Fatima's first year within the Kartier dukedom was a whirlwind—an unrelenting storm of lessons, duties, and discoveries that left her both exhausted and quietly exhilarated. Though she remained a bond servant, her circumstances were far from ordinary.
Favored above the others, she alone bore the rare privilege of stepping into the duke's
private study, though only at his summons. The mere act of crossing that
polished threshold was enough to stir unrest within the household.
The duchess' sharp voice was a familiar thunderclap in the corridors, her outbursts echoing whenever Fatima's presence trespassed upon her sight. More often than not, the sound of her displeasure—low grunts, clipped remarks, or the sharp snap of a fan against her palm, would chase Fatima's steps like a shadow. To the lady of the house,
the girl was a thorn wedged deep, one that could not be plucked out. Yet the duke seemed unbothered by her behavior, calling for Fatima as he pleased, his will silencing
all protest.
At times he summoned her only to share a quiet meal, his voice softened from its usual commanding tone as he asked after her life in his lands. Other times, he placed books in her
hands, tomes thick with the history of Alkaraz, or scrolls meant to sharpen her
vocabulary until she spoke with precision. Each instance was a treasure to her,
a privilege few of her kind could even dream of. Though she did not yet understand why the duke welcomed her into the sanctum of his world, Fatima accepted the gift with humble gratitude, savoring each fleeting moment.
**
Beyond the walls of the Kartier mansion, the empire of Alkaraz loomed vast and unshakable, its strength built upon the foundation of four mighty households. For centuries these vassal lords had encircled the throne like steadfast sentinels, their influence woven so deeply into the empire's fabric that to imagine Alkaraz without them was
unthinkable.
Foremost among them was the Kartier line itself—represented by Duke Dominique, the solemn Minister of Foreign Affairs. His charge was to stride across distant realms, weaving
fragile treaties, renewing bonds of allegiance, and prying into the intentions of their rivals. It was a task that required sharp wit, endless stamina, and an iron mask of composure, for the prosperity of the empire often balanced upon the edge of his tongue. The creed of his house was simple yet unyielding: the heirs must surpass their forebears. Such a legacy pressed like iron upon each new generation.
The second pillar was the Wrotingthon family, guardians of order and the empire's inner peace. As Minister of Internal Affairs, Duke Wrotingthon's gaze turned inward rather than
outward, ensuring that Alkaraz's streets ran secure, its citizens protected beneath the weight of law. His reach extended into every crevice of the empire, enforcing decrees with a vigilance that left little room for rebellion.
The third stronghold was that of the Valentini bloodline, led by Marquis Valentini, Minister of Defense. The empire's sword-arm, he commanded the legions of Alkaraz, molding them into the bulwark that stood ready for war. His genius extended beyond strategy—he was the mind behind the forging of new weapons, the alchemist of steel and fire
who safeguarded the empire's borders with innovation as much as with soldiers.
The fourth was Count Bartrum, steward of minds and common welfare. As Minister of Education, he wove the fabric of learning across the land, guiding the empire's children from humble villages to noble academies. His responsibilities often interlaced with Duke Wrotingthon's, for where law and order reigned, the well-being of the people followed close behind.
Together, these four houses had become more than mere pillars—they were the keystones of Alkaraz's supremacy. For generations they had bound themselves to the crown with unbroken loyalty, their unity so formidable it inspired admiration in allies and jealousy in rivals. It was said their solidarity was the true fortress of Alkaraz, the unseen wall that no invader could breach.
And within this grand design, Fatima's place was but a thread—a fragile one, yet one that, in ways she could not yet see, might someday tug against the whole tapestry.
**
"Fati! My darling Fati!" Clover's voice rang like bells across the sun-drenched bell pepper field, her small frame bouncing with exuberance as she darted between the leafy rows. The sunlight kissed her freckled cheeks, making her violet eyes sparkle like
amethysts in the warm glow. Her pigtails, tied with delicate pink ribbons, bounced along with every energetic step. The rich, earthy scent of soil mingled with the faint sweetness of ripening peppers, filling the air with the promise of harvest.
Fatima looked up from the basket in which she was carefully arranging crimson bell peppers, letting a small smile tug at the corners of her lips. A year had passed since she first arrived in the duchy, and in that time, Ivy and Clover had become her companions
in the fields. Together, they labored under the immense shadow of Kartier Castle, its towers rising like sentinel peaks over the rolling estate. Elaborate flowerbeds adorned the front yards, their blooms a riot of colors
that whispered of care and wealth, while beyond the plantations, the castle's
forest stretched like a verdant ocean, untamed and inviting.
