The play had ended hours ago, and we were finally returning to the mansion. The sun had already dipped low on the horizon, leaving the sky painted in the last, fading hues of orange, turning quickly to a deep, bruised violet. The journey had been long, and inside the carriage, a heavy, almost physical quiet had fallen.
Beatrix had completely dozed off, her head a surprisingly heavy, soft weight resting on my shoulder. The movement of the carriage, the rhythmic creaking of the leather harness, had lulled her into a deep sleep. Across from us, Zein had succumbed as well, his chin lowered against the polished hilt of his sword, a silent guardian even in rest. The only sound was the muffled drumming of the horses' hooves and the gentle rocking.
Only Ashen and I remained awake.
The carriage rattled quietly, the silence between us almost tangible, a fragile bubble of isolation. I kept my gaze fixed on the window, watching the blur of the passing world—the trees turning into streaks of dark green, the occasional flash of a distant lamp post. Yet, my thoughts refused to stay still; they were an echo chamber for the memories I had just revisited. The old loneliness, the childish relief of the upside-down book, the fierce joy of his constant presence. That wave of recollection brought one sharp, undeniable question to the surface:
What happened to Ashen after his brother died?
I finally turned my head to look at him. He was staring out the window, his profile etched against the last remnants of the fading light. His expression was calm, utterly unreadable, a perfect mask of princely composure. It was as though his thoughts belonged to a distant, sealed-off place I could never reach. In truth, I knew so little about the man beside me. I never heard what trials he went through, what impossible burdens he silently carried, or how deeply the King's assassination—the loss of his brother—had scarred him.
Back then, I had been too consumed by the pain of my own confinement, too focused on the injustice of my gilded cage. In every moment I felt forgotten, Ashen had been there for me—silent, steady, constant. But me? Where was I when he lost everything?
Was I selfish?
The answer pressed against my chest like a blade, turning slowly and painfully. Yes. Perhaps I had been.
The guilt weighed heavier the longer I looked at him. His eyes, shadowed and distant, were fixed on nothing in particular beyond the glass. And in that moment, I understood—not every wound bleeds where it can be seen. And perhaps Ashen carried the deepest wounds of us all, hidden beneath that impeccable composure, visible only in the way the light in him had dimmed.
He wasn't always this cold. Back then, he had been… approachable. Warm, even, in his own way. He was the boy who sneaked into my room, who never grew tired of my sharp tongue. But things changed. When the king died, so did that light. His brother was gone, and something in Ashen had closed off, like a heavy, locked door.
I could still see traces of the boy he once was, a ghost of warmth, but it was buried under layers of shadow, hidden behind the distant mask he wore for the world. And it hurt, because I didn't know how to reach him anymore.
But somehow, I knew he was still the same boy. The world may see him as distant, unyielding, untouchable. But with me… it's different. The way his hand finds mine in secret, the quiet way he speaks when no one else is listening—none of that has ever changed. No matter how much the empire takes from him, a part of him remains untouched. A part that still reaches for me.
The silence in the carriage, heavy with my unspoken thoughts, was abruptly broken.
"Is there a question you'd like to ask?" Ashen said suddenly, his voice low and perfectly even, making me jump and nearly disturb Beatrix.
I blinked, startled that he had noticed my intense scrutiny. He was still looking out the window, yet his awareness of me was absolute.
"How long have you been staring at me?" he followed up, a hint of dry amusement replacing the indifference in his tone.
He felt me looking at him even though he was only watching the light fade.
"Just wondering," I managed, trying to sound casual, though my voice came out strained.
He made a soft, expressive sound, a faint 'pfft', and chuckled, a rare, quiet sound that was only ever for me.
"I wonder," I continued, gathering my composure, pushing past the barrier of his teasing. "How have you been?"
He finally turned his gaze from the window to meet mine. The distant look in his eyes dissolved instantly, replaced by a momentary flash of guarded curiosity.
