When the group reached the front gates of Chief Ulsef's mansion, the contrast in reception was as stark as a slap to the face. The towering gates, forged from black iron and gilded with bronze tribal patterns, swung open to reveal a grand courtyard lit by rows of oil torches. The scent of burning cedar wafted through the air, mingling with the earthy musk of the evening breeze.
The servants rushed forward in a flurry of exotic traditional robes, nearly dropping to their knees as Nathaniel and his men led their steeds inside. They bowed so low their foreheads brushed the dirt ground, their voices a chorus of reverent greetings. "Your Imperial Highness… welcome, welcome!" they chorused.
Yet the four brothers who stood just behind him— warriors clad in modest leather tunics still dusty from the road—were met with silence. Not a single servant cast them a second glance. They might as well have been carved from stone, forgotten and unremarkable. The youngest brother's jaw twitched, but none dared to speak.
By the time they were ushered inside, the air had grown heavy with incense and pride. The tribal throne stood upon a raised stone dais, carved from dark basalt and wrapped in furs of snow lynx and sable. Polished bones and golden feathers dangled from its armrests, whispering softly whenever the fire pit's heat stirred the air.
Upon it sat Chieftain Ulsef—broad-shouldered and statuesque, his bronze skin gleaming under the torchlight, every curve of muscle traced with white tribal markings that glowed faintly like ancestral sigils. His long white hair, twisted into thick locks, cascaded down his back beneath a grand headpiece wrought of silvered antler, turquoise beads, and the teeth of slain beasts—an emblem no other dared to wear. On his right sat his six sons—broad-shouldered men with proud faces—and on his left, his wife and four daughters, glittering like jeweled statues. In this moment, Ulsef looked more like a monarch than a chieftain, basking in the attention.
The banquet hall glimmered with wealth: high-backed oak chairs, carved mud pillars wrapped in golden thread, and braziers burning with perfumed oils. Around the room lounged tribe elders and nobles, their wrists clinking with gold bangles, their laughter bright and sharp as shattered glass.
Nathaniel sat at an individual table near the dais, his eyes quietly drinking in the sight, yet the warmth of the room did nothing to ease the chill in his chest. His appetite had long since vanished. Each sip of the crimson wine felt like swallowing guilt itself—bitter, dry, and suffocating.
Ulsef's piercing blue eyes, cold and sharp, swept across the feast below where drums thundered in a rhythmic tune, and smoke curled upward in honor of his reign and that of his guests. "Welcome to our humble abode, prince of Alkaraz," the chief's booming voice rose over the din, commanding the attention of all. He raised his goblet high, a wide grin stretching across his weathered face. "Tonight, we honor the one whose courage ended the scourge that threatened to bleed our lands dry. The crown prince of Alkaraz—slayer of the demonic horde, restorer of peace!"
A roar surged through the room, his kinsmen's fists striking against the table, shouting Nathaniel's name. "Cheers to the peace bringer! Hero of the world!" "You have brought dawn to a sky that had forgotten its light, and for that you have our deepest gratitude." He continued, his eyes gleaming with something Nathaniel could not yet place. "May your name be sung beside our ancestors', and your deeds echo beyond the bones of time."
Nathaniel gave a solemn nod, his fingers tightening around his cup. He's not even trying to hide it. I came here with five escorts—four of them his own kin—and yet his words are for me alone. He forced a polite smile and lifted his glass, though the motion felt mechanical. The firelight danced on the surface of the wine like spilled blood.
The music resumed—livelier this time, thunder rolling for a hero's triumph. Drummers beat a deep, rhythmic pulse that echoed through the floor, and dancers emerged in bright silks, their bodies moving like flames in a windstorm. The guests cheered and whistled "Hooray!" slamming their cups down in rhythm, their tables laden with roasted fowl, honeyed fruits, and crystal decanters filled to the brim. "Work those hips!" a drunk man hollered, his goblet raised toward them before shoving the liquid down his throat. The others cackled, slamming their hands against the table.
Nathaniel's gaze flicked toward the brothers again. They stood near a pillar, silent, ignored, their eyes fixed on the floor. These men once turned the tide of battle—heroes who swept through the battleground like fire through dry grass—and yet here they are, treated as nothing. His throat tightened. I don't know how much longer I can stomach this farce.
