Chapter 1: Beginnings
Chapter Text
As the sun rises over the horizon, it signifies the start of a new day. The clouds in the sky part ways so the great ball of light can shine through. The coastal waters sparkle as the waves break the surface tension. The port begins to move again as it awakens from its slumber. The cargo was lifted from the haul of a ship by young men pulling ropes. A man counts each crate with a quill and paper in each hand. He checks off each item until he nods with approval. The driver climbs to the front of the cart, taking the horse’s reins into his hands.
A man opens his lips to speak, adjusting his glasses.
“Take this to the market and deliver it to Arabella’s. You already know they requested these new spices from Prussina.”
The cart's wheels go into motion as they spin around on the cobblestone paths. The city of Ilicia came to life. People exited their homes, and shopkeepers set up their tents in the market square.
“Good morning, Mr. Lindst!” A woman waves from the second floor of her shop. A man with a thick mustache smiles while uplifting a hand to greet her.
“Good morning!” He replies swiftly. A group of children passes Mr. Lindst with only one thought in their minds.
“Let's go to the bakers.” A boy says with a hopeful tone. A blonde girl taller than him shakes her head from side to side. As the oldest of the group, she is the voice of reason.
“We can’t. We're going to be late for school. Mrs. Masta won’t like it if Jones is late again.”
“Come on, Selma. Just a little bit? Mr. Chamel usually makes the freshest loaves of bread in the morning.” Jones pleads, Selma sighing in defeat.
“I give up.”
Standing outside the window of a bakery, they admire the freshly leavened bread and pastries lined in the glass boxes. They look at the delicious food with stars in their eyes. Just smelling the sweet pastries made their mouths water.
“Delicious and perfect.” Mister Chamel compliments his work with a smile, the group looking through the open door before he turns. “Ah, good to see you again. Do well in school today, and maybe I’ll let you try a little of my latest creation.”
The baker adjusts his white hat, the gentleman smiling with his eyes.
“Alright. See you later, Mister Chamel.” The children simultaneously say.
As they leave, another shop owner grabs a pair of keys from her dress pocket, unlocking the door to her flower shop. Mister Chamel sees her from afar, clearing his throat.
“Good morning Mrs. Caroline! Any new flowers today?” He asks hopefully.
“No, not today, Chamel. Come by tomorrow. I have a new shipment coming in from Renaldi. To be frank, I forgot what I ordered. It’s been quite some time. But once I see them, I'll be able to analyze what they are.” Mrs. Caroline smiles, adjusting her black-rimmed glasses.
“That's great! I’ll come by tomorrow and grab a bouquet. You already know my fiance loves your flowers.”
Mrs. Caroline walks to the shutters. She opens the windows to let the sun's rays shine upon the flower’s petals. The little bell at the top of the door rings with a sweet tune before a cloaked figure appears in the doorway.
“Hello, and Welcome. Please stay as long as you like-” Mrs. Caroline pauses, raising a thinly arched brow. The cloaked figure looked at the flowers curiously before removing the hood that covered their face.
Revealing their nature was a matter of surprise for Mrs. Caroline. The older woman gives a heartwarming smile to the stranger while placing camellias in a glass vase.
The stranger was beautiful indeed, a young girl about 16 years of age. Her skin is as pale as porcelain with tints of red against her flushed cheeks. Her hair, just as red as the roses lined up against the shop window, is more beautiful than the iconic flower. Her eyes are purple like the amethyst gem, and the hue of different colors of purple fight for dominance. Her lashes flutter against her cheeks when she blinks. A black velvet cape covered her attire, but one could see the shimmering green beneath it.
“I see that you’re looking very intently at the camellias. Are you familiar with this flower?” Mrs. Caroline asks from her desk, the young girl shaking her head from side to side.
“These are considered the kingdom's flower. Ever since the beginning of Algeria, these flowers have been growing along the forest's edges for quite some time. Though sadly, they've been uprooted and are unable to grow back. That bouquet you're looking at is the last shipment from our neighboring kingdom, Renaldi.” Mrs. Caroline comments briefly, sharing her information with the nameless stranger.
