The night had settled softly over the hunting grounds, lanterns glowing like golden fireflies strung between the great pavilions. His Imperial Majesty had long since returned to the palace to rest, leaving the nobles to their revelry. Music swelled faintly from the musicians' corner, mingling with laughter and the clinking of goblets. Platters of roasted meats, glistening fruits, and wines deep as garnet spilled across the tables in abundance.
At the far end of the feast, away from the riot of voices, Princess Zuleika lingered in quiet company. A small porcelain dish rested in her hand, bearing a dainty dessert glazed in honey. Captain Rhys stood beside her like a dark sentinel, his watchful gaze cutting across the crowd.
Zuleika lifted a spoonful of the sweet and tilted it thoughtfully. "This is far too delightful not to share," she said, extending it toward him with a small, teasing smile.
Rhys glanced at the spoon, then at her. His expression did not waver, but his voice carried a trace of dry restraint. "I will not refuse, Your Highness."
He accepted the dish but did not touch the spoon she had used. Instead, he handed the dessert back to a passing servant and said evenly, "Allow me to fetch something you'll like even better." With that, he turned and strode toward the banquet tables, disappearing into the sea of nobles.
Zuleika blinked after him, then shook her head with a faint laugh. "Ever so proper," she murmured to herself, though her lips curled in amusement.
Left alone at the pavilion's edge, she allowed her eyes to wander. From her vantage, she could see the nobles weaving their own little worlds—lords boasting loudly of their hunts, ladies competing in silken whispers, merchants currying favor with shallow smiles. Goblets flashed, jewelry sparkled, and yet beneath the surface, she could almost taste the envy, the rivalry, the hunger for power that laced every gesture.
She folded her arms lightly, her expression unreadable, though in truth her thoughts had drifted far from the gilded chatter. One month, she realized. One month had passed since she'd stepped onto Feltogora's soil. And only another month more before she could return to Nexus. The thought alone brought warmth to her heart, tugging a genuine smile to her lips.
Home.
Her mind painted vivid pictures—the bustling harbor of the capital, the scent of brine carried on the wind, the fishermen hauling nets heavy with their morning's catch. Her mouth watered faintly at the memory. "I miss the fresh seafood," she murmured under her breath, almost wistfully.
"Seafood?" a familiar voice chimed, honeyed with mockery.
Zuleika turned, her smile vanishing as Princess Aquila sauntered close, her every movement unhurried and calculated. Her lips curved with sly amusement.
"How quaint," Aquila murmured, her voice a velvet taunt. "The mighty Princess of Nexus, longing not for strategy or dominion… but for fish."
Zuleika arched a brow, her expression calm but her words edged. "Better fish than false airs. At least seafood sustains life, while some people spend their days catching nothing at all."
Aquila's smile sharpened. "A hawk doesn't always need to dive. Sometimes it lets the smaller birds exhaust themselves first. I needn't have lifted a finger today to prove my place."
Zuleika tilted her head, eyes glinting. "How convenient, then. No risk, no failure. Only words. Tell me, Princess—are you planning to talk your prey into submission next time?"
Aquila's crossed her arms, though her tone remained smooth. "And you? You sound like a child longing for home, sighing over fish and saltwater as though that is strength."
Zuleika's lips twitched in the ghost of a smile. "Homesickness only proves I have a place worth missing. What about you? Do you even know what it feels like to long for something more than your own reflection?"
The jab landed; Aquila's eyes flashed, but she refused to falter. "Careful, Princess. Your tongue is sharper than your musket, but blades can cut both ways."
Zuleika leaned in slightly, her voice low but her smile serene. "So can knives… though yours seemed to miss earlier today."
For a heartbeat, the air between them grew taut, like a bowstring drawn too tight. Aquila's forced laughter finally broke the silence, sharp and rich, masking the irritation in her eyes. "You are annoying."
"And you are predictable."
The silver tray glinted under the feast hall's lamplight as a servant weaved through the crowd. Aquila, without breaking eye contact with Zuleika, plucked a glass of wine with a languid flick of her wrist. When the tray reached Zuleika, she too reached forward, her movements deliberate, refusing to yield even in this small contest. Two princesses, two goblets, neither willing to let the other outshine her.
They sipped in near unison, the delicate red staining their lips, and almost immediately the duel began anew.
Aquila's smile curved with mock innocence. "I suppose this must be your first taste of wine like this. Imported, aged, refined… far different from whatever your quaint kingdom can offer."
