The room smelled faintly of medicine and wilted lilies; the air was stale, heavy with the residue of sickness and fear. Gwendolynn lay propped up against a mound of silk pillows, her skin ashen, her hair in loose disarray across the embroidered bedding. Every breath she drew was shallow, her chest still sore from the fit that had wracked her just moments before.
Dimitriu sat at her bedside, shoulders stiff beneath the dim glow of the sun. His blonde hair was mussed, his expression one of extreme worry. He held a small wooden tray cluttered with glass bottles and a folded note. "Doctor Fern advised that you get plenty of rest as we closely monitor your condition, Mother," he said softly, voice thick with fatigue. "How are you feeling?"
Gwendolynn let out a low hum, her lips curling faintly. "As though I fell off a steep hill… and miraculously survived." Dimitriu exhaled—a weary sigh that carried more relief than words could. "You gave us quite the scare. Florette was the most affected out of all of us. She refused to leave your side. She only just fell asleep before you woke." He gestured toward the faint shape of a young woman slumped in an armchair nearby, wrapped in a blanket, her breathing soft and even.
"These are the medications you must take regularly," he continued, lifting the tray slightly. "I shall—" "Dimitriu…" Her voice was low, almost tender. He straightened immediately, concern flashing in his eyes. "Yes, Mother. Do you need anything? Is something hurting?" Her gaze drifted to him—slowly, deliberately. The edges of her irises seemed darker than before, a glimmer of something unearthly flickering deep within.
"Will you hold my hand?" There was hesitation—just a heartbeat of it—but he nodded. "Of course." He reached out, taking her cold hand in both of his. His palms were warm, strong, steady—so painfully alive. The room seemed to fall utterly silent. The ticking of the clock dulled. Even the wind beyond the window held its breath. Gwendolynn's lips parted slightly as she felt his warmth seep into her skin, spreading through her arm like fire. Her heart began to pound violently, each beat echoing in her ears.
So warm… so close… A tremor of something sweet and terrible unfurled in her chest. The world around her faded to a blur—her sleeping daughter, the sunlight, the smell of herbs and linen. All that remained was him. She smiled faintly, though her eyes glistened with something unreadable—admiration… or hunger.
"Your hands," she murmured, her voice barely a whisper, "you've grown so much, Dimitriu. When did they become a man's hands?" He blinked, startled, but managed a small laugh. "You're still delirious from the fever, Mother. Rest. Please." Gwendolynn chuckled softly, but the sound was hoarse, too sharp at the edges. "Perhaps." Her grip tightened around his hand—not enough to hurt, but firm enough that he couldn't easily pull away. Her thumb traced the faint blue veins beneath his skin, slow, deliberate.
Dimitriu… what must I do to make you all mine? The thought slithered through her mind like a secret prayer. She leaned back against the pillows, her expression calm, almost serene—but deep in her chest, that same dark pulse from her dream began to stir again.
Outside, the clouds shifted. The light that filtered through the window dimmed, taking on a strange, cold tint—as though something unseen had passed across the sun. And in the reflection of the medicine bottles on the tray, a single crimson eye blinked once… and vanished.
**
The sitting room of the Nextera Palace gleamed like something out of a dream—light spilling through tall, glassy windows, dappling the floor in soft gold. The scent of rosewater and cinnamon tea hung in the air. Fatima sat stiffly across from Nathaniel, every nerve in her body awake, alert.
She stirred her tea absentmindedly as she stared at him, the clink of spoon against porcelain unnervingly loud in the silence. Her eyes flickered to the silver earring in his left ear, it had changed since yesterday. It was more ornate today, like molten starlight had been captured and shaped into an heirloom. Even his aura had shifted. Gone was the sharp-edged prince who used to glare daggers her way. This Nathaniel radiated calm warmth, his amber eyes soft with something that made her stomach twist. Get a grip, Fatima, she scolded herself inwardly, but her mind wandered anyway.
