The air inside the grand imperial meeting hall was thick—weighted with the scent of sandalwood incense and the faint, metallic tang of polished bronze. Sunlight filtered through the towering arched windows, slicing the room into golden ribbons that glimmered across the marble floor. The faint hum of nervous whispers lingered between the high stone pillars, where banners of crimson and gold hung unmoving, as though even the air itself dared not breathe too loudly before the emperor's council.
Marquis Valentini rose from his chair with a slow scrape that echoed in the vaulted chamber. His gloved fingers pressed into the glossy surface of the table, leaving faint streaks on the polished wood. "We have submitted four consecutive requests to the Uluka tribe," he began, his tone low but urgent, "and all have gone unanswered. They remain unwilling to send their warriors to Lithiar's frontlines, despite their proximity."
The quiet ripple of voices that followed was immediate—tight whispers, sharp intakes of breath. The tension in the room thickened until the emperor's cold gaze sliced through it like a blade. One glance was enough to silence every man present.
"The Lithiaran soldiers still hold their ground," Valentini continued, shifting uneasily beneath that gaze, "but their supplies are dwindling. Ammunition is scarce. The enemy's assaults are relentless—so much so that even rotation between units has become impossible. The body count rises by the hour."
From his seat near the end of the table, Nathaniel leaned forward slightly, the light catching the faint gleam in his amber eyes. Uluka… The name struck a chord within him. They were more legend than ally—an ancient tribe of warriors with skin like sun-burnished bronze, hair white as winter, and eyes the color of storm-tossed seas. Some said they were remnants of God's first creation—half spirit, half flesh. Others swore they were monsters made divine.
Exzavier exhaled deeply, the sound resonating faintly beneath the domed ceiling. "Marquis Valentini," his deep voice rumbled, "how long until our own troops can reach Lithiar?" "Fourteen days by land, Your Majesty," Valentini replied, "but no more than seven if we send them by sea." "Then see to it." Exzavier commanded, his tone as heavy as the crown upon his head. "I am entrusting preparations to you personally."
The marquis hesitated—just long enough for everyone to feel the shift. "Y-your Majesty… there is another concern." The emperor's eyes narrowed. "Speak." "Sir Gabriel is overseeing the new recruits," Valentini said, his throat working visibly. "Captain Beckford remains in Bolance to quell the recent uprisings, and Vice-Captain Nestor is still on paternal leave. We are, regrettably, short of a commander to lead the Alkaraz expedition."
A silence fell—one so deep it pressed against the ears. Then, softly but firmly, came a voice that broke it cleanly in half. "I'll go." Every head turned toward him.
Nathaniel's declaration cut through the tension like a bell through fog. The council erupted at once—gasps, murmurs, protests. Even the Emperor blinked, the faintest flicker of surprise betraying his composed facade. "P-pardon?" someone stammered. "Your Highness, surely you jest!" another sputtered.
The noise swelled, a storm of disbelief and outrage. Nathaniel stood, the movement controlled, deliberate. His crimson hair caught the light like a silken flame, his expression carved in steel. "Enough," he said quietly—but the authority in his tone silenced the room. "Do you truly think I would sit idly on a throne I have not earned?"
Uneasy glances were exchanged around the table. No one dared answer. Inside, Nathaniel's pulse beat like a war drum. Have they forgotten what I am? That the essence of the divine runs through my veins? If I am to inherit this empire, I must prove that I can bear its burdens. Not only as a prince—but as a soldier.
The emperor studied him for a long, weighty moment. The faintest trace of pride softened the hard line of his mouth. "Very well, my son," he said at last. "You shall lead the campaign to Lithiar."
The collective gasp that followed was nearly deafening. "Your Majesty!" cried one noble, rising to his feet. "This is madness—he is the heir!" "Please reconsider!" another pleaded. "If anything were to happen—" "Enough." Exzavier's voice cracked through the protests like thunder. "This decision is final." His gaze shifted back to Nathaniel, firm once more. "But you will not depart until after your sister's wedding ceremony."
