The nursery's quiet warmth wavered under the weight of their unspoken tension. Sunlight danced across the silver-framed portraits, catching the faint tremor in Emilia's hand as she skimmed the letter again. She exhaled slowly, her voice calm but edged with a knowing sigh.
"Relax, darling. He's not attacking you," she said, her tone coaxing, velvet over iron. "It seems he's merely asking you to cooperate and settle the matter quietly." Her eyes darted back to the final paragraph, and a faint smirk tugged at her lips. "And if you—or anyone else—raise a fuss," she added under her breath, "he'll act on whatever information he's been gathering. As expected of my brother."
The thought made her jaw tighten. Nathaniel never missed an opportunity to twist a knife under the guise of diplomacy. "Goodness! Read between the lines, will you?" she barked suddenly, thrusting the papers into her husband's hands. The sharp sound of parchment snapping between his fingers made Abrielle stir in her cradle.
Dimitriu flinched, then slumped into their daughter's tiny chair with a long, theatrical sigh. The sight of such a broad, imposing man crumpled in that miniature seat drew an involuntary laugh from Emilia. "Oh, my poor heart nearly stopped when I skimmed through it earlier," he lamented, rubbing his temples.
"There, there," Emilia said, her irritation softening. She crossed the room, her skirts whispering against the floor, and gently patted his head. "It'll be alright, darling." He tilted his head up to meet her gaze, his expression softening. "Even after six whole months," he murmured, reaching out to cradle Abrielle's tiny foot, "she's still so small."
A faint chuckle escaped him, but it carried a hint of melancholy. His thumb brushed the baby's heel as if committing every detail to memory. "Whenever I think about the look on your face in those days…" His voice faltered. "I can't help but feel guilty. You went through those gut-wrenching moments not just once but twice, all because of me."
Emilia froze for a heartbeat, her hand still resting on his shoulder. So that's it, she thought. Is this why he's kept his distance? For nearly a year? The realization sent a pang through her chest—one part sorrow, one part frustration. "I'd gladly do it over and over again," she whispered, forcing a light laugh to lift the heaviness. She leaned over and tucked Abrielle into her cradle, the baby's breath steady and sweet as milk.
"This isn't a joke, Emilia," Dimitriu muttered, watching her with that wounded earnestness that always undid her resolve. "Actually…" She turned back toward him, her lips curving into a mischievous smile. "Why don't we get started right now? What do you think, darling?"
He blinked, caught off guard. "Wait—Emilia, why are you suddenly undressing yourself? Our daughter's sleeping right behind us!" he hissed, his voice a panicked whisper. She giggled softly, a glint of mischief in her eyes. "You say that," she murmured, stepping closer until her breath brushed his cheek, "yet you have me pinned against the wall. Your actions are deviating from your words, your grace."
Dimitriu's face flushed crimson. "I—You—That's not—" But the words dissolved as their laughter mingled, the tension melting into something warmer, deeper. Just when the moment began to tip into something breathless, a gentle knock interrupted them.
"Mama! Papa! You there?" came a small, impatient voice from the hallway. They froze. "Where did they go?" Cadhiel whined. "How about we search elsewhere, Lord Cadhiel?" the maid's weary voice followed. Emilia pressed her forehead to Dimitriu's shoulder, stifling a laugh. "Darn it, Cadhiel," she muttered, rolling her eyes. "Your timing couldn't have been worse."
Dimitriu exhaled, half amused, half defeated. "Seems fate has its own sense of humor." And for the first time that morning, Emilia's laughter rang freely through the nursery—soft, rich, and alive.
**
A few hours had passed since the earlier chaos, and now Emilia and Dimitriu lay tangled together on the plush carpet, limbs heavy and hair deliciously disheveled. Their garments were strewn in a careless constellation around them—his cravat hanging from a chair, her silk bodice half-buried beneath a pile of baby blankets. The quiet rhythm of their breathing was the only proof of the storm that had just passed between them.
