( It was during my parents' funeral.
The palace felt different that day— quiet, suffocatingly so. The grand hall, usually filled with light and laughter, was draped in mourning cloth and shadow. The air was thick with the scent of white lilies and candle smoke. A somber melody played in the distance— violins, slow and mournful— each note lingering like a sigh. Courtiers stood in still lines, their heads bowed, their whispers lost in the heavy silence that filled every corner.
I stood near my parents' caskets, my hand clutching Ray's. He was only five then, but he understood enough to cry. His eyes were swollen and red, just like Welfred's. Rui was too young— barely one— resting quietly in Welfred's arms, her small fingers curled around his collar, unaware of what was happening.
I remember standing there, unable to move, unable to think. Everything felt distant, like I was watching it all through glass. Then, a hand touched my shoulder.
'I am your uncle,' the man said.
"I had never seen him before. For a moment, I was confused— but more than that, I was… relieved. There was something about his face, a trace of my father in his eyes, in the way he looked at me. It felt like seeing a piece of what I had lost." )
Grace let out a soft sigh at the memory. "Though I can't forget how I asked him who he was," she murmured, a faint, embarrassed smile forming on her lips. "That's not how one should greet their uncle. It was so embarrassing."
"What are you thinking?" Dasmon asked, watching Grace smiling as she seemed lost in her own thoughts.
"Oh, it's nothing," she replied softly, brushing it off.
"By the way," she continued after a moment, her tone calm but edged with quiet reproach, "where were you? It's been three months since you left. You promised you'd be back before the ceremony."
Dasmon gave a light shrug. "I just got caught up in some work. But I did inform you before leaving."
"Yes, you did," Grace said evenly, "but you never mentioned it would take this long. It felt rather empty without you there— especially during the coronation. You should've been beside the other royal courtiers. After all, you are my second aide." Her voice held a composed grace, softened by a small, knowing smile.
"Second?" Dasmon raised an eyebrow, feigning offense.
"Don't forget Welfred," she replied, her tone steady but firm.
"Ah yes, Welfred," he said with a quiet chuckle. "Your favorite minister. Still, I suppose I don't mind being my niece's second most trusted."
Grace smiled faintly, but her gaze soon drifted to the servant standing beside Dasmon. In the man's hands rested a finely crafted box— large, elegant, set upon a black velvet cushion.
"What's this?" she asked curiously.
Dasmon's eyes gleamed with amusement. "This," he said, a hint of pride in his voice, "is the reason it took me so long to return."
He rested his hand on the box.
"Inside this, is your birthday gift. Want to see it?"
"Why wouldn't I?" she teased.
He laughed softly. "Right, of course— my mistake."
.
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He seemed uneasy, a faint tension in his posture— as if he were hiding something. Grace's eyes narrowed slightly, studying Dasmon before shifting back to the box as he slowly lifted the lid.
Her breath caught. Her eyes widened at the sight within.
"Is this… a weapon?" she asked.
"It is."
Grace still staring in quiet astonishment. "I've never seen anything like it before."
"You sure haven't. This is the only one of its kind on the whole continent — made exclusively for you."
Grace leaned closer, her eyes tracing the intricate engravings along the barrel. "Its craftsmanship… is it from Tharwyn?"
"You've got sharp eyes. Yes, it's from Tharwyn. After all, what other city could produce something like this, besides the weapon capital of Elenor?"
Grace smiled, a touch of pride in her voice. "Makes sense."
"So," she asked, "how does it work?"
He lifted the gun carefully from its velvet-lined box, the metal glinting under the light. "Everything about it is built for precision," he said, his tone carrying a trace of satisfaction. "The balance, the recoil, even the trigger pressure— all adjusted to my specifications. One pull, and it fires clean and steady every time."
He paused, admiring the weapon as if it were his own creation. "Took months of planning and the best minds in Tharwyn to make it real. But in the end… I suppose it turned out just as I envisioned."
Grace paused, catching the scent. "…This smell… is that sulfur?"
Dasmon stiffened at her words, though his expression remained carefully composed.
"You could probably sniff out secrets at this point."
"It sure is sulfur— or should I say gunpowder," he explained calmly. "It's the core element of this weapon."
Grace's eyes lingered on the object, her thoughts turning over in quiet intrigue. "(This isn't the first weapon I've seen that runs on sulfur— cannons, muskets, even old fire-lances used it— but nothing quite like this.)" She tilted her head slightly, studying its make. "(Compact, precise… something like this could change how battles are fought. Or how one defends a throne.)"