Nathaniel inclined his head in acknowledgment. "As you command, Father." The emperor's hand came down upon the table with the weight of final judgment. "The meeting is adjourned. Any further objections may be submitted to my secretary."
Chairs scraped. Coats rustled. The council dissolved into a chorus of subdued murmurs, the scent of incense heavy in the wake of their departure. Nathaniel remained standing for a moment longer. The golden light from the window haloed his figure, reflecting sharply against the marble beneath his boots. He inhaled slowly, the air thick with smoke and tension—and faintly, beneath it, the scent of steel oil carried from the soldiers' quarters below. He could already taste the battle in the back of his throat—the tang of iron, the weight of destiny pressing down like armor.
**
When Nathaniel reached his private study, he closed the doors behind him and leaned back against them, eyes falling shut for a fleeting second. The silence there was different — thicker, more intimate. The air smelled faintly of parchment and candle wax, with a trace of lavender oil from the fire-warmed hearth. The room itself was a sanctuary of order: books aligned in perfect symmetry, maps spread across his desk, quills and scrolls ready for strategy. Yet now, that order felt fragile, like a still pond moments before a storm's first drop.
He loosened the clasp of his cloak, draping it over a chair as he crossed the floor to his desk. His pulse was still high from the council meeting— the echo of every shocked gasp and disbelieving stare replaying in his mind. Fools, he thought. If they care so much, why don't they volunteer their own sons to fight in the war?
A sudden slam rattled the door behind him, halting his strides. "Nathaniel!" The sharp, furious voice belonged to no one but his sister. Emilia. Nathaniel turned, brow furrowing as his sister stormed in, her silken skirts sweeping across the floor like waves of crimson fury. The golden circlet on her head caught the firelight, but her expression was anything but regal — her blue eyes blazed with indignation.
"You—absolute—idiot!" she snapped, each word punctuated by the smack of her heels against the marble. "Tell me I misheard the details of that circus of a meeting. Tell me you didn't just volunteer yourself to lead troops into Lithiar!" He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "You shouldn't barge in like this, Emilia. It's unbecoming of a princess."
"Oh, spare me the lecture," she shot back, slamming her palms against his desk so hard the ink bottle trembled. "Do you have any idea what you've just done? You're the heir to the throne, Nathaniel! Not some reckless knight trying to earn stripes in a tavern brawl!" Her words struck sharper than intended, but Nathaniel didn't flinch. "Someone has to lead," he said evenly. "The men need more than orders — they need conviction. And I don't trust prince Sion to handle things properly."
"Enough with your excuses!" she cried, voice cracking slightly. "You're not even a field captain! You think those men are going to follow your commands out there just because of your title? They'll question you at every turn! Scrutinize everything you do. They'll use those wretched rumors against you. And if you die," Her voice faltered. The anger in her eyes shimmered, giving way to something rawer. "If you die, Nathaniel… what happens to the empire then? To Father? To me?"
The tension in his jaw eased. He looked at her — really looked at Emilia. Beneath the royal poise and practiced defiance was his little sister, the one who used to hide behind him when thunder rolled through the palace gardens. He exhaled deeply, then gently held her trembling hand in his. "Emmy," he said softly. "I'm not marching toward death. I'm marching toward responsibility. If I sit idle now, how can I ask anyone to bleed for this crown later?"
Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them away, refusing to let them fall. "You always do this," she whispered. "You make everything sound noble and reasonable… even when it terrifies me." A faint smile tugged at his lips. "That's because you care too much." She glared at him through glistening lashes. "And you care too little about yourself."
For a long moment, the crackling of the hearth filled the silence between them. Shadows danced along the shelves, flickering across their faces — two siblings caught between duty and dread. Finally, she turned away, her voice quieter now. "I have a bone to pick with father. He shouldn't have agreed to this."
Nathaniel's gaze dropped to the map spread across his desk — the jagged line marking Lithiar's affected borders, the ink still drying. "He didn't agree," he murmured. "He merely accepted what was already decided." Emilia looked back at him, startled by the heaviness in his tone. For a moment, she thought she saw a flicker of fear in his eyes — or perhaps resolve so fierce it bordered on madness. "You're impossible," she whispered, shaking her head. "Absolutely impossible."
