NICASHA FERRIN WHITES
"Greetings, Your highness."
Said us as we enter the room and take our respective seats.
I had never known the royal court to be warm, but today, the air was chilled beyond reason.
It wasn't just the smooth-cut stone beneath our boots or the tall, narrow windows letting in slats of wintry light—it was the silence that unnerved me most. It was taut, brimming with unspoken fear.
Dread curled like smoke beneath our words. War had not yet arrived, but its echo had begun to haunt the walls.
I, Countess Nicasha Lewin Whites, daughter of House Whites, stood amid a world not built for women like me. I had not risen through marriage or the grace of courtly favor, but through fire, steel, and bloodline.
The seat I now held at the war table had once belonged to my father, Lord Ferrin Whites—lost now to age and illness. I was his only heir, and the duty had passed to me, heavy as the ancient sword that marked our line.
I wore the formal navy of House Whites—rigid shoulder guards, a silver-clasped cloak embroidered with our sword insignia, and gloves I refused to remove.
Not from vanity, but to hide the calluses—marks of the blade, not the embroidery hoop. I had turned twenty a month past. Young, they said, to bear a county.
Too young, they whispered, to sit among the war lords of the Empire.
The council chamber was vaulted and cold, with arching stone ribs and tapestries faded by centuries. We sat at a long oaken table scarred by age and arguments.
To my left, Viscount Qubar's beady eyes flicked constantly, his hooked nose twitching as though smelling betrayal.
Baron Iseghar, round-bellied and perpetually sweating, fanned himself with the minutes from the last meeting.
Across from me sat Duke Roszen, broad as a fortress and just as silent. His armor bore no decoration—only use.
Beside him, Chancellor Gray wrote with tireless precision, his ink-bound ledger catching every syllable spoken.
Marquis Teliha rested steepled fingers beneath his chin, watching, waiting.
At the head of the table sat Crown Prince Darmire, heir to the throne of Astarin. The flickering fire behind him cast long shadows across his face, accentuating the exhaustion beneath his dark eyes.
"Word from the border watchposts,"
said Marquis Teliha, his voice low and deliberate. "The Ozaarins have increased their sea patrols threefold. Merchant ships have been intercepted, some rerouted, others detained."
Viscount Qubar sneered.
"They sniff blood in our hesitation. They prepare for war, or worse—wait for us to show our weakness."
Baron Iseghar mopped his brow.
"We should have accepted their trade pact once the funeral rites ended. Mourning is a poor shield when arrows fly."
I met his gaze calmly. "We delayed because it was right to honor the dead. Diplomacy after death is not weakness—it is respect."
Chancellor Gray looked up from his parchment.
"Respect is a foreign tongue to the Ozaarins. They understand only strength."
Duke Roszen spoke next, his tone firm and slow.
"They want Eirvale, Our rivers. Our steel. They do not see us as weak. They see us distracted."
All eyes fell on me.
"Our arms," Roszen continued,
"come from House Whites. Your father's forge sang for the Empire. With his passing, that song must continue under you, Countess."
"A heavy task," said Qubar, voice oily, "for a woman so young."
A taunt.
I did not blink. "The swords my house forges do not question the hands that wield them. Nor do I."
Darmire's lips twitched at the corners. "You have inherited more than a title, Countess. You represent continuity. Strength. But know this: the Empire asks no one house to stand alone."
"House Roszen stands with the Whites,"
Speaks the duke plainly. "If the drums sound, we will march together."
"I will also like to give assistance since the county of Whites has supported our empire countless of times." speaks the marquis.
There were murmurs of assent—measured, careful. No commitments, only acknowledgments. Words still held more sway than steel. For now.
When the meeting dispersed, I rose with courtly grace but the poise of a soldier. My path was not shaped by gowns and soft whispers—it had been honed in the clangor of blade against blade.
In the end, This council gave no answers, only left us balancing over the precipice.
The heads turned to leave the room then the crown prince reaches us.
"Countess Whites. Duke Roszen." The prince's voice halted us. "A moment, if I may."
A moment of silence lingered but the eyes of the young prince spoke of urgency, or rather need.
"Sure." we both nodded.
We followed him through a narrow hallway, worn tapestries brushing our shoulders, into a chamber far more modest than one might expect of royalty.
It was warm from a crackling hearth, lined with books and scrolls. Three chairs waited.
We sat.
Darmire regarded us with quiet intensity. "First, my apologies, Countess. For what was said. Or rather, what was implied."
"You need not apologize, Your Highness. They speak from habit, not malice."
"Even so. They forget that strength is not always yoked to age or gender. You hold your ground well."
"I have to."
His expression darkened slightly. "There's another reason I asked you here. One that must remain between us."
Duke Roszen shifted slightly. "This is not about the Ozaarins?."
Darmire's voice was low. "No. This is about the imperial tower. And the man within."
The silence that followed was thick.
"You mean Prince Roxail," I said at last.
The Crown Prince nodded slowly. "Yes he's Alive, Forgotten. And buried."
"Why bring him up now?" Roszen asked. "His name is poison in the court."
