Although he said he misspoke, Fatima was convinced there'd been something a little too genuine in Nathaniel's voice—like his words had slipped out before his pride could stuff them back in. Now, sitting beside him in the jostling carriage, her face still felt hot enough to fry an egg. She prayed the clatter of hooves, and the rickety creak of the wheels would drown out the thumping of her overexcited heart.
"We're nearing the first gate of the palace," Nathan murmured, his voice low enough to send goosebumps crawling down her arms. "Keep your cloak on until I say otherwise."
Before she could respond, he leaned in, close enough that she could feel his breath tickle her hair. The faint scent of steel and pine filled her nose—warm, earthy, and irritatingly pleasant. His gloved hands brushed against her shoulders as he adjusted her cloak with the care of someone handling spun glass.
Fatima had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from doing something stupid—like looking up to meet his eyes. Or worse, grabbing his hand. Actually, a tiny, reckless part of her thought, what if I did? What would he do? "F-Fati… what are you—"
He froze mid-sentence as she caught his hand, his eyes widening just a fraction. His hands were different now. Bigger. Rougher. The kind of hands that had seen too many battles and too few soft things. Calloused, sturdy—and still somehow warm enough to make her forget how to breathe.
"So this is the hand of a hero," she teased, the corners of her mouth twitching upward. "Strong, reliable… mildly sweaty." Nathan's ears went pink. "That's—! I mean—it's hot in here!" "It's not," she said sweetly, bringing his hand to her cheek before he could retreat. "Welcome home, your highness. You've done well in your endeavors." Then, because she couldn't resist, she reached up and gave his head a patronizing little pat. The mortified look on his face was absolutely priceless.
Outside, the roar of the crowd grew louder as the carriage rolled past the gates. Children waved flags twice their size, musicians pounded on drums with enough enthusiasm to shake the cobblestones, and flower petals rained down like confetti in a summer storm. Laughter and cheers swirled through the air, mixing with the scent of roasted nuts and fresh blooms. It was chaos—joyful, dizzying chaos.
Fati pressed her nose to the glass, her eyes wide with wonder. "Alkaraz… wow. The books didn't do it justice." Nathaniel, however, sat still as a statue, his gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the crowd. The lively noise outside seemed to slide right past him. His shoulders slumped ever so slightly, the weight of something invisible pressing down on him.
Her smile softened. For all his stoic silence and battlefield glory, he looked… tired. A bit lonely, even. So, she nudged him lightly with her shoulder. "Hey, cheer up, great hero. The people are throwing flowers, not rocks. So, smile." She gestured on her own face.
A faint, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Just barely—but it was there. And that tiny flicker of warmth in his eyes made Fatima's heart start pounding all over again, loud enough that not even a herd of horses could drown it out.
**
Inside the vast throne room, the air shimmered with the hum of murmurs and the clink of polished armor. Golden light streamed through the tall stained-glass windows, painting the marble floor in shards of blue and crimson. The imperial banners rippled faintly from the warm breeze sneaking through the open doors.
At the center of it all sat Emperor Exzavier on his lavish throne—an intricate blend of carved obsidian and gold filigree. His sapphire eyes, sharp and restless, swept over the gathered nobles and knights who stood in crisp rows, their faces schooled in practiced reverence but alive with curiosity. The emperor's fingers drummed lightly against the armrest, a soft metallic rhythm echoing the impatience coiling in his chest.
Leaning slightly toward his chamberlain, he murmured, voice low but edged with intrigue. "Tell me, Leonardo… what could possibly be so important that my son would dash off to Chilsela in such haste?"
Leonardo, ever the composed servant, bent at the waist. "His Highness only said he needed to retrieve something precious to him, Your Majesty," he replied, his tone smooth but cautious. "He did not elaborate further. My apologies."
When he straightened, his eyes flickered briefly toward the empress. She arched an elegant brow, her lips curving in that knowing half-smile that always seemed to say men and their secrets.
