The parchment folded with a crisp sound, Zuleika pressed her seal against it before handing it over to Captain Rhys.
"Send this straight to Nexus," she instructed, her voice calm but her eyes sharp.
Rhys bowed and tucked the letter securely. Zuleika's gaze lingered on the folded parchment in his hand longer than she meant to. Within it lay her words to her father—the King of Nexus—reassuring him that she would remain in Revazkerio for another month, enduring the political farce so their kingdom could continue its access to the mineral mines. She urged him to keep safe, to protect her siblings, to prepare against Tartagalia's inevitable escalation.
Her thumb traced circles against the ring on her finger as she exhaled. That ring had been with her since her coming of age—a reminder of family, of home, of duty. Yet now, it only anchored her to the gnawing thought that she was trapped in this empire while her own people braced themselves for war.
"Another month," she muttered under her breath, the words tasting bitter. "Just another month."
Hopefully, the Tartagalia's raids on Nexus waters would not escalate into a full-fledged war before then. Hopefully.
The next afternoon brought the usual tedium of tea with the Crown Prince. The ornate gazebo stood tall amidst blooming gardens, a perfect setting for grace and leisure—but to Zuleika, it was nothing but a gilded cage. Matthew sat across from her, as immaculate as always, his golden eyes cool, his posture straight as if carved from marble.
She stirred her tea absentmindedly, her expression unreadable, until the Crown Prince set his porcelain cup down with a soft clink.
"There is something I wished to share," he began evenly. "A proposal has been sent to the Emperor. The Kingdom of Anestio has offered a marriage contract to my sister Aquila."
Zuleika blinked, her hand pausing mid-stir. "…Marriage? Princess Aquila?"
Matthew inclined his head, the faintest glimmer of amusement tugging at his lips. "Yes. Their envoy arrived three days past. Anestio is not the strongest among our allies, but they hold land routes useful for trade and possess mineral reserves of their own. The match could be… advantageous."
Zuleika leaned back against her seat, crimson eyes narrowing with something between disbelief and amusement. "Advantageous, perhaps. But do you truly see Princess Aquila standing at an altar? Dressed in silk, smiling sweetly, bowing to her new husband?"
The Crown Prince raised an eyebrow. "You doubt it?"
She let out a short laugh, covering her mouth with her hand. "Doubt it? I cannot even imagine Princess Aquila agreeing to hold hands without glaring. That woman would terrify her groom before the vows were finished. Tell me, Prince Matthew, have you ever seen your sister smile for longer than a heartbeat? The groom would think he'd married into a thunderstorm."
Matthew shook his head, but a faint chuckle escaped him, unguarded. "You are far too bold with your tongue, Princess Zuleika."
"Bold?" Zuleika tilted her head, feigning innocence, though her smirk betrayed her. "No, I am merciful. If Princess Aquila ever learns of this proposal, it would not be her groom who suffers—it would be you, for letting the conversation reach her ears."
The Crown Prince leaned back, the corner of his mouth curling upward, though his gaze remained measured. "Perhaps. But whether she likes it or not, duty weighs heavier than personal will. Aquila knows this as well as any of us."
Zuleika's eyes softened briefly before she hid it behind another sip of tea. "Perhaps," she echoed, though her voice carried an undertone of defiance. Then, unable to resist, she muttered under her breath, "Still, I would pay to see her married. She'd glare her way down the aisle."
Matthew's lips twitched in amusement, though he said nothing.
The sunlight spilled through the carved lattice of the gazebo, bathing them both in gold. Yet for Zuleika, the thought of Aquila's future tangled strangely in her mind—between mockery and something she couldn't quite name.
Just as Zuleika set her teacup down, the rhythmic sound of footsteps approached from behind. She turned slightly, only to see a familiar figure emerging from the colonnade, his hair tousled as if he had walked straight from training—or trouble.
"Forgive me," Prince Althurd said, though his tone carried no true apology. "I could not resist the scent of tea."
Without waiting for an invitation, he pulled out a chair and sat himself opposite Zuleika, directly beside Matthew.
The Crown Prince's expression hardened instantly, golden eyes narrowing like sharpened blades.
"You were not invited."
Althurd only smirked, leaning back in his seat with a lazy grace. "You wound me, brother. Am I not family enough to sit and share a cup?"