The redhead nods a little, looking at the camellia with longing eyes. Her hand extends from her cloak, touching the petals delicately. She was careful not to detach them from the stem. The bell rings once more, Mrs. Caroline casting her attention elsewhere.
“Why, hello, Sasha. Are you here for your Camellia’s?” Mrs. Caroline asks her new guest, the stranger turns around as she tries to hide her look of disappointment. Mrs. Caroline gives the cloaked figure a sympathetic smile. With quiet steps, she makes her way to the bouquet of camellias. Removing one from the array, she passes it to the young woman.
“Here, this may be the last shipment, but more will come soon once they're in season again.”
The stranger places her hood upon her head, leaving the shop swiftly. Finding herself back where she started, she looks up into the sky. Seeing that there were banners, her eyes gazed at them with surprise. The color is a deep burgundy, with gold etchings alongside the edges. A white camellia is in the very center, embroidered to perfection. The different shades of the white thread are clear for her to see, despite how high it hangs. Her lips upturn into a smile, and her eyes move to the horse carrying the carted goods from the port. The scent of the exotic spices made her nose itch.
“We took some of the spices to Arabella’s. I thought they would have ordered all of this in surplus. Where does the rest of this go?” A young man asks, scratching his head in confusion.
An older man adjusts his glasses, wiping the smudges away with a cloth.
“His majesty did.”
“The emperor? Now, that's a first. What would the king want with boxes of celithica?” The young woman listens carefully. She takes a few steps closer, sitting by the town fountain to gain a better understanding.
“It’s unknown what the emperor desires or what he wishes. Maybe we’ll find out some other time.” Deeming that there is nothing else interesting, the redhead ignores the rest of the conversation. She needed to get home, or else her guardian might be looking for her. The red-haired young woman walks past the shops. She looks back again, wondering when those camellias would come again.
Smelling the sweet-scented flower, She walked a little further, passing the homes until she paused by a blue and red decorated building. The front window displayed wares of golden lamps and jewelry, looking above the sign which read: Jancis. Her hands shake as she reaches for the iron doorknob, the breath leaving her lungs as she opens the heavy wooden door. She closed it quietly, though that wasn't enough to stop the steps from the top floor. She hides the flower within her cloak, biting her lip in anxiousness. Golden pointed shoes show from the top step with Decorated black harem pants. Moving downwards, the young woman can see her guardian's face.
“Where have you been, brat?” A male voice echoes through the shop. The cloaked young woman kept her eyes downcast. His eyes are a deep forest green, his brows deeply knit together. His hair is black like obsidian, though his feathered hat covered most of his locks. He stroked his beard with his fingers while he stood impatiently. Though he’s a chubby and stout little man, she cowers before him. The ‘brat’ remained despondent, pointing to the window to explain her situation.
“What did I tell you about going outside? Only to run on errands, not explore! Get out of my sight. It’d be better for you if I didn't see you tonight.” He threatened, the redhead left his presence swiftly, making her way up the stairs before closing the door to her room behind her.
She takes off her cloak, folding it neatly on her makeshift bed. She smiled sweetly, seeing the flower safe from his clutch. She touches the pink petal with her finger, a gasp leaving her lips as it falls onto the cracked floor beneath her. She sinks to the ground in despair. Her source of happiness from the hell she lived fell apart the second she touched it again. Her sensitive heart beats in her chest, her eyes moving towards the closed window. She stands from her position, walking towards the window to open the glass shutters. Moving the iron latch, she opens one, then the other. The fresh sea breeze from the ports hits her face, coursing through her locks of red hair. She hears laughing and loud chatter downstairs, knowing her guardian has a visitor.
Sighing in defeat, she looks at the palace from afar, that great mass of stone on a hill.
She wonders what the emperor is like. Is he a kind and good man? Does he care for his people? How does he appear? Does he rule the country she lives in well?” The questions stirred her mind, and the young woman continued gazing at the palace from afar.
In the castle, the staff is busy with their jobs, and the cooks in the kitchen prepared various meals for the king while he was busy with his duties. The butlers bustled around and about the palace, walking as fast as their legs could carry them. A man walked through the halls with a tray in hand, approaching a closed double white door.
