The morning air in the royal forest was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. Servants bustled about, erecting shaded pavilions and long tables draped in rich brocades where nobles reclined comfortably with their wine goblets and sugared fruits, awaiting the spectacle of the hunt. Velvet cushions and silken canopies shielded them from the sun, their laughter and murmurs forming a backdrop to the gathering of riders and hunters.
In the Empire of Feltogora, tradition dictated that the day following an imperial celebration be marked by the hunt. It was no mere pastime but a ritual of prestige—the beasts caught would be laid at the feet of the honored celebrant as tribute. Today, those spoils would be gifted to Prince Althurd.
At the front of the clearing, muskets glinted under the light as nobles checked and primed their weapons. The Crown Prince Matthew stood tall among them, his black hunting coat lined with gold, a musket resting lazily in his hand. His smile was smooth, but his eyes flickered sharp with calculation.
Beside him, Prince Zejidiah adjusted the strap of his musket, slinging it across his shoulder with an air of indifference. He seemed utterly unmoved by the clamor around him, his heterochomatic eyes cool, his expression unreadable—more a spectator than a competitor.
The echoes of the previous night still lingered in Crown Prince Matthew's mind. His father's words, sharp as blades, resounded like a command he could not disobey.
"She must be yours, Matthew. No matter the cost. No matter the means. If you cannot win her hand willingly, then win her heart by force. That is your duty."
Those words trailed him into the dawn of the hunting day, like chains bound to his shoulders. And so, when his gaze found Zuleika—radiant in her simple grace even after the cruelty of the Emperor's announcement—he smirked, concealing the pressure behind his mask of arrogance.
Seizing his chance, stepped forward. His polished boots sank slightly into the soil as he drew near, his smirk curving with taunting charm.
"Ah, Princess," he said, lowering his musket just enough to rest it against his side. "Worry not, you need not trouble yourself with the dangers of the forest. I shall bring you the finest beast today. Consider it my personal gift—a token of goodwill."
The words were sweet on the surface, but his tone carried the unmistakable edge of mockery.
But Zuleika's competitiveness flared like embers catching flame. She turned, chin lifted, her lips curving into a smile that mirrored his, though her eyes burned sharper. "How kind, Your Highness. But I believe I should join the hunt myself. After all, wouldn't Prince Althurd appreciate a gift caught by his own sister-in-law-to-be?"
A ripple passed through the nobles at her declaration. Prince Althurd, seated at his table draped in emerald and gold, burst into laughter. His eyes gleamed with mischief. "Let her join! I've no interest in boring tradition today. Let us see if the Princess of Nexus is as bold in action as she is in words."
Excitement whispered among the gathered lords and ladies. Zuleika's defiance was unorthodox, yet it stirred curiosity.
She returned to her tent, her maid Cess rushing to assist, while Captain Rhys retrieved a musket at her command. With deft hands, Cess helped her change from her gown into a white and blue hunting suit that clung with practical elegance. Her hair was tied neatly into a ponytail, her every motion precise. When she stepped out, musket in hand, murmurs rippled anew.
"She looks like a warrior…"
"…and graceful, as though born to command the hunt."
Captain Rhys bowed, concern flickering in his eyes. "Your Highness, I will accompany you."
But Zuleika shook her head firmly. "No. Stay with Cess. If anyone dares approach the tent, guard her with your life. That is my order."
Reluctantly, he obeyed.
The Emperor, seated upon a raised dais, lifted his hand. His voice thundered: "Let the hunt begin."
A horn sounded, and the forest came alive with motion. Nobles surged forward, their muskets primed, laughter and determination carrying them into the trees.
Zuleika strode toward the forest edge, her musket balanced with confidence. At her side appeared Crown Prince Matthew once more, his lips curved into a mocking smile.
"Truly, Princess? Do you mean to stain those delicate hands with blood? Or perhaps you think wild beasts will bow to your crown?"
Zuleika's answering smile was polite, almost gentle. "Do not trouble yourself, Your Highness. After all, when I return, we shall see who brings the greater gift. Actions, not words, reveal the truth."
Without waiting for his reply, she stepped into the shadows of the forest.
