posture stiff with nerves. "Um… Your High—" The door burst open with a loud bang. "Brother!" Nathaniel flinched slightly, his irritation breaking for a fleeting instant of surprise — and, secretly, relief. Florette's expression soured instantly, her delicate brows knitting together in disbelief as she turned toward the intruder.
Princess Yurivera strode in with the energy of a summer storm, her pale pink curls bouncing as her silken skirts swirled around her ankles. Nathaniel pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling through gritted teeth. "What business do you have barging into an occupied sitting room, Princess Yurivera?" he snapped, though the faintest hint of a smirk tugged at his lips. "That was rather harsh, Prince Zen," she teased with a playful pout. "And here I thought you'd be happy to see me."
Without missing a beat, Yurivera plopped herself beside him, the cushions sighing beneath her. "Oh, don't be so cold. We haven't seen each other in nearly two years, my prince," she said dramatically, looping her arm through his. "The least you could do upon your return is visit me! I've been trapped in this palace the entire time you've been away. No tea parties, no outings — nothing. All because my dear brother is still brooding over one tiny, harmless prank." She sighed dramatically, leaning her head against his arm.
Florette let out a sharp scoff, crossing her arms tightly across her bodice. "Harmless?" she spat, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling. "You nearly killed your own brother. Yet you call it a harmless prank?" Yurivera's smile didn't falter; if anything, her eyes gleamed with mischief. She closed her eyes as though she hadn't heard a word. "Anyway," she continued airily, straightening her posture, "Leo tells me you've been terribly busy since your arrival. But I made sure to find a way onto your schedule."
Nathaniel stifled a sigh, already sensing where this was heading. "Oh! Speaking of which," Yurivera chirped suddenly, her tone bright as sunlight, "I submitted another marriage proposal to the Empress a few days ago. I do hope you'll consider it seriously this time, brother. We really can't delay our union any longer. You know there isn't anyone better suited to be your bride than me, your beloved little sister." This time she locked eyes with Florette, her grin widening. "You'll give us your blessing, won't you Florette?" she said, her head tilted to the side, feigning innocence.
The air froze. Florette's teacup wobbled in her hand, the liquid rippling dangerously close to the rim. Her gaze darted between them — bewildered, appalled — before she set the cup down with a trembling clatter. Nathaniel closed his eyes briefly, suppressing the exasperated groan rising in his throat. Not this again. When he opened them, his voice was cool, measured, and dangerously calm. "You really don't know when to give up, do you, Vera?"
Vera? He calls her by her nickname now? Florette's blood boiled as she watched the casual exchange between the two siblings. She had done all she could to separate them, to ensure Yurivera would remain on his bad side forever, but she clearly failed. Miserably at that. Why are they still so close? He's supposed to loathe her, so why… "Oh, come now." Yurivera giggled, resting her chin on her brother's shoulder. "Mother says persistence is a virtue. Think of it as me chasing after my dream." He looked at her sidelong, lips curling in faint amusement despite himself. "Then remind me to have a word with your mother about the kind of virtues she's been preaching."
Florette shifted in her seat, her earlier confidence thoroughly dissolved. The ornate clock on the mantel chimed softly, marking the end of whatever fragile patience Nathaniel had left. Tomorrow, he thought grimly. Tomorrow I'll pay the Empress a visit and put an end to all of this nonsense before leaving for Chilsela once and for all.
**
Empress Beatrice VonTicus, formerly known as Lady Hockstein, sat upon a carved mahogany chair draped in ivory silk. Her posture was immaculate—shoulders back, chin lifted—but there was a quiet steel in the way her fingers tapped once against the polished table. The faint glint of her ruby ring caught the light like a drop of blood.
She was the eldest daughter of the late Marquis Hockstein, and the empire's most carefully chosen bride—personally handpicked years ago by Duchess Gwendolynn, the imperial matchmaker who once ruled the selection process with a meticulous eye. But when Beatrice ascended as empress, that privilege shifted to her. What once was friendship between them had slowly curdled into polite rivalry. What began as whispers between confidantes had evolved into a cold war fought with subtle gestures, guarded smiles, and calculated favors.