"Family?" Matthew's voice was low, dangerous. "You dare speak of family after your negligence during the abduction?"
The second prince chuckled, unbothered, his gaze flicking toward Zuleika. "Negligence? My, what a harsh word. If I recall, you were the one who refused any of my assistance. You wanted the glory of their return all to yourself."
Zuleika's crimson eyes widened faintly. She hadn't seen Althurd since that day, and the memory of the chains and the darkness.
"You sat idle while my sister and the Princess of Nexus were in enemy hands," Matthew bit out, jaw clenched. "Glory was the last thing on my mind."
Althurd leaned forward, his smirk never faltering. "Idle? No, brother. I simply respected your stubborn pride. You wanted no interference, so I gave you none. Do not twist that into dereliction of duty. Or perhaps…" his gaze flicked toward Zuleika, lingering just long enough to needle, "…you wished to play the sole savior in her eyes."
The insult was thinly veiled, and Matthew's fingers twitched against the porcelain cup, as though restraining the urge to shatter it.
Sensing the tension building, Zuleika forced a soft laugh, raising her hand in a delicate gesture. "Gentlemen, must we truly sour tea with sharp words? I daresay the tea leaves already taste bitter without your quarrels added."
Her words pulled Althurd's gaze to her. His smirk softened, curiosity glinting in his eyes. "Ever the diplomat, Princess Zuleika. You speak as though it is easy to tame us."
"I do not tame," she replied evenly, her lips curving in the faintest smile. "I simply remind that some words are better left unspoken when civility is more useful."
Matthew, however, did not yield so easily. His golden eyes stayed locked on his brother. "Civil tongues are wasted when the other thrives only in mockery."
"And blades are wasted when kept sheathed," Althurd countered smoothly, unflinching.
For a moment, the air grew taut between them, charged with unspoken challenge. Zuleika set her cup down gently, her crimson eyes cutting through their locked stares.
"Then perhaps it is fortunate," she said softly, "that this is neither the time for blades nor for mockery—but for tea. Surely even princes can manage that much?"
Althurd chuckled lowly, breaking the tension with a shrug. "For you, Princess, perhaps."
Matthew's jaw remained tight, but he leaned back, choosing silence over escalation.
The air settled, but the echoes of the brothers' hostility lingered like an undercurrent beneath the fragile calm Zuleika had woven.
Princess Zuleika left the tea gazebo with a sigh heavy enough to weigh down her steps. She had endured the sharp-edged words of the brothers, and though she had smiled and tempered their blades, her heart ached with fatigue. Why are they always like this? Why must anger and pride be as constant as breath in the blood of Revazkerio?
Her feet carried her through the marble corridors, mind adrift, until a faint sound caught her ear. A muffled cry. Her stride quickened.
Turning the corner, the sight before her rooted her in place—then ignited a flame of anger in her chest.
On the polished floor lay a maid, shielding a small boy with her body. The child's face was streaked with tears, eyes wide and terrified. Standing above them, elegant and composed as if she were sculpted from stone, was Princess Aquila. Arms crossed, chin lifted, crimson eyes cold.
Zuleika rushed forward, kneeling immediately at the maid's side. "What happened?" Her voice was sharp, but her hands were gentle as she touched the woman's shoulder.
The maid whimpered, tightening her hold around the boy.
Above them, Aquila's eyes twitched as her gaze fell on Zuleika. "Step away, Princess of Nexus. This matter does not concern you."
Her voice was low, controlled, but the underlying steel was clear.
Zuleika lifted her chin, crimson eyes locking with hers. "Not concern me? There is a child here—frightened—and a woman at his defense. How could it not concern me?"
Before Aquila could retort, Lady Georgia, Zuleika's lady-in-waiting, stepped forward with an anxious curtsy. "Your Highness… the maid—she smuggled her child inside the Imperial Palace without leave. It is a breach of protocol, of security. Princess Aquila merely sought to discipline the matter as it should be."
Zuleika's jaw tightened. She turned to Aquila. "Discipline? By terrifying a boy hardly tall enough to reach your knee?"
Aquila's crimson gaze hardened, lips pressing into a thin line. "This is not Nexus, where sentiment outweighs law. This palace is sacred. Rules exist for order, and if we let one slip through, tomorrow there will be ten. Or more. You do not know what it means to maintain control within these walls."