“Your majesty.” He called for the man from outside, and the black and white suited figure heard shuffling from inside.
“The door is unlocked.” A deep voice echoes from within. The man reaches the handle with a gloved hand, opening the door before seeing the emperor he served. A quill is in his right hand, eyes scanning the paper in front of him. His desk is full of them, with various symbols and languages printed on every blank space. The walls around him hold designs of golden swirls. The carpet beneath his feet is the color of crimson, with yellow embellished in the fabric. Chairs and sofas are on the right side of his study, where he frequently takes a break while reading a novel or two. Above his chair is his family crest, stars in the middle with thorny vines around it.
The emperor stands, removing his attention from the document residing in his hands.
“Leave it there.” He states coldly, the butler setting the tray of tea on the table.
“Yes, your majesty.” He bows, closing the door behind him. The emperor sighs, running a hand across his tired aquamarine orbs. His brows furrow with contempt over the wording of the official document. He stands in his place, walking towards the window overlooking the city he ruled for more years than he could count. He could see his reflection in the glass, the handsome man he has grown to be. His thick black hair frames his face, a few strands escaping its slightly gelled-back hairstyle. His lips protrude in a deep frown while his hands rest behind his back. His face is defined, chiseled like a statue to absolute perfection. The heavy gold crown he wears upon his head carries the burdens of his title, and the emerald gems within each nook and cranny bring out his eyes.
His attire was a mixture of black, red, and gold. His red cape was attached to his right side, while the golden tassels on his left swayed with every move. The embroidery on the front showcases his wealth and power, with diamond cufflinks against his wrists. With his imposing height of 6’5, he stands tall and proud.
He hears the clinking of metal from outside, a hand reaching for the sword strapped against his side the moment he hears a knock at the door.
“Your Majesty, the council seeks your presence.” He recognized the voice of his closest and most trusted knight.
“These documents are far too important for me to leave them.” He formally speaks as the knight sighs before breaking into a carefree smile.
“They're expecting you at this very moment, your majesty.” The emperor rolls his eyes, clicking his tongue in displeasure.
“Right.” He replies bitterly. He walks towards the double doors, opening one as he sees his knight waiting outside.
“I’m not a child, do not wait on me.” The emperor could practically see the hidden smile through the knight's helmet, the man taking it off swiftly.
“You think I want to? It’s the council that orders me around. It is for your ‘safety.’” His metal armor clinks as they walk beside one another.
“I despise them better than anyone, Jean.” He pauses, looking at the man face to face.
Jean’s eyes are blue like the sky, with a pale complexion. His silver hair, a rare color in the kingdom, could match that of an aging couple. He is tall, around 6’1. It wasn’t uncommon to bump into the top of the doors. Broken-hearted earrings dangle from his pierced ears while his invisible brows furrow together.
“What do you think they’ll want this time?” Jean wonders aloud, the man beside him sticking his hands in his pocket.
“Good grief, give me a break. I could care less about the council.” The emperor states maliciously, a grimace appearing on his handsome features. He continues down the hallway, glancing briefly at the red curtains lining each window pane. The dark blue carpet he walks upon hides his impending footsteps while the knight beside him adjoined in silence. The emperor keeps his gaze on the door a few feet ahead, waking towards it with nothing but displeasure.
“Your majesty, I will be waiting here until the meeting is finished,” Jean states while the emperor nods.
He closes the door behind him, looking at the long rectangular table as he did many times before. The council rises from their seats, four men with greying hair and age-stricken faces.
“We’ve been waiting for you, Emperor Jotaro Nobelius Kujo.” One says dryly, Jotaro placing a hand in front of his person.
“Quit the formalities. What is the purpose of this meeting?” He asks them, standing by his designated place at the table.
“Do you recall the year our kingdom was established?” A man in white attire speaks up from the group of four.
“No, I don’t see how it is relevant, Huron.” Jotaro’s tone shows one of annoyance. The man presses on with the subject.
“Your majesty, Tolomy, Rendel, Akirus, and I have discussed–”
“I could care less what you discuss. I have work to finish.” He folds his arms across his chest, walking away from the table.
