The man leaned back once more, his blindfolded gaze unreadable.
"Tell me… what is the meaning of monarchy?"
The silence stretched. The words hung in the air, heavy, deliberate. Aquila did not answer—her chin lifted in defiance, her lips pressed into a hard line.
Zuleika exhaled softly. "A monarchy, at its heart, is stewardship. A monarch bears the weight of their people—guiding them, protecting them. It is not merely a crown, but the duty to ensure that those who live beneath it may live freely."
The man tilted his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Ah. Then tell me, Princess of Nexus… is there freedom in monarchy?"
"Yes," Zuleika answered without hesitation. "In Nexus, my people are not chained by the whims of the throne. They till their fields, sail their seas, trade their goods, pray to their gods, and live their days without the royal family prying into every breath they take. We rule, yes, but we do not suffocate."
Her voice grew steadier as she spoke, carrying quiet conviction. "Our task is not to bind them, but to shield them. That, to me, is freedom."
The man's head shook slowly, almost pitying. "You misunderstand me. I ask not of daily freedoms—but of the freedom to choose. In monarchy, do the people choose their ruler? No. They are bound to whoever chance declares royal. Birth, not merit, seals their fate. And if that heir is unworthy, corrupt, or cruel? The people cannot unmake their chains."
Zuleika faltered, her brows knitting. She opened her mouth but no words came.
The man continued, his tone calm yet cutting. "Is it not absurd, then? That blood alone determines destiny? That a child born in silk, however ignorant or weak, holds the same claim to command as a sage who spent his life in wisdom? Tell me—where is the justice in that?"
Aquila's scoff broke the moment. Her voice was sharp, cold, carrying centuries of pride.
"Justice? You speak as though peasants could ever grasp what it takes to rule. Do you think a crown can simply be… voted into existence? A ruler is not made overnight. From the moment of birth, an heir is honed, forged, tempered into what the empire requires. Every lesson, every hardship, every breath of their life is carved toward one purpose: to lead. That is why monarchy endures. It breeds leaders—not dreamers."
Her words rang like steel striking steel.
The man chuckled, low and unsettling. "Breeds leaders? Or breeds tyrants who know nothing of hunger, nothing of loss, nothing of labor? Tell me, Princess—what can one who has never bent his back in toil know of the weight of his people's burden? You call it forging. I call it caging."
"Better caged in discipline than set loose in chaos," Aquila shot back, her tone cutting. "Empires are not built on the whims of the masses. They are secured by lineage, by loyalty, by strength passed from one generation to the next. A leader trained from birth understands stability—something your imagined 'chosen rulers' would never hold long enough to keep a kingdom standing."
"Ah," the man leaned forward, the lamp's glow catching the curve of his smile. "So you admit it then—the empire stands not by virtue, but by inheritance. The people are but pawns in your game of bloodlines."
"They are subjects," Aquila corrected sharply. "Protected by order. Shielded by strength. Do not twist the truth into some romantic lie of equality. Not all are fit to rule—most are not. That is why they are ruled."
Zuleika shifted, her gaze flickering between them, her voice quieter but firm. "Perhaps both of you are wrong. A monarch may not be chosen, but neither are they always tyrant or saint. Some do rule with justice. Some do protect. The question isn't whether monarchy is flawed—it is whether there exists a system without flaw."
Her words settled briefly, a fragile balance between the opposing storms.
The man turned his face toward her, blindfold glinting in the dim light. "Wise words, Princess of Nexus. Yet remember—some flaws break kingdoms. And some flaws… burn empires."
Aquila bristled, but said nothing this time, her silence speaking louder than denial.
The man's words still lingered in the stale, stone air when Zuleika's voice cut through the silence.
"Then that's your plan, isn't it? To destroy the monarchy itself."
The man turned his head slightly. For a breath, there was nothing—only the faint drip of water from some hidden crack in the stone. Then, slowly, his lips curved into a smile. Not cruel, not mocking—simply knowing. And he gave no answer.
Instead, he rose from his chair, movements unhurried, deliberate. He lifted a gloved hand. One of the masked figures behind him stepped forward, boots heavy against the floor. Zuleika tensed as the man came near, but all he did was crouch behind her chair. With one swift tug, the rope binding her wrists fell loose.
Across the room, Aquila's ropes were freed in the same manner. But their feet remained bound, the cords biting into their ankles—a freedom only half-granted.
Zuleika rubbed her sore wrists, eyes narrowing. "What is this? What are you playing at?"
The man's voice carried smoothly across the room, calm and final. "It has been… enlightening, to share words with the princesses of Nexus and Feltogora. Rare are the moments when crowns and chains sit in the same room and speak as equals."
He turned toward the door, his cloak whispering against the ground.
Zuleika's brows furrowed, confusion edging her tone. "You're letting us go? Just like that?"
He paused mid-step, his back to them. "From the beginning, I told you—what I sought was a conversation. And now I have it." His voice lowered, threading with something darker, almost amused. "But conversation always leaves ripples. What you do with them… that is yours to bear."
The metal door groaned as one of his men pulled it open. The lamplight spilled into the stairwell, stretching shadows long across the stone floor.
The man lingered at the threshold, his blindfolded gaze turning slightly toward them though his eyes could not be seen. "Wait five minutes before you ascend. Then leave. And…" A quiet, humorless laugh slipped past his lips. "Good luck with what lies ahead. Beyond this room, the world is far less merciful than I."