Despite sharing the same palace, Beatrice and Nathaniel rarely met face-to-face. Letters, sealed with wax and perfumed with rosewater, carried their conversations instead. But today, for the first time in years, they would meet in person.
Across from her, Viscountess Fresia, a fretful looking woman with wide doe-like eyes and trembling hands, clutched the edges of her handkerchief. The lace trembled between her fingers. "Your Majesty," Fresia began softly, her voice quivering, "I am rather concerned about this meeting with the crown prince. He is, after all, hailed as an emotionless tyrant who slays anything—or anyone who dares irritate him. What if he—"
The empress's fan snapped shut with a sound that sliced through the air. "Viscountess Fresia," Beatrice's tone was low, her words sharpened to perfection. "I suggest you watch that mouth of yours. How dare you speak of the crown prince of Alkaraz in this manner?"
Her eyes, cold and silvered like polished iron, locked on the trembling lady in waiting before her. The air grew heavy; even the servants along the walls held their breath. Fresia's throat constricted. Her knees buckled beneath the empress's glare, and she collapsed to the floor, clutching at her skirts. "Y-your Majesty! Forgive me, I beg of you! I meant no disrespect!"
Beatrice's fan lifted slightly, tracing a slow, deliberate arc through the air. For a fleeting second, the viscountess was certain that if she uttered another word, the empress might order her execution right there. But then, Beatrice exhaled—a quiet, elegant sigh that dispersed the tension like a sudden breeze through still curtains. "Rise," she murmured, though her voice held no warmth. "Your tongue nearly cost you your head, Fresia. Remember this—the crown prince is to be treated with utmost reverence. Even rumors have ears within these halls."
The viscountess rose shakily, her heart pounding so violently she could feel it in her fingertips. Her mind reeled. What is this? she thought. I was told the two are like a cat and a cur, constantly at each other's throats… but she defends him? The silence that followed was thick, filled with the distant toll of a clock tower somewhere in the palace. Dust motes swirled lazily in the sunlight, unaware of the storm of emotions churning in the room. Before Fresia could collect her thoughts, the double doors creaked open. A guard stepped inside, his armor glinting under the light. "Your Majesty," he announced, bowing low. "His Highness, Crown Prince Kazein, has arrived."
Beatrice's lips curved—just slightly, almost imperceptibly—but enough to reveal that this meeting was no accident. "Let him in," she said, her voice a velvet command. As the guard turned and the echo of boots approached from beyond the doors, Fresia's pulse quickened once more. The air seemed to grow colder, as though the prince's presence alone carried winter with it. The empress, however, only smiled faintly, her eyes glittering like a blade hidden beneath silk.
**
The tension in the atmosphere was so tangible one could cut through it with a table knife. The grand parlor, with all its gilded splendor, suddenly felt too small—its walls pressing inward under the weight of two silent titans locked in a wordless duel.
Crown Prince Nathaniel stood at one end of the table, his tall frame casting a sharp silhouette against the light pouring through the latticed windows. His uniform was immaculate, every button glinting with polished precision. The faint scent of steel and sandalwood accompanied him—a reminder that the battlefield was his natural stage, not this perfumed chamber of intrigue.
Across from him, Empress Beatrice sat poised like a queen upon her throne, hands folded gracefully on her lap. Her gown—crimson and gold—caught the light whenever she shifted ever so slightly, each motion deliberate, each breath measured. A faint smile curved her lips, elegant yet unreadable, like the surface of a lake concealing unseen depths.
For a long while, neither spoke. The ticking of the ornate clock on the mantelpiece grew unbearably loud, each second amplifying the taut silence as Nathaniel sat down. Then, at last, the Empress's voice broke the silence—soft but commanding. "You may all leave." She said to her handmaidens. "Yes, Your Majesty," they replied, bowing deeply before retreating through the tall doors. Her gaze flicked toward her lady in waiting. "You too, Viscountess Fresia."