The duchy's lands were vast, not merely a household garden, but a sprawling enterprise supplying fruits and vegetables to the empire's bustling trade.
Clover twirled in a small circle before hopping to Fatima's side. "Ivy! Fati! Guess what I've heard!" Ivy, tall and slender with her short brown hair bound into a practical low ponytail, scowled from behind her straw-woven basket. Her sharp green eyes narrowed, her lips pressing into a perpetual line of disapproval. "Where have you been, Clover?" she hissed, her voice slicing through the warmth of the afternoon. "Get back to work, or you'll get us in trouble again." She shook her head, crouching to resume plucking
peppers with precise, methodical movements, placing each fruit gently into the
basket beside her.
"That girl," she muttered under her breath, "always slacking off, wandering where she ought not to." A subtle ache throbbed at the nape of her neck, as if the sun and the constant responsibility weighed heavier on her than on the others.
Unlike Ivy and Fatima, who bore the sweltering heat with quiet diligence, Clover carried a spark of mischief in every gesture. Her youthful energy was a salve to the monotony of fieldwork, and her penchant for playful pranks lightened the long, laborious
hours. She tilted her head, lips pouting, violet eyes glinting with excitement. "But I come bearing good news!"
Fatima raised an eyebrow, curious despite herself. Clover's ears pricked up at any tidbit of gossip—her favorite pastime was eavesdropping on the maids and kitchen staff to catch whispers of the duchy's intrigues. "What is it? Spill it out already," Ivy grumbled,
her tone sharp, though a flicker of curiosity betrayed her stern demeanor.
"I overheard the guards announcing their return!" Clover squealed, hopping like a spring in her tiny boots. "The crown prince and the eldest young master are coming back!"
Fatima's heart sank. The crown prince of Alkaraz, a figure draped in myth and fear, is said to wield his divine power with cruel precision. His reputation paints him as a tyrant in the making, the first of his kind in the kingdom's history. And yet, Clover's excitement seemed unfazed by the danger such a figure could represent.
"Do you think the young master will bring us souvenirs again this time?" Clover asked, twirling a strand of her hair between her fingers, her grin unfazed by Fatima's wary gaze. "Do not kid yourself, Clover," Ivy snapped, breaking the spell of imagination with cold practicality. "Only the masters, mistresses, and household staff receive souvenirs from the young master." She paused, plucking another pepper, her fingers deft and efficient. The pink ribbons in Clover's
hair and the flower pin in Ivy's ponytail were rare gifts from the young master who approached only on extraordinary occasions, reminders of fleeting kindnesses in a life otherwise governed by rules and hierarchy.
Fatima's smile faltered, her thoughts drifting to ways of avoiding the prince altogether. The castle's shadow, looming over the fields, had never felt more oppressive, and the sun's
heat now pressed against her temples like a warning. "Fati, what's wrong?" Ivy's voice cut through her reverie, tinged with concern. "You
look troubled. Are you alright? You're sweating profusely." She reached out, dabbing Fatima's forehead with a towel looped over her shoulder, her touch practical yet gentle.
"I'm fine, Ivy. Really," Fatima said, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. Ivy wasn't convinced, of course, but let the matter drop for now, perhaps attributing the
unease to the sun. "Don't worry, I'm truly alright," Fatima said, letting the warmth of camaraderie seep into her chest. "Let's finish this section quickly, then we can enjoy a proper bath at the spring."
The three of them returned to their work, the bell pepper plants swaying gently in the afternoon breeze, the castle looming silently in the distance, and the forest beyond whispering secrets they dared not yet imagine.
**
The iron gates of the Alkaraz estate loomed before the prince, their dark, ornate spires catching the last glimmers of the setting sun. Nightfall had draped the sky in deep indigo,
and the estate's lanterns flickered like distant stars along the gravel path, casting long, dancing shadows on the manicured hedges. The scent of polished stone and pine hung in the crisp air, and somewhere in the distance, the low murmur of the river whispered against the estate walls. Every corner, every polished archway, exuded wealth, order, and an almost suffocating expectation of propriety.
