Standing by the tall arched window, Noori watched Dastan and Silvia strolling through the snow-laden garden below. The pale sunlight filtered through the frost-lined glass, painting their figures in a hazy glow. Dastan's laugh, faint but distinct even through the distance, reached her ears like a memory she'd once tried to bury. He leaned toward Silvia, brushing snow from her shoulder, and she smiled at him — soft, trusting, unaware of how sharp that sight could feel to someone watching.
Noori's gaze lingered on them, unmoving. A dull ache pulsed beneath her ribs, quiet but persistent. She knew that look — that unspoken language between two people who think the world has paused just for them. Once, she had lived inside that warmth. Once, it had been her who laughed beneath the snow with her heart wide open and her hands stained red with joy.
Her fingers slid across the cold glass, tracing small patterns that melted beneath her touch. The frost blurred her reflection, and for a moment she could almost pretend she was looking at someone else — someone naïve, someone who still believed in love that promised forever.
She closed her eyes.
And the past came rushing back.
The quiet hall faded, replaced by the crunch of snow underfoot and the rush of wind against her face. She was running again — her laughter breathless, her boots sinking into the powdery white. Behind her came a familiar voice, deep and warm, chasing her through the cold.
"Slow down, my lady," he called out, half-laughing, half-worried.
"No! I'll find it first!" she shouted over her shoulder, her words carried away by the wind. "And when I do, I'll tell you how much I love you!"
"You're chasing a myth," he said, the sound of his steps growing closer. "The villagers made that up. No rose can keep love alive through seven lives."
"Noori," he'd said then, his voice softer, as though he already knew she wouldn't listen.
But she did not stop.
When she reached the peak of Rossilia Hill, she froze in awe. Before her stretched a field of red blooms scattered over white snow — the legendary Rossilia roses, each petal burning with color against the frozen world. She knelt among them, her fingers trembling as she reached for one, her heart swelling with a hope that felt too large for her chest.
"Wow," she breathed, her voice barely a whisper as she stepped closer to the thicket. The sharp thorns that clung to the stems did nothing to stop her; she moved through them carefully, her fingers brushing over the cool leaves until she found the perfect bloom. Its petals were soft against her skin, light as silk, glowing red beneath the pale winter sun.
"My lady, how are you so fast?" his voice called from behind her, breathless and amused. She turned to find him standing a few steps away, his smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He looked at her the way sunlight looks at the snow — with quiet warmth, with belonging.
Noori smiled back, holding up the rose. "I told you I'd find it first," she said softly, the wind catching her words.
He stepped closer, close enough for her to feel the heat of his breath against her temple. "Now that you've plucked it," he murmured, his tone teasing, "why don't you put it in my hair too?"
Her pulse stuttered. For a heartbeat, she could hear nothing but the sound of the wind and her own breathing. With trembling fingers, she reached out and tucked the rose into his dark hair. Their eyes met — his, full of quiet affection; hers, full of wonder — until the sharp sting of pain shattered the stillness.
"Aah!" she gasped, jerking her hand back. A single drop of blood welled up where the thorn had kissed her skin.
He caught her hand instantly, his fingers warm around hers. "My lady! You're hurt." His voice was thick with concern, his brows furrowing as he examined the small wound. "I told you to be careful."
The tenderness in his tone was almost too much. His touch — familiar, steady, safe — burned through her like sunlight after snow.
And then it was gone.
The world shifted sharply, the warmth draining away. Noori's eyes flew open as she stumbled back from the window, her breath shaky, her chest rising and falling in uneven waves. The garden outside was still — empty. Dastan and Silvia were nowhere in sight.
Her hand, the same one that had bled in her memory, curled into a fist. A bitter taste filled her mouth.
"Damn it," she muttered under her breath, turning away from the frost-glazed window. Her footsteps echoed through the empty hall as she walked off, the ghost of the rose still burning at her fingertips.
Azorius was seated in his office, surrounded by stacks of important papers, when his assistant walked in. "Your Majesty, you have a visitor," the assistant announced, head respectfully bowed.
Azorius looked up from his work, instantly intrigued. "Who is it?" he inquired.
"It is the Defense Minister from the West and also the mage from the cathedral, Your Majesty," the assistant replied. Azorius's attention was immediately captured, and he nodded in acknowledgment.
"Let them in," he instructed, setting his papers aside and leaning back in his chair, ready to receive his guests. After a few moments of anticipation, the door opened once more, and two men entered, their presence commanding attention. One possessed a formidable build, emanating strength and prowess suited for battle, while the other exuded an air of refinement, dressed impeccably in attire befitting his noble status. As they approached, they both bowed respectfully before the king.
"Your Majesty, I hope we did not disturb you," the Defense Minister spoke.
"Not at all. I have been expecting your arrival," Azorius replied graciously. "Please, have a seat."
The two men sat across from the king, their expressions serious yet determined. Azorius leaned forward attentively, his curiosity piqued by their presence.
"What brings you here, gentlemen?" he inquired, his gaze shifting between them. The mage was the first to speak, his tone measured yet hopeful.
"Your Majesty, just as you requested, I have worked tirelessly to find a solution for the Prince's curse," the mage began. "And I believe I may have found a way to break it. That is why I personally invited Sir Greyson, the Defense Minister, to join us in the meeting today."
Azorius's eyebrows lifted with surprise, his interest intensifying at the mage's revelation. "Is that true? Could there be a cure?" he asked, his astonishment evident in his voice.
"Yes, Your Majesty," the mage confirmed, his response succinct yet laden with significance.
Azorius exhaled a sigh of relief, a wave of joy washing over him. "I thought we would be at the mercy of the Nurians for the life of my son, but it seems luck is on our side," he exclaimed jubilantly. "Once he is cured, I will take back the ports given to the Nurians."
The mage, whose name was Marcus, remained silent as Azorius celebrated briefly, his expression grave with concern. When Azorius paused, Marcus spoke up, his tone filled with unease.
"But, Your Majesty, I'm afraid that the cure might cause a huge problem between the two nations," he said solemnly.
Azorius's brows furrowed in confusion. "How so?" he inquired, his interest piqued yet tinged with apprehension.
"Your Majesty, the cure is not that simple," Marcus explained, his words weighted with gravity. "We will have to sacrifice the life of a Nurian maiden and extract the soul orb from within her to heal the Prince."
Azorius's expression remained conflicted as he pondered Marcus's revelation. "What is your decision, Your Majesty?" the mage inquired, his gaze fixed intently on the king.
Azorius fell silent for a moment, his mind grappling with the weighty decision before him. Pushing his chair back, he rose to his feet and strode towards the window of his office, staring out into the distance with a blank expression. "A life for a life," he muttered under his breath, the words heavy with contemplation. "That does sound like a fair deal, doesn't it?" he whispered to himself.
Grey, the Defense Minister, listened closely to the king's words, his interest piqued. "What do you mean, Your Majesty?" he inquired, his tone tinged with curiosity.
Azorius turned back to face them, his expression resolute. "I mean that this doesn't sound like a bad offer. The Nurian Empire already owes us a precious life, and they shouldn't be reluctant to settle their debt now that the opportunity has arisen," he explained.
Grey's eyes widened slightly as he grasped the implications of the king's words. "So, what do you imply?" he pressed further.
"I suggest sending some troops across the border to procure a scapegoat," Azorius replied firmly. "I want this marriage alliance to end as quickly as possible."