"Y–yes, Your Majesty!" She nearly stumbled in her haste to curtsy. Thank goodness! she breathed inwardly, clutching her chest as she retreated.
The empress leaned forward, grabbing the ornate teapot and poured it into two cups. "A rare concoction imported from the Nyx kingdom in the west," she said, her voice smooth as silk. "It is said to leave a lasting aftertaste upon consumption. I hope the flavor is to your liking, Your Highness."
The steam rose between them, curling like phantom tendrils in the air. The sweet scent of crushed berries and honey drifted through the room, momentarily softening its sharp edges. Beatrice lifted her teacup, the porcelain clicking faintly against her ring. She took a slow sip, her lashes lowering as if savoring a private indulgence. A soft sigh escaped her lips.
Curious, the Crown Prince followed suit. He took a measured sip, and though his expression hardly changed, a faint flicker of surprise—or was it approval?—passed through his amber eyes. "The rumors were true," he murmured, setting the cup back onto its saucer with a faint clink. "In the matter of tea, no one rivals Nyx."
Beatrice's smile deepened, a fleeting glint of satisfaction dancing in her eyes. "I'm pleased it meets your expectations, Your Highness. Now then…" she leaned forward slightly, her tone shifting into something cooler, heavier, "shall we begin our conversation?" The prince inclined his head. "Let's."
The Empress placed her cup down with a soft chime. "I hope you are aware of the gravity of your request. Your engagement to Lady Florette is not one that can be easily broken. It was arranged by both families, and thus, dissolving it without their consent would be… problematic."
Her words hung in the air like frost. Nathaniel's gaze sharpened. Was she implying he should involve the Emperor? To drag his father into a matter he preferred to keep private? His jaw tightened imperceptibly. Beatrice's tone softened, though the glint in her eyes did not. "However…" she let the word linger, stirring her tea absentmindedly, "obtaining a consort of your own choosing would automatically nullify that engagement. A loophole, if you will."
"I see…" The prince leaned back slightly, his fingers tapping once against his knee. She continued, "As Crown Prince, there are privileges you've yet to make use of. You could request I halt the bridal selection for an extended period… or"—her gaze locked on his, calculating and serene, "you could simply entrust me with the task of finding you the most qualified consort in the world."
Her words were honeyed, but the undercurrent of challenge was unmistakable. "The choice," she said softly, "is yours and yours alone, my prince." Kazein's amber eyes narrowed. I can't tell if she's truly offering help—or laying a trap.
For years, Beatrice had quietly undermined him, spinning rumors and half-truths through court corridors until his name became synonymous with cruelty and mockery. Yet here she was, offering aid with a serene smile and a cup of imported tea.
He straightened, the movement subtle but full of unspoken authority. "You speak of choice," he said calmly, "yet every option you present is of your own design. Tell me, Your Majesty, is this conversation meant to advise me—or to remind me of my leash?"
A quiet hush followed. The Empress's lips curved ever so slightly. "It seems," she said, her tone silk over steel, "that you are misunderstanding me yet again, Your Highness. Shall we clear the air once and for all?"
She lifted her teacup once more, her eyes gleaming behind the rising steam. "I would hate for our meeting to be a fruitless one," she continued smoothly, "especially when we have not seen each other for such a long time."
The clock ticked again—slow, deliberate. The prince's expression did not waver, yet the faintest smile ghosted across his lips. "Then by all means," he said quietly, "let us speak plainly."
The Empress set her cup down with a soft chime. The faint echo rippled through the still room like a drop of water disturbing glass. Her gaze—steady, golden, and composed—rested on the prince across from her. Yet something had shifted. Beneath her refined poise, there was the faintest glimmer of hesitation, a shadow of thought flickering behind her eyes. "Very well," she said at last, her voice quieter than before. "Let us speak plainly."
Nathaniel's eyes glinted in the light, patient and cold as burnished metal. The faint creak of his leather gloves filled the silence as he crossed his arms. "I am listening, Your Majesty."
