The grand doors of the Imperial throne room boomed shut, muffling the frantic echoes of the palace beyond.
At the far end, seated upon his towering throne of black marble and gold, His Imperial Majesty glared down, his voice edged with thunder.
"What did you say?"
The words cracked like a whip across the chamber.
Kneeling before him was Crown Prince Matthew, his cape brushing against the polished floor, head bowed low. Behind him stood several knights, rigid and grim, their armor scorched from the fire they had battled just hours before. The air still reeked faintly of smoke, clinging to their very skin.
Matthew's jaw clenched, forcing out the words. "The Princess of Nexus, Zuleika… and my sister, Aquila—have been taken."
The chamber fell still. A silence so deep it rang louder than the explosion that had torn through the feast.
Moments earlier, it had been Captain Rhys who uncovered the truth. He had rushed back to where he had last seen Zuleika—guarding her tent, believing her safe. But the chair she had leaned on was empty. Her presence gone.
What he found instead was a single ring.
Zuleika's ring.
The glimmer of it in the grass froze his blood. For in Nexus, every royal child was taught a silent code: If captured, drop what you can. Leave a trail. Even if it is your last act before the darkness takes you. And every knight sworn to the crown of Nexus knew what that meant.
When Rhys stormed into the Crown Prince's quarters, the words spilled out fast and sharp.
"Your Imperial Highness—Princess Zuleika is gone."
Matthew had shot to his feet, his composure shattering. "What do you mean—gone?"
"I found this." Rhys held out the ring, its silver band still smeared faintly with dirt. "It is her signal. She's been taken. Likely drugged before she could resist."
For a heartbeat, Matthew's face paled. His hands curled into fists so tight his knuckles whitened. "No. No, not her…"
But then he drew in a shuddering breath, forcing his mask back into place. His words grew steadier, colder. "Did she leave anything else? A mark, a trail?"
"None that I could see." Rhys' voice was grim, his jaw tight. "But I will keep searching. I failed to keep her within my sight—now it is my duty to uncover where she was taken."
Matthew's gaze flickered to him, measuring his resolve. The knight's words held no excuses, only iron determination. Slowly, the Crown Prince gave a curt nod. "Go. Search every inch. Every path, every shadow. If there is a trail, bring it to me."
Rhys bowed sharply, fist pressed to his chest, before striding from the chamber with the weight of a man who knew the Princess's life—rested on his shoulders.
And in the aftermath, Matthew turned to the room filled with lords, knights, and whispering courtiers. His eyes swept the crowd, searching, hunting—until they landed upon two familiar faces.
Lady Marianne. Lady Georgia. The ever-present shadows trailing Princess Aquila.
They stood there, pale and trembling, without their mistress.
And Aquila herself… was gone.
Matthew's stomach turned to ice. His lips parted, then pressed into a bloodless line. He bit his lower lip hard enough to taste copper as the realization struck him like a blade.
This was no accident. No fire. No chaos for its own sake.
This was a strike. A theft.
And the Empire of Feltogora—his Empire—had been breached.
...…
The throne room trembled with the weight of the Emperor's fury. His hands gripped the armrests of his throne, knuckles white, his eyes burning like steel as he glared down at the kneeling knights.
"Useless!" His voice cracked through the chamber like a whip. "You were entrusted with the security of this feast— And yet, under your very noses, two princesses were stolen away like lambs in the night!"
The knights bowed their heads deeper, but His Imperial Majesty was relentless. His words fell sharp as blades. "Do you call yourselves guardians of the Empire? Or frightened dogs who cower while the house burns?"
The silence that followed was suffocating. None dared answer.
The Emperor's gaze shifted, cold and unforgiving, to the Crown Prince. "Matthew." His voice lowered, but it struck harder than any shout. "You will find them. Both of them. Before the world learns of this shame, and before the Nexus Kingdom hears so much as a whisper."
Matthew lifted his chin, his jaw tightening. "Yes, Your Imperial Majesty. I will see them returned."
"See that you do!" The Emperor's fist slammed against the throne's arm, the sound reverberating through the hall. "For if King Stewart of Nexus learns that his daughter was taken under my roof—under your protection—he will seize it as the excuse he has been waiting for. The marriage will be annulled, our ties severed, and Feltogora will stand disgraced."
He leaned forward, his voice a low snarl. "Bring back the Princesses, Matthew. Fail, and the wrath of Nexus kingdom will not fall upon the kidnappers—but upon us."
The Crown Prince bowed his head, his expression grim, before rising to his feet. "I will not fail."
The Emperor's glare lingered, heavy and unforgiving, as if to etch the weight of that vow into stone.
The heavy doors of the throne room boomed shut behind him, but Matthew's rage echoed louder still. His strides cut down the corridor like blades, each step driven by fury. His thoughts seared through his skull—images of fire, of screams, of his father's thunderous voice, and above all, of Zuleika and Aquila dragged into the shadows.
Kidnapped. In the heart of Feltogora. In the presence of the Empire's nobles.
His teeth clenched, his hands curled into fists so tight his nails bit his palms. Whoever dared this—whoever thought they could strike at the Empire—they will pay in blood. They did not just kidnap princesses. They spat in the face of the throne itself. They provoked war.
Knights hurried to keep pace with his furious march, their armor clattering softly against stone, but none dared speak. The fire in their prince's eyes warned them silence was their only safety.
So focused was Matthew in his storming thoughts, he did not even notice when he passed by a figure standing leisurely in the hall's shadows.
Prince Althurd.
His brother's gaze lingered on Matthew's retreating back, on the rigid line of his shoulders, and the grim entourage of knights at his heels. For a long moment, Althurd said nothing, simply watching as if he were savoring the sight.