It had been months since they'd touched each other like that—months of tension, guilt, and restraint finally burned away in one long, unrestrained moment. Not even their son's inconvenient interruption hours before had managed to stop them.
Emilia groaned softly and sat up, brushing a stray curl from her flushed face. Her gaze drifted to the crib, where little Abrielle slept peacefully, one tiny fist tucked beneath her chin. I can't believe we did such a thing in our daughter's nursery, she thought, pressing her fingers to her temples as though the thought alone embarrassed her.
"Forgive me, Abrie," she sighed dramatically. "Your father is an insatiable deviant." From behind her, Dimitriu chuckled—a low, lazy sound. "That's not the song you were singing in my ears earlier, darling," he murmured, voice thick with amusement as he sat up and brushed a kiss across her bare shoulder.
Emilia smacked his arm lightly, though the corners of her mouth twitched. "Please, just… stop talking and pass me the corset next to your foot," she said, gesturing toward the heap of clothes on the floor. Dimitriu raised a brow. "Does madam require any help to put that on?" "No, thank you." Her tone was firm, though her cheeks betrayed her.
He tilted his head, smirking. "Are you sure? Last time, I was told my assistance was thorough." Emilia shot him a look over her shoulder. "Thorough? You nearly shut down my lungs, Dimitriu. You pulled the strings so tightly, I instantly turned blue. I thought I was going to die."
He laughed—a deep, unrestrained sound that filled the nursery. "Nonsense. You looked ravishingly alive to me." Rolling her eyes, Emilia turned her attention back to dressing herself, fingers deft as she laced up her corset. Dimitriu leaned back on his elbows, watching her with a faint, curious smile.
"Say, my love," he began, tone casual but probing, "you wouldn't happen to be acquainted with His Highness' mysterious bride-to-be, would you? I noticed how calm you were throughout the entire dinner. Everyone else looked ready to faint, yet you seemed… almost amused."
Emilia paused mid-zip, her expression unreadable. Then she glanced at him from over her shoulder, eyes glinting with a secret he wasn't sure he wanted to uncover. "Only time will tell if I know her or not," she said at last, her voice smooth as silk. "Now then, zip me up, will you?"
Dimitriu raised an eyebrow, amused and intrigued all at once. "Now I'm really curious," he said, reaching for the zipper, though his fingers lingered just a little too long at her waist. Emilia only smiled, a faint, knowing curve of her lips. "Good," she whispered. "Curiosity keeps a husband attentive, they say."
Outside, the distant sound of the household stirring back to life began to filter in—maids calling, footsteps echoing down the marble halls—but in that sunlit nursery, it was as if the world belonged only to them.
**
Fatima felt like she was floating on a cloud — lighter than air, glowing like she'd swallowed sunrise. Her skin shimmered so clearly, she could practically see her reflection winking back at her. That bath last night was divine! she thought, stretching sniffing her arm. "Though," she mumbled to herself, "falling asleep mid-soak might've been a bit… rude of me considering all the efforts the attendants had put into tending to me."
She twirled in front of the mirror, skirts of golden-yellow silk flaring around her like a spun sunbeam. The lace on her sleeves glittered faintly under the morning light, each embroidered flower catching on the sunlight that streamed through the window. Her hair cascaded around her. She grinned. "Perfection. Absolute perfection."
"Glad to see you in such high spirits. Good morning, princess." Fatima yelped — spinning so fast she nearly tripped over her gown. "By the heavens, Nathan!" she gasped, clutching her chest. "Can you not materialize like a phantom in doorways?"
Nathaniel chuckled, leaning casually against the frame, though his shoulders brushed it like he was outgrowing the palace itself. He looked… different. Broader. Taller. Like someone had swapped her friend with a particularly well-built tree. His eyes lingered on her a second too long — enough for her to feel her cheeks grow warm.