“There will be a party for the anniversary of our Kingdom,” Tolomy speaks aloud, stating the information as fact. Jotaro looks at him with a raised brow, a ‘tch’ leaving his lips.
“Wasting the royal treasury on something as silly as a party is unnecessary.” He replies, keeping a stern gaze upon them.
“It will be a grand celebration. It is foolish not to hold one.” Akirus stands, Jotaro narrowing his eyes into thin slits.
“You speak as if it is going to happen. You do not have my permission to do so.” He concludes with a frown. Huron stands straight like an arrow, the two glaring at each other.
“Your majesty, we are your council, we know what is best for the kingdom and you,” Rendel replies, Jotarous clenching his gloved hands into fists. Huron nods, silence ensuring until it becomes uncomfortable.
“The celebration will be two weeks from now. Only the nobility will be allowed to attend. Preparations have already been made in advance, and invitations will be sent out swiftly to all the noble families. Dancers and orchestras from different regions will be obliged to attend, your majesty.” Akirus explains, Jotaro rolling his eyes as he stands to leave.
“Is that all?” He asks, the four older gentlemen nodding their heads.
Jotaro slams the door, his temper rising faster than a heat wave. Jean looks at the taller man beside him, tagging along to his study.
“Your Majesty is upset.” Jean makes the obvious statement, Jotaro pausing in place.
“A party will be held, wasting the royal treasure, though there is a surplus. I despise it.” He casually remarks while the knight nods his head respectfully.
“There’s going to be a time when you don’t need to answer to the council any longer. It may not be now, your majesty, but soon.” Jean gives him a pat on the back.
“I’ll be in my study. Keep watch over those four like you always do.” He commands, the silver-haired man places the helmet on his head, turning away from the scene with a duty to his king.
“Yes, your majesty.”
Chapter 2: Introductions
Chapter Text
Jancis strokes his beard as he looks at the envelope on his desk. He turns the paper around, though his eyes widen when he sees the wax seal of the emperor's crest. Without hesitation, he pulls it apart forcefully, and what looks like a letter falls onto the floor.
“Damned paper, making me pick it up,” Jancis grumbles like an immature child. The man struggles to reach for his spectacles across the room. His feet touch the wooden floor as he walks to the opposite end of his merchandise. He places the glasses on his face, the article resting against the bridge of his nose. His eyes scan its contents with interest. The fancy printed format makes him roll his eyes at the grandeur of it all.
“That emperor probably used alot of ink from a printing press to get something like this. What a wealthy man–” He pauses, his eyes continuing to read the words when they widen with surprise. A wicked smile appears on his already disgraceful features. The man laughs until it ceases just as quickly.
“Where are you, brat?! Get down here!” He commands. The venom in his voice causes the sudden but quiet shuffles of the girl he was guardian over. Hurry up, don’t make me go over there and grab you.” He warns. She nods quickly as she holds her hands against her chest. The air around her felt more unwelcoming than usual. The golden artifacts in the glass cases look corroded, their luster fading away when she approaches.
“We received an invitation from the emperor, so it seems. Be grateful that I’m reading it to you.” He smiles, god how she hated when he did. “Dear citizen,” He begins to read, “with great joy, you are invited to the 200th anniversary of the kingdom of Algeria. The member of the imperial royal family welcomes you with open arms as the celebration will begin on the night of the next full moon. You are to send only one to represent you, that may be a dancer or someone with musical talents. To this end, –Emperor Jotaro Nobelius Kujo.” Though the letter was short, she raised her brows with curiosity. But, she couldn't understand the strange feeling that bubbled in her core.
“Pack your things, looks like you’ll be a part of the Emperor's grand celebration.” He states with an overly cheerful tone, his eyes sparkling with greed. Wanting to object, she shakes her head while using her hands to make him understand. “You dare defy me?! I said pack your things!” Jancis yells, the man walking over to her with clenched fists by his side. The frightful young woman nods her head, regarding his words with caution. She didnt want to make him angrier than he already was.
