Fatima pushed herself upright, still blinking away the haze of sleep. Cali hopped indignantly to the foot of the bed, sulking in a puff of ruffled feathers. Emilia lingered a few steps inside the room. Her hands fidgeted at her sides, unsure where to rest. "My sincere apologies, your highness," she murmured, dipping her head. "It seems I interrupted your afternoon rest."
Fatima blinked. Your highness? The formality hit her with a strange chill. The duchess never addressed her like that before. Not when they were alone. "It's quite alright, your grace," Fatima replied with an awkward chuckle. Her voice sounded lighter than she felt, as if it floated somewhere above the heavy throb in her chest.
Fatima lifted her gaze just enough to study Emilia's expression. Her pale complexion, the slight tremor in her lips, the softness in her breath. Fatima's brows pinched with worry. She had braced herself for scolding, sharp remarks, or cold detachment. Instead, she found the duchess looking as if someone had snatched the wind from her lungs.
"P-please allow me to explain," Fatima blurted, voice cracking with unease. "I am truly sorry," Emilia said at the same time. The words collided awkwardly between them. Emilia exhaled, taking the lead with quiet determination. She moved farther into the room, fingers brushing the ornate bedpost as if steadying herself.
"Fatima, I…" She hesitated, eyes briefly drifting toward the window where the fading sunlight burned a warm orange. "I keep thinking about the first time we met. At the Syphus Palace. Do you remember?"
Fatima stiffened, confusion flickering across her face. "We've met before?" "That day I got lost," Emilia continued. Her voice grew softer, almost fragile. "Wandering the hallways like an idiot tourist. I thought every corridor looked the same. The guards had warned me, but I insisted I knew my way until I didn't. Then you appeared. A tiny princess with sand on your cheeks and a grin so wide it was impossible not to trust you."
Fatima's eyes widened, the memory flooding through her mind. "You grabbed my hand without asking," Emilia said, smiling faintly at the memory. "You dragged me to the gardens, tossed your shoes aside and demanded I race you. I laughed harder that day than I had in months."
Fatima swallowed. Her fingers curled into the blanket. "I fell asleep that night still laughing," Emilia said. "When I woke up, I realized that you, a stranger at the time, made me feel safe. So, you can imagine how it felt to find out you almost died. Twice. Without ever telling me who you really were or what you were running from." The confession cracked her voice.
Emilia drew a shaky breath, forcing herself not to look away. Fatima lowered her gaze, guilt settling heavily in her chest. "I never meant to deceive you. I only…" She paused as her earlier confusion crept back. "I just… I did not know how to talk about it with you. After Irrys's betrayal, I became skeptical of everything and everyone around me except prince Nathaniel." She sniffled and covered her face.
Emilia's features softened even more. Seeing Fatima like this vulnerable, embarrassed, aching, was enough to shift something inside her. "You don't have to explain," Emilia said gently. "But you do have to stop carrying everything alone. It hurts to think you didn't trust me enough to speak."
Fatima slowly lowered her hands. "I was afraid. If you knew what kingdom I came from, who hunted me, who wanted me dead, I thought you'd deem me a threat, a burden, and push me away." "I wouldn't," Emilia said quickly. "Not then, and certainly not now."
Silence settled between them. Not cold. Not sharp. Just thick with everything they had never said. Finally, Fatima let out a trembling breath and whispered, "I'm sorry." "And I'm sorry," Emilia answered.
Their apologies overlapped again but this time it made them both laugh. A small giggle at first. Then warmth filled their voices, cracking through the earlier tension. Fatima covered her mouth as tears gathered at the corners of her eyes. Emilia wiped at her own before they could fall.
The gloom that had tightened the air slowly dissolved. The room brightened with quiet laughter, relieved smiles, and a tenderness neither of them tried to hide anymore. "Do you remember calling me 'big sister that day?" Emilia teased, flopping on the edge of the bed. "I-I did?" Fatima stammered. "Oh, don't you dare pretend you don't remember. I thought it was the cutest thing back then." Emilia added as the two burst into laughter.
By the time their conversation softened into gentle murmurs, there was nothing left but giggles, joyful tears, and the kind of apologies that stitched two hearts closer than before.
**
After escorting Emilia to her carriage, Fatima returned to her chambers and collapsed face first on the mattress, letting out a groan that vibrated into the blankets. "I am so terribly exhausted," she muttered, limbs sprawled in all directions like an overdramatic painting of despair. Her eyelids felt heavy and her thoughts were soft and fuzzy. She had not seen Nathaniel at all that day, and the absence tugged at her like a small, persistent thread.
