The King's workroom was a solemn place, vast and lined with shelves heavy with scrolls and tomes that bore the weight of Nexus's history. Maps stretched across one wall, their inked borders carefully marked with seas, trade routes, and military lines. The scent of aged parchment and melted wax lingered in the air, the faint smoke of a brass incense burner curling toward the carved ceiling beams. The desk itself was broad oak, its surface stacked with scrolls, sealed letters, and the weighty burden of diplomacy. A place where words, more than swords, shaped the fate of kingdoms.
Before this desk knelt a man not older than thirty-five, clad in the white and blue armor of Nexus. The steel bore the faint gleam of salt, forged for both land and sea. Unlike the cumbersome plate of other realms, Nexus armor could be loosed swiftly should the tide claim the battlefield—yet it was strong enough to withstand a storm of blades. Draped upon his shoulders was the blue cape that marked him as unique among his kind: the single Knight Grand Cross of Nexus, Sir Wesley Chad Baton.
"You may rise," King Stewart said, his voice steady, eyes still upon the parchment in his hands.
The colors of a knight's cape spoke louder than words within Nexus. White marked the ordinary knight. Black, the captains. Red, the commanders. But blue—blue was reserved for one alone. A title not simply earned, but lived.
Sir Wesley rose with a knight's practiced poise. "Your Majesty, I bring word. Our patrols have sighted a vessel of Tartagalia lingering at the edge of our waters. It has held position for five days, watching the coastal walls from afar." His tone was sharp, precise, carrying the weight of discipline.
"Hm." The King set aside the parchment with care, his brows drawn. "Keep them under observation. Do not strike unless they provoke."
Sir Wesley bowed his head in assent but did not leave. He remained upright, a pillar of steel, awaiting further command.
King Stewart's gaze shifted toward him, the weight of a different matter pressing upon his mind. "The Empire of Feltogora has sent a request of marriage for Zuleika."
"They grow restless," Wesley answered without pause. "Their petty provocations have failed. Now they reach for subtler chains."
The King let out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. "His Imperial Majesty must think us naive."
"If that is truly his belief, then forgive my bluntness, sire, but something is amiss in His Imperial Majesty's head," Wesley replied, his tone as grave as stone.
The King laughed, a low sound that cracked the heavy air. "Careful, Wesley. Another court might see your tongue struck before the thought had left your lips."
"Another court, perhaps," the knight said, a faint ghost of a smile crossing his face.
A knock sounded at the door. "Your Majesty, a message," called the butler.
"Enter."
The servant stepped in gracefully, a parchment resting on a silver tray. With a bow, he placed it upon the King's desk and withdrew with the quiet precision of long service.
Breaking the seal, Stewart's eyes skimmed the lines. His frown deepened. "From Feltogora. His Imperial Majesty sends apologies for his absence—issues in the North, he claims. Instead, the Crown Prince himself will attend Eloisa's coming-of-age ceremony."
The parchment fell to the desk with a soft thud.
"They push their designs through diplomacy," Wesley observed, his voice like a blade hidden beneath silk.
The King leaned back into his chair, shoulders heavy with the weight of unseen wars. "So it seems. And we cannot refuse—not without scandal. The Empress's son will walk in our halls, and the world will watch. So be it."
A tired sigh escaped him, softer than the crackle of the fire. "Perhaps I finally understand why my children wish to remain untouched by politics."
Wesley's expression shifted—momentarily surprised. The servants in the room bowed their heads lower, unsure if they had truly heard their king confess weariness aloud.
·______________·
Beneath the clear skies of the palace gardens, the sisters Zuleika and Eloisa sat at their gazebo, the white arches wreathed in vines, sunlight spilling across the table where porcelain cups steamed with chocolate. Elijah and Steven, the youngest twins, played freely on the lawn: Elijah, calm and observant, nibbled cookies beside his sisters, while Steven chased butterflies with all the careless vigor of youth.
Miss Veron, the head maid, refilled their teapot with practiced grace, her voice soft with respect. "Your Highnesses… have you heard? The Crown Prince of Feltogora is to attend Princess Eloisa's coming-of-age ceremony."
Zuleika nearly choked on her drink, eyes wide as she turned to Eloisa.
"Father already told me," Eloisa answered innocently, setting her cup down. "Did he not tell you, Sister?"
"I am only learning of this now?" Zuleika groaned, collapsing dramatically against the table.
"Lei completely forgot about it," Elijah remarked dryly.
"Totally," Eloisa added with a mischievous grin.
Their laughter stung, and Zuleika muffled a groan into her sleeves. "I do not want to meet that Crown Prince," she muttered darkly.
"You likely don't even remember his name," Elijah said, sipping calmly.
"Lei, at least remember the Crown Prince's first name," Eloisa scolded.
Zuleika made a muffled hum in reply.
Steven, now red-cheeked from running, plopped beside her. "Do you really hate getting married, Sissy?"
"…Yes." Her voice was little more than a mutter.
Eloisa, crunching a cookie, tilted her head. "I heard the Revazkerio heirs number four—three princes and one princess. The girl is but two years younger than you. If you ever visit their palace, you should befriend her. Perhaps she'll help you reject the proposal."
Zuleika perked at that, though she frowned quickly after, dabbing Steven's sweaty brow with a towel. "Please do not speak as though I shall ever step foot in their palace. That would be my worst nightmare."
Steven and Eloisa both laughed at her sour face. Yet as their joy carried across the garden, Zuleika's thoughts weighed heavy. Only five days remained until Eloisa's ceremony. Only five days until the Crown Prince of Feltogora arrived. And by then, she would have to wear a mask, smiling at the very enemy she wished to scorn.
"Urgh," she groaned softly, sinking into her seat.
·______________·
Far from the sea, within the gilded walls of Feltogora's imperial palace, the chamber of the royal princess stood vast and cold. Its red and gold banners glittered beneath chandeliers of crystal, but emptiness clung to the air, every corner polished yet lifeless.
At the center sat Princess Aquila Faye Lavezki Revazkerio, the only daughter of the empire. Her hair, a cascade of pale violet waves, framed silver eyes sharp as tempered steel. Dressed in crimson silk, she reclined lazily upon a carved chair, her presence regal yet unyielding.
Before her, a maid knelt trembling, stammering apologies. "P-please forgive me, Y-Your Royal Highness—"
With an exhale of irritation, Aquila lifted a glass and spilled its water over the girl's bowed head. Her gaze, colder than winter's bite, did not waver. "Get her out of my sight."
The maid's muffled sobs faded as she was dragged from the chamber. Aquila leaned back, eyes tracing the ornate ceiling, boredom etched into every line of her face.
"Your Highness," another maid approached cautiously, bowing low. She set a sealed letter upon the nearby table. "A message from His Imperial Majesty."
Aquila broke the wax seal, scanning its contents. Her lips curled into a faint scowl, followed by an eye-roll of pure disdain.
She was to accompany her elder brother, Crown Prince Matthew, to the Nexus Kingdom for the coming-of-age ceremony of Princess Eloisa.
Nexus. That so-called bastion of peace, the last obstacle that refused to kneel.
"Prepare a gown," she ordered curtly, waving a hand. The maids scurried to obey.
Alone again, she let out another weary sigh. To smile at strangers. To play at diplomacy. To dance in a kingdom that dared defy them.
"Annoying," she muttered.