Darmire leaned forward. "Because we buried more than a man. We buried the truth. And the time may come when the realm will need the strength we cast aside. We need my brother alive." he pauses,
"And for that, I would like to give the responsibility for keeping him alive and well to both of you. Can I trust you?"
Silence came only the crackles of fire screamed.
I stared into the fire. "So your highness wishes us to take care of the imperial prince who is long forgotten."
"More than that," said the prince. " I want you both to guard him. Speak with him. Judge what remains. If he can be mended—or used."
Roszen's brow furrowed. "A ghost raised to be a weapon. He's your brother you is known to have killed my sister, the empress."
"But my lord, Duke Roszen. Nobody among us knows the truth, and its already hard to believe that the prince is still alive." I said with my voice calm but facing the Duke unflinching.
Duke Roszen did not open his mouth and lowered his gaze.
"A shadow may yet guard the light," said Darmire. "If the light is worth guarding."
"That's what my father, the emperor taught me, your grace. I can understand what you think of my brother...but he's my brother and I know him better than the rumors speak of him." said the prince. Determination flaming the young prince's bright gaze.
I breathed in deeply. My thoughts returned to the stories, to the last time I saw Roxail—not a traitor, but a boy with a scar too deep for his years.
I nodded. "I will go."
Roszen added, "Understood, and I will accompany her."
A smile formed on the young prince lips and then we all left for our sides, to our honored manors. Duke left for his duchy, and I came back to my manor, night fell.
I step into the bed to ease my mind of the counsel meeting, but somehow...that dark haired trickster comes to my vision.
So we're finally meeting again, Roxail.
—
The time came and as decided, the Duke and I are preparing to leave to fulfill the task assigned to us, we got in our carriage and traveled towards the southern border where the sea wind carried us down a forgotten road, one that curled along the cliffside like a snake's spine. At the end of it stood the tower, an old palace.
It took us a week to reach here, and we arrived at night with o stars in the sky.
It had once been a retreat for royalty. Now it crouched like a forsaken relic, veiled in moss and silence. The guards stationed at its gate opened the rusting doors without a word. They had their orders.
We enter inside the gates, some little servants and guards welcomed our presence.
Duke Roszen was suffering with back pain due to the long carriage ride so he was guided to his chambers here. I relaxed myself in the guestroom but that dark haired prince keeps bothering my thoughts, I sigh in frustration then rise from the sofa, behind me the maid flinched.
"Call a guard. Tell him I wish to see the imprisoned prince."
"Yes, My lady." Said the maid in low shaky voice, then she turns to leave for the person I called for, Now its silence here, again.
Some time, then the man came. Armored, a scar of his face and a glint of something unreadable in his eyes.
Suspicious.
"You called?, Countess." said the man.
"Yes, I wish to see the monster imprisoned in these walls."
He bows his head a little lower. "Please do, I'll lead the way."
I follow behind him to the basement, a basement that doesn't seem like a simple basement but a cell chamber, a dark howl of silence creeping at my bones with each step I take. In our way, from the other side comes another man, in his hands is a tray of food. Probably for a prisoner, he simply greets me then follows saying its also where he's going.
Glancing around, there's not even a single whisper of shadows in the corners, all cells empty, not even a single soul is present.
The man leading ahead walks far into the dead corner, the very end of the basement, he stops before a thick iron door, then turns to face me. He gestures towards the man behind.
"Countess, forgive me but from here on He shall guide you."
I turn to see the face of the man who the guard suggested.
"What an honor." he said with a bow and a grinning smile but his eyes remain fixed on me as if searching what face I have under the hood.
He steps forward, now holds the tray in one hand and slides the other to his belt. Keys. metal clinks with metal. 1, 2, 3... 7 keys in total, some even rusted.
He unlocks the iron door it creaks open. then walks inside, there another deep dark corridor, then comes the stairs, after steps, going downwards even deeper. there's only the sound of our steps as we walk, torches lit dimly in far corners. cells, chambers with iron bars, comes to sight. Empty, all of them. but only one where the man stops.
I halt at my steps, keeping a distance from the man who now unlocks the iron cell door, 1 lock clicks open, 2 lock clicks open. and then the door creaks heavy metal.
Then, the hard crash of the meal tray, the man was holding.
"Here, your meal of the month, Monster". the ugly man threw the tray inside, its noise louder than his grinning laughter. But no sound comes in its reaction.
"I'm going on vacations! thanks to certain someone who came to see you."
the ugly man smirked.
"..May you never return." comes a voice hardly recognizable, but somehow I feel like smiling at the boldness.
The man spits on the floor. then turns to call me.
I come forward. the man throws the keys at my feet saying I'll be in charged from now on, saying this he leaves with stomping feet.
I glanced at the man behind the bars.
And there he was.
Roxail.
Chained, hunched but composed. His frame thinner, but unmoved. He looked like a relic—forgotten, yet untouched by time's mercy.
His eyes—dark, watching—lifted briefly as he stare at me standing before the bars.
There was no recognition. Only silence.
I stepped closer.
He did not speak.
But neither did he look away.
The storm outside would come. But inside this prison, another had been brewing for years.
And I had just stepped into its heart.