Sunlight streamed through the open windows of the Crown Prince's chambers, casting a warm glow over the scene within.
Crown Prince Percival lay sprawled across his bed, his chest bare and his trousers undone. Surrounding him were several women; their dresses were scattered, and their bodies were also exposed.
The prince's face was serene, his lips slightly parted as he slept quietly—probably tired from last night's rigorous activities.
What activity could he possibly engage in? Who knows? Or perhaps everyone knew—and simply pretended not to.
The peaceful atmosphere was shattered by the sudden burst of the queen's entrance. She flung open the doors and stormed into the room, her face flushed with rage. Her jewelled rings clinked against the doorframe as her hands shook with fury.
"What is the meaning of this?" she screamed, her voice echoing off the stone walls like a hammer striking a bell.
The women surrounding the prince scattered like startled birds, scrambling to gather their clothes and flee. Their faces were red with shame. One woman tripped over a pillow in her panic, scrambling to her feet with her bodice half-laced.
Another sobbed softly, covering her chest with a curtain as she bolted toward the corridor.
The prince, still asleep and unbothered by the noise, turned to the left side of the bed to continue his sleep. This only enraged the queen further. She marched forward and smacked him hard across his bare back.
Startled by the sudden sting, Percival slowly sat up, rubbing his ocean-blue eyes and trying to adjust to the scene before him.
"Mother, what?" he said, dazed—but the queen's fury silenced him before he could finish.
"Get out! "All of you, get out!" she shouted, pointing a shaking hand at the fleeing women. Her rage was dreadful, and her eyes definitely looked like she could kill someone.
The last girl bumped into a guard on her way out, whispering frantic apologies before vanishing down the hall. As the final footsteps faded, the queen turned her wrath on her son.
"Percival, how could you?" she demanded, her voice trembling with fury.
The prince shrugged, a lazy smile spreading across his face.
"I'm just enjoying life, Mother. You know that." He reached for a goblet on the nightstand but found it empty and tossed it aside with a sigh.
The queen's expression darkened, her eyes flashing with venom.
"Enjoying life? You're the future king, Percival! You have responsibilities!"
As the argument escalated, the prince's smile never wavered. He seemed to delight in pushing his mother's buttons, and her rage only seemed to fuel his amusement.
He never took the role of Crown Prince seriously; to him, it was just an ordinary title that meant nothing. A crown, to him, was just another ornament to toss aside.
"The King is awaiting your presence at the courtroom," she added coldly, her glare sharp and cutting.
Prince Sage, the fourth son of Queen Lisa, stepped in, his silver hair glinting under the light—a strange hue for someone so young, but natural to him.
"This place reeks of women," Sage said, covering his nose and recoiling with exaggerated offence.
Queen Lisa, out of sheer frustration, hurled a cup at him.
"Owww! By the way, Father is on his way," Sage added casually, already halfway out the door.
"What!!!!!!" Lisa and Percival screamed in unison.
"Clean this mess while I go ahead and stop him," Queen Lisa snapped, lifting her gown as she hurried out. The King must not find his son in such a state—it would be disastrous.
The prince rose from the bed, stretching his built frame. As he adjusted his clothes near the window, his eyes caught something—or someone—outside.
Queen Lorraine, who was now a dethroned queen, stood staring at him with a haunting gaze. Her eyes were sunken, her skin pale, and her hair unkempt and undone. She was the true definition of a living corpse.
A dethroned ghost.
The prince hissed, his eyes narrowing in disgust.
"What does the living corpse want?" he muttered to himself as he dragged the window shut and yanked the curtain closed.
But her stare had burnt something cold into his spine, something he couldn't name.
******
The doors into the courtroom were thrown open for Percival. He walked in gracefully, confidence in every step.
All eyes turned to admire his striking figure—clad in a blue velvet doublet with delicate silver embroidery, matching hose and breeches, and polished leather boots with silver buckles.
His Guards of Honour followed behind him, their navy and black uniforms creating a sleek contrast that only made the prince appear more regal.