She shuts the door to her little room, opening a chest of the extravagant costumes her guardian bought her. With vivid pinks, reds, and dark blue, all of them frivolous. Then looking at one with a mix of pale and emerald green with organza sleeves, she smiles a little. The remnants of the sewn jewels across the bodice hung by a mere thread. It needed a little tender love and care, then back to what it used to be. The redhead uses a ribbon to tie her hair back, grabbing a needle and thread from her small case to adjust the loose jewels. Meticulously sewing the hand became normalized. Changing clothes that were either too small or big was a skill she acquired throughout her life. With her guardian, Jancis, who buys all sorts of nonsense, something as simple as clothes is a luxury. The metal scissors cut the reaming thread as she held the top with an accomplished smile.
She pulls a leather case from the side of her makeshift bed. Her fingers touch the soft brown material, a sigh leaving her lips. Opening the case slowly, she hopes the hinges wouldn't fall off with how age-stricken it was.
“Those costumes will finally be put to good use,” Jancis says from outside her bedroom door. The man's heavy footsteps make the floorboards creak beneath his feet, the steps stop once he reaches the door. “Don’t you dare pack that green one! If I see it, I’m throwing it away!” She stuffs it in her case, bringing other necessities and costumes to cover her disobedience. The case stands upright after it’s closed, and Jancis forcefully opens the door with the same cheerful smile.
“I see you’re all packed. You’ll need this.” He begrudgingly pulls out the crumpled invitation from his pocket. “You can’t go to the palace without this. The guards will send you away if you appear unannounced. Without this, how will you see the emperor?” He asks her with a condescending tone. The young woman nods as she understands her newfound situation. He reaches his hand out placing it on her shoulder with a look full of requests. She shivers at his touch. “If you explore the castle grounds, bring back a few things. It doesn't hurt to take something, no?” Her shocked face made him laugh aloud. The young woman escapes his grasp as she treads down the stairs with her case in hand. Even a day away from the chains of this hell would be enough for her.
She closes the door as she glances at the fancy printed format. It was pretty. She couldn't help but be curious about the bustle in the streets. The way people lined up by the bakery made her wonder. Despite this, she noticed how the town square looked different from two weeks ago. The camellia-decorated banners were replaced with blue and gold ones and steamers with flowers decorated every lampost. So it wasn’t just the emperor, but the town square celebrated too? She asked herself this question. She found herself doing this quite often within eventful circumstances. It was part of her nature.
“I can’t believe we received invitations to the emperor's celebration. It’s only natural! We are the best dancers in town.” A high-pitched voice reaches her ears as she raises her brows with surprise. Two girls with pale complexions walk past her with cases in their hands, their dresses extravagant and new. It was very different from the faded white dress she was wearing. With bows, frills, and jewels galore, it’s a drastic difference.
“I’m curious to see the emperor. What do you think he looks like? Do you think he’s a handsome man?” One of the two asks the other, the lavender orbed girl listening from a distance.
“I’ve heard that he’s the spitting image of Joseph Nobelius Joestar. Back in the day when he was emperor, he was good-looking, according to my mother.” They laugh, though they stop once they reach the stone bridge which leads to the palace. “The palace is so beautiful.” The two girls gasp in awe, looking at the mass of beauty with starstruck eyes. They were right of course. Despite the bridge that connected the world of nobility and the lower class, it was a beautiful centerpiece. The golden gate held a crest of the emperor's family in the middle, large and proud. The gates opened to let a carriage inside, and the three young women could fully see the magnificence. Fountains and statues rest in the middle of the courtyard, while trees and flower bushes with circular stone hedges lie about. The palace itself is made of stone, ageless, and beauty undefined. Multiple stained glass windows of various colors lined the first, third, and fifth floors. The towers reached the sky with their pointed golden tiled heads holding star toppers. It’s truly a home fit for an emperor.
They walked together. The gates ahead remained open until it was closed again upon the next visitor approaching.
“What do you want?” A man with a rugged appearance asks with a disinterested tone. The two young women tap their feet against the ground.
“What do we want? His majesty invited us.” They smiled gleefully, reeking with pride. The guard shakes his head from the side before bellowing a great laugh. “That’s funny. I've heard that one before. Where’s your proof?” He asks, holding out his hand in expectancy.
