Crown Prince Arzhael. The man who smiled like a sin in daylight.
He stood between the hedges, sunlight breaking around him, white lilies bowing at his boots. His white attire gleamed almost angelic beneath a deep blue robe that whispered of royalty and control. For a moment, he looked every inch the benevolent prince he pretended to be.
Ophelia's lungs forgot how to work. The air that had tasted kind moments ago now stung her throat. She hadn't met him in years— and yet her body remembered. Her shoulders drew in, every muscle trying to make her smaller. Running wasn't an option. Not from him.
"What a surprise, little sister." Arzhael's tone was soft enough to be mistaken for affection—if one ignored the precision Ophelia had memorized in it.
Her hands betrayed her first, a tremor she couldn't quite hide. She lowered her head, forcing her breath into a shallow rhythm. The garden looked too perfect, every petal and fountain mocking her unrest.
"You didn't answer." His smile held, easy and unbothered. "Have you gone shy on me, sister?"
Her fingers curled tighter in the folds of her gown, knuckles paling. To anyone else, it might have looked playful—an older brother teasing the quiet one. But Ophelia knew better. She kept her eyes fixed on the gravel, the weight of his gaze pinning her down. She had forgotten how to speak the moment his voice touched the air.
Arzhael stepped closer—once, then again—until the gleam of his boots filled her lowered view. "Raise your head, Ophelia." A single finger tilted her chin upward.
Her gaze lifted, unwillingly, and the sight struck like an old wound reopened— black hair, the Emperor's cold blue eyes and that cursed crest stitched in silver across his robe. But it wasn't the emblem that froze her; it was the look behind those eyes, the same one she'd tried to forget for years.
The crunch of gravel underfoot brought back the floors of his palace, the shadowed passageways where she had learned how small she could make herself, and how easily he could find her.
He watched the way her body reacted. His brow furrowed in mock distress, lips parting as if wounded. A faint, unsettling warmth flickered in his eyes, betraying whatever act he was playing at. "You act as though I've ever been anything but kind to you."
The smile followed—too patient, too knowing. His tone dropped, soft enough to sound almost fond.
"Have I?"
The question slid into her like a remembered touch she couldn't scrub away. Kind. Yes. That's what he called it. It sounded clean enough to wash the blood away.
"No, brother." The response came automatically, soft and strangled. Her stare fixed on the air behind him, body gone slack, every muscle afraid to move first.
He caught the way she avoided his gaze but let it pass, wordless. That silence pressed heavier than anger, a mercy that felt deliberately cruel.
He let go of her chin as if the contact had bored him. "Far from the East Wing, aren't you? What brings you here?" His voice hovered between mild amusement and something quieter—disappointment, perhaps.
Ophelia drew in a shaky breath once he stepped back. "The East Wing's management," she began, her tone thinner than it had been with the emperor. "It was…inadequate." Her spine, which she attempted to straighten, faltered; it felt like her body was curving back into the edges.
"Inadequate, you say?" Arzhael echoed, almost to himself. His head angled just enough to study the tremor she tried to hide. "And yet, you never complained until now."
Ophelia's throat tightened. "I had no choice, brother. Things must…function."
"So, you went to father to… improve your circumstances in the East Wing." A low note of interest threaded through his otherwise calm tone.
Ophelia didn't respond; the words hung unanswered, heavy in the still air.
With an idle hum he wandered toward the flowers, his steps unhurried. When his heel ground into the roses, uncaring, a sound slipped through her mind— something from years ago. She blinked hard, forcing the garden back into focus as Arzhael stopped in front of an untouched lily. He plucked it free and toyed with the stem as though testing its frailty.
When he finally spoke, his voice came slow, dragging through the silence. "Perhaps, you'd care to visit my palace like the old times?"
Her face emptied of color. For a heartbeat, she was no longer in the garden but somewhere smaller, darker. Does it hurt, little sister? His voice. Always that voice. The memory slithered through her chest, leaving her still. Arzhael's smile lingered, patient, sweet as poison.