Then—just barely—the corners of his lips curved. A smirk, faint but unmistakable, carved with mischief and venom alike.
"Good luck, my dearest brother," Althurd murmured under his breath, his voice smooth as silk yet laced with mockery. His eyes glimmered with something dangerous, unreadable, as he turned away into the dim light of the corridor.
The words hung in the air like a curse, unheard by all but the stone walls, leaving only questions in their wake.
...
A low groan slipped from Zuleika's lips as she stirred. Darkness pressed against her eyes—no, not darkness, a cloth. A blindfold. Her lashes brushed against the rough weave as she tried to blink.
Her arms ached when she shifted, the bite of rope digging into her wrists. Tied behind her back. Her ankles, too, bound firmly to the legs of a chair. She stilled, forcing her breath steady as the memory surged back—
The explosion. The panic. The wine.
Her jaw clenched. Drugged. They dared drug me.
And then—Aquila. She had seen her taken too, dragged down into the same black haze.
The air was colder here, damp, the kind that clung to her skin. Dawn hadn't broken yet, she guessed, or perhaps they were somewhere underground. She inhaled deeply, testing her senses. Faintly, above her, she caught it—footsteps. A creak of wood. So this is below ground… a cellar, perhaps. Two stories, then.
A muttered curse broke the silence from somewhere to her left. Zuleika turned her head toward the sound, straining her ears. Whoever it was, they'd gone quiet again.
She tapped her heel against the floor. Once. Twice. The sharp sound echoed faintly—enough to give her some sense of distance. The echo wasn't clean; it bounced unevenly, rough edges to it. The walls were close, but not tight. Stone, most likely. A rectangular room, long enough that her heel-click thinned before fading. So not a cell, but a chamber. Big enough to hold us both, not enough to matter.
A chair scraped softly across stone, followed by the uneven sound of someone's breathing. Then, a voice—firm, clipped, dripping with irritation.
"Who's there?"
Zuleika's lips curled at the familiarity. She could recognize that voice anywhere—commanding, sharp-edged, carrying that imperial chill that grated on her nerves. Of course it was Aquila.
Suppressing a bitter laugh, she exhaled. "Well, well. The Empire's little ice statue speaks. I'd say it's comforting, but I'd be lying."
Aquila's scoff cut through the darkness like a blade. "Tch. I should have known the first sound I'd hear in hell would be your grating voice. Even captivity isn't punishment enough if it includes you."
"Don't flatter yourself," Zuleika sneered, testing the ropes at her wrists. "If I had a choice, I'd have preferred silence over your constant whining."
"Silence?" Aquila's tone dripped disdain, cold and sharp. "You've never once held your tongue. You yap like a street cur, desperate to be noticed."
Zuleika barked out a humorless laugh. "And yet here you are, chained beside me. Some 'Imperial dignity.' What a joke."
The ropes creaked as Aquila straightened, her voice laced with venom. "Careful, Nexus Princess. Bound or not, I'd relish the thought of watching you choke on your arrogance."
"Oh, please," Zuleika muttered with equal venom. "You'd need actual strength for that. But instead, here you sit—helpless. Regal, yes, but still helpless."
Aquila scoffed again, disdainful. "At least I don't sound like a peasant stomping her heels, as if that will save you."
"It's called strategy," Zuleika bit back, her tone mocking. "Though I suppose the greatPrincess Aquila wouldn't recognize that, being too busy admiring her reflection to learn anything useful."
Aquila let out a sharp, humorless chuckle. "You mistake vanity for bloodline. Remember this, Nexus brat—you're alive in this Empire because we allow it. Don't mistake your little hawk for power."
Zuleika's smirk was razor-edged beneath her blindfold. "And don't mistake your chains for a crown. Here, you're as powerless as I am."
The silence that followed was heavy, hostile—two predators bound but still baring fangs, their rivalry refusing to be dimmed even in the dark.
The silence between them shattered—not with words, but with the shriek of iron grinding against stone. A metal door groaned open somewhere in the darkness, the echo scraping against the walls like claws. Both princesses froze, their blindfolds useless yet their instincts honed. Heads tilted slightly, listening—every sense straining to fill the void their eyes could not.
Footsteps.
One set light, almost hesitant, barely grazing the floor. The sound of soft soles, betraying a frame not built for battle.
Two others followed, heavier—measured, deliberate. The weight of trained men. Soldiers. Their steps carried force, each one sending a faint tremor across the ground, boots pressing deep against stone. They moved with discipline, with strength.
Three. Exactly three.
Zuleika's mind worked fast. She had been taught to gauge enemies not only by what they revealed but by what they tried to conceal. To her, sound was enough. These men—these shadows—thought her nothing more than a helpless princess. But she was raised for this, trained not to dream of romance or delicate embroidery, but to listen, to survive, to resist. Marriage was never her fate. Her role was sharper, heavier. And now, more than ever, it kept her alive.
The footsteps halted. Silence fell heavy, so thick it felt like the room itself was holding its breath.
Zuleika's pulse thundered in her ears, but she kept her breathing slow, steady. Aquila, too, was still—silent, regal even now, though the tension coiled off her like frost.
Then, from the dark, a voice. Deep. Smooth, but edged with malice, carrying the kind of tone that didn't need to shout to command. It rolled across the room, vibrating through the walls and straight into their bones.
"Well…" the voice drawled, a cruel amusement curling at its edge. "What do we have here?"
The words lingered in the air, mocking and deliberate, as though savoring the revelation of their helplessness.
Both princesses, bound and blindfolded, turned their heads instinctively toward the sound. And in that moment, though they could not see, they knew—their nightmare had only just begun.