He chuckled softly, the sound low and tired. "And yet, here you are, chiding your impossible elder brother. Should I take this to mean you love me too much?" He teased, his interlaced fingers propped up underneath his chin. Her lips trembled into a reluctant smile. "Unfortunately." When she finally left, the study fell into silence once more — save for the faint rustle of papers as a draft slipped through the window. Nathaniel sat alone, staring down at the battlefield map. His reflection glinted faintly in the metal of his sword displayed nearby. The taste of iron lingered again on his tongue. War was no longer a distant rumor. It was a promise. And it had already begun.
**
The wedding banquet glittered with light and laughter. Golden chandeliers spilled warmth across marble columns, and the scent of roses and spiced wine mingled with the music of harps and viols. Emilia and Dimitriu sat at the head table, their smiles radiant beneath a canopy of crystal and silk. Their joined hands rested upon a cushion of embroidered lilies — a symbol of eternal fidelity.
Nathaniel watched from a distance, his glass untouched now, though the wine's sweetness still lingered on his tongue. If only Mother were here, he thought. She would have wept at the sight of Emilia so happy. He forced a smile as guests came and went, toasting the new couple, the future, and the empire. Yet the warmth in his chest began to twist into something else — heat crawling up his neck, his pulse fluttering far too quickly.
"My, how time flies," he murmured, raising a hand to his temple. "Is it just me, or is it getting rather warm in here?" He tugged slightly at his collar, but the motion did little to ease the strange fever creeping through his body. The air felt thick, perfumed — wrong. Slipping away from the hall, Nathaniel crossed into the gardens, hoping the night air might steady him. But instead of calm, he found chaos — soft laughter and gasps filtering through the hedges, couples entwined in the shadows as if the entire palace had fallen under a spell of reckless indulgence.
His head spun. The lantern lights wavered in his vision, and every breath filled his lungs with sweetness so cloying it made him dizzy. No… something's not right. His thoughts blurred, the scent of wine turning bitter in his mouth. His fingers trembled as he loosened his necktie, sweat beading along his brow.
A voice came from behind him — light, melodic, familiar. "Greetings, Your Highness." He turned, expecting to see Florette's soft features. But the face before him wasn't hers. "Fatima?" he whispered. She stood in the moonlight, eyes wide with confusion —her silver hair glinting like spun frost. Yet the sound of her voice did not match her image. His vision wavered, distorting her face between Florette's and Fatima's, until he could no longer trust what he was seeing.
"Your Highness, are you unwell?" Florette asked, stepping closer. "Don't—" His voice broke into a hoarse shout. "Do not come near me. Stay where you are." His knees threatened to buckle. Every step forward felt like dragging through mire, his body burning, unresponsive to his will. The hedges blurred; the stars above swam in molten gold. "Let me help you," Florette whispered, her tone coaxing, almost too smooth. "I can make the pain go away."
Her hand brushed his arm — and a jolt of weakness surged through him, stealing the strength from his limbs. His chest heaved. Whatever had been in the wine was no ordinary intoxicant; this was deliberate. Even in his frayed mind, Nathaniel could tell that Florette's appearance at this exact moment wasn't at all a coincidence. He stumbled backward, clutching at the hedge for support. "Florette… what have you done?" Her expression changed then — a flicker of something cold and knowing. "Your Highness should not resist," she whispered, stepping closer. "It will hurt less that way."
Before he could respond, a shadow burst from the garden's edge — a rush of boots and fire light approaching the pair. "There you are, my prince. Thank goodness, I found you." Leonardo exhaled a sigh of relief, raising the lantern, his voice cutting through the fog in Nathaniel's mind. Next to him, Louis, the panther advanced like a thunderstorm, his amber eyes blazing with fury as he released a low, predatory growl.
