The air inside the stone room was thick with dampness, carrying the faint metallic tang of rust and something older, more suffocating. When the blindfold was pulled from Zuleika's eyes, her lashes fluttered against the sudden brightness. Her vision blurred, then slowly sharpened.
Rectangular stone walls. Cold stone floor. Nothing but a single lamp overhead that cast long shadows against the walls.
Her gaze instinctively darted to Aquila, seated several paces away. The Imperial Princess looked as unyielding as ever, her stare fixed sharply upon the trio in front of them.
Two of the men stood motionless—hooded, cloaked in white, the embroidered black justice scale on their backs slashed through with a crimson cross. White masks concealed their faces, leaving only hollow eyeholes.
But the one in the center, clearly their leader, was different. He lounged in a chair with a relaxed arrogance, one leg crossed over the other. Like his companions, he wore the white cloak, but his hood was down. His black hair caught the glow of the lamp, and instead of a mask, he bore a black blindfold across his eyes, covering them entirely. The rest of his face was sharp, composed—half-hidden, half-revealed, like a riddle left unsolved. Black gloves rested on his knees, one finger tapping slowly in a rhythm too deliberate to be idle.
Zuleika's eyes narrowed, studying him, tracing the curve of his jaw, the faint tilt of his lips, searching for something—anything—that might unmask him. But nothing came.
The silence stretched. Then Aquila's voice cut through it, cold and imperious.
"Who are you?"
The man's head tilted slightly, as if the question amused him. His finger stilled against his knee, then resumed tapping. Slowly, he turned—not to Aquila, but to Zuleika. And then, with unnerving poise, he inclined his head in a slight bow.
The gesture unsettled her more than outright hostility would have.
Before she could demand his meaning, he spoke. His voice was calm, deliberate, carrying a strange weight that lingered in the stone walls.
"My apologies," he said, bowing deeper this time, though still seated. "To both of you. It is unworthy—cruel, even—that princesses of your standing be treated in such a way. Kidnapping is a crude method. And yet…"
Zuleika blinked, her lips parting in surprise. Apologizing? Her brows furrowed, searching his tone for mockery, but it was smooth, unflinching—almost sincere.
Beside her, Aquila scoffed openly, eyes narrowing with suspicion. "You apologize? You dare to cloak your crime in courtesy? Then answer me this—what do you want from us?"
The man turned his head toward her, though the blindfold made it impossible to know if he truly looked at her. His lips curved faintly, not quite a smile.
"What I want," he said slowly, "is a conversation."
Aquila's jaw tightened. "A conversation," she repeated flatly, her voice dripping disdain. "Why bother with ropes and shadows if all you wished was talk? If you had come to the Imperial Palace and petitioned for an audience—"
"—would you have granted it?" the man interrupted smoothly, his tone neither raised nor hurried. The tap of his finger ceased. "Would the Imperial Princess of Feltogora, have spared a mere petitioner her gaze? Or would his plea have been smothered in protocols, drowned in the palace walls before it ever reached your ears?"
The words hung heavy. Aquila's lips parted to retort, but no sound came. Her silence was damning. Irritated, she exhaled sharply, her chin lifting, refusing to give him the satisfaction of acknowledgment.
Zuleika watched in tense quiet, her own confusion deepening. An abductor who bowed. A criminal who apologized. A man who sought not ransom, not blood, but words.
Her voice finally broke the stalemate, low but steady. "Then speak."
The man leaned back in his chair, gloved fingers interlacing as if in thought. "Gladly," he said. "But understand, Your Highnesses, this conversation may be one you were never meant to hear."
"If it is the Imperial Princess you needed, then why drag me into this? What purpose do I serve here?"
The man tilted his head, and though his eyes were hidden beneath the blindfold, she felt the weight of his attention settle squarely on her. His lips curved in that faint, unreadable half-smile.
"Because, Princess of Nexus, surely you would understand."
Her brow furrowed. "Understand what?"
His gloved fingers drummed lightly against the chair's arm, the sound soft yet deliberate. "The proposal announced during Prince Althurd's birthday."
Zuleika's pulse quickened. Her voice sharpened. "That marriage is still on hold. My kingdom has not yet given its word—"
"—But the Empire will do everything in its power to see you chained here," he cut in smoothly, his tone calm but final, as though pronouncing a truth she had yet to accept.
The words struck her harder than she expected. She bit down on her reply, studying him instead. There was no mockery in his voice, no idle guesswork. He spoke with conviction, as if he had peered deeper into the Empire's heart than she ever had. This man knew things—things perhaps even she wasn't supposed to know.
Slowly, he shifted, uncrossing his legs, his posture straightening as though the true weight of the conversation was only now beginning. His hands folded together loosely, his voice lowering.
"Tell me, then. Both of you. What do you think of the Empire?"