What a grand entrance!!
He was welcomed with a bow from the ministers. A huge smile appeared on Queen Lisa's face—proud, satisfied, glowing with maternal pride.
Percival was handsome; that was never a lie. His hair was dark and shiny. His delicate features seem carved from moonlight itself. Every woman's dream man.
But the king didn't welcome him.
"Where have you been?" the king asked, his tone clipped, cold.
"You shouldn't sound so mean to him, my king," Queen Lisa said quickly, trying to ease the tension.
"I had royal scrolls to review and duties assigned by the ministers," Percival replied calmly, his voice smooth and composed.
"That gives you no right to appear before the whole council this late," the king snapped, his voice rising. His face remained unreadable—but his coldness was obvious.
He was always like that. This wasn't the first time the king had spoken to him this way, and it wouldn't be the last. No one in the courtroom looked surprised.
Percival remained quiet. He didn't argue. He was used to being ignored. Dismissed.
The silence lingered—until a minister broke it with a sharp, forced smile.
"How about the crown prince's partner? "The ministers are still left in the dark," the man said. "There's a rumour going around the palace—that their marriage is an arranged one."
"It is in progress, Minister Zayn," Queen Lisa answered quickly, her voice firm.
Zayn leaned forward slightly, his words sharper this time.
"And there's another rumour… about strange women being brought into the palace. Is this true crown prince?"
Percival looked at him with a disgusted expression as if he were some kind of pest, but Minister Zayn didn't mind. He lived with a purpose.
He never liked the queen or the prince. He wanted chaos—and he was the one fanning the flames.
The king raised his head in alarm.
"Is that true?" he asked, sharply.
"Father, there is something I must discuss with you. It is of great importance," Percival said, trying to divert the rising tension.
But before anyone could answer, the courtroom doors burst open.
A maid ran in, her face pale, her voice shaking.
"The Queen! The Queen!" she cried.
"What's wrong with my wife?" The king's voice changed instantly. Calm and tender.
Was this the same man who had scolded his son like a stranger?
"She needs you," the maid said, still trembling.
"Father, it's just for a moment. It won't take long," Percival tried again; desperation anchored him in silence.
But the king ignored him—and stormed out, leaving him alone with the ministers and his mother.
The king rushed through the halls and into Queen Lorraine's chambers. The room was in disarray. Guards were already inside, struggling to calm her.
He pushed past them and ran to her side.
"Lorraine, what's wrong?" he asked, his voice shaking with fear.
This was the second time she had broken down like this. The memories of Rwaine still haunted her, the trauma etched into her every movement.
"I want to see my son. "Please," she wept. Her voice cracked as tears fell from her sunken eyes.
"It's been twenty-five years. My heart longs for him."
The king pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly.
"We'll find him," he whispered.
But even he knew—some sons are better off dead if they become a burden or threat to the peace of the kingdom.
******
Meanwhile, screams of pain echoed throughout the halls of the Dragonseed estate. Fanaza was being caned on her bare feet as the heavy books she had been carrying tumbled to the ground.
The thud of leather and parchment did not compare to the sting that bit into her skin with each strike.
Elizabeth had woken in the night and found her daughter missing. Upon discovering that Fanaza had sneaked out to a tavern, her punishment was immediate—and brutal. Her mother's gaze was cold, fixed in judgement.
"I'm sorry, Mother," Fanaza whispered, voice trembling as she knelt on the floor. She hoped and prayed that her apology might soften the punishment.
But the cane landed again. Her breath hitched. Her fingers clenched against the dusty marble. Her tears left faint trails across the floor.
Then they heard voices outside.
"Please don't burn my lady's dresses!" Sally begged, her voice loud and desperate.
"They belong to her. She worked so hard to make them!"
Elric shoved her aside without hesitation. He had stormed into Fanaza's chambers earlier, enraged by what he found—handmade dresses, carefully stitched by his daughter. Dresses she was never meant to create.