"I wonder…" she mumbled to herself, setting the teacup in its saucer. Would biting his arm actually hurt him? Or would my teeth just… shatter? Hm, maybe I should— Though she finished the sentence in her mind, her eyes traced Nathaniel's arm like a predator sizing a prey. The prince blinked, cocking his head to the side. "Why are you making that weird—kind of lewd—face? You're scaring me, princess." Her head snapped up. "Huh? Oh! S-sorry!" she blurted, her laugh coming out high-pitched and awkward.
Nathaniel chuckled, low and genuine, though his face was pink from ear to ear. For a heartbeat, he looked like the Nathaniel she used to tease—the boy who smiled with his eyes but tried to hide it behind a veil of composure. He leaned forward, his smile fading into something more serious. "Shall we begin?"
Fatima nodded, her pulse quickening. "I imagine you have questions," he said, reclining easily in his chair. His movements were so smooth it was almost unfair—crossing one leg over the other, arms folded, a teasing smirk playing on his lips. "Especially after last night."
Last night. The memory burned through her chest like fire. She took a deep, steadying breath. "Your highness…" She hesitated, voice trembling slightly. "You weren't serious about what you said at dinner last night, were you?" Nathaniel's head tilted, his expression unreadable. "I don't understand your question." Her stomach flipped. Is he joking right now? "Your highness, please—this is serious." She pressed gently, her brows furrowing lightly. "I'm always serious when it comes to you," he said softly. Then, after a beat: "I meant every word I said."
His voice had deepened over the years—richer, darker—and there was something dangerous about how calm he sounded. Fatima's throat tightened. "I… I don't understand." Her hands fidgeted with the edge of her skirt. "Why would you propose marriage to someone like me? I'm not a princess anymore. I'm just…" She swallowed hard, the words tasting bitter on her tongue. "I'm just a commoner now. I have nothing to offer you."
The truth stung worse than a wound, tears welling up in her eyes. Her voice cracked as she added, "If anything, I'd bring you misfortune. Your reputation could be ruined because of me." Nathaniel said nothing. He just stood slowly, his chair scraping softly against the marble floor. When he approached, the air seemed to thicken. Then, without a word, he held out a small handkerchief.
"Do you remember this?" he said, smiling faintly. "Someone I cherish very fondly gave it to me." The phrase hit her like a slap. Someone he cherished. Her chest tightened—but then she looked down and froze. The cheap fabric she'd borrowed from the servants at the Chilsela villa. The flawless embroidery. The golden thread she'd used to painstakingly embroider the golden phoenix, and the small heart she added at the last minute because she wanted to tease him. Her own handiwork. Her heart jumped to her throat as she rose abruptly. "W-wait—this is—!" She stumbled back, the settee skidding backwards as she flailed, but before she could fall, Nathaniel caught her effortlessly, one arm steadying her waist, the other behind her head as they tumbled onto the velvet sofa together.
The two stared into each other's eyes as though they had just discovered a whole new realm in there. Neither dared to move or blink, the moment too intense, too tender to disturb. Fatima's chest heaved, but she barely noticed as she clutched the handkerchief against her racing heart. Nathaniel slowly leaned down, the red strands of his hair falling softly on her the front of her gown as his grip tightened around her waist. Fatima flinched but didn't move. Instead, she shut her eyes, anticipating the kiss with breathless excitement. Just when their lips were about to touch, the door burst open.
Bettie and the maids gasped audibly, their faces beet red as they scurried back out of the room. "P-please forgive us for interrupting!" Bettie squeaked, shooing the dawdling maids. "We'll just—leave you two to it!" "Wait! It's not—Bettie!" Fatima groaned, face buried in her hands. The moment was gone, the romantic tension in the atmosphere dissipating into nothingness as Nathaniel straightened first, his laughter rumbling softly beside her, warm and amused. "Your expression," he murmured between chuckles, "is priceless."