With that, he stepped into the stairwell. His two masked followers trailed after him, boots echoing against the stone steps.
The door creaked shut behind them with a heavy finality, plunging the chamber into dim silence once more.
Zuleika and Aquila sat there, wrists free but feet bound, watching the empty doorway where their captor had vanished—confusion heavy in their chests, questions louder than the silence that pressed in on them.
Zuleika bent forward, tugging at the rough rope around her ankles. The knot was stubborn, but after some twisting, it loosened. She stretched out her legs with a quiet groan of relief. The silk of her dress clung awkwardly against the damp air, a reminder of the night she was abducted—still wearing the same gown, now creased and dirt-stained.
Her gaze flicked toward Aquila, who was hunched over, struggling with her own bindings. A faint groan escaped the princess's lips. Zuleika arched a brow but said nothing. Instead, she slipped off her heels, turned them in her hands, and with deliberate force smashed the sharp tips against the stone wall until they cracked. The noise echoed through the chamber. Once broken flat, she slipped them back on, testing her footing with grim satisfaction. At least she could walk—or run—without stabbing pain slowing her down.
She approached the iron door, staring up the narrow stairwell. Another door waited above, this one wooden. A basement, then. Of course.
With her hand brushing the cold railing, she called over her shoulder, voice laced with sarcasm.
"Three minutes have already passed, Princess. If you want to leave, you'd better hurry with those ropes."
She turned slightly, only to stop short. Aquila was still wrestling with the knot, jaw clenched, eyes flashing with frustration.
Zuleika pressed her lips together to stop the laugh bubbling in her chest. She tilted her head, mockery slipping easily into her tone.
"Don't tell me—the Great Princess of Feltogora doesn't know how to untie knots?"
Aquila snapped upright, her feet still tied. Her glare could have cut through stone.
"Shut your mouth."
"Oh, so you do speak. I thought perhaps the ropes tied your tongue as well." Zuleika leaned against the wall, smug. "Do you want help?"
"No!" Aquila's refusal came so quickly it echoed like a whip crack.
Zuleika chuckled, shaking her head. "Suit yourself. But four minutes have already passed. If you keep at this pace, I'll be gone and you'll still be wrestling with a piece of rope."
The glare Aquila shot her could have burned the air itself, pride keeping her rooted. Teeth clenched, she tried again.
Zuleika lifted her foot to the first stair.
"Fine!" Aquila's voice cut across the chamber, sharp and unwilling.
Zuleika turned slowly, one brow raised. "Is that how you ask for help? Sounds more like a command to me."
Aquila's cheeks twitched with irritation. "If you're going to help, then hurry up!"
Zuleika laughed outright this time, walking back toward her. "You really won't last long if you keep that personality. Someone will strangle you before the war does."
She knelt in front of her, fingers working at the knots while Aquila crossed her arms and stared down with all the imperious fury of an empress-to-be.
When the ropes loosened, Zuleika tugged them free easily. Before Aquila could stand, Zuleika snatched her heels.
"What are you—"
Zuleika slammed the delicate heels against the stone wall. The sharp points shattered, flattening into useless lumps. She set them down in front of Aquila, whose face twisted with outrage.
"My heels—! Do you even realize how limited those were? Expensive, crafted by the finest—"
"Are you seriously more worried about your stupid shoes than your life?" Zuleika stood, disgust heavy in her voice. Her hands clenched at her sides as though she could not believe what she was hearing.
Aquila rose slowly, brushing imaginary dust from her skirt as though she were still in a ballroom and not a damp, stone chamber. Her glare never wavered.
"Not all of us are used to running barefoot in the mud like savages."
Zuleika's jaw tightened, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Better a savage than a corpse. Or would you prefer to die with polished shoes?"
Aquila's nostrils flared, her chin tipping higher in defiance. "At least I would die with dignity."
"Dignity won't save you from a blade," Zuleika shot back. She kicked the flattened heels toward her. "Put them on or don't—I don't care. But stop acting like leather and lace matter more than breathing."
Aquila bent to pick them up, movements sharp with annoyance, muttering under her breath. "Barbarism. Utter barbarism… a princess reduced to stomping around in broken shoes. Do you even know how rare this design was? Crafted by the finest artisans in the Empire—ruined in one thoughtless moment."
Zuleika rolled her eyes so hard it nearly hurt. "You're welcome, by the way. Those ruined shoes might let you keep your head attached."
Aquila slipped her feet into them with a final huff, grimacing as though the flattened heels were daggers themselves. She straightened, crossing her arms, muttering, "If this is your idea of survival, no wonder the Nexus Kingdom is so small."
Zuleika snapped her head toward her, a dangerous glint in her eyes. "And if this is how the Feltogora heirs think, no wonder rebellion festers beneath your golden throne."
For a moment, silence stretched—sharp, simmering. Then Aquila looked away first, her jaw tightening, choosing not to dignify the remark with a reply.
Zuleika turned on her heel, striding ahead to the stairwell, brows furrowed. Aquila followed a step behind, heels clicking awkwardly against the stone.
Their thoughts, though unspoken, were the same, bitter and mirrored like two blades crossing in the dark.
She is immensely annoying.