The question hung in the cold air like a blade suspended between them.
Aquila answered first, her tone sharp with dignity. "It is the foundation of civilization. A beacon of strength and order, a force no kingdom dares to rival. It is where I was raised, where my bloodline reigns eternal. The Empire does not bend—it makes others bow."
Her words dripped with certainty, every syllable a declaration of loyalty.
The man's head inclined ever so slightly, acknowledging, but not agreeing. "Pride," he murmured. "Unwavering. Admirable… but blind."
Zuleika's lips curled. She let her words slip free, cold and honest. "I dislike the Empire."
Aquila's head snapped toward her, her brow arching sharply, eyes narrowing. "Watch your tongue, Nexus Princess."
Zuleika scoffed. "Why? Because truth burns? Your Empire is a gilded cage. It parades its power, but beneath it is rot—greed, arrogance, the constant need to consume. If I am chained here through marriage, it will not be as a partner, but as a trophy."
Aquila's tone sharpened into a blade. "Careful. You insult what keeps your borders safe. Without the Empire, your kingdom would be swallowed whole by vultures."
"Or perhaps it is the Empire that plays the vulture best," Zuleika shot back.
The man's gloved hands rose slightly, though he did not speak to calm them. Instead, his lips curved, amused by the fire between them.
"Interesting," he said softly, voice curling through the air like smoke. "Two princesses. One molded by pride, the other sharpened by resentment. Both truths, yet both blind to the scale upon which your Empire stands."
He leaned forward slightly, his blindfold catching the lamplight. Though they could not see his eyes, his unseen gaze seemed to pierce through them both.
"The question is not what the Empire is now. The question is… how long until it collapses under the weight of itself?"
Aquila's brows furrowed, her gaze narrowing at the man lounging so casually in front of them. "What exactly are you implying? What is your goal here?"
The man didn't answer directly. Instead, his voice slid through the cold air like a whisper of smoke. "The Empire parades its might, but beneath the banners, its hierarchy festers. The high towers glitter, while the gutters drown. Cruelty is not the exception—it is the design."
Zuleika's lips parted slightly, a flicker of recognition in her eyes, but it was Aquila who snapped first, her voice laced with disdain. "What are you? A commoner, then? Is this your grievance—that you speak for the rabble?"
The man only tilted his head, a shadow of a smile curving his lips. He neither confirmed nor denied. "The power is unbalanced. Our goal is simple—to tip the scale evenly once more."
Aquila's chin lifted, her words sharp as steel. "Then you chase a fool's dream. As long as Feltogora stands, that will never happen."
The man's tone deepened, his calm delivery making his words strike harder. "Then what if it falls… by the blood of Revazkerio itself?"
Aquila froze, a crack flickering across her mask of composure. She masked it quickly, but anger replaced it, molten and unyielding. "How dare you," she hissed. "To accuse a Revazkerio of betraying their own Empire—of siding with commoners—is an insult that will not be forgiven. My bloodline would never stoop to such disgrace."
The man leaned forward slightly, his blindfold catching the lamplight, his lips curving into an unsettling smile. "And why, Princess, do you loathe the commoners so?"
The question hung heavy. Zuleika watched silently, her eyes darting between them.
Aquila said nothing at first, her nails biting into her palm, until his persistence sharpened. He pressed again, low and deliberate.
"They suffer. They bleed. And they do so at the hand of your empire's crest. Tell me—how long can cruelty be excused as order? How long can pride disguise oppression? The ledger is written in blood, and one day, even your halls will drown in it."
That struck her. Aquila's eyes flashed, her voice finally rising, trembling with anger, not fear.
"They—those commoners—took something from Revazkerio. Something they had no right to claim! And for that, they deserved the weight that fell upon them. You know nothing of justice, nothing of what was taken! So do not sit there and preach to me as though you know the burdens of my bloodline!"
Zuleika stiffened at those words, caught by the raw bitterness laced in them. But before she could speak, the man's smile only widened.
"Oh, I know. I know more than you think. Even of what happened… the day before you turned fourteen."
The air shifted. Aquila went still. Her eyes widened, just for a breath, before she mastered herself again. Her face smoothed into unreadable calm, but Zuleika caught it—the fracture, the break in the walls Aquila had always held high.
For the first time, the Imperial Princess looked shaken.
Her voice came low, almost a whisper, but edged with warning. Her eyes.. expressionlessly cold.
"Do not ever speak of that again. Not to me. Not to anyone. Lest you find your tongue ripped from your mouth."
Silence fell, suffocating and sharp. The lamp above crackled faintly, the only sound in the chamber.
Zuleika stared, her chest tight. She didn't know what the man meant. She didn't know what Aquila was hiding. But she knew this: something had broken in that moment, something Aquila never wanted the world to see.
And the man knew it, too.