Florette retreated from the lantern light, and before her face came into full view, she darted away, vanishing into the night like smoke. Louis readied himself to give chase but, "Easy there Louis, let her go. The prince is our priority." Leonardo's voice was like a leash that held the black beast captive, his tail swishing restlessly as he turned to Nathaniel who collapsed against the hedge, gasping for air. Leonardo was at his side in seconds, steadying him.
"Strange…it's not poison," Leonardo muttered as he sniffed the empty glass Nathaniel still clutched. "Someone tampered with the wine." Nathaniel's vision blurred, his voice a strained whisper. "Take me back to my quarters, Leo." Louis approached him, nuzzling his face unto Nathaniel's warm neck and purred as if to soothe his master's pain. "Yes, your highness. Let's us go." Leonardo said through gritted teeth, a vein tracing his tense jawline.
As consciousness slipped from him, the last thing Nathaniel saw was the flickering lanterns painting the garden in violent gold — the night of his sister's joy dissolving into something far more sinister.
**
Morning arrived with deceptive serenity — the kind that mocked those who'd survived chaos the night before. The sunlight filtered through half-drawn curtains, painting molten gold across the silken drapes that swayed faintly with the morning breeze. Outside, the gardens of the royal palace glittered with dew, alive with the trill of larks and sparrows, their cheerful songs blissfully ignorant of the poison that had nearly claimed a prince's dignity in the night.
Nathaniel stirred beneath the weight of linen sheets cool against fever-warmed skin. His eyelids fluttered open to a blur of color and motion. For a moment, the world swam — the ceiling seemed to tilt, and a dull throb pulsed behind his temples. Then came the first sensation: warmth. A rough, rhythmic pressure dragging across his cheek. His blurred vision sharpened into amber — two slitted eyes, gleaming with feline intelligence.
"Louis…" he croaked, voice raspy from disuse. The black panther gave a throaty chuff in response, tail swishing languidly before he licked Nathaniel's face again with a sandpaper tongue. "Ow—Louis, stop that." Nathaniel winced, pushing the beast's massive head away. His limbs felt heavy, his muscles stiff — as if he'd been asleep for years rather than hours.
Before he could gather his bearings, a sharp tap landed squarely on his forehead. "Cali," he groaned, rubbing the sore spot. The falcon perched imperiously on the bedpost, her sleek bronze feathers glimmering where sunlight kissed them. Her golden eyes glared at him with all the hauteur of a queen addressing a tardy servant. "Yes, yes, I'm awake," he muttered. The bird gave a short, impatient screech and tilted her head expectantly. "Fine. Go fetch Leo," Nathaniel ordered, waving halfheartedly toward the balcony.
Cali trilled in acknowledgment before spreading her wings — the sudden motion sent a gust of air rippling through the curtains and disheveling Nathaniel's already tousled red hair. With a powerful leap, she vanished into the bright morning beyond, her cry fading into the sky.
Silence settled again, broken only by Louis' low, resonant purr. The panther climbed onto the bed, his enormous frame pressing into Nathaniel's side until his head came to rest against the prince's chest. The prince's hand instinctively buried itself in the creature's fur — warm, dense, soft as velvet. The steady rhythm of the beast's heartbeat filled the room, grounding him.
"I've neglected you both, haven't I?" Nathaniel murmured, voice low and weighted with guilt. "Since I returned from that wretched journey…" Louis rumbled softly, a sound halfway between affection and reproach. His tail flicked once, then settled, content to forgive.
The door clicked open. The panther's ears twitched, his amber eyes snapping toward the sound with a warning growl. "I am coming in, Your Highness," Leonardo's voice called out, measured but edged with concern. Nathaniel straightened, wincing as the motion sent dizziness flooding through him. The scent reached him first — roasted sausages, honeyed fruit, spiced tea — rich and heady, curling through the air like a siren's whisper. His stomach, however, churned at the aroma, turning rebellion into nausea.