He had better not be overworking again. Nathaniel had a talent for pushing himself until he forgot sleep existed. Fatima sighed into the pillow and tried to shove the thought away. Thinking required energy she did not have. A knock sounded and a familiar voice followed. "Fati? Are you awake?"
Her body shot upright, traitorous in its eagerness. She grabbed the nearest shawl and flung it over her shoulders, smoothed the wrinkles in her clothes and pinched her cheeks for color. A quick glance in the mirror told her she looked only mildly chaotic. Good enough. She hurried to the chair beside the fireplace and posed herself as if she had been deeply engaged in literature instead of face-planted on a bed moments ago.
"Yes. Please come in," she said, attempting to sound calm while she subtly tried to catch her breath. Nathaniel stepped inside, carrying with him the warm scent of fresh soap. His nightwear was simple, though the way his damp shirt clung to him betrayed the lines of his muscles. Droplets slid down strands of wet hair that framed his face and glimmered in the firelight. His steps were slow, heavy and steady, filling the quiet room with an air of someone important trying very hard not to look important.
"To what do I owe the honor of your highness' sudden visit?" Fatima asked, clearing her throat. Her eyes remained fixed on the book she had grabbed in haste, the spine not even opened. Nathaniel arched a brow at her. "Is it so strange that a fiancé wishes to spend time with the woman he loves at unreasonable hours?"
"Please spare me the flattering josh. I am rather busy at the moment, your highness." "You're holding the book upside down, darling." Her stomach somersaulted. Why is he being sweet tonight of all nights? It made her chest feel warm and uncomfortably fluttery. "Thank you for your insight, your highness. I was merely learning how to read upturned." "Is that so?" he murmured, amusement softening his voice as he sat beside her.
He sounded tired. Truly tired. It clung to his words like a low fog and settled around her. He should have gone straight to bed after washing up. What is he doing here? "I missed you today," he said simply.
He leaned his head onto her shoulder and her heart reacted like someone had struck a drum inside her chest. "Are you alright, your highness?" she whispered. "I am tired, my dearest darling." His voice was quiet and warm against her shoulder. "If you are tired, then you should rest. It is quite late." "My bed is right here."
Her entire body went stiff. This man is going to send me to an early grave. "Wait here, your highness. I will fetch a towel to dry your hair." His wet hair had been bothering her since he walked in. She returned with the towel and found him watching her with a barely concealed smile. "What is so funny, your highness?" she asked. "You, of course. Who reads upturned in this day and age?"
She groaned softly. I should have come up with a more believable excuse. "Please straighten your head, your highness." He obeyed. The room settled into a peaceful hush as she carefully patted his hair. The only sounds were the soft rustle of the towel and the steady crackle of the fire. His hair was surprisingly silky and longer than she remembered when it was not tied back. A few strands kept slipping between her fingers and brushing her wrists.
"Fati…" he said quietly. "Yes?" Her voice jumped. "What is it, your highness?" He caught her wrists gently. His hands were warm, worryingly warm. Is he falling ill? "If it is alright with you," he began slowly, his eyes lifting to meet hers, "might I have the honor of courting your heart?" Fatima froze. "P-pardon?"
Nathaniel looked serious and entirely vulnerable, as if the question itself were a secret he had been carrying around for far too long. Fatima stared at him as if he had suddenly grown wings. Her hands remained trapped in his, warm and firm, and her mind abandoned all thoughts of decorum. The fire crackled in the hearth while her heartbeat made enough noise to be heard in neighboring kingdoms.
Nathaniel watched her with patient affection, though the faint shadows under his eyes betrayed the weight of the day. The man looked ready to fall asleep right there at her knees, yet his gaze held a clear spark that made her stomach coil.
"You cannot be serious," Fatima finally whispered. Nathaniel tilted his head slightly. "I am serious. Entirely serious. Painfully serious." Her throat tightened. She pulled her wrists gently, but he held them as if he feared she might disappear if he let go. His fingers were not tight or forceful, only steady and warm, like someone holding onto something precious only because it chose to be there.
She swallowed hard. "Your highness, I am not… I am not someone whose heart is worth courting." His brows rose with soft offense. "I decide what my heart considers worth." "Please do not speak like that," she said, her voice trembling. "You have an entire empire watching you. Advisors ready to scold you. Alliances to maintain. Meanwhile I am…" Her words dissolved. She looked away toward the fireplace so he would not see her face twist. "I am a nobody now."
