Zuleika told Captain Rhys and Cess everything—about the knights, about Aya, about Matthew and Aquila. Both stood in silence, grimness etched into their faces. Rhys's jaw tightened, and his hand never strayed far from the hilt of his sword after that. Cess became quieter than ever, hovering near Zuleika at all hours, watchful and tense.
For days after, Crown Prince Matthew did not summon her, and Zuleika welcomed the absence. Her thoughts churned like storm waves. Every polished marble column, every banner of the dragon crest, every glimmering chandelier of Revazkerio filled her with disgust. This empire is poison, she thought bitterly. Every breath of it reeks of arrogance and cruelty. Iwish these two months would end already. I want to go home. Back to warmth. Back to Nexus.
Yet even as the thought crossed her mind, Aya's face surfaced—laughing in the midnight glow, whispering Lei with trust in her eyes. Zuleika clenched her hands until her nails bit her palms. But if I leave… who will they have? Who will fight for them? The question gnawed at her, leaving her torn, restless.
To calm her mind, she wandered into the Imperial garden, vast and immaculate. Rose hedges trimmed with mathematical precision lined the pathways, white marble statues gleamed in the light, and fountains murmured with artificial grace. It was beautiful, yes—but the beauty was suffocating, too perfect, too staged.
Under one gazebo, she spotted Princess Aquila. Two ladies-in-waiting flanked her—Lady Marianne Sey Gordon and Lady Georgia Bummingston. A pristine table was set before them, silver teapots steaming, delicate cakes untouched. Aquila reclined with her usual composure, a paper in hand, while her ladies seemed more invested in spotting prey.
Zuleika walked on, unbothered, keeping her chin high.
"Oh dear," Marianne's honeyed voice rang out. "Should Her Highness truly be walking alone? After all, the palace can be so dangerous at night… or even in broad daylight."
"Indeed," Georgia added mockingly sweet. "One never knows what might happen. Why, imagine the scandal if something unfortunate befell her again."
Zuleika halted for a heartbeat, their veiled venom unmistakable. She did not turn her head, nor waste her breath. She simply stepped forward again, her gown brushing lightly against the gravel.
A sharp gasp followed. "How dare she ignore us!" Marianne hissed.
"Such insolence," Georgia whispered, scandalized.
From the gazebo, Aquila sipped her tea, eyes fixed on the paper in her hand. Only once, briefly, did her gaze flick up—silver and unreadable—as she watched Zuleika's back retreating into the distance. Then she returned to her tea, unshaken.
At the far end of the garden lay a small pond. Zuleika lowered herself onto a stone bench, savoring a moment of silence. The water reflected the fading sun, dragonflies skimming its surface. She exhaled—until the faintest shift of movement caught her eye.
At the pond's edge sat a figure she hadn't noticed before. The Third Prince, Zejidiah. His light blue hair fell into his silver and gold eyes as he stared at the rippling water, hands resting loosely on his knees. He did not look at her, nor acknowledge her presence, only let the silence stretch.
Zuleika's heart sank. Of course. Even here.
"Why is it," she muttered under her breath, "that every corner of this palace belongs to Revazkerio blood?"
As though he had heard, Zejidiah spoke for the first time since her arrival. His voice was calm, even, with no hint of authority—merely curiosity.
"Tell me," he said, still watching the pond. "Why does the Princess of Nexus care so much for the commoners?"
The question startled her, though his tone carried no judgment, only a steady, detached interest.
Zuleika folded her hands neatly in her lap, forcing a polite smile. Her voice came laced with sarcasm, though wrapped in courtesy.
"Perhaps because I do not find it amusing to watch people suffer while sipping tea in gardens."
Zejidiah's gaze finally lifted from the pond to her, unreadable. "So it is pity, then."
"No," Zuleika replied quickly, meeting his eyes with steel.
"It is empathy. A concept, I suppose, less familiar in these walls."
He studied her for a long moment, then tilted his head slightly. "Empathy… or rebellion?"
Her brows knit faintly. "I do not rebel, Your Highness. I merely acknowledge what others pretend not to see."
"Which," Zejidiah said evenly, "is the first step of rebellion."
Zuleika's lips curved faintly, though her tone was firm. "Then perhaps rebellion is not as terrible as you make it sound—if it begins with simply opening one's eyes."
His gaze lingered, unblinking. "You speak as though you have known suffering yourself."
Zuleika hesitated, her expression tightening before she smoothed it back into composure. "I have known what it means to live among those who do. And that is enough."
For the first time, Zejidiah shifted his posture, leaning his elbow against his knee, eyes still fixed on her. "You are unusual, Princess. Most would rather look away."
"Then perhaps that is why I do not belong here," she replied quietly, her words sharper than she intended.