Zuleika's jaw tightened, the edge of irritation breaking through her calm. "If this is your Empire's finest, then I pity you. In Nexus, we'd call this sour, unbalanced—barely drinkable."
Aquila's brows arched, amusement flickering across her features. "Sour, you say? I suppose it takes a peasant's palate to prefer sea brine over sophistication."
"And it takes a spoiled tongue to mistake bitterness for quality," Zuleika snapped back, her voice low but sharp, the words laced with disdain.
Their quarrel stretched longer than either intended, voices slipping into a sharper cadence, each word another blade unsheathed. But just as Zuleika prepared to fire her next barb—
A deafening BOOM! ripped through the night, shaking the very ground beneath their feet.
The feast hall erupted into chaos. Flames burst at the far end, swallowing canvas and silk in an instant, tongues of orange clawing up into the sky. Nobles shrieked, their laughter and music shattered into terror. Tables overturned, silverware scattered like shrapnel, and the air filled with the acrid stench of smoke. Servants scrambled blindly, guards shouted over one another, their voices lost in the rising panic.
Zuleika's chest tightened. Her eyes locked on the inferno, her thoughts racing. An attack? Here? Within the heart of the Emperial Territory? The mighty, untouchable Feltogora?
Her fists curled until her nails bit cruelly into her palms. She forced a step forward—only to stumble violently, her knees nearly buckling. A chair caught her weight, the carved wood digging into her arm as her breath faltered.
A cold sheen of sweat broke across her skin. Her vision swam.
"I… don't remember myself having a low tolerance for alcohol…" she whispered hoarsely, one trembling hand pressing hard against her forehead.
Her pulse thundered in her ears, so loud it drowned the screams. Every beat of her heart felt wrong—too fast, too wild, as though it were no longer her own. Her breaths came shallow, ragged, her lungs refusing to fill. The world around her warped, sound twisting into a dull roar, faces blurring into indistinct shadows.
Her body felt heavy. Too heavy. Like stone shackles dragged her down with each breath.
Something's wrong.
Her gaze snapped left, frantic, searching—Rhys? Where is Captain Rhys?—but her eyes could not find him. No tall, unshakable figure pushing through the chaos. No familiar voice calling her name. Only a blur of terrified nobles and armored men surging in every direction.
Her stomach clenched. Her heart hammered faster, unsteady, her mind spiraling between fear and fury.
This isn't weakness. It's something else. Something deliberate.
And in that instant, for the first time in a long while, true dread curled cold and merciless in her chest.
Her vision fractured like shattered glass, swaying in and out of focus. The chaos around her blurred into a smear of flames and screams—until a single figure anchored her sight.
Aquila.
The princess of Feltogora, ever untouchable in her poise, now trembled. One pale hand clutched at the back of a chair, her knuckles bone-white. The goblet slipped from her grasp and fell, shattering into a spray of crimson-stained shards at her feet. Her chest heaved once, sharply, eyes flashing with recognition—before they widened in shock.
From the curtain of shadows behind her, a figure emerged. Tall. Silent. Faceless in the firelight. A gloved hand shot forward, seizing her with a predator's precision.
Aquila's muffled gasp strangled into silence as the hand clamped over her mouth. Her body jerked once, violently, then sagged against her captor's grip. Her lashes fluttered, her eyes rolled back, and the Imperial princess crumpled bonelessly into unconsciousness.
Zuleika's breath tore out of her throat in a rasp. She lurched forward, but her body betrayed her—heavy, unresponsive, every step dragged down by the weight of whatever poison coursed her veins.
A prickle of dread crawled up her spine. She wasn't alone.
The hair at her nape rose a heartbeat before she felt it—the looming presence behind her.
She twisted, desperately, dragging her weakened body to turn. But too late. A hand, cold as iron, clamped hard over her mouth. The smell of leather and smoke filled her senses. She writhed, thrashing with every scrap of strength, but her limbs were sluggish, her muscles refusing her will.
Her pulse pounded like war drums in her ears. Her vision spun violently, flames and shadows blurring into one. Move. Fight back. Do not fall.
But her body refused. Her thoughts splintered. Was it the wine? Drugged? Poison?
Her chest burned. The firelight stuttered, bleeding across the masked face of her captor—a pale mask, blank and merciless, its eyes nothing but darkness.
Her scream died in her throat.
And then—black.
The world collapsed, leaving nothing but silence and the echo of her own racing heart, swallowed by the void.