"Loosen your expression, your highness," Leonardo murmured beside him, his tone dry as he poured himself another glass. "Your discontent's written all over your face." he added, already sipping the wine. "It's difficult to remain courteous when my people are being humiliated before me," Nathaniel muttered, voice low enough for only Leonardo to hear. "And where have you been this whole time?" he asked, brows knitted not in fury but annoyance.
Leonardo exhaled through his nose, the line of his jaw hardening. His eyes flicked toward the corner where the brothers huddled. "I was…occupied with something." he said quietly, averting his eyes. Nathaniel set down his goblet with a soft click. "Chieftain Ulsef," he began, his tone even but laced with quiet authority. Instantly, the hall stilled, every head turning toward him. "Might I ask why there are no seats for my men, who have been standing against that wall since our arrival?"
The brothers stiffened under the sudden weight of countless gazes. The silence that followed was suffocating. Murmurs rippled through the room like wind through reeds. Ulsef blinked, clearly taken aback. His expression flickered—first confusion, then annoyance—but before he could form an excuse, his wife spoke up, her calm voice slicing through the tension.
"It seems we have shown discourtesy to our esteemed guests," she said, bowing slightly. "Please accept our apologies, your highness. Seats will be brought at once." She gestured a hand toward the attendants, who hurriedly scurried out of the hall. Nathaniel inclined his head with a faint smile, swirling the wine in his goblet. "Very well. I'll take your word for it." The musicians resumed their playing, though the rhythm felt strained, uncertain now.
Across the dais, Ulsef's face darkened like a storm cloud. He glared at his wife, his fingers digging into the armrest of his ornate chair. She met his glare with a cold, defiant tilt of her chin and turned away, arms folded. Nathaniel caught the exchange and let out a low chuckle, his lips curving in amusement. Leonardo, too, allowed a hint of a smile to tug at his mouth.
For the first time that evening, pride replaced the discomfort in Leonardo's chest. The prince had stood up for his comrades—men who deserved to be honored, not hidden. "You're smiling like a fool, Leo," Nathaniel muttered under his breath, though his tone carried warmth. "Wipe that grin off before it spreads to me. I can practically hear your thoughts."
Leonardo grinned wider, lifting his goblet in mock salute. "Too late for that, Your Highness. You're finally acting like the prince I always thought you were. Miss Bettie would cry if she were here to see this new side of you." Nathaniel rolled his eyes, but the faint curve at the corner of his lips betrayed him. The hall might have returned to its pretense of festivity—but beneath the music, something had shifted. The prince was no longer content to simply play the guest. He was here to make sure his people were seen and treated with due respect.
**
Night draped the capital of Lithiar in velvet shadows, the cobblestone streets slick with the remnants of an earlier drizzle. Lanterns flickered weakly from their iron sconces, their flames dancing in protest against the biting wind that swept through narrow alleys. The city slept, its heart quiet—save for the faint scuff of boots and the rasp of labored breaths echoing through the stillness.
A lone figure moved through the darkness. Cloaked in black, his hood drawn low, the man's strides were unhurried yet heavy with intent—each step the measured beat of a predator's hunt. Beneath the folds of his cloak, the faint glimmer of steel caught the lantern light. His humming, deep and tuneless, rippled through the night air, an eerie melody laced with mirth.
"Little rats run fast," he murmured, his voice low and lilting, "yet can never escape the fate of being devoured by the ravenous cat…" His words slithered into a quiet chuckle, his tone dripping with mockery. "Conceal yourselves all you want, but the stench of your sins leads me right to you." He paused, tipping his head back slightly, inhaling the night air as though tasting the fear that lingered faintly on the breeze. A slow, pleased sigh escaped his lips. "Since you made me miss the Uluka banquet," he drawled, "I shall take my time dissecting your demise."
A sharp grin curved his mouth. He pushed back his hood, revealing tousled dark hair and eyes of deep chestnut—eyes that glowed faintly, unnaturally, as if lit from within by a divine ember. He ran a hand through his hair, smearing away a streak of rain and shadow. "I should become a singer at this rate," Jonathin mused aloud, his tone playful, his smirk widening. "The maidens would flock to me all day long." He clicked his tongue softly, savoring the idea. For all his arrogance, there was something unnerving about him—an energy that shimmered faintly in the air, distorting the darkness around him like heat rising off stone.