Leonardo entered with his usual composure, pushing a silver-laden cart. Cali perched smugly on his shoulder, grooming a wing with clear self-satisfaction. "It seems she delivered your summons quite efficiently," Leonardo said, a trace of amusement tugging at his lips. Nathaniel smiled faintly. "Remarkable. Considering she used to shriek the instant she saw you." "She's developed taste," Leonardo replied dryly, setting the tray down. "Time softens even the fiercest creatures — or perhaps she simply enjoys mocking me."
The faint humor faded from his eyes as he turned to face the prince fully. "Good morning, Your Highness. How are you feeling? Any dizziness? Blurred vision?" "Only the dizziness," Nathaniel admitted, rubbing at his temples. "And an overwhelming desire to throw that breakfast out the window." Leonardo exhaled, rolling up his sleeves as if preparing for battle. "Then the antidote hasn't fully flushed the toxin."
"Toxin?" Nathaniel repeated, the word slicing through the haze in his mind. His gaze snapped up sharply. Leonardo hesitated. "Yes, sire. Your suspicions were correct. You were drugged last night — something potent, deliberate." Nathaniel's feet hit the cold marble floor as he descended from the bed. The chill bit into his skin, waking him fully as he steadied himself on the bedpost. "What kind of drug?"
Leonardo's voice dropped, hesitant. "It's known as Virelle's Bloom. Sold in the black markets of the eastern quarter. A rare aphrodisiac — and an instrument of manipulation. It dulls restraint, amplifies suggestion. In the wrong hands, it is… a weapon of destruction."
Nathaniel froze. The memory hit him like a flash of lightning — the perfume-laced air of the garden, the dizzying warmth, a woman's hand brushing against his arm, her voice soft and poisonous with intent. Leonardo continued grimly, "Whoever administered it meant to compromise you, sire. To ruin your reputation — or to gain something far worse."
The bedpost creaked under Nathaniel's tightening grip. The air in the room seemed to thicken, sunlight turning from gold to molten brass. "It was her," he said, voice low and certain. Leonardo's head snapped up. "Your Highness?" Nathaniel's gaze burned like a forge. "Florette Isabel Kartier."
The name fell heavy in the air. Leonardo's face blanched, nearly dropping the silver cover he'd been holding. "Y-your highness, are you certain? The Duchess's daughter? The same young lady you are meant to wed. What motives could she have for—" "I remember her voice," Nathaniel said quietly. "The way she smiled — like a serpent admiring its prey. And she fled the instant you arrived at the scene."
Leonardo's pulse quickened; he could hear the faint edge of something dangerous beneath Nathaniel's calm tone. Not fury, not outrage — but a chilling amusement that did not belong on the face of the man he served.
Nathaniel's lips curved faintly. "You've really outdone yourself this time, Florette," he murmured, stepping toward the window. He swept the curtains aside. The sunlight blazed across the chamber, revealing every polished surface, every gleam of gold and marble. Below, the palace courtyard was already stirring — servants scrubbing the marble steps, guards exchanging quiet gossip, the remnants of last night's laughter clinging faintly to the air.
Leonardo stepped closer. "Your Highness, please — you should rest. His Majesty has already ordered an investigation. She will be apprehended soon enough. He forbade word from reaching the Empress until we have proof." Nathaniel turned from the window, and to Leonardo's horror, smiled. It was warm — far too warm — and yet entirely wrong.
"Tell Father to halt the investigation," Nathaniel said softly. "And inform the Empress of everything that transpired." Leonardo blinked, startled. "But… your highness, that contradicts his majesty's direct order—" "Don't worry, Leo." Nathaniel placed a steadying hand on his aide's shoulder. "I know exactly what I'm doing. Trust me."
Leonardo swallowed hard, his gut twisting with unease. There was something new in Nathaniel's eyes — something cold and deliberate that unsettled him far more than rage ever could. "Very well," he said finally, voice subdued. "I shall do as you command, my prince."
Outside, the bells of morning service began to toll — deep and solemn, echoing across the palace grounds. Their heavy sound rolled through the air like a funeral knell. The night of revelry was gone. And in its wake, the quiet dawn heralded not peace… but reckoning.