Night draped the villa by the time the prince returned, the silver light of the moon slipping through the open lattice windows and glinting off the marble floor. Nathaniel's boots made a soft rhythm against the stone as he entered, only to halt when he saw Ulissa awake. A faint glow from the oil lamp traced the curve of her face — bruised but brightened, her recovery quicker than he'd dared hope.
"Your highness." She whispered. He exhaled, tension easing from his shoulders, and crossed the room. "You're awake," he said, a subtle note of surprise threading his voice. "Good. That spares me the trouble of waiting till morning."
Ulissa straightened, clutching the blanket at her chest. Her eyes, once dull from fever, flickered with fragile life. Nathaniel didn't waste a breath. "I met with your father," he began, his tone level yet edged with restraint. Ulissa flinched, her grip tightening around the blanket staring at Nathaniel with unblinking eyes.
He sat on the empty chair on her bedside, crossing his legs as a brief silence passed between them. "Chief Ulsef and I… had an exchange, and if you ever catch wind of its details…just know that I did not mean some of the words I spoke. I have a feeling your father will be pondering our conversation for quite some time."
Her lips parted, breath catching. "I apologize on his behalf, your highness." The words came with a fretful sigh, her gaze dipping to the floor. "There's no need," Nathaniel replied, his voice soft but firm. "I told you only so you'd understand—you can no longer go back to the place you once called home."
The air stilled between them. His words landed like a blade's whisper, sharp and unyielding. Nathaniel immediately regretted the phrasing; her flinch made that clear. No matter how deeply she'd been wounded by her failed marriage with Sion, Uluka was still her homeland—its soil, her blood, her place of refuge.
Ulissa's throat trembled. "I…I…" Her voice broke, a stifled sniffle escaping as tears welled in her lashes. Then suddenly, her expression bloomed with color, the tears spilling over not from sorrow but sheer relief. "I'm so happy," she blurted, smiling through her tears. "Thank you, your highness. Thank you so much for setting me free." Nathaniel blinked, caught off guard. That's… not the reaction I expected.
Ulissa cried until her body surrendered to exhaustion, her breathing finally steadying. Nathaniel lingered at the doorway, watching as Leonardo entered the room and approached her bedside. He moved with startling tenderness, pulling the blanket over her shoulders and brushing a stray lock from her face.
Nathaniel frowned, his mind churning. Since when did those two get so close? He barely looked at her before. When did that change? The moonlight shifted, painting the room in softer hues as Nathaniel turned away, confusion settling in his chest like a quiet storm.
**
The late summer sun poured over the Kartier duchy in molten streaks of gold. Bees droned lazily among the lilies beyond the open windows of Florette's dressing room, their hum filtering through the balcony doors. Inside, chaos reigned. Silk and lace blanketed the marble floor, jeweled slippers lay scattered like fallen petals, and Florette tore through her armoire with desperate hands.
"His Highness returns in a few days, Mother!" Her voice, muffled by the wardrobe's depths, trembled with manic delight. "What am I to do? I can hardly contain myself! What must I wear? None of these rags are worthy of a victory celebration!"
The doors slammed. She whirled around, chest heaving, eyes gleaming feverishly. A photograph of Nathaniel taped to her mirror caught the light — his calm, regal smug staring back at her— and she froze. Her pulse quickened. Color bloomed high on her cheeks as she pressed trembling fingers to her lips.
On the chaise, Gwendolynn reclined with studied grace, her fan drifting lazily though her gaze betrayed concern. She'd watched this restless frenzy all morning, watched her daughter swing between joy and hysteria. "Florette, sweetheart," she said softly, setting aside her fan. "You must compose yourself. This is not how a lady should act, my dear."
She rose, took Florette's hands — delicate, trembling things — and felt the wild heartbeat thrumming beneath her skin. The physician's optimistic words rang hollow in her memory. Florette will make a complete recovery, he'd said. Yet the fevered light in her daughter's eyes told another story. "How about a stroll in the garden, my love?" she suggested gently. "You could take the pup for a walk. The air will do you good."
Florette's mood shifted like sunlight through leaves. She brightened, her lips curling into a radiant smile. "Oh, alright! I shall do as my lovely mother suggests!" And just as suddenly, she was gone — skipping from the room, humming a lilting, tuneless song that echoed down the corridor.
**
Outside, the Kartier gardens pulsed with midday life — cicadas droned, bees hummed lazily over tulips, and sunlight spilled like honey over the rose beds. Fatima crouched before a blooming bush, her woven basket nestled in the grass beside her. Sweat dotted her brow, glinting in the light. "Well," she murmured, exhaling sharply. "Here goes nothing."
Her fingers tightened around the garden shears. The metal flashed, poised between stem and bloom. She'd spent over a year tending crops on the farm — pulling weeds, picking fruits — but this, trimming roses in the duchess's prized garden, felt like trespass.