Her heart wouldn't calm down. "You're all flushed," he teased gently. "Are you feeling ill? Should I call for the physician?" "Speak for yourself," she shout back, dabbing the back of her hand to her burning cheeks. "Your ears are red." "Bettie and her pesky maids." He grumbled, returning to his seat, expression sobering. The teasing melted away, replaced by a quiet intensity.
"Back to what I was saying. I've thought about this for five years, Fatima. I know you have, too." Her name on his lips sent a shiver down her spine but she forced herself to remain composed. "I know you want justice for your family," he continued, his hands curling into fists. "But you can't face your sister alone. Let me be your sword and shield. I will lend you my strength and everything else you will need to achieve your goal."
Something inside her broke open. Warmth spread through her chest, gentle but powerful—like sunlight melting through winter frost. His voice dropped lower. "That night five years ago… I heard what she said. What she did. I wanted to strike her down right then. Trust me when I say it took everything in me not to drive my sword into her heart." His knuckles whitened, jaw tight. "If I'd come sooner— or if I'd shown up any later, she would have—" "Don't," Fatima interrupted softly. "Please. It's not your fault, Nathan."
He looked at her, anguish flickering across his face. "If it wasn't for you," she whispered, "I would not be here at all. So, I owe you my thanks for saving my life, Nathan." She said, her voice quivering as she rose from her seat. "Meeting you was the greatest blessing I've ever been granted, one I don't even deserve to have but at the same time I am grateful for. Thank you so much for everything you've ever done for me." She leaned forward and pressed her lips gently to his forehead. "A Syphus gesture of gratitude." She smiled, her tears finally spilling free down her pink cheeks. His entire body went rigid. His face turned completely scarlet. Fatima bit back a laugh. "You didn't know, did you?" "I… do now," he muttered, eyes darting away. Although I wish the kiss had landed…elsewhere, he thought greedily. The tension in the room disappeared, the air now felt light as the two sat next to each other, laughing and chattering their day away.
**
"Why on earth hasn't that blasted prince told the emperor yet?" Gwendolynn muttered, drumming her index finger against the edge of the table. Each tap was sharp, impatient, like the ticking of a clock that refused to move fast enough. A warm late-summer breeze toyed with the silk ribbons of her sleeves, carrying the sweet scent of jasmine tea and the low hum of bees from the garden beyond the pavilion. None of it soothed her nerves.
"I have an entire list of excuses prepared—an elegant array of lies, even a perfectly good scapegoat waiting in the wings." She groaned, slumping back in her seat. "And still, silence! His silence is maddening. It's as if he's doing it on purpose just to watch me squirm." She sighed—a long, weary breath that fluttered her curls.
"Mother? What are you grumbling about all by yourself?" The voice made her flinch. Gwendolynn turned to see her daughter, Florette, approaching across the tiled path. The sunlight caught on her pale blonde hair and tear-damp lashes. There were faint shadows beneath her eyes, the kind only heartbreak or sleepless nights could carve.
"Did something happen, my sweet?" Gwendolynn asked, forcing her lips into a smile. "Why the long face? Come, sit here and tell Mother everything." She patted the cushion beside her. Florette hesitated only a moment before sinking down. "I went to see the crown prince again," she began, voice trembling. "But this time—he wouldn't even let me through the gates. The guards turned me away like I was…like I was nothing." Her breath hitched as tears welled again. "He must still be furious about what happened."
"Oh, darling, don't cry," Gwendolynn murmured, wrapping an arm around her daughter's shoulders. The girl's sobs shuddered against her chest. "His highness' anger will cool soon enough. Men like him thrive on the drama of it all. And you two—" she tilted Florette's chin up with a manicured finger— "you're meant to be together, aren't you? Fate doesn't crumble so easily."
But Florette wasn't listening. Her eyes, red and wet, burned with sudden determination. "Mother, we can't just sit around!" she exclaimed, jerking upright. "We must go to him—right now—and apologize in person. If I can just make him see how sorry I am, he'll forgive me. He has to!" She grabbed her mother's arm, tugging with surprising strength. "Come, quickly! Before he decides he never wants to see me again!"