For a while, Zuleika wandered deeper and deeper into the hunting grounds, her boots sinking softly into the bed of moss and fallen leaves. The sounds of the nobles faded behind her until all that remained was the whisper of wind through the trees and the occasional crack of distant gunfire. Somewhere beyond, others had already begun their hunt, but she was unconcerned. She was not here for deer or boar.
The stories she had overheard whispered of rarities hidden within these woods—creatures that appeared only once in decades, almost as though the forest itself guarded them as living treasures. The most prized of all was the hawk with golden eyes, its feathers gleaming like polished bronze under the light. Sightings were so rare it had become near myth. More likely, she told herself, she might glimpse the second treasure of legend: the small white fox with eyes of piercing blue. A creature just as swift as the hawk, and just as elusive.
Her hand tightened around the musket as she pressed further in. The forest grew quieter here, the air charged as though holding its breath. Then—crack. A gunshot echoed faintly in the distance. Another. She stilled, crouching low, her heartbeat quickening with the thrill of the chase. That was when she heard it—softer than the wind itself—a rustle above.
Zuleika lifted her gaze slowly, every muscle tense. Her breath caught.
There, perched on the high branches of an ancient oak, sat the impossible. A hawk—larger than any she had seen, its eyes burning with a molten gold glow. For a moment, she forgot herself. The sight was breathtaking, otherworldly, as though a creature from a forgotten age had descended into her reach.
She dropped into a crouch, every motion measured, the musket firm in her grasp. Her breath slowed, her senses sharpening into stillness. She knew the nature of hawks—they would never linger once startled. And so, she devised her strike not on where it sat, but where it would go.
She raised her musket, aligning it not with the branch, but a space just beyond—an open patch of sky where instinct told her it would fly.
Her finger curled around the trigger.
Hold your breath… wait… steady…
The gun roared.
The hawk launched into the air, startled by the sound just as she predicted. Its golden eyes flared as it spread its wings to flee—but before it could gain height, her second shot split the silence.
Bang.
The creature twisted mid-air, then plummeted.
Zuleika didn't breathe until she saw the body strike the earth with a muffled thud. Only then did she let her lungs release, her heart hammering against her ribs. She stood slowly, a grin ghosting her lips despite herself.
She approached reverently, her boots crunching over the undergrowth. The hawk's golden eyes were dim now, but the brilliance of its feathers shimmered as though lit from within. For a moment, a pang tugged at her chest—it was such a waste, a creature of myth reduced to a prize for a court she despised.
To give this to the blood of Revazkerio… The thought burned bitterly. They will boast of it, as if their iron fists had earned such beauty.
But another thought steadied her, curling her lips into a sharper smile. Let them see. Let their faces twist when they realize it was I who struck what they could not. That will be my gift—to wound their pride.
Carefully, she knelt and opened the sack slung at her side. With both hands, she lifted the hawk, its wings folding limply, and laid it within as though sealing away her triumph. She tied the sack with a firm knot and slung it over her shoulder.
Yet she did not head back to the forest's edge. Her blood still ran hot, the fire of competition alive within her. One kill was not enough. She wanted more—not for them, but for herself, to prove that a princess draped in silks could also strike true.
So she pressed on, deeper into the green silence of the woods, her ears tuned for the next rustle, the next flicker of life amidst the shadows.
...…
As Zuleika made her way back toward the forest's edge, sack slung over her shoulder, a flicker of movement caught the corner of her eye. She slowed, her instincts sharp, and turned.
There, half-shrouded by the shade of an oak, stood Princess Aquila. She wore not her elaborate gowns, but a simple dark dress trimmed in silver—casual by Imperial standards, though every stitch radiated that untouchable air of authority. In her hand gleamed a knife, long and slender, its blade glinting as she pressed it into the bark. She wasn't whittling idly; she was marking the tree—sharp, deliberate strokes, as if branding the forest itself.
Zuleika arched a brow. Of all the places to find the iron-hearted princess, it was here—alone, with blade in hand, carving symbols into living wood.
The sight stirred both curiosity and the bitter frustration of their last exchange. And before she could stop herself, her feet were already moving closer, her voice laced with mockery.
"Well, well. The untouchable Princess of Feltogora reduced to carving trees? I had thought you carved people instead."