A soft crunch of footsteps broke the rhythm of buzzing wings. Light. Unhurried. Fatima froze. Slowly, she straightened, her heart kicking against her ribs. On the other side of the bush stood Florette Kartier — pale as ivory beneath her lace parasol, eyes as cold and cutting as glass.
The scream tore out of Florette before she could stop it. It pierced the afternoon stillness, scattering birds into the air in a flutter of panic. "Miss Fatima! What happened?" Tomario burst around the hedge, dirt clinging to his gloves, chest heaving.
Florette didn't move. Her breath came fast, her parasol trembling as anger painted her cheeks crimson. "You," she hissed. "You have some nerve showing yourself here at the same time as me!" Fatima's pulse roared in her ears. She bowed her head, voice trembling. "My lady, forgive me. I didn't mean to intrude—" "Save it!" Florette's words cracked like a whip, slicing through the droning cicadas. "I shall have my mother deal with you accordingly. Hmph!"
She turned sharply, the lace hem of her dress whipping through the sunlight, perfume trailing behind her like a lingering accusation. Her footsteps struck the gravel in furious rhythm until they vanished toward the manor. Tomario let out a long breath, rubbing the back of his neck. "By the saints… what was that about?"
Fatima didn't answer at first. A knot of dread twisted low in her belly. With Emilia and the children away in the capital, no one remained to soften the duchess's moods — or to shield her from them. "I'm fine," she said at last, though her voice faltered. "Really. I promised I'd help you today, didn't I? I haven't even started."
She tried to smile, but her hands trembled as she reached for the basket. The sweetness of the summer air suddenly clung too heavy, too thick, and every rustle of leaves sounded like the whisper of something watching.
**
The sun blazed high over the Kartier duchy, its heat turning the cobblestone paths into shimmering mirrors. The air carried the dry scent of dust and horse sweat, and even the trees seemed to wilt in silence. Tomario stumbled into view, face slick with sweat, his chest heaving like a bellows.
"Sir Tomario? What's the matter? Why are you out of breath? Have you been running?" "No time to explain," he rasped, eyes darting over his shoulder. "You must run and hide, Miss Fati! Go! Hurry!" His hands trembled as he pushed her forward, the urgency in his touch stronger than any words. The wild panic in his eyes told her everything. Something terrible was coming.
Fatima turned and sprinted, her bare feet slapping against the sunbaked ground. The world seemed to hold its breath around her—each step a drumbeat of dread in her chest. But deep down, she knew it was useless. When she reached the storage shed, she thrusted herself behind an old barrel, her hands clasping her mouth as she struggled to steady her breathing.
"Fatima! Fatima, where are you? Just where did that little strumpet run off to?" The shrill voice sliced through the air like a whip, her footsteps growing louder as she entered the place. Edith, the chief maid and Gwendolynn's ever-faithful hound.
Her voice was honeyed venom, carrying across the vast room with practiced spite. The only time Edith ever sought her out was when the former duchess demanded it—meaning today was bound to be another miserable ordeal. "Fatima! Come out this instant! I know you're hiding somewhere in here!"
Fatima pressed herself deeper into the darkness behind the barrel, heart hammering against her ribs. She could almost see Edith's shadow crawling closer, round and heavy-footed. "There you are!" The sharp crack of Edith's voice made Fatima flinch. She rose slowly, her fists trembling at her side as she locked eyes with Edith.
"The madam is waiting for you in the annex as usual," Edith sneered, eyes glittering with petty triumph. "You'd best hurry before her mood worsens." The woman's round face and puffed cheeks reminded Fatima absurdly of the steamed buns she'd once stolen from the Syphus palace's kitchen. The thought made her lips twitch despite the dread coursing through her body.
"Quit dragging your feet and hurry on over!" Edith barked, smacking her between the shoulders. "Alright, alright, I'm going! Geez!" Fatima hissed, rubbing the stinging spot. "My back's burning up." Edith snorted, clearly pleased with herself.
As Fatima trudged toward the annex, the taste of dust clung to her tongue—and despite the dread curling in her stomach, all she could think of was how badly she wanted a steamed bun.
**
The air in the annex hung thick as smoke, heavy with the scent of wax and wine. Dust motes drifted in the late-afternoon light slanting through the narrow windows, but even the sun seemed hesitant to enter. Fatima stood trembling before Gwendolynn, her head bowed, shoulders quivering as if beneath an invisible weight.
A semicircle of maids watched from the edge of the room, their faces pinched with cruel delight. Among them was Amie—Fatima's friend—her hands twisting in her apron. When Gwendolynn's gaze swept over them, Amie flinched and shrank into the shadowed corner where the light dared not follow. "On your knees," the former duchess commanded. Her voice was honey laced with venom. "Strip your back."