Ever since pledging himself to the Crown Prince, his divine powers had grown—wildly, unnaturally, beyond what even the church scholars could predict. As a Sant, he had been born with the gift to see, smell, and touch things that ordinary mortals could not—shadows of emotion, traces of corruption, the lingering essence of sin. Yet his powers had always been unstable, untamable, leaving him scorned by his own father, King Cornelius, who saw him as a defective heir.
He smirked bitterly to himself. It's no use entertaining useless thoughts. I left, and I won't ever return. The wind carried a new scent—iron and fear. Jonathin's head snapped up, his glowing eyes cutting through the dark like blades. There—movement, faint but distinct. Several silhouettes scattered down the alleyways, their footsteps splashing through shallow puddles. "There you are," he whispered, his grin sharpening.
He lunged forward, his cloak flaring behind him. His boots barely touched the ground as he weaved through the labyrinthine streets, moving with the grace of someone who knew every turn and shadow by heart. His breath came steady, his senses aflame with the thrill of pursuit. One by one, he caught the Ecaleapsian spies—silent flashes of motion followed by brief, choked cries that never fully escaped their throats.
Moments later, the alley was still again. Jonathin straightened, adjusting his cloak, his chest rising and falling calmly. He released the last spy's collar, letting the body crumple onto the stones with a dull thud. A thin mist of crimson dotted his face. He exhaled, almost contentedly. "Who goes there?!" The shout tore through the quiet. A torch flared to life at the far end of the alley, its golden light revealing the figure of a young guard—helmet askew, sword trembling in his grip.
Jonathin sighed, rolling his shoulders lazily. I thought I told them not to roam around alone. Why is this one all by himself? He rubbed his temple. Man, these new recruits are such headaches. The guard stepped closer, the torchlight spilling across Jonathin's features. Recognition dawned instantly. "Oh! Your Highness—Prince Jonathin!" he stammered, nearly dropping his sword as he saluted. "Sir!"
Jonathin pressed a finger to his lips, voice smooth but edged with steel. "Keep it down, lest you awaken the entire city. At ease." "Yes, sir!" Jonathin flicked his wrist dismissively toward the bodies strewn about the alley. "Summon the rest of the team and clean up the mess." "Right away, Your Highness!" The guard scurried off, torchlight bobbing erratically as he ran.
Jonathin stood alone once more, the night wrapping him in its cool embrace. "I wonder if they're faring well without me," he murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "Knowing him, he's probably made a mess of things already." He ran his thumb thoughtfully along his jaw. "Pity… I'm rather sad when I think of all the fun I'm missing. I should request a wage increase." The night swallowed his words as he turned away, his laughter echoing faintly through the fog-draped streets—a sound far too warm for a man who had just turned the alley crimson.
**
Moonlight stitched a pale ribbon across the polished floorboards as Nathaniel pushed open the guest room door. "What on earth," he mumbled. The light pooled over a woman already waiting on the far side of the room — silk pooled around her like water, white hair spilling over a shoulder in soft, tangled waves. The moon caught each curl and set it alight; the same light flattened the warm bronze of her skin into burnished copper. Bamboo curtains whispered where a thin night breeze sneaked in from the balcony; the curtains breathed, the shadow of a palm tree laced across the wall.
For a heartbeat Nathaniel simply stood there, every instinct keyed. The room smelled of cedar smoke from the fire in the stone hearth, and something floral beneath it — perhaps the washed-silk perfume clinging to the woman. The fire made a dry, patient crackle that punctuated the stillness, and Nathaniel felt the silence broaden into something almost physical: heavy, expectant, full of consequences.
If he had been drunk — even half so — he might have moved forward on impulse. She sat on the edge of the bed like a deer in a clearing, eyes bright and wide, hands pressed into her lap as if to pin herself to the world. When a breeze curled up from the balcony and touched her bare arm she flinched; the motion was small but precise, as though every muscle was trying to pull away from a trap closing in.
Nathaniel's mind rattled with options. Shouting for the guards to escort her away might seem like the most effective method but it also invites the possibility of rumors spreading through the courts. Let her be and risk chief Ulsef's setup succeeding — unthinkable. He could feel his jaw working, a slow, private anger coiling inside his ribs.