As nobles, they trained their daughters to be wives, not dreamers.
Elizabeth and Fanaza turned to the doorway—just in time to see Elric outside with the garments in hand.
Fanaza's heart nearly stopped, her chest tightened, and her thoughts spiralled in chaos.
"Father, no!" She cried, lunging toward him like a wild animal, but two guards caught her arms before she could reach him. Their grip was too strong to break through.
"You are a noble!" Elric shouted, holding the dresses like filth.
"Your duty is to serve the future king, not indulge in stupid crafts!"
His words sank deep into Fanaza's bones. Elric shot her a look of disgust, and with that, he flung the dresses into the fire.
"No!" Fanaza shrieked, her entire body shaking. She twisted violently in the guards' hold, adrenaline surging—and finally broke free.
She ran straight for the fire. Flames licked at her hands as she reached in, desperate to save even a shred of her work. The heat seared her palm, blistering it red, and an excruciating pain tore through her.
Elric grabbed her and slapped her across the face. The force sent her sideways. He tossed the half-burnt cloth back into the fire without a flicker of remorse.
"Please!" Fanaza sobbed. "Please don't!"
Her voice cracked as it bled into broken cries.
No one moved. The guards stood like statues. Her mother watched in silence. Only Sally came to her side, kneeling beside her in quiet horror.
Her parents had never supported her dreams. They only cared about titles, alliances, and the promise of royal favour once she married the Crown Prince.
As her designs turned to ash, so did everything she'd ever built for herself. Her hard work. Her late nights. Her secret smiles while stitching under the candlelight.
Gone just like that.
"My lady, we need to get your hand treated," Sally said softly, gently trying to pull her away.
"Go away!" Fanaza snapped, her voice raw from crying. She shoved Sally aside.
"My lady"
"I said go away!"
But Sally moved closer despite the protest and wrapped her arms around her. Fanaza collapsed into the embrace, sobbing into her maid's shoulder.
She was tired. Alone. The suffocating weight of loneliness had devoured her whole.
As a noblewoman, she had never been allowed to make friends—or even enemies to argue with. Now that she had found something that made her feel alive, they burnt it to the ground.
And all because of some ancient law that said a noblewoman's only purpose was to serve her husband. What a shame.
******
Later that day, Fanaza stood before the noble tailor, being fitted for the dress she would wear to the palace. Her face was blank—expressionless. The silks clung to her like a cage.
Poor girl. She never wanted this life. It was suffocating.
If she could run away… If she could vanish or die… maybe then they'd realise she was more than a pawn. Maybe then they'd remember she was a person, not a bride price.
"You look so beautiful, Fanaza," her mother said gently, admiring her through the mirror.
Fanaza said nothing. In her heart, she screamed and sucked in deep breaths trying to calm herself, but the lingering fear still clung to her.
She was being forced to marry a stranger. A man she had never seen.
What if he was old? Or cruel? What if he beat her and surrounded himself with mistresses?
What if he doesn't love her?
What if he never would?
Get married to a Crown Prince? Disgusting.
But soon it was time.
She stepped into the carriage and she watched silently as her parents waved at her. To them, it was a royal duty fulfilled. To her, it was a farewell to a nightmare she could never escape.
As the horses pulled away, and her home disappeared behind her, she felt like a prisoner being driven to execution.
Halfway through the journey, she called out to her trusted maid.
"Sally," she said. "Ride with me."
The maid climbed inside, brushing dust from her skirt as she settled beside her.
"My lady, what's wrong?" Sally asked softly. "You look so sad."
"I do not want to get married," Fanaza replied, clutching Sally's hand.
Sally smiled gently.
"I know it feels overwhelming. But… maybe he's not so bad. What if he's handsome, with broad shoulders—just like how you like them?"
"Or he could be an old, wrinkled womaniser," Fanaza replied flatly.
They both laughed—briefly. A small breath of warmth in the cold silence of fate.
Sally glanced out the window, then leaned closer.
"My lady… Have you ever thought of running away?"