"Your Highness, it is with the utmost joy that we welcome your return to Alkaraz." Duchess Gwendolynn's voice was smooth, deliberate, but beneath it hummed a current of nervous
anticipation. She and her daughter bowed deeply, heads low as if gravity itself demanded they acknowledge his presence with reverence.
"As usual, we have prepared a room for your stay, along with a warm bath just as you like it. Please let us know if there is anything else we can assist you with, your highness. I trust
you will rest comfortably." She lifted her gaze, eyes locking briefly with the prince's, but the look she sought—a glimmer of gratitude, perhaps even warmth—remained unattainable.
"I appreciate your incredibly thoughtful and kind gesture, duchess." he said, slow and deliberate, each syllable stripped of inflection, each word measured like a blade in ice.
There was no acknowledgment of pleasure, no hint of humor or relief, only a chilling neutrality that spread through the duchess' chest like a sudden frost.
"I wish you a pleasant and restful night." With that, he turned on his heels, his long coat brushing past the polished marble floor as he moved toward the room. "Florette, darling, why don't you bid his Highness a restful sleep?" The duchess's voice cut through the tension like sunlight through fog, cheerful and insistent.
Florette, cheeks pink with bashfulness, lowered her gaze to the floor, fingers clutching the silk of her nightgown. "I hope you have a peaceful slumber, your highness. Sweet dreams." Her words trembled in the quiet hall. The prince responded only with a slight nod, a gesture so minimal it could barely be called
acknowledgment, and continued into the room, closing the door with a soft, final click. The duchess' hands clenched at her sides, fury and humiliation burning beneath her composed exterior.
Inside, the prince finally exhaled. Months of ceaseless travel had left him weary, and the quiet of the room wrapped around him like a rare comfort. He sank onto the broad, ornate
bed, its silk sheets cool against his skin as his eyes surveyed the familiar space. Nothing had changed; every chair, every vase, every heavy curtain remained precisely where it had been.
One month here should suffice, he thought, crossing his legs and folding his hands behind his head. The thought of the capital, with its endless demands and suffocating
ceremonies, made the idea of lingering here even sweeter.
Exhaustion claimed him quickly, and his eyes drooped, nearly closing before he even experienced the warmth of the bath prepared for him. Then, a sudden sound—the soft, childish giggle of someone outside, pierced his rest. He snapped upright, senses alert,
listening intently. The crackle of the distant fireplace was the only other noise. He leaned forward, resting his face in his palm.
"Shh! Lower your voices, lest you awaken the
masters. God knows what torture awaits if they hear us," a soft voice whispered, unmistakably alive with mischief. Another
giggle, louder this time, confirmed he hadn't imagined it. The prince's extraordinary hearing, honed over years, caught every nuance, every note of a voice that was impossibly clear amidst the background noise of his world. It stirred a curiosity in him, an unfamiliar spark of interest.
"Who on earth would hear us from all the way out here? Hm? I could let out a loud fart right here and no one would hear," said one girl, laughter rippling through the cool night air.
"Your farts are rather deadly, Fatima. Please spare us." another voice retorted, laughter dancing like silver bells. The prince could hardly suppress a smile. Such childish vulgarity felt foreign to him, yet the sound warmed him in an odd, human way.
"Tonight's bath was truly spectacular," said the first voice again. "It never occurred to me that mud could act as a cleanser. My skin's so smooth, it even squeaks when I rub it. See?"
He muttered the name under his breath: "Fatima." The liveliness, the youthful elegance, the subtle confidence in her voice—he could imagine the girl, even without seeing her. Somewhere between eleven and twelve, spirited, mischievous, yet refined beyond her years.
The conversation faded as the girls reached the stables, settling over their rough bedding on hay. Fatima hugged her knees, shivering in the night air, but the dim light above provided
a gentle warmth. Her companions quickly fell into exhausted sleep, leaving her alone with her thoughts.
They must be utterly drained from today's work, she mused, eyes fluttering closed. Fatima exhaled, allowing the gentle darkness to embrace her. The tension of the day melted as she drifted into slumber, while somewhere, high in the estate above, the crown prince's curiosity remained, his mind inexplicably tethered to the voice of the girl outside.