For a moment, she said nothing. The silence stretched, filled only by the whisper of steam curling from the untouched teapot. Finally, Beatrice exhaled—slowly, as though releasing a weight she had carried for far too long. "When I first entered this palace," she began softly, "I was not yet my own woman. Duchess Gwendolynn… she molded me—polished my manners, arranged my marriage, whispered into my ear how I should think, how I should see."
Her fingers brushed the rim of her teacup. "She taught me that to survive in this court, one must strike before being struck. That every rumor was a weapon, every smile a shield."
Nathaniel's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. "And so I believed her," the Empress continued. "When she spoke ill of you—when she called you a threat, a storm that would one day consume the throne—I repeated her words. I spread them through the court like seeds in the wind, and they grew into thorns that took root in your name."
The prince's jaw tightened. The light from the window painted sharp lines across his face. "I see," he said at last, his voice low. "You sowed the tales that branded me a tyrant." Her eyes lifted to his, and for the first time, the proud Empress looked human—touched by remorse. "Yes. I did. And for that… I am deeply ashamed."
Her tone trembled ever so slightly, though her composure remained intact. "When the Duchess and I finally grew apart, I realized how blind I had been. I watched you, from afar, bear the weight of the people's hatred in silence, and I understood too late that I had helped build that burden."
Nathaniel leaned forward slightly, his gaze unflinching. "And now you wish to make amends?" "I do not expect forgiveness," Beatrice said quietly. "But I will not let falsehoods continue to define you. You are not the man they claim you to be, Nathaniel. And the empire will learn that—from my own lips, if need be."
The prince's name, spoken without title, lingered between them like a forbidden secret. The flicker of surprise that passed through him was almost imperceptible, but it was there. He leaned back, folding one leg over the other, his expression unreadable. "Your candor is… unexpected," he murmured. "You must know that words of repentance are easier spoken than proven."
"Then allow me to prove them," Beatrice said firmly. Her back straightened, regal once more. "If you truly seek to end your engagement with Lady Florette, I will assist you—not out of politics, but because I owe you that much. Let this be the start of atonement, if not forgiveness."
The silence that followed was heavy, yet not hostile. The tension that once filled the room seemed to soften, replaced by something more uncertain, fragile—like the first tremor of spring thaw after a long, merciless winter. Nathaniel studied her for a long moment, his amber eyes reflecting both skepticism and something else—a quiet, buried understanding.
Finally, he spoke. "Then perhaps, Your Majesty," he said slowly, "we may yet learn to trust each other. But do not mistake this for reconciliation. A single act of contrition cannot undo years of slander." Beatrice inclined her head, accepting the rebuke without protest. "I would not dream of it, Your Highness."
He rose then, his movements calm but deliberate, the faint rustle of his cloak punctuating his words. "If you truly mean what you say, then let your actions speak. Help me remove the chains my father has bound me with—and perhaps the empire might one day remember who their crown prince truly is."
The Empress stood as well, her gown whispering against the floor. For the first time in years, their eyes met without hostility—two figures bound not by rivalry, but by the ghosts of their own mistakes. "As you wish, my prince," she murmured, bowing her head. "Let this be the beginning of something less poisonous."
Nathaniel's gaze lingered on her a moment longer before he turned toward the door. Behind him, the sweet scent of Nyxian tea still hung in the air—fading but not gone. Just like the past.
**
Inside the Kartier drawing room, the faint scent of wilted lilies lingered in the air, mingling with the sharp tang of cold cinnamon tea left untouched on the porcelain tray. The ticking of the grandfather clock filled the heavy silence, each second grinding against Duchess Gwendolynn's nerves.
Florette paced back and forth before the white settee, her silk skirts whispering with every sharp turn. A thumb in her mouth, her teeth nibbling the nail while her other hand gripped her hip in restless agitation. Her reflection in the gilded mirror across the room flickered—wild eyes framed by disheveled blonde curls, her painted lips bitten raw. "Quit nibbling on your nails and have a seat, Florette," Gwendolynn snapped, her voice brittle as glass.
