Aquila's gaze lingered on the garden's blooms, as it always did. Not a single day passed without her coming here—her quiet escape, her sanctuary. The rest of the palace was stone and silence, suffocating and sharp, but here… here, at least, beauty still bloomed.
Her silver eyes fell upon the blue lily. Slowly, she reached out, brushing her gloved fingertips against its fragile petals.
Blue lily.
The memory came like a whisper, pulling her back to a time when her world had still been warm.
"Listen here, Aki."
Her mother's voice, gentle and melodic, filled her ears again. The Empress sat across from her during one of their cherished teatimes, the afternoon sun softening her blue hair into threads of light. In her hand, she held a bloom.
"You see, I like many flowers," she said, lifting the blue lily between her fingers, "but this—this one is my favorite of all."
"Why, Mother?" a young Aquila asked, tilting her head.
The Empress smiled—bright, unguarded, the kind of smile that softened the air itself. "Because it grows in the harshest places, yet it remains pure and beautiful. It reminds me that even in the coldest winters, even when life feels cruel… something delicate can still survive. It is strength wrapped in gentleness." She twirled the stem lightly, the petals catching the light. "And perhaps, Aki, one day you will learn that kind of strength too."
The little Aquila had only stared at her mother in awe, her chest swelling with a warmth she didn't yet know how to name.
Another memory followed.
Her mother's laughter, echoing like bells as she leaned at the piano. "Do you know, Aki? I always dreamed of seeing the ocean with the sun setting."
"The ocean?" Aquila repeated, her young brows furrowing.
"Yes." Her mother's silver eyes shone as though the dream were right before her. "They say it is one of the things you must see before you die—the horizon painted with fire, the waves swallowing the light whole. For a moment, it must feel as though the world itself is at peace."
"You've never seen it?" Aquila asked in disbelief.
The Empress shook her head lightly, her smile never fading. "No. I was always bound here, to this palace, to this crown. But still, I dream of it. Dreams are not bound by duty, are they?" She laughed then—carefree, almost girlish, her face radiant as though she herself were sunlight. And the little girl she had been, Aki, could only stare, utterly enchanted.
But not all memories were gentle.
"Aki!" Her mother's voice, sharper now, cut through the air. Aquila remembered it—how her mother scolded her after she had mocked a commoner maid, puffing herself up with the pride of a child born to the Empire's greatest throne. She had cried, stormed away, hiding beneath her covers until the night fell.
Later, soft footsteps entered her chamber. The bed dipped gently as her mother sat beside her, voice quiet as a lullaby.
"Aki," she whispered, brushing back her daughter's hair with fingers tender as silk.
"You must not treat others badly, not because of who they are."
"But Mother!" Aquila had cried out, lifting tear-stained eyes. "Isn't that why we are Revazkerio? Because we rule above them all?"
Her mother stilled. Her silver eyes softened, but an emotion crossed them—deep, almost sorrowful, one Aquila still could not name even now.
"No, my little one," she said gently, pulling her close. "We may rule, but it does not make us more human than they. Remember this, Aki: everyone, whether noble or common, carries burdens we cannot see. Their struggles, their pain… they are no less real than ours." She placed a kiss against her daughter's forehead.
"We are blessed, because we were born into everything. That is not our achievement—it is our gift. And gifts, my dear Aki, are meant to be guarded with humility, not wielded as a weapon."
Her words had sunk into the young Aquila like seeds in soil, though she hadn't understood them then. Not fully. All she knew was that her mother's voice was softer than any melody, her embrace warmer than any fire.
Now, standing in the present, the garden swaying quietly around her, Aquila traced the lily once more, her lips tightening. The warmth of those memories burned in her chest, but the world she lived in now was far colder.
Her mother's lessons lingered like a ghost.
And so did her smile.
Aquilla's lips curved—not into a smile, but into a scoff.
"Kindness, humility, softness…" she muttered under her breath, her voice low, bitter. "And because of all that, she's gone."
Her silver eyes hardened, the warmth of memory swept aside as though it had never been. She drew her hand back from the bloom, her gloves feeling heavier now, suffocating against her skin.