She reached out, wanting to feel its weight, but before her fingers touched the metal, Dasmon swiftly set the gun back in the box and shut the lid.
Grace blinked in surprise.
"Apologies, dear," he said smoothly, too quickly. "A… complication has come up with it. I'll need to make a few adjustments before it's fit to be presented to our... queen."
Grace's brows drew together, a flicker of displeasure crossing her face. "More waiting?"
Dasmon offered a tight smile. "Just a day more," he said—his tone steady, but something beneath it sounded off, a faint tremor in the calm. "Then it'll be yours… I promise."
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Welfred returned with Rui and Ray, and the kids lit up at the sight of Dasmon, greeting him cheerfully.
"How have my two little troublemakers been?" he asked.
They answered with bright smiles, their voices overlapping in excitement. For a moment, the room was filled with their laughter as they chatted and caught up.
Then Dasmon's gaze shifted past them— to where Welfred stood a short distance away, watching in silence, a gentle smile on his face.
"Hey, Welfred! What are you doing all the way over there? Come here," Dasmon called.
Welfred hesitated for a moment, then stepped forward.
Dasmon pulled him into a hug, and after a heartbeat of surprise, Welfred returned it— awkwardly at first, then with quiet warmth.
As they straightened after the hug, the contrast between them became clear— Dasmon was broader and more muscular, while Welfred stood a little smaller beside him.
Dasmon carried himself with the quiet authority of one born to rule, while Welfred appeared hesitant, almost self-conscious, as if the weight of his humbler beginnings pressed upon him. They shared the same title, yet the distance between royal blood and a servant's lineage still lingered in the air.
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After the long hours of greetings, speeches, and formalities, the imperial gala finally drew to a close. Now came the part everyone had been waiting for— the grand feast for the royals and nobles.
"Finally," Rui groaned, rubbing her stomach dramatically. "I can feed the rats in my stomach."
Ray smirked. "Why'd you eat rats in the first place?"
Rui shot him a sharp look, clearly unimpressed, before glancing at Grace for backup.
"Ray," Grace said gently, "don't tease your sister."
"Alright, alright. I'm sorry," Ray replied, laughing under his breath.
As they walked down the marble corridor toward the banquet hall, a servant approached and bowed low before Grace. His expression was careful, almost hesitant.
"Your Majesty," he said softly, "a message from Mrs. Seraphine."
Grace stopped, motioning for Rui and Ray to go ahead with Welfred and Dasmon. "I'll catch up. Go on without me," she told them.
When they were out of earshot, she turned back to the servant. "What about her?"
"She had to leave for urgent business, Your Majesty."
Grace's brows knit together. "She left? And she didn't even tell me?"
"She wished to, but you were occupied preparing for the gala," he explained apologetically. "I've been meaning to tell you, but couldn't— you were busy speaking with the guests."
Grace crossed her arms, displeasure flickering across her face. "Did she say what kind of urgent work?"
"I'm afraid not, your grace. But she instructed me to inform only you."
Grace sighed quietly. "(So she didn't want Rui and Ray to worry… but they'll find out soon enough anyway.)"
"Very well," she said after a pause. "You may go."
The servant bowed again and retreated down the corridor.
Grace lingered for a moment, her thoughts trailing. "(I didn't think much of her absence at the gala— she's never one for crowded halls— but leaving entirely? That's unlike her.)"
Her expression hardened slightly. "(Next time I see her, she's telling me everything.)"
When she finally arrived at the dining hall, the grand arch doors loomed open, warm light spilling out. Rui, Ray, Welfred, and Dasmon stood waiting just outside, their elegant attire catching the golden glow of the chandeliers.
"There you are!" Ray called, grinning. "Come on— the food's getting cold!"
Grace's stern thoughts softened into a smile. "Alright," she said warmly, walking toward them. "Let's go."
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A royal vine carriage rolled down leaving the palace path like a slow, inevitable storm. Hooves clipped the stones— two riders abreast at the lead, two more directly behind the carriage, two flanking its left, two on the right, and two more riding slightly ahead of the lead guards, forming a tight, watchful cordon.
Inside, Corvin sat rigid, his jaw a hard line. Rage pressed behind his eyes like a coiled thing.
"How dare that lowly servant blame me—speak back to me— to King Corvin," he hissed, grinding his teeth until his knuckles whitened.
"It's all because of Grace," he spat, voice low and dangerous. "If she hadn't been the Imperial Queen… I would never have been humiliated like this."
He leaned forward as if the carriage itself might carry his fury to her doorstep. "You'll pay," he breathed, each word a promise of retribution. "You'll pay, Grace."