"Are you questioning my judgment?"
The question wasn't shouted— it didn't need to be. It was quiet, nearly bored, but something in it pressed against her lungs heavy as metal. The minister paled, uncertain whether to breathe or not.
"Questioning?" Ophelia tilted her chin slightly, trying to act tougher than she was. "No, Your Majesty, only observing where your judgment has been misplaced."
The silence between them pressed down, heavy and almost suffocating. His eyes flicked to the pendant, tracing its blue depths, then returned to her. It was unsettling, the weight he gave it. That stone branded her as the illegitimate child of a ruler and a maid—the excuse for scorn, the reason she had been shoved aside. Yet it was a relic of her mother, a fragile comfort tangled with the sting of her inheritance.
She could hear the Emperor exhale through his nose, not exactly anger. Something colder, something like disappointment he didn't bother to hide.
"Replace him."
The minister falters. "Your Majesty?"
"Replace the physician." He drawled, yet still carried the voice of authority. "And the steward. If either men cannot uphold their duties, they have no place in my palace"
A brief flash of surprise touched Ophelia's pale features before she smoothed it away. She hadn't imagined the Emperor would actually replace the steward too—but she wasn't about to argue with fortune.
"At once, Your Majesty," Aldric replied, his voice steady. He knew better than to stall before an imperial command.
Ophelia inclined her head in a shallow curtsy, her tone deceptively polite. "His majesty's decisiveness is reassuring. I was beginning to think my welfare went unchecked— which it almost did."
The minister quickly stumbled out his words. "You may rest assured, Your Highness, that His Majesty's concern for your welfare—"
"—is touching." She finishes dryly. "Though since we are on the matter of welfare, I'd like to address the East Wing's budget."
The man's persistence grated against her nerves, each word a challenge she barely restrained from cutting off. "Your Highness, the East Wing's funds are already—"
"Sufficient for decay, perhaps." She let her eyes wander toward the Emperor with a daring accusation in her gaze. "The roofs leak when it rains. The servants' rations are being cut off. I've pawned half my jewelry to keep the gardens alive. If His Majesty wishes the imperial emblem to shine, perhaps he should ensure his house isn't rotting from the corners." She was talking to the minister, yet only a fool would miss where her words were directed to.
The room held still. The Emperor's gaze remained fixed on her, impassive but not indifferent now. There was a faint tension in his jaw— the only sign she's managed to pierce through the mask. In the privacy of her mind, Ophelia commended herself, proud.
"You speak freely for someone who lives on my coin."
That made her falter. She didn't say anything— didn't have anything to say. Another uncomfortable silence stretched between them and then unexpectedly a low sound almost like amusement broke through the frost.
"I wasn't aware the Second Princess's quarters had become a place of such disorder." He shifted his gaze to the minister with a raised brow.
"I recall giving explicit orders that the East Wing be attended to properly. Was I unclear?" His tone was controlled, low, but it resonated like a warning in the hall.
She watched the poor minister quake in place. Really? The Emperor had given the order? Hah. She had assumed he couldn't care less about her. Yet, he loathed disorder—her meddling counted as chaos, apparently.
The minister's face paled, fingers worrying the edge of a parchment he had forgotten he was holding. "I–I did not know the steward to be negligent, Your Majesty. He's always reported the East Wing to be well tended. I assure you I will see to the matter immediately."
A twitch of triumph curled her lips. She was savoring this far too much. But her pulse stumbled when the Emperor rose from his throne, the motion deliberate and heavy with the gravity. The sweep of his robes caught the light, midnight velvet trimmed with gold thread that glimmered like fire, a broad sash of imperial blue cut across his chest fastened with a seal carved from obsidian. Even in stillness, he radiated the kind of authority that made the air itself remember to stay quiet. Ophelia straightened, spine stiff, refusing to yield. The Emperor took a step, then paused, eyes flicking to the sapphire pendant at her throat.
"Where did you get that trinket?" His voice was calm—too calm.
Her body went rigid at the question, every muscle tightening as though bracing for an attack. Her fingers clenched around the stone, as if to ward off his scrutiny. Her gaze blazed, cold and unyielding. "This trinket," she said, every word sharp as a blade, "was a gift from my mother." Rage laced her tone—rage at him, for his apathy, for letting her mother fade unprotected.
She caught the faintest flicker of softness in his eyes and scorn tightened in her chest. You dare look at the last gift of my mother? You have no claim here.
Before Ophelia could stop herself, the words tumbled out. "Did you even love her?"
Silence fell like a sudden, freezing wind. The Emperor's eyes hardened, sharp as ice. The walls seemed to close in, and the air itself felt swallowed by the room. Aldric's nervous gaze flickered between them, caught between staying and slinking away.
Ophelia held her stare on those glacial eyes, searching in vain for the warmth she had imagined. Foolish, she realized, to expect anything from a man whose heart was as cold as his rule.
"You may leave." The command dropped from his lips, final and absolute.
Ophelia didn't need a second command. She lifted her chin, ignoring any thought of a curtsy, and spun on her heel. Her navy gown fanned out behind her like a midnight shadow as she stomped from the throne room. A quiet, simmering fury burned inside her—not grief, not sorrow, only anger. Her heart had no room for anything else.
The guards posted along the hall straightened as she passed, eyes averted in the kind of silence that meant to keep them out of her path. A few maids bowed quickly, skirts whispering as they tried not to meet her gaze.
She didn't slow down until the corridors opened into the imperial gardens, an expanse of sculptured beauty, all symmetry, and indulgence. The air was thick with the sweetness of lilies. The fountains scattered along the walkway sang in low, liquid tunes. Vines of vibrant roses coiled around marble arches, their petals spilling like sighs onto the trimmed hedges below. It was the kind of place built for serenity, not rage.
Ophelia stopped beside one of the fountains, staring at her reflection rippling across the water. Her usually pale cheeks colored a faint red from anger. Her expression looked ridiculous in all this calm. A dry laugh escaped her. "Love her," she muttered under her breath. "He couldn't even look at her without seeing the stain she left on his throne."
She leaned over the cool edge of the fountain, the fury slowly ebbing into that old tired amusement. "Of course he told me to leave, can't risk the bastard daughter catching royal pity."
Her reflection smiled, crooked and bitter. "So much for family reunions."
She drew in a slow breath, the air rich with the scent of roses and rain-soaked earth. She drew in a slow breath, the air rich with the scent of roses and lilies. It was nothing like her palace, where the air always tasted of dust and dying flowers like her. The breeze brushed against her skin like a forgotten kindness, filling her lungs more deeply than fate ever had. For a fleeting moment, she almost felt human again.
"Well, well…enjoying the garden, little sister?" A voice cut through the quiet like a blade through silk.
The words slithered around the hedges, smooth, almost playful— almost. Ophelia froze, breath snagging in her throat. She didn't need to turn to know who it was. Slowly she straightened from the fountain, the ripples swallowing her reflection. Not him, not now.
Her grip on the marble edge whitened her knuckles as she turned.
Crown Prince Arzhael. The man who smiled like a sin in daylight.