She finally schooled her lips into the smile she reserved for him alone. "I wouldn't dream of adding to your burdens." Ophelia only hoped the words didn't sound too much like a plea to keep her away from his cursed palace. "You must be busy— the drought in the south, wasn't it?"
He glanced up, one brow raised, the lily turning lazily in his grasp. "You've grown thoughtful in your illness."
Her chuckle came too quickly. "The maids were talking. I just… overheard."
Arzhael's gaze swept down her form, sharp and content, as if her illness were just another part of her he liked.
"Speaking of which." He took a step closer, and it took everything in Ophelia not to retreat. The flower found its place behind her ear, his touch a whisper that crawled down her spine. "How's your health these days, little one?" His voice gentled, and the forced warmth of the term made her stomach knot.
Little one. He said it as if the years hadn't passed, as if she hadn't tried to grow beyond his reach.
"I'm still taking the medicines," her voice came out soft and obedient, her eyes vacant enough to make it believable. "They keep things manageable."
Azel's fingers lingered in her hair, his gaze holding hers. For a heartbeat, her whole body went rigid on reflex. "Such a shame you haven't been improving." He murmured. The words dripped with sympathy, the kind that always meant the opposite.
"I always want my Ophelia to be healthy."
A pause stretched thin between them. His eyes held a light that could almost pass for worry—almost.
"After all," he murmured, "your brother would be devastated if anything ever happened to you."
Her shiver amused him; laughter broke from him, soft and unbothered. "Relax," he said, as if she weren't standing at the edge of collapse.
He ruffled her hair, and she flinched so slightly she almost questioned it herself. He didn't notice—or pretended not to. "See you soon, sister." The words hung like a quiet promise before he vanished behind the maze of hedges, leaving a bitter trace on the air.
The moment he was gone, Ophelia sank against the fountain's edge. Her chest heaved, breaths shallow and harsh, the weight of him pressing down like a physical thing.
Those cursed blue eyes lingered in her memory, sharp and relentless—like the Emperor's, yet colder, more insidious. Ophelia fumbled for the small vial tucked in her sash. Her fingers shook as she plucked a pill and swallowed it down, the mundane act grounding her in a fragile way. Around her, birds chirped lazily, mocking the chaos she couldn't quite hide.
The flower behind her ear seared against her skin like fire. She yanked it free, staring at it as though it bore guilt heavier than any crime. With a swift, vengeful stomp, she crushed the lily underfoot, punishing it for sins it had never committed.
She forced herself upright, trying to tame the chaos Arzhael had left in her hair. A long, measured breath filled her lungs, the medicine beginning to take hold—predictable, steady, the one thing that always reminded her that some control still belonged to her.
Somewhere in the distance, bushes rustled. Ophelia stiffened, pivoting sharply, half-expecting Arzhael to emerge from the shadows, his gaze pinning her like a hawk. But it wasn't him. She squinted, straining to make out the figure standing far away. She cursed herself for ignoring Lira's advice to wear the glasses she always called ugly.
The figure didn't move. If not for the glowing red eyes, Ophelia might have thought it a statue—eyes so bloody they burned through her poor vision. Had someone seen me like this? Vulnerable, rattled…exposed? The thought made her want to vanish into the shadows, as if the garden itself could swallow her whole.
"Your Highness, it's time to go." Lyeon's voice cut through the garden, grounding her. She turned toward the unmistakable flash of his ginger hair at the gates. Right. Back to the East Wing.
One last glance over her shoulder, but the stranger was gone. Still, those eyes lingered in her mind, nagging at something she couldn't name. Just a trick of the light, an illusion caused by poor vision. But no guard's eyes glowed crimson in the shade. Shaking her head, she tried to dismiss the figure. She had bigger worries than a stranger in the garden, yet that blood-red gaze followed her all the way to the carriage.
She tucked the pills into her sash and moved toward the carriage, her posture betraying none of the turmoil, save for the subtle twitch of her fingers. Ophelia couldn't decide if today marked a win or if she had re-entered the cage she thought she'd escaped.