Exzavier's gaze drifted again toward the open doors, his regal façade cracking just enough to reveal a flicker of fatherly anxiety beneath the crown. His throat tightened, not from illness—no, that had long passed—but from anticipation. Every so often, he would shift in his seat, tugging at the edge of his royal mantle as if that might somehow summon his son faster.
Leonardo noticed. His Majesty truly is back to his old self, he thought, a faint warmth tugging at his chest. He had dispatched the entire palace staff to greet the prince—knowing full well his highness detests the pomp. The chamberlain's lips twitched, half in amusement, half in sympathy. Still, perhaps this time he will see how much his father's trying.
The air grew heavier with each passing second. Conversation dimmed. All eyes turned toward the grand entrance, where sunlight spilled across the marble. The sound of distant boots echoed faintly down the corridor. Exzavier's breath caught—his fingers stilled mid-tap. The throne room seemed to inhale as one, waiting.
**
The moment the carriage rolled to a stop, Nathaniel hopped out first, his polished boots hitting the cobblestone with a soft thud. The palace gates loomed ahead, bathed in the golden wash of sunset — tall, grand, and a little too intimidating for Fatima's liking. He turned back, extending a gloved hand toward her with that annoyingly confident smile of his.
"Careful there, Fatima," he said, voice low and teasing as he extended a hand. Her face was practically glowing—wide-eyed, full of uncontainable excitement as she leaned out of the carriage. The palace loomed behind him like something straight out of a dream—tall pillars, glass chandeliers glittering through open windows, servants lined up in neat rows.
She took his hand, stepped down—and promptly lost her footing. "Whoa—!" Nathaniel caught her midair, one arm wrapped around her waist, the other bracing her shoulder. For a second, she just dangled there, her hair brushing against his chin, her lips parted in stunned silence. "Caught you," he murmured, grinning like a cat who just rescued and trapped its favorite mouse.
Fatima's cheeks flamed. "I–I wasn't going to fall!" "Oh, of course not," he said with a laugh, still holding her a second longer than necessary. "You just enjoy testing gravity." The servants nearby whispered among themselves, eyes darting away as their cheeks pinked. One footman pretended to cough into his sleeve.
"Your Highness," Fatima hissed, her voice barely above a squeak. "You can put me down now." "What's the matter?" Nathaniel asked, setting her gently on her feet. She pressed her hands against her ribs, her shoulders trembling. "M-my sides… are very sensitive," she chortled, biting back laughter.
Ah, she's trying not to laugh, he thought. Her lips were twitching, her eyes watering. She looked like a pouting toddler trying to act serious—and failing spectacularly. "Try taking a deep breath, princess," he said, chuckling softly. "Would you quit calling me that?" she hissed, jabbing his arm. "And stop laughing at me!" "Once a princess, always a princess," he said with mock gravity. "You can deny it all you want, but truth has a way of wearing a crown."
Before she could retort, the palace staff broke into a perfectly timed chorus. "We salute our glorious hero, Crown Prince Kazein Nathaniel VonTicus! Welcome home, Your Imperial Highness!"
Fatima nearly leapt out of her skin—and into his arms again. The greeting echoed like a choir in a cathedral, all deep voices and synchronized bows. "Good heavens," she whispered under her breath, clutching Nathaniel's sleeve. "Did they rehearse that?!" Nathaniel only smiled, offering his arm. "Come on, before they start singing the second verse."
She hesitated before looping her arm through his, her heart pounding as they walked down the marble steps toward a line of high-ranking nobles whose gazes could probably melt steel. Every glance felt like a dagger—cold, assessing, curious. Her fingers tightened around his arm until he gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.
"Don't worry," he whispered, voice low and steady. "The empress and my father already know who you are." Her head snapped toward him. "What?! You could've mentioned that before the parade of doom!" He chuckled. "Relax. You don't have to say a word — just curtsy. If you're uncomfortable, give me a signal."
War had changed him, clearly—sharpened his edges but polished the soul beneath. Alright, Fatima, she told herself. You can do this. You survived toddler tantrums, a knife stab, an angry duchess, and a kitchen fire. Nobles can't be worse than that.
