"Allow me to introduce Princess Calliope-Rose Fatima Vicksburg—as my intended," Nathaniel announced, his voice smooth but just loud enough to draw every pair of eyes in the room. Fatima's stomach dropped. Intended? Did he really just—? She bowed immediately, a reflex more than grace, hoping no one noticed the tremor in her hands. The polished floors seemed to close in, the walls of the imperial drawing room pressing tighter with every passing second. The air was thick—perfumed with burning myrrh and freshly brewed tea—and the tension tasted almost metallic.
The emperor was the first to move. He lifted his teacup with practiced calm, but the slight clink against the saucer betrayed him. "Welcome to our humble abode, Princess," he said with a strained smile. His voice carried the weight of decades, cracked around the edges but dignified. "I am Exzavier VonTicus, Emperor of Alkaraz, and this radiant woman beside me is my wife, Empress Beatrice Astelle VonTicus. Please, have a seat."
Fatima's lips curved into a careful smile as she lowered herself into a graceful curtsy, the hem of her gown brushing the marbled floor like liquid silk. "Your Majesties," she said softly, her accent betraying her foreign upbringing. "It is an honor to be in your presence." Exzavier's eyes softened as he studied her. The faintest glint of nostalgia flickered behind his regal composure. Sebastian's niece… alive, grown, and beautiful. He chuckled quietly, a sound that was both proud and wistful. He'd have been so proud.
Meanwhile, Fatima was dying inside. Nathan, why would you say my full name like that? She could practically hear the blood rushing in her ears. You could've said "Lady Fatima," anything but that! Her throat tightened as she tried to steady her breathing. The empress's eyes were locked on her—sharp, assessing, almost dissecting. The woman hadn't said a word yet, and that silence alone made Fatima want to shrink into her gown.
"Quite the eccentric beauty," the empress finally said, her lips curling into something that wasn't quite a smile. "I've never met anyone with such graceful mannerisms. You must have been trained from a very young age." Fatima blinked, caught off guard. "I beg your pardon? O-oh! Your Majesty flatters me."
Did… did the rumored shrewd empress just compliment me? But the momentary relief was short-lived. "However," Beatrice continued, leaning forward with the casual cruelty of someone who knew the power of her words, "you are far too thin for my liking. We'll have to fatten you up expeditiously." Fatima froze. "E–excuse me?" she murmured before catching herself.
The empress turned to her husband as though discussing renovations rather than a living person. "The victory ball is mere days away. I'm afraid she won't be ready in time, but we shall do what we can now rather than later. As for her attire…" she said, her gaze sweeping over Fatima's gown. What is happening right now? Fatima's thoughts spiraled. The maids said she despised Nathan—said she was a snake waiting to strike. So why is she acting like a mother hen with a new doll?
Nathaniel, of course, was perfectly at ease, chatting with his father as though none of this were happening. Nathan, please, she begged silently, stop talking politics and save me! "It's decided then," Beatrice declared with a satisfied clap of her hands. "Princess Calliope shall join me for lunch every day until I am satisfied with her countenance." Fatima's jaw nearly dropped. "I—wait, what?!" The emperor coughed into his teacup, trying and failing to hide a grin. Nathaniel chuckled under his breath, eyes glinting with amusement. Fatima stared between them all, her pulse racing. What have I just gotten myself into?
**
After the meeting with the monarchs, they finally returned to Nathaniel's palace—a place that somehow managed to feel both extravagant and comforting at once. By the time they arrived, her entire body felt like it had been carved from stone. The moment her heels hit the marble foyer, a sharp pain shot up through her arches, forcing her to wince. She hadn't walked in heels like that in ages—certainly not under the gaze of emperors and empresses. "I told you those shoes were unnecessary," Nathaniel said with a teasing grin as he handed his gloves to a waiting attendant.
"They matched the gown," she muttered, limping toward the stairs. "Besides, it's not the shoes' fault my feet forgot what civilized footwear feels like." He chuckled, that low, infuriatingly amused sound of his echoing in the hall. "You're lucky the empress didn't see you limping. She might have prescribed foot training next." Fatima groaned. "Don't even joke about that." "Do you need my help climbing the stairs?" Nathaniel asked, following behind her limping form on the stairs. "No thank you. Have a pleasant night, your highness." She panted, waving a dismissive hand.
By the time she reached her room, the adrenaline that had carried her through the royal audience was gone. She kicked off the offending heels, sighing with sheer relief as her toes touched the cool floor. Her feet were sore, her hips ached, and even her shoulders carried the weight of tension she hadn't realized she was holding. "What a tiring day." She sighed, walking toward the bed.