The garden around her still held its beauty, but Aquila no longer looked at it the same. Where once it was her mother's sanctuary, to her now it was a cage—each flower a reminder of how fragile gentleness truly was, how easily it could be broken.
Her jaw tightened. "In this world, softness is nothing but an invitation to be devoured."
And with that, Aquila turned away from the blue lily, her steps sharp against the stone path, carrying her back into the cold palace halls.
The palace halls swallowed her footsteps whole, the maroon walls looming as if eager to remind her of the chill she carried inside. Every corridor was lined with silence, the kind of silence that weighed on her chest, as if every inch of this Empire had been carved from stone and grief.
A faint sound reached her ears. She paused.
Music.
Barely there at first, like a whisper of something long-forgotten, it drifted down from the floor above. Her brows knit, and before she realized it, her feet had begun to move, dragging her towards the sound. Every step echoed, each one louder against the hollow air of the palace until she reached a familiar doorway—one she hadn't crossed in years.
Her lips parted.
The chamber.
She had almost forgotten it existed.
This was the room she and her mother had always gone to. A place where glass doors opened onto a balcony, revealing the entire empire sprawled out beneath them in all its glory. The sky always looked vast from here, the world impossibly wide and alive. But Aquila had not set foot inside since the day her mother left this world, she locked the memory away, sealing the door with her grief.
Yet now, the sound coaxed her inside.
Her silver eyes followed the music, and when she found its source, she froze.
Princess Zuleika.
Sunlight streamed in through the balcony's open doors, spilling across the room in a warm golden hue that seemed to chase away the coldness Aquila had carried with her. The light fell across Zuleika's figure, illuminating the soft bronze glow of her skin. Her dark turquoise hair was loosely tied, strands brushing her cheek each time she moved with the rhythm of the keys. Her slender fingers danced over the ivory, coaxing out notes that were foreign yet soothing, each sound weaving warmth into the air like threads of fire against frost.
Aquila's breath caught.
She hadn't expected this—the Crown Prince's soon to be fiancée, the fierce and sharp-tongued Princess of Nexus, to play with such delicacy. Zuleika, who always seemed ready to strike, whose words were daggers, was now sitting in stillness, humming softly, eyes closed, lost in her own little world. She looked… prepossessing, her edges softened by the music.
Aquila lingered at the threshold, her back pressed to the doorframe, arms crossing over her chest. She told herself it was simply curiosity that kept her rooted there. Yet she didn't move, not when her gaze softened without her permission, not when something unfamiliar stirred in the hollow part of her chest.
The palace no longer felt so cold.
For a fleeting moment, the music carried her back. To her mother's laughter in this very room. To afternoons filled with sunlight and warmth, when the world didn't feel like it demanded so much cruelty to survive. And now, here was Zuleika—an echo of that same defiance against the Empire's coldness.
Her lips pressed into a thin line, harder, firmer, as if to keep herself from unraveling.
"Just like her," Aquila thought bitterly. "Just like Mother. Kindness in her veins, equality on her tongue—as if being royal doesn't mean carrying a crown carved in blood."
Her jaw clenched, yet her eyes betrayed her, still lingering, still softening as the music wrapped around her like a warmth she hadn't realized she'd missed.
The final note lingered in the air, trembling like a sigh before fading into silence. Zuleika's fingers hovered above the keys, her chest rising as if the music had drawn something out of her. Slowly, she opened her eyes—only to startle when she caught sight of Aquila leaning against the doorway.
Her crimson eyes widened, and her lips parted. "How long have you been standing there?"
Aquila didn't answer immediately. She let the silence stretch, her silver gaze cool, her expression unreadable. But inside, her mind flickered with thoughts—thoughts she refused to name.
Annoying girl… always showing up where she doesn't belong. And yet… why does it feel like I always end up here with her?
Finally, she let a faint smirk touch her lips. "Long enough to wonder if that was really you playing. I didn't think your hands were made for anything gentler than wielding a musket."
Zuleika's brow twitched, just as Aquila knew it would. Then, instead of bristling, a sly smile curved across her lips. "Is that so? And here I thought you were going to shower me with praise. Imagine my disappointment."
Aquila clicked her tongue, stepping further into the room. "Praise? For you? Don't be absurd. You hardly look the type who could play without breaking a key."