Fatima hesitated. Gwendolynn's eyes narrowed—the calm before a storm. With trembling hands, Fatima sank to her knees, the wood biting into her skin. Her fingers found the zipper at her side and dragged it down. "Mother!" Florette's shrill voice shattered the silence. "That filthy thing was in the garden—where I walk every morning!" She clutched her mother's arm, pouting like a spoiled child.
Fatima's lips parted. "If I may, Mistress, I was merely—Agh!" Her words cut short as Gwendolynn's hand tangled in her hair and yanked her head back. "How dare you speak without my leave?!" the duchess roared, her breath hot with wine and fury. Spit flecked Fatima's cheeks. "M-Mistress—please—let go so I can expl—" "Silence, vermin!" She twisted harder, her rings catching in Fatima's hair. "You dare call my daughter a liar?!"
The pain burned through Fatima's scalp. The world blurred at the edges. Then came the first blow—then another. Each strike cracked the air like thunder. Florette's childish taunts slithered through the room, echoing between the walls. Fatima hit the ground, gasping. Her arms flew up to shield her head. The taste of iron flooded her mouth. Amie turned away, her tears falling silently. Each lash sounded like it struck her own skin.
Then—silence. Gwendolynn's heels clicked on the floor as she approached the side table. The sound was almost elegant. Fatima's breath came ragged, wet with pain. "You won't learn," Gwendolynn murmured, her voice low and deliberate, "until I make an example out of you." Fatima looked up just in time to see the duchess's hands curl around the neck of a ceramic vase. Light flashed off its glazed surface. Then—impact.
The vase exploded against her skull, shards spraying like glass rain. A sharp scream erupted in the room —Florette's hands flew to her mouth. "B-blood! Mother, she's bleeding—so much blood! Is she… dead?" "I very well hope so," Gwendolynn said, brushing dust from her skirts. "That vile thing had it coming."
Her shadow stretched over Fatima's limp form. "You," she snapped, eyes cutting toward the cluster of maids. "Y-yes, madam?" one squeaked. "Send for Elliot to throw that thing into the lake—and clean up this mess."
The maid froze. "P-pardon?" She stammered. She's not even checking if Fatima's breathing, Amie thought, bile rising in her throat. "How dare you question my mother?!" Florette shrieked, striking the girl across the face. The slap cracked through the room like a gunshot. "Shut your mouth and do as she say."
"Do you all mind explaining," came a voice from the corridor, deep and steady, "what is going on here?" The air froze. Heads whipped toward the doorway. A collective gasp rippled through the room as he stepped into view—broad-shouldered, sharp-eyed, his presence as cold and sudden as a winter storm.
"Y-your highness—the Crown Prince!" Florette's voice trembled with false sweetness. "Welcome home, my prince," Gwendolynn murmured, dipping into a curtsy. Blood smeared the hem of her gown.
The prince did not acknowledge their greetings. He entered slowly, boots echoing in the hush. His gaze swept the chamber—the shattered vase, the red-streaked floor—and stopped on Fatima. Something dangerous flickered in his eyes as he stared at her.
When he finally looked up, both women shrank beneath that stare. The air grew heavy; even the servants seemed afraid to breathe. "Which of you did this?" His voice cut clean through the silence. No one answered.
The prince drew his sword, its silver edge catching the sunlight. The temperature seemed to drop. Amie remembered the rumor whispered across the empire during the war: The Crown Prince's sword, once drawn, never returns to its scabbard without tasting justice.
"You," he said, his blade turning toward Amie. Her knees trembled. "Y-your highness?" "Explain. Now." She saw her reflection in the blade's mirror—a pale face, eyes wide with terror. How many lives has that sword taken? Will mine be next?
She parted her lips, but no words came. Her throat locked. Then came the warm trickle sliding down her legs, puddling on the floor beneath her. The prince's eyes flicked to the sound, unreadable. He frowned. "Get out." He commanded coldly.
Amie bolted. Her sobs echoed down the corridor, growing louder with each step. "She's dead—my friend is dead—and I did nothing to stop it from happening," she gasped, stumbling into the courtyard. Her cries tore through the afternoon air.
When she finally reached a tree, she stopped to catch her breath and turned around. Her eyes widened as she stared—flames devoured the annex. Smoke billowed into the sky. "Oh no!" She gasped, already running back to the annex.
Through the blaze, a figure emerged—tall, steady, his coat whipping in the wind. The Crown Prince. In his arms, limp but unmistakable, was Fatima. Amie's knees buckled. Behind him, servants screamed and knights rushed with buckets, their shapes ghostly in the firelight. And as the inferno roared in the distance, Amie knew—nothing in the Kartier duchy would ever be the same again.