The faint scent of lavender drifted through the room—someone must've lit incense before her arrival. The drapes swayed lazily in the breeze, the fabric whispering against the glass like a lullaby. Fatima collapsed onto the bed, sinking into the cloud-like mattress. "Finally," she murmured, half into a pillow.
She could still feel the echo of the empress's sharp gaze, the emperor's warm smile, the faint, lingering amusement in Nathaniel's voice when he introduced her. It all swirled together in her head—too much to unpack, too heavy to carry any longer tonight. Her last coherent thought before sleep claimed her was a muttered promise to herself: "I'll deal with everything tomorrow… after my feet forgive me." And with that, the princess drifted into dreams, the palace settling into a hushed peace around her.
**
When Fatima opened her eyes, the lamps in her room were already alight—soft golden orbs glowing from the sconces like sleepy fireflies. I must've slept straight through dinner. Her stomach gave a faint protest, but she ignored it. Should I just go back to sleep? She thought groggily.
The bed was impossibly warm, the covers wrapping around her like silk clouds. Her head sank into the plush pillow, and she sighed. "This pillow is so soft…" she murmured, burying her face deeper into it. Then—purr. Her eyes fluttered open. "Did I just—hear a purr?" She froze. Slowly, she tilted her head, pressing her ear against the pillow again. Another rumbling vibration responded, low and steady, like distant thunder wrapped in contentment. "Wait a minute. Pillows don't purr."
The realization hit just as the "pillow" twitched under her cheek and Fatima shrieked. She shot upright, tumbled off the side of the bed, and landed on the floor in a tangled mess of blankets and shrieks. The cold marble met her shoulder with a painful thud.
Within seconds, the door burst open. Nathaniel stormed in first, flanked by a handful of guards and half a dozen maids, all brandishing looks of alarm. "What's happened?" he demanded, scanning the room. His gaze landed on the massive, furry creature perched innocently atop the mattress, blinking its luminous golden eyes. "Louis," Nathaniel muttered darkly, his voice dropping to a warning growl. "How many times must I tell you not to sneak into other people's rooms?"
Louis flattened his ears, tail curling around himself in guilt. He was magnificent up close: a sleek, panther-like beast with fur so black it shimmered blue in the lamplight. So that's Louis… Fatima thought, still catching her breath as the maids helped her off the floor. He wasn't scary at all—at least not when he looked up at her with those wide, apologetic eyes. Actually… he's adorable. "Leo," Nathaniel called sharply. A figure stepped forward from the shadows near the door—tall, composed, dressed in black from collar to gloves. A half-mask of the same color concealed one side of his face, while his pale blond hair fell messily across the other. "Yes, your highness," came his cool, steady voice. "Take him out."
"Master!" Louis yelped, claws clinging to the bedsheets. "I'm sorry! I won't do it again! Please!" Fatima's eyes widened. Is that… Louis's voice? Leonardo gave a weary sigh and moved toward the creature. "Come along now, Sir Louis. Let's do as his highness commands." "How dare you order me around, you fiend!" the creature snapped, growling like a spoiled child being reprimanded. Though his words echoed clearly in Fatima's mind, it wasn't so for the others, not even Nathaniel who is a Sant. "W–wait!" Fatima blurted before she could stop herself. Nathaniel turned to her with a look that screamed don't tell me… She nodded vigorously. "Just—let me try." He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Fine. But be careful." "Please be careful, your highness," one of the maids—Celia—whispered fearfully as Fatima crouched down and reached out her hand.
Louis growled low, but it wasn't menacing—more like a cat caught mid-scolding. Fatima stepped closer, slowly, her bare feet silent against the marble. Every pair of eyes followed her movements and Louis's reactions to her with hawk-like precision.
"It's alright," she murmured. "I won't hurt you." The creature's tail flicked once, then it lowered its head to the floor. A gesture of trust. Fatima's hand brushed along its fur. It was impossibly soft—like velvet warmed by sunlight. Louis made a pleased, rumbling sound. "Ahh… what soothing hands you have. More, please, my lady!"A laugh burst out of Fatima as Louis nuzzled his massive head onto hers, licking her cheeks. "That tickles, Sir Louis! No licking!" Nathaniel pinched the bridge of his nose again, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like a prayer for patience. "It seems we're in the clear for now. You may all return to your posts."
The guards and maids bowed, filing out. "Leo," Nathaniel said after a moment and received no answer. "Leo, are you there?" Fatima glanced at Leonardo—and frowned. The masked man was standing perfectly still, his gloved hand half-raised, eyes unfocused beneath the curtain of blond hair. He's completely out of it… Nathaniel's expression softened. "It must be another one of his migraines."
