The silence that followed the commotion was a living thing, punctuated by the faint hum of crickets from the garden walls. Nathaniel exhaled sharply, his demeanor more relaxed now as he ran a hand through his hair. From the silhouette alone—a mysterious figure draped in an oversized black cloak, they had assumed the intruder was a man, but the moment Nathaniel lifted the hood, revealing a slender and delicate woman, her tribal clothes revealing more than just her curvy form, the knights' hostility was completely shattered, replaced by red cheeks and ears, gawking at the woman. "Uh…your highness." Ulissa's trembling soft voice broke the silence, "Could I be permitted to stand now?" she asked shyly.
Nathaniel blinked, his composure faltering for a fleeting moment. "Oh—right. My apologies, princess." He turned sharply toward his chamberlain. "Leo, if you'd be so kind." The scowl that darkened Leonardo's face was impossible to miss. "Your highness, I don't think it wise to do that. What if," "Do it." Nathaniel said over his shoulder, his tone leaving no room for debate. Leonardo stood before her, the glare in his eyes as he extended his hand to her was sharp enough to cut steel.
She flinched, hesitating before placing a trembling hand in his. He pulled her up so fast that she stumbled, catching herself against his chest. For a breathless instant, the world narrowed to his hand—calloused, warm—and the faint scent of steel and cedar that clung to him. Her heart thundered. Their eyes met, and the courtyard seemed to fall away.
The warmth in Leonardo's hand despite his cold demeanor, the way her small hand fit perfectly in his made her heart thrum excitedly, heat rising in her cheeks as she struggled to compose herself. Their eyes remained locked longer than necessary, and when the heat threatened to reach the stern chamberlain, he withdrew his hand, turning to walk away. Ulissa's hopeful heart shattered as she held her now warm hand close to her heart, steadying herself.
Nathaniel stepped forward, his eyes studying the two, feeling as though he had just missed a very important moment. "Please call me Ulissa, your highness for I am no longer married to prince Sion." She said, bowing slightly. "I wished to apologize for last night's…incident." She continued, her voice faltering as she clasped her hands before her. "I followed you here, your highness, just to say I am truly sorry for what I did, please…forgive me." She said, bowing deeply.
Nathaniel exhaled softly. She snuck out of her village just to do this? Her family must be worried by now. he thought. "Apology accepted, Miss Ulissa," he said gently. "Now come—if we linger out here, you'll catch your death of cold." He said turning on his heel, already striding toward the estate.
Nathaniel walked past the quadruplet brothers who remained unmoved, their eyes gleaming with the sharp distrust of men long betrayed. Ulissa's blue eyes caught theirs, and she approached, her footsteps hesitant but purposeful. "One moment, your highness…there is something else I must say." She said, turning toward the brothers.
They stood shoulder to shoulder, silent and rigid as statues. She hesitated, her breath visible in the chill air, then sank to her knees on the cold ground. Gasps broke out among the guards. It was a traditional Ulukan custom—one reserved for moments of absolute sincerity. Her white hair tumbled forward as she bowed, her forehead nearly touching the ground.
"I have no words to justify my family's cruelty toward you," she whispered, her voice trembling but clear. "I was a coward. I turned a blind eye to your pain, pretended not to see how we—I—allowed you to be scorned and cast aside. I know it is shameless of me to do this now, but I could not help seizing the moment. I will accept any punishment, if it will ease even a fraction of your anger."
For a heartbeat, the courtyard was utterly still. Even the crickets seemed to fall silent. Then Uler's voice broke the quiet, low and seething. "Who do you take us for?" His eyes blazed, the torches' reflection turning them molten. "Did you think that kneeling would make us forget?" he snarled. "Rejects.Cursed creatures. Those were the words of your people. The names they branded us with before we could even walk. Our own blood abandoned us, and now you think a few tears will make it right?!" "Uler!" Ulrick hissed, grabbing his arm, but Uler shook him off violently. "Tell me, Ulissa," he roared, voice cracking with anguish. "You say you'll bear our anger—our resentment—but who do you think you are to bear what you never cared to see?"
His fury rang through the courtyard like thunder, echoing off the villa's white walls. The other knights—those who had earlier blushed at Ulissa's beauty—now stared at her with wide, guilt-ridden eyes. Her tears glistened under the moon, slipping down her cheeks and falling soundlessly onto the stone. Before Nathaniel could intervene, Ulyx stepped forward. His tone was calm but firm, the voice of one used to soothing storms.
"What my brother means," he said, placing a steadying hand on Uler's shoulder, "is that your apology means little to us—not because we despise you particularly, but because we've moved beyond the need for it." Ulissa looked up, bewildered. "We haven't spent our lives hating your family," Ulyx continued softly. "We were too busy loving the one person who did stay by our side. That love gave us something far greater than any resentment or vengeance ever could. It granted us peace even amidst the harsh treatments of our own people."
