Taoist Courtyard - Midnight
The scent of sandalwood ink curled through the stillness as Grace's brush danced across rice paper, each stroke a meditation. Moonlight filtered through the bamboo screens, casting lattice shadows that trembled when the courtyard gate creaked open.
No announcement came. No servant dared enter uninvited. Yet Grace's brush never faltered as her voice floated through the night air: "Congratulations, Your Highness, on obtaining your heart's desire."
Werner Von stepped into the ink-washed tranquility like a storm front, his riding boots crushing fallen magnolia petals. "Predicting my visit, Sister Grace?" He breathed in the courtyard's serenity as if stealing it. "Or have you been expecting others tonight?"
The brush paused mid-character. Grace lifted eyes like still water to meet his turbulent gaze. "You and Her Majesty share similar... restlessness."
Werner's amusement curdled. He kicked aside a meditation cushion to straddle a chair before her desk, the wood groaning under his tension. "That woman clings to delusions." His knuckles whitened around the chairback. "She actually believes her bastard could—"
"—Could what?" Grace's brush resumed its dance, the question floating as lightly as incense smoke. "Rule?"
The prince's laugh was a dagger drawn. "You've always played neutral, Sister. But tonight..." He leaned forward, caging her between his arms on the lacquered desk. "...choose. Me or that scheming whore?"
Ink bled across the scripture where Grace's brush had jerked. She set it aside with deliberate calm, the candlelight tracing the elegant bones of her face as she met his challenge.
"My loyalty was purchased with your father's mercy." Her fingers, stained with ink and destiny, framed her face like a sacred mask. "I serve the crown—not its temporary wearer."
Werner's breath hitched when those fathomless eyes pinned him. For the first time in his charmed life, someone looked at him—not through him, not past him—and saw the hunger of throne behind the prince.
Werner pushed back from his chair with deliberate slowness, the legs scraping against the polished wood like a blade being drawn. He moved toward Grace with the quiet confidence of a predator circling prey, his shadow stretching long across the scroll-strewn table.
When he reached her, he didn't stop.
Instead, he braced both hands on the desk, caging her between his arms, his broad shoulders blocking out the candlelight. The sudden proximity made the air between them thick—scented with ink, sandalwood, and something sharper, something dangerous.
Grace's brush stilled. For the first time in years, her composure flickered—just a breath, just a heartbeat—before she schooled her features back into serenity. She tilted her head up, meeting his gaze without retreat.
"What can I do for you, Your Highness?"
Her voice was steady, but Werner didn't miss the way her fingers had tightened around the brush.
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he studied her—the dark sweep of her lashes, the stubborn set of her mouth, the way the candlelight gilded the curve of her cheek. Then, quietly, almost thoughtfully, he asked:"Do you really intend to waste away in this temple?"
Grace didn't reply straightly,"Is it a waste to serve the gods?"
Werner's lips curled. "You serve power, Grace. Just like the rest of us." His voice dropped lower, rougher. "You're young. You're beautiful. And yet you'll spend your life copying scriptures while men like me decide the fate of kingdoms?"
Grace set the brush down. Then, to his surprise, she leaned forward, resting her chin in her hands, her dark eyes locking onto his with unnerving directness.
"Are you offering to marry me, Your Highness?"
The question—bold, mocking—caught him off guard. For a fleeting second, something flickered in his gaze. Surprise? Amusement? Something hotter, something hungrier?
Then he laughed, low and rough. "You know the law. A king's consort must be noble-born."
Grace didn't look away."Then what are you offering?"
Werner exhaled, his breath stirring a loose strand of her hair.
"Glory. Wealth. Influence." His voice turned softer, almost intimate. "A life that matters. Isn't that better than fading into obscurity?"
Grace held his gaze for a long moment. Then, slowly, she smiled—not the placid smile of a priestess, but something sharper, more knowing. "And what would you ask in return?"
Werner's eyes darkened.
"Loyalty."
Grace leaned back, just enough to break the tension. "Then you already have it." She murmured. "To the crown."
Werner straightened, his expression unreadable. "Think on it, Grace ,It's true that you can't be my wife--the Queen in future, but apart from this, I can give you endless glory and wealth." He added, "at least it's better to be with me than to return to your East hometown for a lonely life when you're old and forlorn."
Grace exhaled through her nose, a quiet, exasperated sound, as she massaged her temples. "Your Highness." She said, her voice laced with the patience of a tutor addressing a particularly stubborn pupil, "before we plan my pathetic future life, perhaps we should focus on the more pressing matter--- your future queen."
Werner blinked, as if startled out of a daydream, then straightened. The charming, careless prince slipped back into place like a well-worn mask. But his hands betrayed him—fingers curling into fists, knuckles whitening with the force of his grip. He stared at them, as though surprised by his own hunger.
"Military power," he murmured, more to himself than to her. "That's the key." His gaze sharpened, the blue of his eyes turning glacial. "Duke Scott Edwards. Minister of War. His three sons died for the crown—now all he has left is his daughter." A slow, calculating smile spread across his face. "And if she becomes my wife, his loyalty—and his armies—become mine."
Grace did not look up from her scripture. The brush moved in steady, unhurried strokes, ink blooming across the page like spilled secrets.