The words tasted like ash. She hated saying them aloud, but they cornered her every time she thought of him. A prince. A future monarch. A man who could have chosen anyone. Her, on the other hand, she was someone who should not have survived what happened to her. Her past carved hollows in her chest, ones she feared would swallow anyone foolish enough to get close.
Nathaniel leaned closer until she felt the warmth of his breath on her cheek. He loosened his grip on her wrists only to lace his fingers with hers. "Fati," he said softly, "you are not a nobody." "You do not understand," she whispered. "I have nothing to offer you. No family name. No consequential status. No dowry. No allies. A-and My heart…" She pressed her lips together. "It is still broken and useless. Why would you want something like that?"
He let the silence settle a moment. Then he lifted one of her hands and pressed a gentle kiss to the back of her knuckles. The simple gesture made her entire spine seize. "Because," Nathaniel murmured, "you are still here. After everything. You survived when others would have surrendered. You were betrayed by the person you loved and trusted and had your heart shattered, yet you still laugh. You still care for others. That heart of yours is not useless. It is extraordinarily strong."
Her breath shook. She tried to look away, but he caught her chin lightly between his fingers and guided her gaze back to his. His eyes were startlingly sincere, softened by exhaustion and illuminated by the glow of the fire.
"And even if your heart is in pieces," he said, "I want the privilege of holding every one of them." Her face burned. Her lungs forgot how to work. She could barely keep her voice steady. "Your highness, please. Do not say things like that. It makes it impossible for me to think." "Good," he said with a tired, mischievous smile. "Thinking is what has kept you from me."
She nearly smacked him with the towel. He laughed lightly when he saw the expression on her face, although his voice held a sleepy rasp. "I am not asking for a perfect answer tonight. I am simply asking you to let me try. Let me court you. Let me be someone you do not have to be afraid of losing."
Fatima blinked rapidly. A lump formed in her throat, thick and humiliating. She wanted to tell him yes. She also wanted to run as fast as her legs could carry her. Both feelings pulled her apart like children fighting over a treasured toy. "I… I do not know if I can give you what you deserve," she whispered.
Nathaniel rested his forehead against hers with a tenderness that melted her knees. "Fati, I only want you. Whatever version of you exists. Even the messy one who reads upside down." She let out a weak, half strangled laugh. "You are never going to forget that, are you?" "Not a chance."
Her entire body hummed with awareness. His closeness. His warmth. His earnestness. It was suffocating in the most dangerous and wonderful way. And yet she still could not give him a neat answer. "Nathan…" She swallowed hard. "I need time." His expression softened, as if he had expected that. "Then time is what I will give you." He lifted her hand again and brushed his thumb over her knuckles. "But know this. I am not giving up." Her heart thudded so violently she feared the whole palace might hear.
**
A few days had slipped by since that disastrous night, and Fatima felt every hour of it pressing under her skin. She had made an art out of avoiding Nathaniel. She skipped breakfast, claiming she was still too full from her midday feasts with the empress. At night she lay perfectly still and tried to breathe like someone fast asleep whenever he came by to check on her. During her afternoon walks, she dove into hedges like a hunted rabbit the moment she spotted him. It was getting pathetic and she knew it. Her nerves were frayed and her shoulders sagged under the strain.
"Please straighten your arms, princess." The couturier's voice coaxed her back into the present. Today was the final fitting before the victory celebration ball. Sunlight poured through the dressing room windows and glinted off pins, silk and jewel trays. It smelled faintly of lavender polish and expensive fabric. The princess lifted her arms and felt the cool brush of satin skim her skin. The gown no longer resembled the simple illustration she'd chosen from the catalogue. It had grown into a shimmering spectacle of pearls, embroidery and delicate beadwork. She had no idea how Madam Dupree had accomplished this in only a few days. Even in Syphus, she had never seen craftsmanship like it.
"As I mentioned before, Madam Dupree is the most outstanding couturier in all the land. A true cream of the crop, I say." The empress practically sang the praise. She had been repeating the same line since she arrived, as if she were trying to convince not only the princess but also herself. It was the most enthusiastic the empress had ever sounded over another human being. "Your majesty flatters me," Madam Dupree replied, her voice low and velvety. It carried a strange calm, almost like morning wind slipping through open shutters.