"Uh… princess," he said at last, brow quirking. "What exactly are you doing?" Fatima froze mid-motion, grinning like a child who'd been caught misbehaving. She looked up at him, then awkwardly withdrew her finger. "Testing muscle tone," she said proudly. Nathaniel snorted. "Fascinating royal research."
Before she could come up with a retort, a sharp, knowing ahem sliced through the air like a sword through butter. Nathaniel straightened instantly, stepping aside just as Bettie swept in, trailed by a small battalion of maids carrying ribbons, brushes, and what looked like enough cosmetics to paint a mural.
"Pardon our intrusion, Your Imperial Highness," Bettie said, bowing with the grace of a seasoned diplomat. "We've come to apply the final touches to the princess's appearance." Fatima blinked. Princess again? Her smile twitched.
Nathaniel rubbed the back of his neck, clearly fighting a smile. "She's all yours," he said, his voice softer now. "Though… in my opinion, she's already—" He coughed, color creeping into his ears. "Never mind. Escort her to my sitting room when she's done."
"As you wish, Your Highness." Bettie and the maids curtsied so low Fatima wondered if they were inspecting the floor tiles. Nathaniel lingered for one last heartbeat — eyes flicking to Fatima's reflection, lips twitching with something unsaid — before disappearing down the hall.
Fatima sighed dramatically as the maids descended upon her like cheerful vultures armed with perfume and powder. They fluttered around her like bees fussing over a particularly nervous flower until Bettie clapped her hands once. "You may all leave," she said, her voice polite but edged with that firm authority only a lifelong governess could wield. The room emptied in an instant — soft footsteps fading, the faint scent of rosewater lingering in the air.
Fatima's stomach twisted. She's going to scold me, isn't she? She clasped her hands in front of her gown, nails digging into her palms. She couldn't meet Bettie's gaze. "Princess," came the woman's voice, gentle as a lullaby. Fatima's throat tightened. "Y-yes, Miss Bettie?"
Bettie hesitated, her expression unreadable. Then, softly — almost shyly — she said, "If it's all right with you… may I embrace you? Just for a moment?" Fatima's head snapped up. Did she just—? Surely, she'd imagined it. Bettie, the famously composed, ever-dignified Miss Bettie, asking for a hug?
"You can decline," Bettie added quickly. "If my request makes you uncomfortable." "Um—! You can't, Miss Bettie." A pause. Bettie blinked. "I… can't?" Fatima puffed out her cheeks, trying not to crumble. "Because if you hug me," she blurted, voice trembling, "I'll definitely cry, and then the makeup the maids worked so hard on will be completely ruined!"
Silence fell. The kind of silence that makes you acutely aware of your own heartbeat. Then Bettie laughed — softly, like rain on warm stone. "Your Highness is exactly as I remembered," she said, eyes shining. "Transparent. Honest to a fault. Overwhelmingly adorable. You haven't changed at all, and that brings me such relief. I'm… overjoyed to see you alive and well, princess."
Her words cracked something open inside Fatima. The next thing she knew, Bettie had pulled her into a warm, steady embrace. The scent of lavender and parchment filled her lungs — achingly familiar. Fatima clutched at her sleeves, trembling. "I'm sorry," she hiccupped. "I lied about who I was, back then. You and everyone else were so kind to me, and I just— I didn't know what else to do—"
"It's all right," Bettie murmured, brushing a tear from Fatima's cheek with her thumb. "None of us held it against you. Not after seeing what you endured. We were only worried. Only wishing you'd be well wherever you went."
That did it. Fatima broke completely, sobbing into Bettie's shoulder with all the messy intensity of someone who'd been holding it in for far too long. "Miss Bettie," she wailed between sniffles, "you're too good to me. You're making it impossible to be dramatic and self-pitying!"
Bettie chuckled, her own eyes glistening now. "Ah, but that's the Fatima I remember." Fatima sniffled, hiccuped, and muttered into her shoulder, "Ugh, my makeup is definitely ruined. I'm so sorry, Miss Bettie." "Don't be," Bettie said, smiling. "We'll fix it."
