The days at the Imperial Palace passed slowly for Princess Zuleika. Surprisingly, she found herself spending time with Princess Aquila more often, though their moments together were never without bickering over the most trivial of things. Today, however, her attention was elsewhere—tea with Crown Prince Matthew under the gazebo.
Zuleika's expression was unreadable, a mask of composure as she sat across from Matthew, who had donned his formal attire, looking every bit the composed and proper heir. The sun filtered through the open sides of the gazebo, casting soft dappled light across the flowers and marble floor.
"Your Kingdom is making remarkable progress," Matthew began, speaking of the mines that had recently been opened to Nexus. "Access has been fruitful, and if you stay here a little longer—say, another month—the influence of Nexus' knights will only strengthen."
Zuleika's fingers tightened around her teacup for a moment, a flicker of tension passing over her calm exterior. She then smiled politely. "The decision… is ultimately my Father's to make, Your Imperial Highness. I merely carry his trust." Her words were careful, but Matthew knew the subtext well enough.
He narrowed his golden eyes slightly, leaning forward. "Do not hide behind that, Princess. Staying longer is your choice, and with it, the more powerful the Nexus Kingdom's knights will become. The stakes are higher than you realize."
Zuleika remained silent for a moment, letting his words settle, before Matthew continued. "The Tartagalia have begun their movements. Yesterday, naval skirmishes erupted in your waters. If this escalation continues, it won't be long before full-scale war is inevitable."
Her eyes widened at the news—she hadn't received any such report from her kingdom. For a fleeting moment, concern clouded her expression. "I… I will consider it," she said carefully, "and I shall send a letter to my Father first."
Matthew allowed himself a small, satisfied smile before taking a slow sip of his tea. Zuleika's gaze fell to her own cup, her reflection mirrored in the pale porcelain. The silence stretched until he shifted, gesturing subtly to the flowers around them.
"Do you have a favorite?" he asked, genuinely curious.
Zuleika tilted her head, her gaze following his to the blooms. "A blue lily."
Matthew chuckled softly. "Blue, then? That is your favorite color as well?"
"Not particularly," she replied vaguely, careful not to embarrass him with the truth.
He leaned back slightly, a distant, contemplative look crossing his face. "It happens to be the favorite of my Mother."
Zuleika froze. Her eyes darted to him, observing how the light caught his golden gaze, making it seem almost alive with memory.
She found her voice carefully. "What… was the Late Empress like?"
Matthew blinked, gaze dropping to his teacup before he spoke, as though choosing every word. "Soft… yet strong. Fragile in a way that makes you afraid to touch her, yet firm in her resolve. She could bend to no one, yet her kindness… was her gift and her curse. You… remind me of her, Princess. In spirit, in temperament. A will that cannot be swayed lightly."
Zuleika listened silently, watching his expression shift as he spoke. She observed the faint lift of his lips when memories of his mother passed through his mind, the warmth and reverence in his tone.
Matthew continued, softer now. "Her kindness… it cost her. It left her vulnerable to those who could not see her strength. She gave her life for it, and for those she loved."
Zuleika's lips parted, caught in the weight of his words. "I… I am sorry," she murmured, though she didn't fully understand why.
He looked at her, a small, reassuring smile gracing his face. "No apology is needed, Princess. There is nothing here for you to be sorry for."
The morning stretched long, filled with the quiet hum of palace life. After their tea, Matthew excused himself, called by the Emperor, leaving Zuleika wandering the palace halls. Her thoughts were tangled with the conversation, the weight of war and the subtle vulnerabilities of royalty pressing down on her.
Her steps carried her past portraits lining the hall. One, in particular, stopped her cold. The family painting of Revazkerio. The Emperor, younger in this depiction, sat poised and regal. Beside him, the Late Empress—Athena—her light blue hair and silver eyes almost shimmering through the paint, exuded effortless grace. Even on canvas, her beauty demanded admiration.
Behind the Emperor stood Crown Prince Matthew and the second prince Althurd, the former exuding calm composure, the latter always smiling, as he still did now. Behind the Empress, third prince Zejidiah and Princess Aquila were painted, youthful and vibrant.
Zuleika's gaze lingered on Princess Aquila. The painting depicted a joy she had never seen in the present Aquila. Her eyes sparkled with light, her smile genuine and radiant—as if whoever painted this had favored her, capturing the warmth of a soul now seemingly lost.
Stepping back, Zuleika's mind churned with questions. How had Aquila changed so drastically? Was it the loss of the Empress, the weight of the Empire, or something else entirely that hardened her? The juxtaposition between the bright, laughing girl in the painting and the stern, calculating princess she knew now gnawed at her curiosity.
Her fingers lightly touched the frame as she whispered to herself, "What happened… that you became this way?"
And as she stared into Aquila's painted smile, Zuleika wondered silently whether the path of the Empire, the late Empress' shadow, and the pressures of royalty had carved away the light from the girl she once was—or if some part of it still remained beneath the surface.
Her steps echoed against the polished marble of the hall, but Zuleika barely noticed. Her thoughts were elsewhere, tangled in a web she could not easily unravel.
Her lips pressed into a thin line as her gaze drifted down the long corridor, portraits staring down at her from both sides like silent witnesses.
And Princess Aquila… that smile in the painting. Could it truly belong to the same woman who looks at me now as if every word I say is a dagger? No… people do not change without reason. Something—someone—took that light from her. And maybe this palace is the very thing that did.
Her hands brushed over the folds of her gown absently, her thoughts spiraling deeper. She did not realize she had already climbed the staircase until she reached the second floor.
That was when her steps halted.
From an open chamber ahead, faint music drifted out—a melody so soft, so hauntingly familiar that her heart stuttered. The sound called to her, tugging at some hidden place in her chest. Quietly, she approached, her slippered feet barely making a sound on the polished floor.
Unlike the monotonous maroon walls and heavy curtains of the Imperial halls, this chamber was alive. Sunlight spilled in through tall windows, painting golden streaks across the wooden shelves lined with books. A table, adorned with delicate lace, was set with an unfinished vase of flowers beside a comfortable couch. And at the far side stood the grand piano, polished ebony gleaming even in the dimmest light.
The music did not come from the piano itself but from the corner—an old phonograph player, its brass horn gleaming faintly, the record spinning with its soft, scratchy undertone.
A breeze slipped in from the open balcony, stirring the air. The curtains fluttered like pale wings, carrying the scent of roses and the crispness of autumn air. Drawn toward it, Zuleika stepped out onto the balcony.
Her breath caught.
From there, the Empire stretched endlessly before her, rooftops of the capital glinting beneath the sinking sun, and beyond them, the valleys and rivers that fed this vast dominion. The horizon looked endless, almost eternal, and for a fleeting moment, she wondered what it must feel like to rule such a land.
Her gaze fell back inside, however, to the piano that stood waiting.
Quietly, she crossed the chamber, first stopping the record player so that the room fell into silence. She placed her hand against the piano's cool surface, fingertips gliding along the polished wood before lifting the lid.
Her slender fingers hovered above the ivory keys, and she allowed herself a small smile—a true smile, soft and unguarded, breaking through the usual mask she wore.
Sitting, she straightened her posture, hands poised. The room seemed to hush around her, the breeze whispering in encouragement as if waiting for her to fill the silence.
Then, with a gentle press of her fingers, the first notes rang out—clear, warm, and alive. The sound carried into the room, weaving with the drifting air and light. It was no longer just a palace chamber but a sanctuary, lit by music that was both her refuge and her voice.