Two days later, the morning sun rose like a golden inferno over the imperial capital, spilling molten light upon the towering gates of the palace. Each stone statue shimmered as though alive, and every gilded crest burned with radiance. Rows of imperial soldiers stood in precise formation, their armor catching the dawn in mirrored fragments—blinding, beautiful, and unyielding. The golden phoenix sigil on their crimson banners flared with each gust of wind, rippling like living fire.
The air hung thick with the mingling scents of oiled steel and the faint sweetness of lilac blossoms drifting from the palace gardens beyond. Bells tolled in the distance—deep, solemn, and resonant—marking not only the hour but the farewell of a prince bound for war.
Nathaniel sat astride his coal-black stallion, the beast's breath steaming faintly in the cool morning air. His gloved fingers flexed on the reins, the leather creaking softly beneath his grip. He gazed toward the yawning gates—those gilded jaws that would soon swallow him whole into chaos.
The memory of Bettie's words returned to him—news of Fatima's return to the Kartier Duchy. The thought alone sent a flash of heat through his veins, equal parts anger, and longing. "You could at least give him a proper farewell, Your Highness," came Leonardo's soft, steady voice beside him, pulling him from his storm of thought.
Nathaniel turned his gaze toward the marble steps of the palace. There stood the emperor—his father—robed in deep crimson trimmed with gold, a crown gleaming upon his red hair. Though he held himself tall, regal as ever, Nathaniel's eyes caught the slight tremor in his hands and the weary glint beneath his composed smile.
"He's been watching you since the moment you mounted your horse," Leonardo murmured, his tone almost chiding. A ghost of a smirk touched Nathaniel's lips. "And you, Leo—still as persistent as a thorn. I thought I told you to remain behind."
Leonardo chuckled, easing his own steed forward a few paces. "And I told you I'd follow, your highness. Someone must keep you from turning every monster hunt into a personal vendetta. Consider it part of my duties as your most capable chamberlain." Nathaniel exhaled through his nose, a quiet laugh escaping him. "You make disobedience sound noble." "Only when it's necessary," Leonardo replied lightly, though his eyes—bright and intelligent—betrayed genuine concern. "Leading a thousand men across a continent is not a burden meant for one man alone, Your Highness. His Majesty entrusted me to assist you. I'll not get in your way."
"As if you ever could," Nathaniel said softly, almost to himself. Behind them, the assembled cavalry shifted restlessly. Hooves pawed at the cobblestones; armor clanked like distant thunder; the air hummed with restrained anticipation. The scent of horse sweat, and metal filled Nathaniel's lungs—sharp and grounding. "He's still waiting," Leonardo whispered again.
Nathaniel drew a slow breath, fogging the crisp air before him. "Very well," he murmured. "Let's not keep the emperor waiting." He swung down from his stallion, the sound of his boots striking stone echoing through the courtyard. The murmur of the court fell into reverent silence as he approached his father.
The emperor's face softened the moment their eyes met—pride and grief interwoven across every line. "I hope you stay healthy, Your Majesty," Nathaniel said stiffly, extending a hand to his father. The emperor didn't answer right away. Instead, he seized his son's face between trembling hands and pressed their foreheads together. The collective gasp from the courtiers rippled through the air like wind over silk.
Bettie and Leonardo both looked away, blinking rapidly; a few nobles dabbed at their eyes, while the Empress—still and statuesque—watched in icy silence, her beauty untouched by sentiment. "My son," the emperor whispered, voice thick with emotion. "You ride to defend the empire—but I care not for victory. Only your safe return matters to me. Therefore, if fate should—" "Father," Nathaniel interrupted gently. The word felt foreign, delicate, like a melody long forgotten. "There's no need to worry. I'll return unscathed, and victorious. You can count on it."
A faint smile trembled on the emperor's lips. "Then see to it you come back alive," he said, straightening. "After all, the tournament cannot begin without you." Nathaniel blinked. "Tournament? What—?" "Leo will explain on the way!" the emperor interrupted, laughter echoing across the marble courtyard as he clapped his son's shoulder.