Fatima studied her discreetly. Dupree's cat-eyed spectacles hid most of her expression, though her silver irises gleamed like thin bolts of lightning. Her long lashes rested in a way that made her look perpetually serene. Strands of golden-brown hair grazed her cheekbones as she moved. No powder, rouge, or gloss touched her skin. She didn't need any of it. Her beauty had its own gravity. And yet those silver eyes never once rose to meet Fatima's.
"It is ready, your majesty," Dupree said at last. "From this point on, no further alterations will be necessary." "Excellent. Let us head to the dining hall now." The empress clapped her hands together with the eagerness of someone who believed everyone should follow her schedule. "I'm afraid I must decline, your majesty. There are urgent matters at my boutique that require attention."
The empress froze. Her head snapped around so sharply that the princess heard the rustle of her heavy skirts. She stared at the couturier as if she were contemplating whether etiquette truly prevented her from lunging. The air the two women created became unbearably tight. Even the attendants went stiff, eyes darting toward the nearest exits.
The empress inhaled slowly. "Very well. You may go," she said. Her smile was thin, strained at the corners. "Thank you for your services, Countess Joleen Dupree." The woman bowed with practiced grace. "I shall have everything delivered to the crown prince's castle by this afternoon, your majesty." But the empress was already sweeping out of the room. The door hit the frame with a startling crack that vibrated through the floorboards.
Everyone in the room let out the same exhausted sigh, including the usually unruffled countess. Fatima lowered her arms and muttered, "Is she always like this?" Dupree adjusted her spectacles. For the first time, she spared the princess a brief glance. "Only with those she cannot control." Then she turned away and gathered her things with a calm that felt almost defiant. The princess watched her leave, unable to decide whether she admired the woman or feared her just a little.
**
The next day rolled in with the restless energy of a market crowd. Alkaraz buzzed from end to end as the victory celebration rolled through its three grand rituals. First came the parade, where the surviving soldiers marched through the capital streets to cheers that shook windows. Then the temple bells tolled over the city as the masses gathered to honor the dead. And now everyone waited for the final segment, the banquet that would stretch on for days and test the limits of every noble's charm.
Fatima tried to steady her breathing, but her nerves twitched like cold fingertips. The palace corridors outside her room hummed with servants rushing past, the air thick with perfumes, hot irons, and the faint scent of sun-warmed stone. Her throat felt dry. "I hope I don't ruin anything tonight." She muttered to herself.
She had asked Bettie about Madam Dupree earlier that morning. The facts still clung to her mind like a story that refused to stay quiet. Joleen Dupree, the empress' younger sister, brilliant and unpredictable. A designer whose name alone made courtiers sit up straighter. A widow whose husband had collapsed from heart failure barely a year into their marriage. A woman who had then lost a child and almost herself in the grief that followed. And then, one morning, she simply stopped trying to disappear, and returned to her first love, fashion, and carved out a new life with needle, thread, and raw stubbornness. "No wonder her designs had such sharp edges." Fatima pondered deeply, her lips curving into a small smile.
"Your Highness, the crown prince's cavalcade just reached its final stop," a maid announced as she stepped into the room. Her voice sounded slightly breathless, as if she had run part of the way. "Thank you, Celia," Fatima said.
Another maid hovered behind her, fingers steady as she fastened the last ornament into Fatima's silver hair. "Are you sure you're alright, Princess?" she asked, peering at Fatima's reflection in the polished bronze mirror. "Your cheeks look a bit pale."
Fatima forced a small smile, but her pulse flickered under her skin. "I'm fine. Just a little… overwhelmed. Please continue." The maid nodded and adjusted her grip on Fatima's chin. "Tilt your head up, your Highness. I need to apply the lip tint."
Fatima obeyed. The cool brush touched her lower lip, and she tasted the faint sweetness of crushed berries. The room around her rustled with silks, whispering sandals, and the soft clink of hairpins. Outside, distant trumpets signaled the crown prince's arrival, sending another jolt through her chest.
Celia glanced toward the balcony and then back at Fatima, lowering her voice as if sharing gossip in a crowded hall. "The entire palace is watching today, princess. Everyone's whispering about the banquet. About you and the prince."
Fatima swallowed. "And what are they whispering exactly?" "That they cannot wait to meet the prince's mysterious guest," Celia said with a hopeful smile. Fatima wasn't sure whether that comforted her or made her stomach twist even harder.