"Y-your highness… please be gentle." The plea came out like a thread, hoarse and hesitant. The woman's voice trembled; when she pushed a sleeve down from one shoulder, the motion looked almost sacramental, an offering. "I have… I have never done this sort of thing before."
Nathaniel's hand closed on the doorknob; the brass was cool against his palm. He was already turning it when Leonardo's voice curved in from the balcony — low, close, precise as a blade. "Your Highness."
It was so quiet that the name seemed addressed only to Nathaniel's ears. Leonardo's voice had a way of threading itself through a room; Nathaniel had learned to trust the shade of tone more than words. Tonight, it carried a warning. "I can sense an intruding presence in your room. If you are in dangerous company and require my help, remain completely silent for the next sixty seconds."
Nathaniel's grip slackened without him deciding to, the knob slipping back into the frame. He did not turn — did not want to give the woman any sign she might exploit. Sixty seconds stretched; the fire's crackle seemed to step slower. The minute passed in a series of held breaths, the small sounds of the room magnified: the soft rasp of silk against silk, the woman's stifled sob swallowed in the folds of her dress.
When the breeze became a rush of air that toppled the bamboo curtain, Leonardo moved. He crossed the threshold as if the floor itself bowed for him: not rushed, but impossibly swift. Shadow pooled at his heels and then resolved into a figure; one instant the room was empty of movement, the next he was upon her, dagger pressing a cold line against the warm skin at the base of her throat. Her body folded into itself with a sound like a snapped reed; she began to cry, helpless tears sliding hot and sudden across her cheeks.
"State your name and your motive for intruding upon my bedchamber." Nathaniel's voice was flat, controlled. He turned at last, lowering himself to a crouch so he could look at her without towering over her like an executioner. "U–Ulissa, Your Highness." She hiccuped. Her voice was thin and small, frayed at the edges. "I came at my father's orders. Please — I meant no harm." Leonardo's dagger watched her like a living thing. He spoke the name slowly, as if testing a taste. "The deposed crown princess of Lithiar, Ulissa Tuto."
Ulissa flinched as though the title itself were a lash. Nathaniel's memory snapped into place — a marriage he had attended six years prior, a union meant to cement alliances. He had seen their faces then: youth, obligation, quiet resistance. "Deposed," he repeated, the word souring in his mouth. "When… when did they divorce?"
"Sion claimed to have fallen in love with another soon after their wedding," Leonardo said, voice low, almost conversational — but the casualness had teeth. "Thus, he left the marriage for the second daughter of Count Mesulac, and Ulissa was sent back to her father. He remarried within the year."
The facts landed with the weight of ink on vellum. Nathaniel could piece together the motive like a line on a map: pride wounded, honor sought, a father's humiliation turned into a political cudgel. The Uluka tribe's shame — made a cold edge run along his spine. I can see why Ulsef would try something like this. "If my hunch is right," Leonardo's voice broke through his thoughts, "her father seeks to use you to restore the family's honor. A bargaining chip with your name burnt into the center."
Ulissa's face crumpled. She cried openly now, shoulders shaking, mascara smudging tracks down her cheeks. "Please," she sobbed, voice dissolving. "Please do not— my father—I never— I didn't choose this."
Nathaniel felt anger and pity braided together so tightly they were indistinguishable. The room smelled suddenly of smoke and jasmine and the metallic tang of fear. He steadied himself against the swell of emotion — pity could be weaponized as easily as rumor.
Leonardo eased the dagger back a hair — not in mercy, but to make a point. "What are your orders, my prince?" Nathaniel stood. He let his eyes travel the room once more: the curtains, the moon-silvered bed, the woman whose dignity had been arranged like a stage prop. "Return her to her residence," he said finally, voice cool, threaded with irritation. "Quietly. Ensure no one sees you. If words of this spread, we'll find ourselves trapped in the web of a circumstance I'd rather not be in."
Leonardo's jaw worked, then he bowed once, "Very well, Your Highness. I shall be back momentarily." He withdrew the dagger with a sound that matched the soft rustle of silk, hooked an arm beneath Ulissa's elbow—fast and as silent as a falling shadow—he stepped to the balcony and vanished into the night. The bamboo curtain settled like a soft curtain call. Nathaniel remained by the bed, the weight of the evening settling on his shoulders like a cloak he had not asked to wear. The fire crackled on, ancient and indifferent, as if the world would go on with or without their consent.