“We don’t have the invitation.” Sweat appears on the sides of their faces.
“Then you don’t come in. Better skedaddle.” The guard looks at the redhead, raising a brow as she holds out the invitation. He nods approvingly. The girls beside her clench their fists while biting their lips in frustration.
“You minx! You must think you’re all high and mighty.” Jealousy set in once they saw her more attractive features.
“Quit lollygagging and get out of here! If you come back, I won’t hesitate to throw you in the dungeons on account of trespassing!” The guard threatens, shaking his fist in the air to make his point.
“Let her in!” He yells loudly enough for the men within to hear. The gates to the castle open, and the hinges creak a little as the redhead's eyes widen. Ignoring the glares of the self-proclaimed fellow dancers, she walks towards the palace, and the ribbon in her hair falls when she walks. A few guards pass by, looking at the beauty as a blush appears on their faces. How could they not? Feeling bold, one approaches her with an awkward smile, his lips opening to speak.,
“Are you one of the dancers?” He asks, wondering if the redhead beauty was a guest invited by the emperor. She nods, the male about to say something else when he hears someone clear their throat.
“Malius, must you always act this way whenever a pretty girl passes by?” A man with a hat gives him a menacing glare. He raises a brow when looking at the young woman.
“Ah, another dancer. Follow me. I’ll take you to the north wing. That's where others like yourself are.” He makes his point, and the redhead nods as she follows the older gentleman. “My name is Roland. I’m in charge of making sure the emperor's guests are as comfortable as possible. I will help you to the best of my ability if you need anything.” He fixes his monocle with a gloved hand, stopping by a door in the empty corridor. “This is where you will rest until the night of the event. You are to return by nightfall if you choose to leave for the town. I must ask that there be no late-night wanderings. The others will inform you of anything else. Good day.” He leaves her be, watching him leave down the hallway.
She places her hand on the doorknob, wondering what the other dancers were like. Were they pompous and rude like the two beforehand, or were they kind?
She enters, closing the door behind her as she looks at the quaint room. The chatter halts to a stop when the other girls see her. A smile makes its way onto their faces, sitting upright on their beds.
“Hi! You’re the other dancer we were expecting! I’m Amara.” A girl with blonde hair and green eyes introduces herself. “That's Kalis and Nora.” Amara points to the others as they greet her. “What's your name?” She asks, expecting a response. The young woman tries to formulate a word, but nothing comes out. Feeling ashamed, she averts her gaze, and Amara pats her shoulder.
“Sorry, you must be shy. Can you talk at all?” Nora suddenly asks, running a hand through her shiny raven-black hair. The newcomer shakes her head, biting her lip in anxiousness. Would they judge her? Would they get angry with her as Jancis does? Will they cast her out as the black sheep among the group?
“That's alright. I know you’ll try to communicate with us somehow. There's nothing wrong with not being able to talk, by the way.” Kalis smiles at her, and the brunette yawns as she lays down on her quilted sheet.
Not the response she expected, but a kind one nonetheless. She smiles, walking to her designated bed. A bed, now that was something she’s never had before.
“Just letting you know that they have breakfast at 8:00 am, lunch at noon, and dinner at 6:00,” Nora tells the redhead with a smile. The young woman finds the coo-coo clock on the wall amusing with its wooden birds on the outside.
“C’mon, don’t you think the emperor is around here somewhere? I’d want to see him!” Amara asks the others with a gleeful expression. She raises her brows at the thought of him.
The mute woman makes a motion with her hands. She tries to get her question across,
but one of the girls tilts their head to the side as she sweatdrops. “Are you trying to ask us if we’ve seen the emperor?” Amara queries. A relieved smile appears on the redhead's face. The miss nods, twirling her hair around her fingers.
“No, sadly. But I know this. That the emperor is very… um–” Amara pauses, and a frown makes its way to her features.
“He's serious. The rumors among the nobility say that the mans’s never smiled a day in his life. Despite looking so young, I’m only giving him a pass due to his looks. Though again, we've never seen him before, Princess Aurelia Marina likes to paint him. In the newspaper, there are many descriptions of how he looks based on her work. But if you ask me, it seems like she has a massive crush on him.” Kalis giggles.