Zuleika's laughter spilled out, soft and low. She turned on the bench, resting an elbow atop the piano as she leaned toward Aquila. "Yet I didn't break a single one. You heard it yourself, didn't you? Admit it—you liked it."
Aquila arched a brow, feigning disinterest, though she couldn't quite erase the small curve tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Liked it? Hmph. It was tolerable, I suppose. For someone who looks more like she could wrestle deer than play piano."
The princess of Nexus chuckled, crimson eyes glittering with mischief. "Oh, my dear Princess Aquila. Keep saying things like that and you'll make me want to prove you wrong all over again. And trust me—there are plenty more things I can do better than you think."
That earned the faintest roll of Aquila's eyes. It was ridiculous—this exchange, this game they played every time they crossed paths. Once, she had thought it nothing but aggravation. Now, it had become routine, almost… expected. Perhaps even something she looked forward to, though she would never admit it aloud.
She crossed the room without another word, the click of her boots muted by the thick carpet. When she reached the couch by the balcony, she lowered herself into it with effortless grace, silver gaze drifting out toward the sprawling empire bathed in sunset. The air from the balcony touched her skin, cool but gentle, almost mirroring the quiet warmth that still lingered from Zuleika's playing.
Behind her, Zuleika's voice carried lightly across the chamber, still teasing, still refusing to let silence have its way.
And Aquila, though she kept her eyes on the horizon, allowed herself the smallest exhale of amusement. Routine, she thought. Always routine.And yet…
Aquila tilted her head, eyes narrowing as she looked back to Zuleika.
"Tell me," she said coolly, though her chest tightened for reasons she would not name, "do you hate me? For what I did at the commoner district?"
The question hung in the air. Zuleika did not flinch, did not shift away. She simply looked at her. Those crimson eyes—unyielding, firm—locked onto Aquila's silver ones without a single tremor.
Seconds crawled. Aquila's brows furrowed, impatience pricking her tongue, ready to repeat herself—when Zuleika finally spoke.
Her voice was steady. Clear. Almost too calm.
"I do."
The single admission struck harder than Aquila had expected, but she remained still, her arms folding tighter across her chest.
"I can't stand it," Zuleika went on, her words sharp but not shouted. "How the Imperial treats the commoners as though they are nothing, as though they do not belong to this empire. As if their lives are so easily taken—disposable, forgettable. But they are not. Their lives do matter. Because they are human. Just as we are."
Her lips parted again, and this time, her tone shifted—lower, softer, but cutting deeper.
"We are blessed, because we were born into everything. That is not our achievement—it is our gift. And gifts," her crimson eyes gleamed like embers as they held Aquila's, "are meant to be guarded with humility, not wielded as a weapon."
The phrase—thoseexact words—shattered through Aquila's chest like glass.
Her eyes widened, lips parting, her throat closing as if the air had been stolen from her. That voice, that phrase… it was a ghost. A shadow of someone she thought the world had long since buried. Mother.
For a heartbeat, Aquila could not move. The chamber itself seemed to still around her, frozen in that single echo of memory.
And then—Zuleika smiled. Not mockingly, not cruelly. A small, soft curve of her lips that reached her eyes, crimson fire glinting like a secret flame.
"So, yes," she whispered. "I hate you, Aquila. For doing that, I hate you the most."
The words sliced deep—but they were not what Aquila heard. Not truly.
Because the moment Zuleika spoke her name—just her name, stripped of titles, stripped of distance—Aquila felt something inside her crumble. No venom. No scorn. Just her name, spoken as though it belonged to her and her alone.
Her name.
It was the first time anyone had ever said it like that.
And though the words that followed, she told herself she should feel insulted, furious even—but she wasn't. Instead, all she could register was the strange betrayal of her own thoughts, all Aquila could think was—
How could anyone say such words and still look so unbearably beautiful?
Her thoughts faltered, tangled, helpless. The girl before her seemed less like an enemy of the empire, less like an intruder, and more like something otherworldly—an image carved with divine hands, a figure the gods themselves might have sculpted in secret.
Her hatred, her defiance, her beauty—woven all into one. And Aquila… could do nothing but look.