"The king has three sons", she remarked, her tone deceptively light. "Why you?"
Werner barked a laugh, sharp and humorless. "Because my father is a coward." He said, leaning back in his chair with a predator's grace. "He doesn't want a successor. He wants a son—one who adores him, who fights for his affection, not his throne."
Werner's lips curled in cold amusement as he examined his signet ring, the gold catching candlelight like a tiny crown. "My brothers never understood the game." He mused, rotating the ring slowly. "Especially that pretentious bastard Eden." A derisive snort escaped him. "Sita's whelp actually believes father wants a competent heir."
"Every time Eden 'accidentally' solves some state problem in council, every time he 'humbly' demonstrates his tactical knowledge..." Werner's fingers mimicked a puppet's dance. "He thinks he's proving his worth. When in reality—" His hand clenched suddenly, crushing the imaginary strings. "—he's only proving his ambition."
"Father doesn't want a successor." Werner continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "He wants a mirror - one that reflects back his own glory without threatening to shatter it." A cruel smile played across his features. "So I give him what he craves - the devoted son, the loyal companion. Let Eden play the prodigy. I'll play the beloved fool."
Grace inclined her head in quiet acknowledgment—then sighed, the sound soft as silk unraveling. "And yet..." She lifted her gaze, her dark eyes sharp with warning. "This same devoted son, upon learning he would inherit the Central Palace, suddenly declares his intention to wed the Minister of War's daughter?"
A beat of silence.
Werner went very still.
Grace tilted her head, studying him with the quiet intensity of a scholar examining a flawed thesis. "Tell me, Your Highness—if you were the king, would you not question such convenient timing?"
Werner's jaw tightened.
Grace continued, her voice deceptively mild. "And why, I wonder, did His Majesty announce his decision tonight—only to delay the formal decree for two days?"
Werner waved a dismissive hand. "The scribes need time to draft the proclamation—"
"No." Grace's interruption was gentle, but absolute. "He is waiting." She set down her brush with deliberate care. "Waiting to see whom you choose."
Werner's fingers twitched toward the hilt of his absent sword.
Grace leaned forward, the candlelight carving shadows across her face. "You know your father better than anyone. His crown is not something to be taken—it must be given. And this?" She gestured toward Werner's unfinished plan. "This is not devotion. This is ambition, laid bare."
A cold realization crept into Werner's eyes.
For the first time that night, something like panic flickered across Werner's face—just a flash, quickly smothered beneath a veneer of princely composure. His fingers tightened around the edge of Grace's desk, knuckles whitening.
"Then who—" The words slipped out before he could stop them, raw and unguarded. "Do I really have to lose Duke Edwards'support?"
Grace did not look up from her scripture. The brush moved in smooth, unhurried strokes, ink bleeding into parchment like a secret.
"Duke Edwards is not the only man with an army," she said , her voice as measured as her calligraphy. "But he is the only one who has buried three sons for the crown." She lifted her gaze then, dark eyes unreadable. "What else does such a man have left to lose?"
Werner answered. "His daughter."
Grace inclined her head. "And if you make her your queen, you bind his loyalty with more than politics. With blood."
"But tell me, Your Highness——can you swear to cherish her? To keep no mistresses? Or the easiest part---keep your mistresses away from her until Duke Edwards die?"
Werner's gaze locked with Grace's, the flickering candlelight casting shifting shadows across their faces. A slow, calculating smile curved his lips as he straightened from his predatory lean.
"Very well." He conceded, the playful lilt returning to his voice. "I shall... reconsider my options. And when the time comes," he added with deliberate casualness, "I'll have you divine the most auspicious match for your future king." His fingers tapped a careless rhythm against the desk. "Ensure the stars favor my choice, won't you?"
Grace's answering nod was serene, her smile perfectly measured. "It would be my honor, Your Highness." With deliberate theatricality, she extended her hand palm-up, rubbing thumb against fingers in the universal gesture of transaction.
Werner barked a laugh, rich with genuine amusement. Reaching into his embroidered sleeve, he produced a gold ingot and sent it spinning through the air. Grace caught it without blinking, the metal disappearing into her robes with practiced ease.
"Truly, Sister." Werner teased, shaking his head, "your devotion to worldly treasures would scandalize the gods themselves. What else does your holy heart desire? Silks? Pearls?"
Grace's eyes sparkled with mischief as she mimed adjusting imaginary earrings. "Jewels do have their... spiritual benefits."
Chuckling, Werner turned toward the door, his cloak swirling dramatically. "Help me claim my throne." He called over his shoulder, the promise hanging between them. "And you'll need a temple just to store your wealth."
Grace's deep bow was the picture of obsequious devotion—until the door closed. Then her posture straightened, her fingers tightening around the hidden gold.
Outside, the distant clatter of armored footsteps signaled the queen's approach..
On the way back to the palace, Werner saw the figure of a group of guards escorting the Queen as she hurried towards the Dojo.
A slow, venomous smile spread across his face.
"Just as Grace foretold," he murmured, the words thick with contempt. He spat onto the cobblestones, watching as the phlegm splattered near the queen's path. "The scheming whore still fights for her bastard."