The tension that had strangled the air slowly ebbed. Even Nathaniel felt it—the weight lifting, leaving behind something bittersweet. If only Miss Ulala were here to see this, he thought. She'd be proud. They've turned their painful past into armor.
Nathaniel had always believed that parental love could only stem from blood. Yet here stood four brothers who had proven him wrong. "Your highness?" Leonardo's voice drew him back to the present. "Are you alright?" he asked, voice tinged with concern. "Yes," Nathaniel replied briskly, though his gaze lingered on Ulissa's tear-streaked face. "Let's head inside. Have the maids prepare a room for Miss Ulissa to stay the night." "As you wish, sire." Leonardo replied with a bow, his earlier animosity toward the woman vanished, leaving only traces of pity and curiosity. As the group dispersed, the moonlight stretched across the courtyard, pale and weary. Nathaniel glanced back once more—to the sight of Ulissa still kneeling, her tears and sniffles filling the night air. He sighed, rubbing his temples. "Dear God," he murmured to himself. "I am exhausted. These days seem to grow heavier by the hour."
**
Nightfall had completely settled over Dominique's villa, draping the courtyards and marble halls in sheets of silver and shadow. Through the open curtains of Nathaniel's room, moonlight crept in like an uninvited guest, pale and cold against the golden warmth of the fire. The air smelled faintly of sandalwood and the faint tang of rain from the evening breeze.
Nathaniel sat on the edge of his bed, hair still damp from his bath, a towel carelessly thrown over a nearby settee. The day's exhaustion pressed on his shoulders like armor he could not remove. On the bedside table, a neat row of envelopes waited—small, delicate, and sealed with familiar wax.
"Do I really want to read them?" he murmured, running a thumb along the edges as if they might bite. His reflection flickered in the mirror across the room—tired eyes, a faint shadow of stubble, the kind of weariness that went beyond the body.
He reached for the nearest letter and cracked the seal. Just as the parchment began to unfurl, a sharp knock startled him. "Pardon the interruption, Your Highness," came a soft voice through the door. "Dinner is about to be served."
Nathaniel exhaled, long and quiet. "I'll be out in a moment," he replied, slipping the letter back into its envelope with careful fingers. He lingered a second, his gaze returning to the stack—those little ghosts of correspondence that followed him even here. "I'm sure it's the same old story," he muttered, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. "Her whining about my prolonged absence."
But the smile softened, betraying warmth beneath the weariness. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked on, steady and indifferent, while the fire cast dancing light across his face—half shadow, half longing.
**
The estate's dining hall shimmered with candlelight, the air thick with roasted herbs and uneasy tension. Silverware clinked in uneven rhythm, a polite orchestra trying to drown the storm that lingered beneath every breath. Dominique reclined at the head of the table, his smile sharp and polished as a blade. "It is an honor to have you with us, Princess Ulissa," he said, voice smooth but eyes cool. "I hope our humble fare suits your refined taste. We did what we could on such short notice."
The words dripped with civility; the edge beneath them, unmistakable. Ulissa set down her fork with trembling grace, then offered a small, grateful bow of her head. "It's all so delicious, Your Grace. I am honored to be here." Her lips curved into a soft, almost shy smile. "Please—call me Ulissa. I am no longer a princess."
She took another bite, and her composure melted. Her eyes fluttered wide, cheeks glowing with delight as the savory juices burst across her tongue. One hand pressed against her cheek in bliss, the other already reaching for another morsel. Dominique's brow twitched—just barely—as he watched her eat with the hunger of someone who had not known warmth or comfort for days. Across the table, Nathaniel noticed her gaze flickering nervously toward Leonardo—who remained oblivious, preoccupied with his own quiet thoughts.
Jonathin, however, was not so restrained. Reclining in his seat, he shot Nathaniel a knowing smirk, brows dancing suggestively. His glance flitted from Nathaniel to Ulissa and back again. Nathaniel's jaw tightened. Is he insinuating there's something between us? Jonathin raised his wineglass and mouthed, Tell me all about it later, your highness. Nathaniel's lips barely moved. It's not what you think. Read the room, will you?
The silent exchange drew the faintest twitch of amusement from Jonathin, whose grin only widened as he took a slow sip. The moment fractured when a soft voice broke through. "Julie waited for you, Your Highness," said Jasmine Sutlin from further down the table. "But she fell asleep just before your return."
Nathaniel turned toward her. Jasmine's tone was sweet, but her eyes—those curious, hazel eyes—carried a quiet intelligence that unsettled him. She smiled faintly, the candlelight tracing the edges of her cheekbones. Jasmine Sutlin, he mused. The illegitimate daughter of Count Hertzman. Sister to Duchess Gwendolynn… and yet nothing at all like her.
There was a quiet fire in her gaze—one that spoke of survival, of a woman who had clawed her way back from ruin. She tilted her head slightly. "By the way, Your Highness…" Her eyes flicked toward the Duke, then back to Nathaniel. "If it isn't too much trouble, I would like to request a private audience with you tomorrow."