Gwendolynn blinked, caught between alarm and disbelief. The air between them seemed to tighten, the garden sounds fading into a distant hum. "Oh, my poor sweetheart," she whispered, though whether it was pity or panic that colored her voice, even she couldn't tell. "What are we going to do now…"
Her hand trembled slightly as she reached for her teacup— the fear of her daughter's desperation reaching an irreversible threshold gnawing at her. The tea had gone cold.
**
In the end, Nathaniel and Fatima had agreed to postpone the matter of avenging her family's deaths—a heavy conversation wrapped in too many unanswered questions. For now, silence felt safer than a decision neither of them could fully bear to make.
Truthfully, Fatima wasn't sure what the right decision even looked like. The desire to see Irrys fall burned steadily in her chest, but the thought of using someone—using Nathaniel—to achieve that end made her stomach twist. No, she couldn't do that to him. Not to the man who looked at her as if she were something more than the ghosts of her past.
She didn't ask where they were going, but she could guess. The faint clang of metal and the rhythmic shouts of men training drifted through the stone corridor, echoing like distant thunder. The scent of steel, sweat, and oiled leather hung faintly in the air.
Nathaniel walked beside her, his gait sure and unhurried, the low rustle of his cape brushing against the tiled floor. "You have been sighing since we left the drawing room," he said, glancing her way with the faintest curve of a smile. "What troubles you so, princess?"
She hesitated before answering. "I noticed there were no guards following us. Why is that?" "This is my personal space," he replied smoothly, his tone both casual and commanding. "Only a select few are permitted entry. The training ground lies close to my palace, and those within it serve directly under my authority." His own training field?
The thought echoed in her mind, tinged with awe. Just how powerful is this man? Nathaniel stopped before a large wooden gate bound in iron. "We have arrived." The heavy doors swung open, and Fatima's breath caught. When he'd said personal space, she had imagined something small, intimate—perhaps a quiet courtyard or a private hall. Not this.
Before them stretched a vast expanse of stone and sand. Rows of armored knights stood at rigid attention, their gazes snapping toward Nathaniel the moment he entered. The air was charged, heavy with discipline and the lingering echo of halted motion.
But what drew her attention most were the four figures at the front—towering men whose presence seemed to command the very ground they stood on. Their builds were massive, their postures proud, their faces carved with the kind of strength that spoke of both war and honor.
"This is my court, princess," Nathaniel said, his voice carrying easily across the silent field. "Some of these faces you've seen before during the delegation, but these four are new recruits. They hail from the Uluka tribe—sent to Lithiar's aid during the war. Uler, Uwol, Ulrick, and Ulyx."
Fatima blinked. Did he just say Uluka? The Uluka tribe? Her heart gave a quick, unsteady leap. "It is a pleasure to meet you, princess!" the four men said in unison, their voices deep enough to rumble through the air as they bowed. She startled slightly, caught off guard by their synchrony. "Likewise," she managed quickly, forcing her voice not to tremble.
"They style their hair differently," Nathaniel continued, a faint smirk ghosting his lips, "to help others tell them apart. However—Fati?" But she wasn't listening. Her eyes were wide, shining with a childlike wonder she hadn't felt in years. She had read about the Uluka tribe countless times—warriors of legend, protectors of their kin, men said to move like beasts and strike like lightning. And now they stood before her in the flesh, every bit as magnificent as the stories had promised.
Nathaniel's voice pulled her back to the present. "That is all for today. We'll return another time, princess. You four—resume training at once." The men bowed and dispersed with crisp precision, the metallic rhythm of their weapons filling the air once more.
Wait! she thought, her lips parting in protest as her gaze lingered on the departing warriors. I'm not through gawking! But Nathaniel was already walking away, a faint, knowing smile playing at the corner of his mouth.