When they entered the throne hall, a fanfare of trumpets nearly blew her back into the corridor. The marble floor gleamed beneath their feet like a frozen lake.
**
Fatima blinked against the sudden blaze of light. Golden chandeliers hung high above, glittering like captive stars. Tapestries lined the walls — vivid scenes of battles, kings, and previous monarchs— while the red carpet beneath her feet felt soft enough to swallow her whole.
Her fingers twitched in Nathaniel's grasp. He hadn't let go. His hand was steady, warm, grounding. "Steady breaths," he murmured under his breath, his tone more gentle than teasing now. "Don't let them see you panic." "I'm not panicking," she whispered back through a tight smile, though her voice cracked on the last syllable.
"Of course not," he said smoothly. "You just look like you're about to faint for the fun of it." She shot him a glare that might have set fire to lesser men. He only smirked — though his thumb brushed the back of her hand, quiet reassurance hidden behind mockery.
At the far end of the hall sat the emperor — a man carved from dignity itself. His robes shimmered in deep crimson and gold, a crown like molten sunlight resting atop his head. Beside him, the empress's beauty was chilling, her eyes sharp and knowing. Fatima's stomach dropped.
As they drew closer, the nobles' stares sharpened. Some whispered behind jeweled fans; others simply stared, their expressions polished masks of curiosity. When Nathaniel and Fatima finally reached the base of the dais, he knelt smoothly, pulling her down with him in one graceful motion. Fatima's heart pounded so loud she was certain the emperor could hear it.
"Your Majesty," Nathaniel said, his voice echoing with authority and warmth. "Your son returns — victorious, and… not alone." Fatima lowered her gaze, but she could feel the emperor's eyes on her — a weight both regal and terrifying.
The emperor rose slowly, each movement deliberate, commanding silence without a single word. The trumpets fell away. The air tightened. "You have done well, my son," he began, voice deep and rich. "The demonic beasts of Ecaleapsi have fallen, and with them, the shadows that haunted our lands." Nathaniel bowed his head, but Fatima caught the faintest twitch of pride at the corner of his mouth.
"And yet," the emperor continued, turning his gaze toward Fatima, "you do not return alone. Tell me, who stands beside my son?" Fatima's heart leapt straight into her throat. She froze. Her mind went blank. Nathaniel's voice cut in before panic could win. "A friend, Your Majesty."
The emperor's eyes flickered between them — shrewd, assessing, almost amused. "Then she must be a rare woman indeed, to have won the friendship of a hero." "Rare is one word for it," Nathaniel said with a grin. Fatima's elbow discreetly jabbed his side. Hard. He grunted, managing to turn it into what looked suspiciously like a respectful bow.
A ripple of laughter — small but genuine — moved through the court. Even the empress's lips twitched into the ghost of a smile. "Very well," the emperor said finally. "Let this day mark not just the end of a war, but the beginning of new alliances… and perhaps, new stories."
He extended a hand toward Nathaniel, who rose and accepted it. Then, to Fatima's shock, the emperor inclined his head ever so slightly toward her — a gesture of acknowledgment she hadn't expected in a thousand years.
As the hall erupted into cheers once again, Nathaniel leaned down, close enough that his breath brushed her ear. "See?" he murmured, his voice soft and smug all at once. "You survived." Fatima rolled her eyes, though her cheeks burned. "Barely. Next time you plan to throw me into chaos, I want at least a week's notice."
"Don't let your guard down, it's not over yet." he whispered, lips curving into that infuriatingly charming grin. "There's dinner after this." "D-dinner?" she gasped, her hooded head whipping toward him. "You never said anything about that." "Don't fret, you'll be just fine. I'm right here next to you." He grinned warmly, and for the briefest moment, amid the gold and grandeur, it felt like the two of them were the only ones there.