The room seemed to still, the clatter and chatter folding into silence. Candlelight flickered against the polished silver, and Nathaniel felt every eye at the table turn toward him—some curious, some wary, and one, perhaps, a little too intrigued. Nathaniel nodded in agreement, earning a smile from Jasmine.
**
The moon hung low over the Kartier estate, its pale face veiled in mist. Shadows draped the courtyards like mourning cloth, and the wind sighed through the hollows of the quiet halls. The manor slept—save for the restless whisper of firelight and the faint echo of armored footsteps on distant floors. Then—bang! A violent thud shattered the stillness, followed by another, and another.
Emilia's eyes snapped open. The noise reverberated through her bones, pulling her from sleep. She threw aside the coverlet, her breath quick and sharp in the cold air. The hearth had long since died, and the chill bit at her bare feet as she snatched her shawl from the settee and slipped into the corridor. The hall beyond was a narrow throat of darkness. The sconces had guttered out, leaving only the wan light of the moon bleeding through the arched windows.
Two guards were already hurrying toward Dimitriu's study, their torchlight trembling against the walls as they stopped before Emilia. "What on earth was that noise?" she whispered, her hand pressed to her chest to steady her heart. "We suspect a break in, your grace. Please stay here while we go and check." One knight drew his sword, voice low but urgent. The other leaned close to the half-open door from which a strange golden light spilled—too bright, too steady for ordinary fire. But Emilia Kartier had never been one for obedience.
She followed, her slippered feet silent on the marble, her shawl clutched tight around her shoulders. The closer she drew, the heavier the air grew—thick with the scent of singed parchment and something metallic, almost coppery. Her pulse thrummed in her ears. Then came a voice, booming and triumphant: "It's finally opened!" After a brief silence, a woman's voice, cool and sharp as a blade, scoffed "It did?"
Emilia froze. She knew that voice all too well. Gwendolynn. The former duchess. Her breath stuttered. In a sudden burst of motion, she pushed past the guards and threw open the doors. The lamplight inside struck her like a blow. Candles blazed wildly, casting monstrous shadows over the shelves and velvet drapes. At the center of the chaos stood Gwendolynn, her brown hair gleaming under firelight. Between her fingers dangled a necklace—a silver locket crowned with an oval-shaped ruby that seemed to pulse faintly, as if alive.
Beside her stood Elliot, the stableman, cradling an ornate box, its lock broken, it's outer surface carved with runes that crawled faintly beneath the light. Emilia's voice cut through the charged silence. "I believe my husband made himself perfectly clear when he forbade anyone to enter this room in his absence." Her tone was low, trembling with restrained fury. "So tell me, what are you doing here mother-in-law?"
Elliot's eyes darted toward the floor. He gripped the box tighter, as though it might shield him from Emilia's piercing glare. The glow from the golden runes painted faint sigils on his hands. "I do not owe you an explanation for stepping into my son's study," Gwendolynn hissed, emphasizing the word like venom. "Now, if you'll excuse me, duchess Emilia, I must get to bed for the hour is quite late. Come along, Elliot."
Emilia's gaze flicked to the guards behind her. "Retrieve the necklace," she ordered softly. "And you"—her eyes fixed on Elliot—"leave the box." The copper-haired man hesitated, then nodded. "Yes, your grace." He set the box down upon the desk with trembling fingers. For a heartbeat, it hummed—then fell silent. "Don't you dare touch me!" Gwendolynn snapped as the guards reached for her wrist, attempting to pry the necklace from her hands. The ruby glowed redder in her grasp. "Here—take your cheap little trinket!"
She flung it to the floor. The sound rang through the room like the toll of a bell. The necklace bounced off the carpeted floor and landed at Emilia's feet, the ruby catching the candlelight like a drop of fresh blood. Gwendolynn turned with a hiss of silken nightgown and swept from the room, her perfume trailing behind—a ghostly echo of lilac and ash.
Silence settled in the room as Emilia stared after her, heart still thundering. Every bitter word the former duchess had flung in her direction, every deliberate slight and absence replayed in her mind like a curse. Gwendolynn Kartier had drawn her line long ago, and Emilia had long since grown tired of being the only one trying to bridge the gap between them. "Well," she whispered, stooping to pick up the necklace. "If it's war she wants, I'll grant her one."
The ruby was cool against her palm, smooth as glass. "Thank goodness it didn't crack," she murmured, gazing into its crimson depths. "I'll find a way to return you to my brother soon. He's supposed to know who your real owner is." For an instant—so brief it might have been a trick of the light—something moved within the gem. A faint ripple, like breath against water. Emilia blinked, unaware. She only tightened her shawl and turned toward the door. "Let us go," she said to the guards. They bowed and followed her out, leaving the study swallowed again in shadows. In Emilia's palm, the ruby gave a single, pulsing flicker—then went still.