Florette ignored her. Her mother's tone barely grazed her as she stalked the length of the carpet again and again, lost somewhere inside her own storm. Her breath came uneven, like someone fighting against invisible restraints. Then, suddenly—
"Yurivera, Yurivera, Yurivera!" she shrieked, her voice breaking into a raw cry that tore through the stillness. Her hands shot up, clutching at her hair, pulling until golden strands fell loose like silk threads. "I hate her! I hate her! I hate her!"
"Florette!" Gwendolynn rose abruptly, the chair legs scraping against the marble floor. But her daughter had already collapsed to her knees, twisting and writhing across the rug like a child caught in a nightmare. "Mother, I hate Princess Yuri! I hate her so much I could die!" Florette screamed again, pounding her fists against the floor until her knuckles reddened.
Gwendolynn froze. Her heart thundered in her chest, the sight of her daughter's convulsing form gripping her with both terror and disbelief. The chandeliers above seemed to sway with the echo of her cries. "Florette! Get a hold of yourself!" she yelled, voice trembling despite her command. The sound ricocheted against the ornate walls, mingling with the flutter of curtains stirred by a cold draft.
This wasn't new. The outbursts had begun weeks ago—first in whispers, then in screams. Broken plates, trembling servants, and sleepless nights had followed. Yet, Gwendolynn had told herself it was better this way. Better to let her daughter release her madness here, behind locked doors, than let the world see the cracks forming in the Kartier family. No one must ever know. No rumor must escape these walls.
But deep down, the Duchess knew this wasn't a simple tantrum. Something dark and unhinged was blooming inside Florette—something she no longer recognized as her child. And still, she would fix her. No matter what it cost. When the storm of screams faded, Florette lay limp on the floor, her chest rising and falling in ragged bursts. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, her skin flushed and scratched from her own nails.
"Breathe in," Gwendolynn whispered, kneeling beside her, her hand trembling as it brushed sweat-damp hair from her daughter's face. "Now out. Slowly, sweetheart. Slowly. Listen to my voice." Florette's glazed eyes stared up at her mother—eyes that blazed with a fury that made Gwendolynn's blood run cold. "You can rest now, my darling," Gwendolynn murmured, forcing a calm smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Mother will fix everything… no matter what it takes."
Something inside her twisted, dark and resolute. If she had to turn her daughter's madness into power, so be it. If she had to stain her hands further to protect her blood, she will do just that. Her lips curved into a smile—too wide, too sharp—as she cupped Florette's trembling cheek.
"Repeat after me, my love," she coaxed softly. "Florette is strong. Florette is beautiful. Florette is powerful. No one can stand in Florette's way. Florette is the future Empress of Alkaraz." Florette's cracked voice obeyed, murmuring the mantra between shallow breaths, over and over, until her sobs slowed and her breathing steadied.
Finally, she blinked up at her mother, lashes heavy with tears. "Mother…" she whispered, clutching weakly at Gwendolynn's hand. "Can't you make Yurivera disappear? You've always made my problems vanish. What's one more? Hm? Please, mother… please…" Her voice dwindled into a fragile whisper as sleep claimed her, lips still forming the word please long after her eyes closed.
Gwendolynn stayed there, stroking her daughter's hair, her smile gentle now—almost tender. "My sweet Florette," she whispered into the silence. "All in due time, my darling daughter. All in due time." The clock ticked on. The cinnamon tea sat forgotten, a thin film forming on its surface, while outside, the wind whispered through the rose gardens like a secret waiting to be told.
**
The marble corridors of the imperial palace stretched endlessly before him—quiet, gleaming, and cold. Nathaniel's reflection followed him in the polished floor tiles, a shadow that refused to look away. The faint scent of tea still lingered on his gloves, clinging stubbornly like the memory of the Empress's words. Repentance, she had said. Atonement. As if mere words could erase years of venom.