**
The crown prince and the young lord of Kartier had barely returned from their yearlong travels when an urgent summons was delivered to the duke's manor. The news spread swiftly, accompanied by hushed whispers of the prince's extended stay at the duchy—rumors that flared across the empire like wildfire. With such circumstances stirring,
it was only a matter of time before Fatima found herself in perilous proximity to him.
For days, she had kept her hair carefully tucked away and the glowing divinity mark on her upper arm bound beneath a strip of white cloth. Yet she knew such disguises were fragile things. Against ordinary humans they might suffice, but against a Sant, they
were as useless as paper armor. Their kind could sense each other across great
distances, drawn by the pull of their shared blood and by the marks etched into their very flesh. If fate contrived to place her before him, there would be no concealing the truth.
She clung to the single hope that distance would shield her—the farm where she worked lay far from the estate. And besides, rumor had it the prince loathed the sun. Surely, he would not come prowling under its relentless glare.
"Shall we take a break, Fati?" Ivy's soft voice pulled her back to the present. She had been staring off again, hands still buried in the earth. "I think we harvested most of the
ripe tomatoes today, thanks to Clover. She's been more energetic than usual lately."
Fatima blinked, watching the younger girl dart back and forth between the rows, cheeks flushed with exertion and joy. "Could it have something to do with the young master's
return?" she asked, brushing dirt from her palms, her gaze following Ivy's.
"Possibly," Ivy sighed, though her tone carried weary disapproval. With a click of her tongue, she folded her arms across her waist. "That child's always expecting gifts from our
young master. I've told her time and again to kill that habit—madam grows easily irritated whenever she notices such behavior."
The casual words twisted like a knife in Fatima's chest. She remembered, all too vividly, the scars she had glimpsed on Ivy's and Clover's bare backs when they bathed together in the forest—the jagged traces of whips and claws of cruelty. When pressed, they had admitted the truth: the duchess's wrath did not always fall upon servants with
words alone. Sometimes, it left marks that never faded.
Even now, recalling it made Fatima's throat burn. Her blood seethed with anger, her eyes stung with tears. How much must they have suffered? How many times had they endured
it, quietly, with no one to defend them?
And now duke Dominique was gone, summoned by the emperor himself, leaving the house unguarded against the duchess' mood swings. A gnawing unease coiled in Fatima's stomach, whispering of misfortune looming ever closer.
"Clover!" Ivy's sharp call jolted her back. Fatima flinched, startled, as the older girl waved Clover toward the forest's edge. "We're taking a break under the oak tree. Come, Fati—you need rest." She placed her hands gently on Fatima's shoulders and
urged her toward the cool shade. "Coming!" Clover chimed, bounding after them with leaves tangled in her hair, her sweat-soaked towel darkened by dirt.
The forest was a world apart from the blistering farm. Springtime shade gathered beneath ancient trees, their boughs thick with new leaves that whispered as the breeze passed through them. The air was cool, damp with the scent of earth and blossoms, while
birds trilled with carefree cheer. It was a sanctuary, light years removed from the suffocating heat of the fields. Clover collapsed onto the leafy ground with a sigh. "Should we just nap here? I don't want to go back to that furnace."
Fatima tilted her head back, watching the branches sway gently overhead. "The mango trees should be ripe by now," she mused, her voice light with teasing hope.
"Don't be silly, Fati," Ivy replied, absently poking holes in the soil with a dry twig. "They take years to mature. Ours hasn't even grown an inch since last year." Yet the seed they had planted together was no ordinary one. Fatima had seen it herself: a sprout breaking through the earth within days, far too fast, as though it had hungered for the soil the way she hungered for answers. Unnatural, yet strangely hers.
"Shall we take a look anyway?" she suggested, eyes glinting with excitement. "Good idea!" Clover beamed, springing to her feet, laughter spilling from her lips.
Together they wandered toward the deeper forest. A smooth expanse of pale stone cut across their path—the master's road, gleaming faintly beneath the trees. They all knew better than to linger there, exposed. Still, Fatima's gaze drifted upward, drawn to the canopy, her heart too restless to stay grounded. "Fati! Run!" Ivy's sudden scream cleaved through the air. Fatima froze, her head snapping toward the voice. Clover, wide-eyed, pointed frantically to her right. Fatima spun, and her breath caught in her throat. A massive black beast loomed before her, rearing onto its hind legs, hooves striking sparks against the stone. It let out a piercing
neigh, eyes wild with panic—an omen of chaos about to break loose.