"Still the same. Nothing's new. Why?" he asked, the familiar smirk playing on his lips, a challenge in his eyes. "Are you now concerned about your future husband?"
I sighed, shaking my head slightly at his ingrained arrogance. "I'm just curious," I said, letting the subject drop before the carriage reached the estate, avoiding a direct verbal spar.
"I've always been concerned about you… I've always cared," I whispered suddenly, the words slipping out like a confession, small and fragile. My gaze stayed fixed on the carriage window, too afraid to meet his eyes, afraid of what genuine emotion might be reflected there.
I could feel his gaze on me now—a heavy, steady weight—making it impossible to turn my head back toward him. His surprise was palpable, even across the carriage; it was as if he genuinely hadn't expected me to show any concern for him, as if I had just surprised him with the realization that I cared. He seemed caught off guard, maybe even a little disbelieving, that I had broken our unspoken rules to ask about his well-being.
- The Untouched Seat -
The carriage rolled to a stop. We finally arrived at the heavily guarded gates of the Vesperianth mansion. Zein gently woke Beatrix, the moment of intimacy shattered. Ashen and I still hadn't spoken a single word to each other since that unexpected slip of my emotions. The silence between us lingered, heavy and unavoidable.
The Empress, dressed in elegant black mourning silk, was already waiting at the steps, alongside my mother.
"Oh? I thought you were still at the Imperial Hall. Where are Kalix and Sylvia?" my mother asked, her sharp eyes scanning behind us, a slight worry clouding her perfect composure.
"Uh… they're following us, Mother," Zein quickly replied in my stead, covering for our messy arrival.
Panic stirred in my chest. Sylvia and Kalix weren't here, and they were essential cover. I slipped inside and managed to quickly call the Imperial Hall, telling them to come to the Vesperianth mansion at once. I hadn't seen a glimpse of them all afternoon, and I knew they were likely tied up with duties.
After the quick call, the sun finally sank beneath the horizon, and the household was bathed in a soft, golden glow from the massive chandeliers. Soon enough, we were summoned to the dining hall.
The long table stretched before us, set with polished silverware and steaming dishes that filled the air with the scent of roasted meat and herbs. Yet, despite the abundance, the atmosphere in the room felt impossibly heavy.
The seat at the very centre—where the King Dwine should have been—remained untouched. Its emptiness was the eleventh guest, lingering like a shadow, a silent, profound reminder of loss that no candlelight could chase away.
We took our places. On the left sat my mother, graceful and poised even as fatigue lined her eyes; beside her was Zein, his usual quiet composure intact; and then myself. Across from us, the Empress kept her chin high, her elegance concealing the acknowledged fragility of her mental state. Next to her sat Prince Ashen—calm, distant, his expression a perfect, unreadable slate—as though the sheer weight of the empire lay hidden beneath his silence. Beatrix filled the last seat, her presence lively, though even she seemed to restrain her usual spark.
My eyes met Ashen's briefly across the table. He didn't say a word, but the silence between us seemed louder than the gentle clinking of silver against porcelain. It felt like everything unspoken from the carriage lingered here, heavy and unavoidable.
"The princess is always beautiful in my eyes," the Empress said, breaking the quiet with a fond, warm smile directed at me. "Your silver hair makes you unlike anyone else in this world."
I gave her a polite nod, though my cheeks warmed at the sudden, public praise.
"I only hope," she added, her eyes twinkling slightly as she glanced between me and Ashen, "that you and my son remain close and always get along."
A soft, suppressed laugh slipped from Beatrix. "They are close," she teased, her eyes sparkling with mischief, "yet somehow still so far."
My mother arched a brow, leaning in with an amused grin. "Oh my, oh my… is there something my daughter has been keeping from me?"
I froze, caught between their knowing looks and the oppressive weight of the untouched seat. Across the table, Ashen simply lifted his wine glass and took a slow, deliberate drink, his expression calm, betraying nothing. He neither confirmed nor denied, and his utter silence only egged on their teasing. Meanwhile, I desperately wanted the earth to swallow me whole.