Leonardo blinked suddenly, as if waking from a trance. "M–my apologies, your highness. I seem to have drifted for a moment." "Go rest," Nathaniel said quietly, though his tone held a rare gentleness. "The introductions can wait until morning."
But Leonardo shook his head. Straightening his coat, he stepped forward with a courteous bow. "You must be the esteemed guest everyone's been speaking of. My name is Leonardo Harpen, Chamberlain of his highness's palace. It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Princess."
His voice was warm and articulate, his manners impeccable—so at odds with the mysterious mask concealing half his face. Fatima found herself studying him despite her better judgment. What color are his eyes? Why hide them? "It's a pleasure to meet you, Sir Leonardo," she replied. "I am Princess Calliope-Rose Fatima Vicks—s–sir Leo? Are you…alright?" The question slipped out when she noticed him stiffen.
A sharp ringing sound pierced the air—high, thin, and relentless. At first, Fatima thought it was her imagination, but then she saw Leonardo wince, his gloved hand gripping his temple. The sound vibrated inside her skull, sharp and insistent. She gasped. "Is that coming from me… or him? It's making me dizzy."
Nathaniel looked puzzled—he didn't seem to hear a thing. "S-sir Leonardo." Fatima cried. "What's wrong?" His breathing hitched as he slumped to the floor on his knees, his pulse quickening. Fatima could hear it, feel it thrumming like a trapped bird. But there was no wound, no poison, nothing visible at all when her divine eyes scanned through him.
She tried again, this time letting her eyes sharpen, the faint golden haze of her power rising instinctively. Her vision slipped beneath his skin, through the threads of flesh and bone—and then— Fatima gasped, "His… mind?" It wasn't his body that was breaking. It was his mind. Something was eating away at it, and that's what was causing him so much pain.
Fatima reached toward him, helplessly. Ever since her powers awakened, she'd been able to see the ailments that plagued people—every bruise, every fracture, every hidden illness. But the mind…The mind was a place she could never touch. And yet—there, shimmering faintly behind his mask—she saw something. A flicker. A shape. A memory trying to claw its way out. And before she could understand what she was seeing—something looked back at her.
**
Morning light poured through the tall windows like melted gold, stretching across the floorboards and warming Leonardo's bare feet. His eyelids fluttered open. The air felt softer today, almost forgiving. Is it dawn already? he thought, squinting toward the pale streak of sun creeping up the wall. When did I even get back to my room?
For once, his head didn't throb. No familiar pulse of pain hammering behind his eyes. His body felt lighter, as if someone had peeled away the invisible weight he'd been dragging for months. Even the rash beneath his burn scars—usually a dull, constant itch—had gone quiet. A faint, unfamiliar peace hummed through him.
He stretched, sighing. "Well, that's new." Then he froze. Something heavy shifted near his legs. "Louis?" His voice came out a touch sharper than he meant. "What are you doing in my room?"
The imperial panther lifted his massive head, golden eyes blinking at him like two lamps in the dark. He let out a soft rumble, tail flicking once before he flopped back down beside the bedpost, clearly unbothered. Leonardo pinched the bridge of his nose. "You really have no sense of boundaries, do you?"
Before he could push himself fully upright, a voice called from the other side of the door—calm, measured, familiar. "Are you awake, Chamberlain Leonardo? May I come in?" He straightened his collar automatically, wincing at the creases in his shirt. "Yes, you may."
The door creaked open, and Ulissa stepped through. Her stride was steady, her expression composed—but there was something in the way her fingers trembled as she balanced the small tray she carried. A glass of water glimmered beside a neatly arranged cluster of medicine bottles. The faint scent of lavender trailed behind her.
"Please excuse me," she said, bowing lightly before crossing the room. Her movements were deliberate, graceful, but a little too careful—like someone performing a task they weren't used to. Leonardo blinked. "Miss Ulissa? What are you doing? Why are you… circling me like that?"
She leaned in slightly, scanning his face as though searching for a crack in porcelain. Then, with a long exhale, she murmured, "Hm… you seem fine. What a relief." Her shoulders slumped, and some of the tension around her mouth finally softened.
"Did something happen?" Leonardo asked, brow furrowing. Ulissa tilted her head, lips parting. "You mean, you don't remember, Sir Leonardo?" He frowned, trying to piece together the fragments. He remembered standing beside the prince, introducing himself to the special guest… and then—nothing. Just static. A blur of heat and pressure.
She looked at him with eyes caught between disbelief and pity. "You collapsed in the middle of the conversation," she said quietly. "You hit the floor before anyone could react. His Highness had you carried to your room—you were unconscious for hours. He then ordered Louis and I to keep watch over you all night." Leonardo blinked toward the massive panther still lounging by the bed. "So that's why you're here," he muttered. "You weren't sneaking in this time."