Zuleika countered, voice steady though her pulse thundered, "I know what it means to value human dignity. A mistake born of desperation does not strip away their worth. This woman sought only to see her child, to keep him close. Is that such a crime?"
Aquila's eyes narrowed. "You dare defend her? A servant who has spit on her oath to the Crown? Tell me, Princess—will you still speak for her if her negligence opens the gates for spies? For traitors?"
The words hung between them, sharp and heavy.
Zuleika inhaled slowly, then rose to her feet, standing tall before Aquila. "I will always speak for those who cannot, Your Imperial Highness. If mercy makes me a fool, then so be it. But do not call loyalty treason simply because it is inconvenient to you."
For a moment, silence stretched taut. The maid sobbed quietly, clutching her boy, while the air between the two princesses burned with restrained fire—neither shouting, but both striking deeper than raised voices ever could.
Aquila's glare could have cut stone. She turned her head only slightly, voice clipped and cold.
"Head maid. Dismiss her. I want her gone before the hour ends."
The maid gasped, clinging tighter to her boy, but Aquila did not look again. She pivoted, her gown sweeping like a blade across marble, and strode away. Lady Georgia hurried after her, the silence of obedience trailing behind them.
Zuleika remained kneeling beside the maid. Her fingers brushed the trembling woman's arm, soft and steady.
"It's all right," Zuleika whispered, though her heart burned at the lie. "You did nothing to deserve this."
The maid shook her head, voice breaking. "No, Your Highness. It was my fault. I… I could not bear the distance. I only wished to see my son again. I knew the rules. I knew what it could cost me."
Her words were laced with shame, yet she held her child close, as if the embrace was worth every punishment that would follow.
Zuleika's chest tightened. But the head maid was already at their side, stern and unyielding, guiding the pair away. "Come. You will leave quietly."
The little boy's hand slipped against his mother's skirts as they walked away. Zuleika could do nothing but watch, her own hands curling into fists at her sides. She was a foreign princess here, a guest, a visitor who had no authority. Her voice meant nothing.
But if I… accepted the Crown Prince's hand?
The thought pierced her mind before she could stop it. Would it change anything? Would I be able to shift the way this Empire treats those who are not born into power? Or would the crown only chain me to the same cruelty I despise?
Her breath caught when a voice broke the silence.
"You waste your breath."
Zuleika spun. From the shadowed edge of the corridor, Prince Zeijidiah emerged, his steps slow, his posture relaxed, yet his presence heavy. His heterochomatic eyes were void of warmth, his expression unreadable.
"Why bother," he continued, his tone calm, almost bored, "over some… commoners?"
Her crimson eyes narrowed. "Why bother?" she echoed, the disbelief sharp in her voice. "Because they are people. Because they bleed and break and love as much as you do. Is that not reason enough?"
He tilted his head slightly, studying her. "Not here. Not in Revazkerio."
Something inside her snapped, the fury edged with sorrow. She lifted her chin, sarcasm curling like a dagger in her words.
"Ah, yes. I almost forgot. To rule with fear, to conquer with violence. That is the way of Revazkerio, isn't it? To remind every soul beneath you that they are nothing but dust beneath your heel."
Silence. The words echoed against the cold marble, and for a moment, she thought he would let them die there. But Zeijidiah's gaze shifted, sharp and piercing, locking with hers.
When he spoke, his words cut through her like glass.
"Because of a commoner… our mother died."
Zuleika froze.
His voice did not rise, but the weight of it pressed down like a storm. His eyes were steady, unblinking, but in their depths lingered something raw. Something broken.
"Right before Aquila's eyes," he continued, his tone steady, yet edged with something almost dangerous. "And from that day forward, our family bore no love for commoners. Only hate. Only blame. And perhaps…" His gaze darkened, "perhaps it is the only thing that keeps us from shattering."
The corridor felt colder. Zuleika's breath lodged in her throat, her heart pounding as the truth rooted itself in her bones. The cruelty of Revazkerio was not born of pure arrogance, nor hunger for power—it was born of grief, twisted and fed until it became a creed.
And suddenly, she understood: the walls of this Empire were not merely made of stone. They were mortared with pain, loss, and vengeance.