His steps echoed, steady but heavy. Each stride carried the weight of two worlds—one political, one perilous. The empire's gilded cage behind him, and beyond the palace walls, the dark winds of war rising from the west. "Is everything alright, Your Highness?" a voice broke through his thoughts. It was Leonardo, his loyal aide and chamberlain, walking briskly to match his pace. "You've been in a daze ever since you left the Empress' quarters. Did something happen?"
Nathaniel did not answer at first. His eyes flicked briefly toward a passing column draped with crimson banners bearing the imperial insignia—a golden phoenix in full flight, its spread wings blazing with flames. Leonardo hesitated, reading the storm in the prince's silence. He seems to be in a foul mood, he thought. So, the meeting did not go well.
But then Nathaniel stopped abruptly in the middle of the corridor. His cloak rippled around him, the lamplight tracing faint gold along its embroidered hem. "Leo." His voice was calm, even serene, yet it carried a weight that made the air tighten around them. "Yes, Your Highness," Leonardo replied quickly, straightening. "What is the situation in Lithiar?" The question hung between them like a blade. Leonardo blinked, momentarily startled by the abrupt shift. "Lithiar, Your Highness?" "Yes. The border reports," Nathaniel said, his tone flat. "I want to know what they say."
Leonardo swallowed, a single bead of sweat streaming down his temple before nodding. "It's… worsening, sire. The outposts along the northern ridge have been overrun. The scouts report sightings of demonic beasts crossing the Shrouded Vale in greater numbers than before. The villages near the perimeter have begun evacuating southward under prince Sion's command."
Nathaniel's gaze darkened. So, it has begun. He resumed walking, his boots striking against the marble with quiet precision. "And the council?" "Still debating mobilization, Your Highness. The council believes it may be an isolated surge, nothing more." "An isolated surge," Nathaniel repeated under his breath, his lips twisting faintly—not in amusement, but in quiet disdain.
They turned a corner where tall stained glass windows flooded the hall with fractured light. The glass depicted ancient heroes of Alkaraz driving spears into shadowy creatures, their faces serene in victory. Nathaniel's reflection passed among them, his features cast half in color, half in shadow. "Do they truly think the beasts will stop at Lithiar?" he murmured. "Once they taste blood, they will not stop until they've reached our gates. We've dealt with a similar situation before, and yet we dare to underestimate these monsters. Unbelievable."
Leonardo hesitated. "Should I arrange a council meeting, sire?" "No," Nathaniel said simply. "Not yet. The last thing I need is another room full of frightened men pretending to be strategists. My father is no fool, it won't be long now until he calls for a meeting himself." A silence followed as they walked. Nathaniel's expression was unreadable, but behind his eyes, his thoughts churned. The Empress seeks to amend her sins, or so she claims… yet even repentance cannot mend a nonexistent relationship.
And then there was the promise he made to the girl who'd begun to occupy his heart in ways he himself couldn't understand. The weight of decision coiled in his mind, heavy and unrelenting. If Lithiar falls… Alkaraz is sure to suffer dire consequences, and Fatima will be in danger. He exhaled through his nose, slow and steady. "Ready the battalion," he said at last. "I will see to Lithiar myself." Leonardo's eyes widened. "Your Highness, the council has not yet approved deployment—" "Then the council will have to catch up," Nathaniel interrupted softly, his tone calm but absolute. "By the time they finish arguing over ink and signatures, half the border will be ash. I cannot allow that to happen."
Leonardo bowed his head, recognizing that tone—the one that brooked no dissent. "At once, sire." As the chamberlain hurried away, Nathaniel paused by the window once more. Beyond the stained glass, the sky was darkening, heavy clouds gathering on the horizon. Somewhere far north, beneath that same brooding sky, men were already dying. He rested one gloved hand against the cold stone ledge. "I'm sorry Fati, I hope you can forgive me." he exhaled, making a mental note to write her a letter before his departure. The wind outside howled faintly against the glass, carrying with it the scent of distant rain—and the promise of war.