Aquila stiffened slightly, the knife pausing mid-stroke. Her silver eyes darted over her shoulder, flashing with surprise before narrowing into disdain. "And here I thought the Princess of Nexus would be too busy playing hunter to wander into things she does not understand."
Zuleika's smile sharpened. "On the contrary—I understand perfectly. Even iron needs somewhere to vent its rust."
The blade scraped harder into the bark at that, the sound harsh and deliberate. Aquila turned, standing tall, her expression regal and cold. "Careful with your tongue, Nexus. It might be sharp now, but words are brittle weapons when the world decides to snap them."
"And yet they cut you still," Zuleika countered smoothly, her gaze unwavering. "I wonder which will shatter first—your patience, or your mask."
The tension between them crackled like dry kindling. For a moment, neither moved. Then Zuleika pivoted, turning her back with a soft, deliberate laugh as though she had already won. Her boots crunched on the earth as she walked away.
Thunk!
The sound pierced the air, and Zuleika froze. Just inches from her ear, a knife quivered in the trunk of a tree. She turned slowly, her smile tight, her eyes blazing.
Aquila stood a few paces back, hand lowered, lips curved in the faintest, most infuriatingly satisfied smile. "My hand slipped," she said sweetly, innocence dripping like poison.
Zuleika's jaw tightened, but her grin widened, dangerous and amused all at once. "How careless." She raised her musket in one smooth motion, aimed not at Aquila but at the trunk of a tree directly before her.
Bang!
The gunshot cracked through the silence, echoing across the woods. Splinters of bark burst from the tree in front of Aquila, dusting her dress with fragments. Aquila flinched—not from fear, but from the sheer shock of the thunderous sound so close. Her teeth gritted, brows furrowing as her composure wavered for the briefest second.
Zuleika lowered the musket with a polite dip of her head, a smile tugging at her lips. "Ah. My hand slipped."
The air between them burned, sharp with unspoken fury and exhilaration.
Aquila's voice cut through it, soft yet biting. "Are you crazy?"
Zuleika's eyes glimmered, her own tone playful, mocking, edged with steel. "Says the one who nearly carved off my ear."
Neither raised their voice. Neither broke into open rage. But the madness simmered in their smiles, their restraint, their words like blades hidden beneath silk.
And as they stood across from each other, the forest seemed to hold its breath—two predators circling, neither willing to back down.
The echo of the musket still hummed through the trees when the underbrush shifted. From the shadows emerged Prince Zejidiah, tall and languid, his musket slung carelessly over one shoulder as if it weighed nothing at all. His expression was as ever—blank, unreadable, a mask that neither taunt nor fury could crack.
His eyes moved from the knife buried in the tree trunk to the bark splintered fresh by the musket's bullet. Then, finally, to the two women standing opposite each other, their smiles still painted on like porcelain masks, their gazes locked as if they hadn't even noticed him.
"What," he asked evenly, his voice flat as stone, "are the two of you doing?"
Silence.
The forest itself seemed to hush in answer. Neither Aquila nor Zuleika broke their stare, neither flickered so much as a lash toward him. Only when the pause had stretched taut did their voices come, sharp and overlapping, spoken with the same unbothered precision—
"Nothing."
Zeijidiah's gaze lingered on them both, as though weighing the truth of their wordless duel. Yet his face betrayed nothing—no judgment, no interest.
It was Zuleika who broke first. With a sharp little smile, she turned, dusted her clothes as though brushing away bark that wasn't there, and strode past them. She didn't spare Aquila so much as a backward glance, her steps deliberate, proud, as if walking away was victory enough.
The leaves rustled back into stillness. Only then did Aquila move, striding toward the tree where her blade had lodged. She yanked it free with a swift, practiced tug, the silver glinting in her hand. She held it tightly for a moment, her knuckles pale, before sliding it back into its sheath.
Zeijidiah's eyes followed the motion, his tone still cool, detached—though not without the faintest flicker of something deeper. "Is that… the gift from Mother?"
Aquila froze for the briefest instant, her silver eyes narrowing, though her expression remained carefully schooled. She turned just enough to meet his gaze, the knife still resting at her side. No words came—only that cold, sharp look.
Then, with a sharp breath that sounded more like frustration than weariness, she turned her back to him.
Zeijidiah watched her go, his expression unchanged, his silence speaking louder than any reproach.