**
By the time they were seated in the dining hall, Fatima's nerves were tangled knots. The place was absurdly lavish—crystal goblets, gilded cutlery, chandeliers so heavy she feared the ceiling might collapse. "If I may ask, Your Highness…" Gwendolynn's voice slithered through the air like silk dipped in venom. Fatima froze, every muscle locking up. "Is your guest truly just a friend or is there perhaps something more. You two seem remarkably close."
The emperor and empress said nothing. Not even a twitch. But there she was, all confidence and danger wrapped in lace and jewels, staring holes through Fatima. "Gwendolynn," the empress began sharply, "I ask that you refrain—" "It's alright, Your Majesty," Nathaniel cut in smoothly, his tone calm but his eyes steely. "I'll answer the former duchess."
The entire room seemed to inhale at once. "The truth is…this lovely woman," he said, turning to Fatima with a grin that could have melted glaciers, "is actually my bride-to-be." What?! Fatima's soul promptly exited her body. The goblet slipped from her fingers, and a thin stream of wine trickled down her cloak as she stared at him, trembling.
"However," Nathaniel continued as if announcing the weather, "for reasons I'd rather not discuss, her identity will remain secret until the right time." P-please stop talking, she begged silently, her face burning so hot she could feel her heartbeat in her ears.
The emperor clapped his hands, beaming. "That's wonderful news, son! Another reason to celebrate! Cheers!" Fatima blinked at the sea of raised glasses around her, utterly lost. Why is everyone just… accepting this? Nathaniel leaned close, whispering in her ear with that maddening smirk: "Breathe, princess. You're doing fine." "What on earth are you doing?" she whispered back through gritted teeth. He chuckled, eyes twinkling. "Stirring up a little trouble. It's what I'm good at."
**
"What a chaotic day that was," Fatima sighed, leaning against the velvet headrest of the carved oak chair. The candlelight shimmered against the polished marble of the room, its flicker painting soft gold across her skin.
Nathaniel's declaration at dinner had worked like magic — his confident, almost theatrical words quelling every ounce of suspicion in the room. After that, the nobles had been far too entranced by his war stories to pry into her origins. He'd been animated, his voice full of fire and wit, the emperor leaning forward with the kind of interest only a proud father could muster.
Fatima, however, had been teetering on the edge of consciousness, the long day wrapping around her like fog. By the time the crowd erupted in applause, she could barely recall what he'd said — only the sound of his laughter and the way he'd occasionally glance her way, as if making sure she was still tethered to the moment.
Now, alone in Nextera's private guest wing, she finally exhaled. His palace is different from all the other places I've seen so far, she thought, eyes wandering across the tall, arched windows draped in blue silk. Not too grandiose, yet all the more magnificent — like him, really.
Her musings were cut short by a soft knock. "May I come in, princess?" came a delicate voice from behind the door. Before she could answer, it creaked open, revealing two young women in pale uniforms carrying towels and bottles of colorful liquids that shimmered under the light.
"We are here to assist with your bath. Please excuse us," one said with a polite bow. Fatima blinked. "Assist my—oh, no, that's not necessary. I can—" But her protest was already drowned out by the efficient chaos of attendants. Steam filled the air as rosewater rippled in the marble tub, petals floating lazily atop it. She tried to hide her flustered expression as hands guided her toward the bath with the gentle insistence of professionals used to royal stubbornness. "Watch your steps, princess."
Though the pampering wasn't foreign — she had been raised in privilege — it still felt strange after so long taking care of herself. Independence had hardened into habit. The idea of someone else brushing her hair or adjusting her towel made her feel oddly… vulnerable. Still, the warmth of the bath seeped into her bones, melting the tension that had built from the day's performance.
"The water is perfect, isn't it, Your Highness?" said the taller maid, gently pouring lavender oil into the tub. Fatima closed her eyes, letting out an unguarded sigh. "It's wonderful, actually." "Her Highness' hair is so beautiful," the shorter one murmured as she ran a comb through Fatima's damp locks. "I can't stop brushing it. Have you ever seen anything this naturally shiny before?"
Fatima chuckled softly, cheeks warming. "You flatter me far too much." "Oh, you can't sleep yet, Your Highness," the taller maid fretted, noticing her eyelids drooping. "We haven't gotten to the best part." Fatima cracked an eye open. "Better than this?"