"I wonder what my granddaughter would look like in the future," the Empress mused suddenly, her voice light, but her words landing in the dining hall like a thunderclap.
Everyone froze. My fork nearly slipped from my numb fingers as I turned to look at Ashen. He was already looking back at me—expression unreadable, calm as still water.
Then Beatrix burst out laughing, breaking the horrified silence. "I can't believe you're already expecting that from them?" she said to the Empress, wiping a tear from her eye.
That set everyone else off—my mother, the Empress, even Zein couldn't hide his grin behind his hand. Laughter filled the air like wildfire. Everyone was amused, sharing a private royal joke… except me.
I sat there, face burning hot. I'm dying here while he's just sitting like it's a normal dinner conversation about future grandchildren?! I could practically feel the heat radiating off my face. If embarrassment could kill, I'd be a royal corpse by now.
Ashen's lips twitched slightly—just slightly—as if fighting back a genuine smile. That tiny movement made my heart stutter. No. No, don't you dare smile right now.
"I'm joking—they're still young. They're not even dating," the Empress said quickly, waving a hand with a soft laugh.
"Right!" I blurted out, the word escaping a little too fast. "And we're not like—ahh—that, haha… having a child? Haha…" My voice trailed off, the awkwardness hanging thick in the air.
When I glanced toward Ashen, he was drinking his wine, his gaze fixed directly on me. Calm. Silent. That unwavering stare alone made my stomach twist into knots. I forced a nervous smile, pretending it was nothing, even though my heart felt like it was about to sprint out of my chest. Great, Dravina. Fantastic performance. Truly the embodiment of grace under pressure.
- The Forgotten Ribbon -
Dinner finally ended, and we all gathered in the grand sitting room, waiting for the Emperor and Fin to return. My mother and the Empress were deep in conversation, their laughter filling the air with a false sense of peace.
My mind kept drifting to the missing guards. Where are Kalix and Sylvia? Have they arrived yet? The thought lingered like a small, anxious whisper until the Empress suddenly turned toward me.
"Oh, right—Dravina, darling," she said, her voice laced with warmth. "I have something for you."
She called for her handmaiden, Ana, who soon returned carrying a beautifully carved little box tied with a golden thread. The Empress stood and beckoned me closer.
"Come here, my dear," she said softly. When I stepped forward, she opened the box and took out a delicate ribbon-shaped hairpin—its surface gleaming faintly under the candlelight.
Then, with gentle, knowing hands, she fastened it into my hair.
"How did she know ribbons are my favorite…" I whispered under my breath, a quiet smile forming naturally for the first time that evening.
Ana handed me a small mirror, and as I looked at my reflection, the ribbon glimmered perfectly in place—simple, elegant, yet somehow… It felt like more than just a gift.
While the Empress was carefully securing the hairpin, she leaned in and spoke in a low voice meant only for me.
"I saw one in Ashen's room," she said gently. "I asked him where it came from, and he told me it was from you. You gave it to him once… to stop him from crying. Earlier your mother and I went to the capital to buy something and I saw this."
For a moment, everything around me seemed to fade into a silent void. The chatter, the soft clinking of teacups, even the warmth of the room—all gone.
My throat tightened, raw with emotion. That small ribbon… I'd completely forgotten about it, a trivial thing I had given him when we were just children. But hearing that he had kept it all these years, that he had treasured it enough to tell his mother its meaning, made my chest ache in a profound way. It was a single, undeniable piece of the old, vulnerable Ashen.
I felt tears threatening to spill, the kind that comes not from sadness, but from something deeper—like the sudden, painful clarity of a memory you didn't realize still mattered. He had kept that secret closeness, that moment of boyhood pain, safe.
"I never felt like this before," I whispered, the words barely audible, afraid that if I spoke louder, my voice would break. It was a feeling of overwhelming tenderness and painful realization, an emotion I was utterly unprepared to name.