Nathaniel turned sharply toward Leonardo, who had suddenly found something fascinating to study on the ground. Around them, courtiers exchanged knowing glances. The prince sighed through his nose. "Unbelievable," he muttered, stalking back toward his horse.
Before he could mount, Bettie hurried forward, her skirts swishing as she bowed deeply. "Your Highness," she said, holding something out with both hands. "Lady Fatima entrusted me with this. She wished for you to have it as a token of gratitude." Nathaniel's brows furrowed. "I have enough of those, Bettie. Take it back." He turned away, heat rising unbidden to his cheeks. "She was most insistent, sire," Bettie said gently.
Reluctantly, he looked down. Resting in her palms was a small, delicately folded handkerchief—light gray silk, embroidered with golden thread. His gaze softened despite himself. "My initials…" he murmured, squinting. But then he froze. "Wait. These…aren't mine." Bettie smiled faintly. "No, Your Highness. N and F as in Nathaniel and Fatima. She said you might misunderstand and asked me to clarify."
Nathaniel's pulse stumbled. There, just beside the intertwined initials, a tiny red heart was stitched—subtle, almost shy, but devastatingly tender. The world tilted slightly around him. "I— I see," he stammered, fingers trembling as he took it. "I must be on my way now, Bettie. See that everything remains in order during my absence." She bowed, her eyes glinting knowingly.
Nathaniel swung into his saddle, hiding the flush that crept up his neck. He lifted a fist and called out, voice steady and commanding: "Form up! Move out!" The thunder of hooves answered him at once, echoing through the courtyard like a storm breaking loose. Soldiers roared in unison, banners snapping high above their heads as the procession began its march through the golden gates.
Nathaniel cast one final glance back. His father still stood upon the steps, watching, his figure haloed in light. The Empress's pale hands clutched the rail, her eyes unreadable. He turned forward again, clutching the silken handkerchief close against his chest. Wait for me, Fatima, he thought, a quiet smile ghosting across his lips. When this war is over, perhaps I'll finally understand why the thought of you feels like standing beneath the sun—and still wanting more of its warmth.
**
A week had passed since the prince and his soldiers departed for Lithiar. Yet even as tension hung over the capital like a thick mist — the unease of war seeping into every whispered conversation — the Kartier Manor's garden refused to bow to gloom.
Beneath a pale summer sun, laughter rippled through the air. Silk gowns swished softly across trimmed grass, lace parasols fluttered like butterflies, and the scent of blooming wisteria and jasmine mingled with the delicate aroma of tea.
At the heart of this lively tableau sat Florette Kartier upon an ornate white chair trimmed with gold filigree. Her flaxen curls gleamed under the light as she preened, a small puppy perched on her lap — a ball of soft, trembling brown fur with eyes too wide and innocent for the noise surrounding it.
"Oh, my! What a darling creature you have, Lady Florette!" a young noblewoman gasped, clutching her lace-gloved hands to her chest. Her powdered cheeks flushed pink with delight. "My, I've never seen such luxuriant fur — and in that exquisite shade of chestnut!" another chimed in, fanning herself dramatically. "Pray tell, what is his breed, my lady?"
Florette's lips curled upward, the perfect portrait of smug composure. "He's a male labradoodle," she said, lifting her chin. "A rare breed — intelligent, loyal, and gentle. Much like myself, wouldn't you agree?" A few girls tittered obligingly, though one or two exchanged uneasy glances.
At a table set a little apart, Duchess Gwendolynn observed the scene through the rising curls of steam from her teacup. The reflection staring back at her from the amber surface bore a sly, satisfied smile. So far, so good, she mused, fingers tapping her porcelain cup. The physician's plan appeared to be working — Florette's moods had steadied, her social graces seemed to be returning, and for the first time in weeks, the Duchess could breathe without that suffocating dread of scandal.
She took another measured sip, savoring both the tea's floral bitterness and the success of her own machinations. The garden's peace fractured in an instant.