The maid's face lit up like a child about to show off a new toy. She held up a small black bottle, grinning ear to ear. "This! It's called a charcoal facial cleanser. Imported all the way from the Eastern Isles. They say it makes your skin as smooth and soft as a baby's behind."
Fatima snorted, trying and failing to contain her laughter. "You sound awfully proud of that comparison." "I am!" the maid said, puffing her chest. "Celia," the other maid — the more composed one — interjected with a sigh, "you must wash her face separately, or else you'll sully the bathwater."
Celia blinked, her eyes wide in alarm. "Oops! I forgot." The other rolled her eyes, muttering under her breath about "rookies" and "training days." Fatima couldn't help but giggle. They're both awkwardly cute and chaotic. Their banter filled the room with warmth, a kind of homely comfort she hadn't realized she'd missed. They remind me so much of Ivy and Clover… I wonder what they are up to right now. She smiled faintly, letting her thoughts drift.
The laughter of the maids faded into background melody, the gentle scratching of the comb and the distant hum of the palace corridors lulling her further into drowsiness. The world outside might still have been buzzing with celebration — but in this room, the war hero's companion found a rare kind of peace.
That was, until she heard a familiar knock at the door. A familiar voice — calm, deep, unmistakable — filtered through the wood. "Are my attendants behaving themselves, or have they started another hair product experiment?" Her eyes flew open. "Nathan?"
A chuckle followed. "Just checking. You sounded suspiciously relaxed in there." She sank deeper into the bubbles, face burning red. "Kindly get lost, Your Highness." "I see you are still upset with me," he teased. "Sleep well, princess." The sound of his footsteps faded down the hall, leaving Fatima glaring at the door with a smile she couldn't quite suppress. "Insufferable man," she muttered — and promptly laughed at herself.
**
Midmorning sunlight poured through the tall arched windows of the Kartier mansion, scattering gold across the nursery's pale blue walls. The faint scent of lavender drifted from the linen curtains, swaying gently in the breeze. Abrielle's toys were scattered on the carpet—a wooden horse toppled beside a half-open storybook.
Then came the sharp slam of the door. "Emilia!" Dimitriu's voice cracked through the stillness like thunder. He stormed into the room, shoulders tense, his usually neat hair a disheveled mess. His boots thudded against the marble floor, each step dripping with frustration. His face—drawn and pale—was marked by sleeplessness, the muscles in his jaw twitching as if he were biting back more than just anger. In his trembling hand were several crumpled sheets of parchment, their edges wrinkled from the force of his grip.
Emilia turned slowly from the crib, where she'd been humming softly to their daughter. The faint melody died on her lips as she caught sight of her husband's expression. "Dimitriu," she said, her tone cautious but steady, "what's happened?"
He thrust the papers toward her, his eyes wild and desperate. "Were you aware of this?" His voice broke, filled with disbelief and fury. "Did Mother truly suggest the bond servants to such harsh treatments?" Emilia's brows lifted, though her lips curved faintly—half a smirk, half disbelief. She took the papers delicately, her fingers brushing his as if trying to calm the storm that burned in him.
"I should be asking you that, darling," she said, her tone cool and deliberate. "You've been with those ladies far longer than I have." The room seemed to tighten between them. Dimitriu's breath came sharp, like he'd been running. His eyes darted toward the window, where the sunlight now felt too bright, too accusing. Emilia's calmness only deepened the sting of his agitation.
Outside, the gardens shimmered with dew, but inside, tension thickened the air like smoke. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Emilia could hear her brother's voice—Nathaniel's return had been long-awaited, yet there he was, barely a day in the capital and already unraveling old secrets. She sighed softly, folding the papers with measured care.
"This brother of mine," she murmured under her breath, though her eyes never left the papers, "comes home and stirs my whole house before breakfast." And though her tone was teasing, her heart beat faster—because whatever truth those papers held, she knew it would change everything.