**
The midday sun poured mercilessly over the Kartier duchy, drenching the rose gardens in molten gold. Inside the manor, the air was heavy and still, thick with the perfume of lilies and the faint hum of cicadas outside the window.
On a vast canopied bed, Gwendolynn twisted restlessly beneath silk sheets. Sweat dampened her temples. Her fingers twitched, clutching at the bedding as if she were fending off something unseen. Her brows furrowed deeper the longer she slept, her breath uneven and shallow.
Then—silence. When she opened her eyes, she was no longer in her bed. She stood barefoot in a vast expanse of shadow. The air was cold and dry, stinging her lungs with every breath. Darkness stretched infinitely in all directions—yet she felt something watching her. The space pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat buried beneath stone.
Her pulse quickened. "Where… where am I?" Her voice echoed back, small and brittle. A voice answered—deep, raw, layered with countless others, as though an entire congregation spoke in unison. "Who are you?" The sound rattled her bones. She spun, her eyes darting through the murk until two crimson lights blinked open in the void—eyes, staring directly at her.
Her stomach turned to ice. What is that? she thought, trembling. A demon? The creature let out a low, amused rumble that rippled through the air like distant thunder. "Hm…"
A violent wind exploded around her. Shadows twisted and contorted, coalescing into a tall, humanoid figure. A halo of burning gold hovered above its head, and in its hand was a staff of living gold—its surface crawling with countless blinking eyes that rolled and darted restlessly. Its silver wings unfurled with a metallic shriek, every feather patterned with unblinking eyes that stared at her from all sides.
Gwendolynn staggered back, clutching her chest. Her breath hitched. "What… what are you?" When it spoke again, its tone was calm—but its calmness was worse than rage. "I am Elaphel, angel of misfortune. I was drawn here by your… recent transgression."
Her mouth went dry. An angel? This abomination? "An angel?" she scoffed weakly. "No servant of God is that hideous." The figure tilted its head. "Do not presume to know what Heaven chooses to send. I am bound by order, not mercy."
It drifted closer, the air warping in its wake. Gwendolynn's heart pounded painfully against her ribs. "According to protocol," Elaphel said, "you are permitted one chance to repent before punishment is carried out. So—answer me, Gwendolynn Kartier. Who are you, truly?"
The silence that followed was suffocating. Her lips trembled, but when she tried to speak, her tongue felt swollen, useless. Her voice caught in her throat, strangled. Panic clawed at her. She opened her mouth to scream, but only a dry wheeze escaped.
Elaphel watched, expressionless—or perhaps its face simply lacked one. Then he sighed, a sound like rust scraping metal. "It seems my visit was in vain. You do not wish to repent." The wings stretched wider, their many eyes turning toward her all at once. "Your chalice is overflowing, Gwendolynn. You trample those beneath you without hesitation. Your hunger for power has rotted your soul, and your cruelty stains the earth."
Its voice grew thunderous now—filling the void, rattling her teeth. "Hear ye! Hear ye! From this moment forth, peace will abandon you. Misfortune shall cling to you as your shadow, until justice is fulfilled. So has it been spoken before the throne of God." The air cracked like lightning.
Gwendolynn's vision blurred. She stumbled, gasping for breath as her body convulsed violently. The darkness shattered like glass—and she awoke to chaos. "Mother is having a seizure!" Dimitriu's voice shrieked from somewhere near the foot of the bed. "Bring clean towels! Hurry!"
Gwendolynn choked, coughing so hard her chest burned. She could barely move; her limbs trembled uncontrollably. Her throat tasted of blood. "Mother!" Florette's terrified voice broke through the haze. She was beside her now, gripping her shaking hand. "Mother, please! Wake up!"
Gwendolynn's eyes flickered open just enough to see their pale faces and the bright sunlight spilling through the curtains—too bright, too cruel. And in that golden light, for just an instant, she swore she saw a single red eye blink at her from the corner of the room.