Silence stretched between them, filled only by the faint ripple of the pond. Finally, Zejidiah's voice came low, almost distant.
"You remind me of someone…"
Zuleika glanced at him, curious. "Someone close to you?"
He did not answer directly. Instead, his gaze drifted back to the water, its glassy surface reflecting the pale sky above. His tone softened, layered with something unreadable. "Someone who also thought kindness was not weakness. Someone who believed that even iron could be tempered by compassion."
Zuleika, despite herself, leaned forward slightly. She wanted to ask—who?What became of them? But before she could, Zejidiah spoke again, his voice as flat and cold as the pond's surface.
"She's dead now."
The bluntness of the words left her without reply. She looked at him but found no grief on his face, no flicker of pain—only that same detached calm. It unsettled her more than if he had wept.
Zuleika froze, lips parting before she pressed them shut again. There was no proper response. Condolences felt hollow against such indifference, yet silence felt cruel. Her hands tightened in her lap as she struggled with the weight of words she could not speak.
"But tell me, Princess of Nexus—what will you gain from it? From caring for those who cannot repay you, from bleeding for those who cannot protect you? What benefit lies in carrying a burden that is not yours?"
Zuleika's lips curved into a small smile, one that was not light, but resolute, carrying a truth she had long kept burning in her chest. Her voice was steady, unshaken, each word deliberate.
"Not everything must be done for gain, Your Highness. Sometimes, the only reward worth having is knowing that someone did not suffer alone."
Her words seemed to hang in the stillness of the garden.
And though Zejidiah's expression did not change, his eyes widened by the faintest margin, a shadow of memory flickering in their depths. For in that moment, her voice was not her own—it echoed another, the very same words once spoken by a woman long gone.
Zejidiah did not look at her again. His eyes returned to the water, as though the ripple there mattered more than her reaction.
For the first time since arriving in Feltogora, Zuleika felt… disarmed. She prided herself on composure, but in this moment, she could only sit still, caught between unease and curiosity, the air thick with what was left unsaid.
His face shadowed with the reflection of the pond. In his mind, however, a figure stirred—a memory that refused to stay buried.
Silver eyes, soft yet unyielding. Light blue hair cascading like waves of silk. A woman whose presence once filled these gardens not with coldness, but with warmth that defied the iron of Revazkerio and a woman who had been also silenced by the very palace in which they sat.
His Mother…
The image of Empress Athena Faris Lavezki Revazkerio flickered against the stillness of the pond. His hand twitched slightly at his side, but his face betrayed nothing.
Zuleika, oblivious to the ghost in his mind, sat in silence, sensing only the faintest shift in the air—as though she had brushed against a hidden wound.
...…
The next few days passed like a slow, simmering storm. Wherever Princess Zuleika turned within the palace, whispers followed her—snide remarks clothed in courtesy, sharp gazes softened with false smiles.
Lady Marianne Sey Gordon and Lady Georgia Bummingston, Aquila's loyal shadows, seemed to take special delight in their newfound sport.
At morning gatherings, they would bow just a fraction too late, their words dipped in mock concern.
"Your Highness looks tired… Surely the burdens of commoners' sorrows are not weighing you down too heavily?" Lady Marianne would murmur, her lips curving with polite cruelty.
At meals, Lady Georgia would lean close to her companion, loud enough for Zuleika to hear.
"Perhaps in Nexus they find strength in… sentimental weakness. How quaint."
Even in the corridors, they intercepted her path with practiced elegance. "Do allow us to escort you, Princess. After all, one never knows what dangers lurk in a palace at night," Marianne teased with an innocent smile, her eyes glinting with unspoken mockery of that night in the plaza.
Each jab was carefully measured, crafted so it could be defended as harmless jest should anyone of higher rank overhear.
And through it all, Zuleika remained silent.
Her steps never faltered. Her gaze never dropped. She walked past them with her head held high, as though their barbs were no more than the wind brushing against her cloak.
But her silence was not weakness—it was her armor. Each time she ignored their cruelty, the ladies' painted smiles twitched, their voices rising a little sharper, their whispers a little louder.
And still, she gave them nothing.
To Zuleika, their words were smoke. What burned inside her was something far greater—the memory of Aya's lifeless body in her arms, the laughter in Aquila's smirk, the cruel indifference of Prince Matthew. Against that fire, the petty venom of courtiers was ash.
Yet even as she held herself with composure, she could not help but notice it: each day, more eyes followed her. Not just those of the ladies-in-waiting, but of servants, guards, even passing nobles. Some stared with open disdain, others with fearful curiosity. Whispers of "Lei… Nexus… commoner's princess" wove through the marble halls.
Her silence, though strong, was painting her as something more—an enigma, a target.