"May I pet him, Lady Florette?" came a timid voice. A girl in pale lavender curtsied delicately, her gloved hand already reaching toward the dog's head. "No!" The sharp cry rang out like the crack of a whip. Gasps rippled through the crowd. Florette's eyes flared — wide, wild, and glinting with possessive panic. In one motion, she struck the girl's hand with her folded fan.
"You cannot touch him!" she shrieked. "He's mine! Do you hear me? Mine and mine alone! Stay away!" The puppy whimpered, its tiny body squirming in her tightening grasp, the soft whine nearly drowned by the horrified murmurs of the onlookers. "O-okay…" the young lady stammered, her eyes brimming as she rubbed her reddened hand. "I-I didn't mean to offend—" "She looks mad," someone whispered. "Should we… do something?" another muttered. "I think she's crying," a third voice quavered.
"I only wanted to pet him because he's so adorable…" the girl whispered, trembling. "Please forgive my impudence, Lady Florette. I never meant to—" Her words trailed off into the oppressive silence that followed. The chirping of finches in the nearby hedges filled the uneasy void, the sound far too cheerful against the tension hanging in the air. A faint wind stirred the tablecloths, carrying the faint perfume of roses and the metallic tang of humiliation.
From across the lawn, Gwendolynn rose, her smile carved smooth and unyielding. "My daughter must be tired," she said sweetly, her tone slicing through the stillness. "Let us end the party here for today, ladies." She glided forward, her gown whispering over the grass, and gently placed an arm around Florette's trembling shoulders. "Come, my sweet. Let's get you inside."
The young nobles bowed and dispersed, murmuring polite farewells that barely masked their curiosity and unease. The Duchess didn't miss the glances exchanged behind their fans. Gossip will spread, she thought bitterly. But not too far — not if I keep this under control.
Yes, if she kept this pace, she could manage it. She would fix Florette. Her daughter just needed careful tending — a mother's love and a firm hand. As they reached the grand marble steps, a voice called out behind them. "Your Grace, my lady," said Damian, bowing slightly. "A letter has just arrived for Lady Florette. It bears the imperial seal."
Florette froze. Her breath hitched audibly. The Duchess turned just in time to see her daughter snatch the envelope from Damian's hands. Her fingers trembled as she broke the wax seal, unfolding the parchment with desperate haste. A faint scent of lavender drifted upward — the Empress's signature perfume.
Florette's lips moved as her eyes darted across the elegant handwriting. Then, her voice cracked as she began to read aloud: "It is with great distress that I must inform you that your pending engagement with Prince Kazein has been permanently annulled. In the investigation following the prince's night of misfortune, it was revealed that you, Lady Florette, had drugged the prince…"
Each word fell heavier than the last. Her face drained of color, her lower lip trembling violently. "Though His Highness has chosen to forgive you, the imperial family has decided to dissolve the engagement. I trust you will take this time to reflect upon your actions…" By the time she reached the signature — Beatrice Astelle VonTicus, Empress of Alkaraz — her voice was no more than a strangled whisper.
The letter slipped from her fingers. Then came the sound — raw and keening — a wail so piercing it seemed to shatter the tranquil garden around them. Florette crumpled to the marble floor, her sobs echoing off the pillars. Tears splashed onto the cold stone, mingling with the lavender ink bleeding into the creases of the fallen letter.
"Florette!" Gwendolynn's voice trembled with a mix of fury and forced tenderness. She knelt beside her daughter, gripping her arms tightly as if to hold her together by sheer will. "Compose yourself! You must not—" But Florette's cries only grew louder, unrestrained and wild.
Damian averted his gaze, stepping back as the Duchess's eyes flicked toward him — burning with a fury so sharp it could flay. Ungrateful wench, she seethed inwardly, her jaw tightening. You will pay for this humiliation, Beatrice.
The Duchess rose slowly, smoothing her skirts with shaking hands as she forced her expression back into its porcelain calm. Her nails, however, bit deep crescents into her palms, and beneath that immaculate smile, her resolve hardened like steel.