Ulissa gave a small, breathy laugh, though her eyes were glossy. "Then the doctor came and said you'd be fine, but I—" Her voice wavered. "I was so worried. You wouldn't wake up. I didn't know what to do." Leonardo's expression softened. "I'm sorry. You must've been frightened, Miss Ulissa." "I was," she whispered. Her hands clenched the hem of her tunic. "You were on the floor, shaking in pain, and no one knew how to help. I thought…" Her voice broke. "I thought something bad was going to happen to you. Watching you suffer was heartbreaking." "Please don't cry," he said gently, reaching out.
Even as he pulled her into an awkward, tender embrace, the sound of her sobs filled the quiet room. She smelled faintly of rain and jasmine oil. Her shoulders trembled against his chest. Leonardo felt something stir—a mix of warmth and guilt. Ulissa was always so composed, so sharp-tongued and poised. Yet here she was, breaking for his sake.
In the little time they had spent together since they met, he came to know her better than he'd anticipated: the fierce daughter of the Uluka tribe's chief, a woman born into grace and fire. She carried herself like royalty because she was one. And he… he was just a broken commoner with half his memories missing and a body that never quite healed. Different worlds, different bloodlines.
Yet right now, her heartbeat pressed against his ribs, quick and real. And for the first time in a long while, Leonardo didn't feel the distance between them as he allowed himself to bask in her warmth.
**
Nathaniel's gaze hadn't wavered since Fatima entered the drawing room. His eyes—clear as polished amber—tracked her every movement, unsettling in their focus. She shifted beneath the weight of his stare, her hand brushing the folds of her gown as if smoothing invisible wrinkles.
Is today's dress too much? she wondered, stealing a glance at the pale silk trimmed in gold threads. Bettie had informed her that it was modest by court standards, but perhaps he does not like it. Or is it the makeup?
Whatever the cause, his scrutiny made her pulse quicken. Nathaniel's composure was immaculate, as always—his red hair neatly tied up, his posture a portrait of grace. Even the simple act of dabbing the corner of his mouth with a napkin carried an air of deliberate poise. He looked as though he'd stepped straight out of one of the palace murals, untouched by sleepless nights or earthly troubles.
Well, at least one of us slept well, she thought wryly. She, on the other hand, had spent the night haunted by the vision that had come to her while tending to his chamberlain—visions she couldn't speak of aloud.
Nathaniel's voice broke through her thoughts, smooth but tinged with curiosity. "Are you feeling unwell, princess?" Fatima forced a small smile as she lifted the delicate porcelain cup to her lips. "I spent all night tossing and turning, Your Highness." She sighed softly, letting the faint aroma of jasmine tea mask her unease. "I was so concerned about Chamberlain Leonardo that I kept thinking of—" "Fati."
Her name, spoken low and deliberate, cut through the air like a blade wrapped in silk. His tone wasn't sharp, but there was weight behind it—a quiet command that made her spine straighten. He set down his cup with careful precision, eyes locking with hers. The golden flecks in his irises seemed to darken. "I'd appreciate it," he said slowly, "if you refrain from uttering another man's name in my presence."
Fatima froze, the taste of tea suddenly bitter on her tongue. "P-pardon?" she stammered, nearly choking as she set the cup back into its saucer. Nathaniel leaned back slightly, his expression composed yet faintly strained. "I should also like to request," he continued, "that you focus solely on me when we're in each other's company."
For a heartbeat, neither spoke. The faint ticking of the clock on the mantel filled the silence, marking each passing second like a metronome of tension. Fatima blinked, unsure whether to laugh or nod. Was he being serious? The prince's expression betrayed no jest—just that cool, regal calm that made him both mesmerizing and infuriating.
"Your Highness…" she began, her voice cautious, "you're jesting, surely." But Nathaniel's lips curved only faintly, not in humor but something else—something perilously close to possessiveness. "I rarely jest about things that concern you," he murmured.
The words lingered in the air, heavy as incense. Fatima's breath caught, her heartbeat quickening. Beneath the table, her fingers tightened around her handkerchief.
Outside, sunlight spilled through the tall windows, catching on the rim of her teacup, painting her face in warm gold. She looked away, not trusting herself to meet his gaze again. "Forgive me, Your Highness," she managed softly. "It wasn't my intention to upset you."
Nathaniel exhaled, his voice gentling. "I know." He reached for his cup again, though his eyes never left her. "Just… don't make me imagine you thinking of someone else while sitting before me. It's disheartening."
Her cheeks flushed despite her efforts to remain composed. What is wrong with him lately? she thought. Or… what's wrong with me, for letting that his words— She caught herself, biting the inside of her lip. The prince's smile returned, faint but undeniably satisfied.