“Most definitely. Princess Marina is the crown princess of Renaldi. I bet the noble ladies from all over Algeria have a crush on him. But what do I know?” Nora shrugs her shoulders, the young woman laughing as the redhead enjoys their company. She can get used to this.
As the sun begins to set over the country of Algeria, the girls sit at the dinner table full of guests in the servant's quarters. They enjoy their plates of delicious food the palace cook happily prepared for them. They hear the bell chime, signaling people to enter through the door.
“This is so delicious,” Amara states, patting her lips with a napkin. They pause their conversation when they look at the knights entering through the door. Their blue and gold attire marked their statues among the emperor's court. Though they were higher than the squires, they were not higher than the council members.
“Oh, that one is a cutie,” Nora whispers. The others agree silently but pause when the knights walk toward them with nervous smiles.
“Mind if we join you?” One asks, scratching the back of his head with one hand, while the other holds his plate of food.
“Yes, of course. It’d be much better to have these empty seats filled.” Kalis replies with a smile, though they pause when they see the red-haired beauty. The blush on their faces appears just as quickly when she glances their way.
“So, what are your names?” Another asks with a cheerful tone, fully interested in the conversation.
“Amara.”
“Kalis.”
“Nora.”
Silence ensures when they reach the final member, the young woman motions something with her hands. They looked at each other, unable to comprehend what she was trying to say, though they understood two things. One, this young woman was beautiful indeed, and second, she was mute. The awkwardness in the room dissipated when the cook brought out the desserts.
“You outdid yourself this time chef!” A knight compliments. The lads enjoy how appetizing the chocolate-covered scones are. The amethyst-orbed girl reached for one as the others did, taking a bite before her eyes sparkled with delight. Absolute heaven. The girls couldn't help but notice how she looked, along with the men who accompanied them at the table.
“Cute.” They thought amongst themselves. As their dinner came to a close, the young women say their goodbyes as they leave for their room.
“It was nice meeting you all. I hope we see you sometime before the event.” Amara says her goodbyes while the others follow her steps. The guards give them gracious smiles, the young women turning a corner before they disappear from their sight. Upon returning to their room they close the door behind them and collapse on their beds.
“I can’t wait to sleep. My body is aching from all the archery I did before I traveled here.” Kalis mentions with a tired tone, stretching her limbs.
“You can say that again,” Amara replies.
“I agree. Even after my travels, I explored the town. This is nothing like Renaldi. It's so grand.” Nora inputs. The three young women look at the redhead with curious eyes. “Kalis is from Celtina, I’m from here, Alanis, and Nora is from Renaldi,” Amara pauses as she points to each of them. She continues, “Though Algeria is a massive country, there are different regions within it. There’s Prussina, Renaldi, Celtina, and Alanis. We’re in Alanis’s capital Ilicia, so it took Nora and Kalis a while to get here from their homeland. Are you from Prussina?” Amara asks her. The redhead wonders how she can explain.
“Wait, I have an idea.” Kalis suddenly says. The woman rummages through her luggage. She pulls out a notepad and pencil, sketching a rather detailed map. She gives the notepad to the mute young woman, the redhead analyzes the map with a surprised expression.
She stands from her bed, motioning to Prussina with her pointer finger. It travels across the sketched page to Alanis Empire, and lastly to the capital of Ilica near the coastal waters.
“You traveled from Prussina, to here?” Kalis observes. She disagrees, hoping her newfound friends would understand.
“You’re originally from Prussina, but now you live here?” Amara scratches her head in confusion as she hopes her question is correct. Her answer is rewarded when she sees her fellow dancer nod. Setting the paper and pencil down, they change into their evening wear for the night. The young women set their candles on the nightstands by their beds. Kalis, Amara, and Nora blow them out as they set themselves into their beds for the night.
“Goodnight”
“Night”
“Goodnight”
The young woman climbs into her bed, resting her red curls on the plush pillow. She looks at the wooden ceiling, smiling a little as she finds herself drifting off into the world of dreams. As the pale moonlight shines upon her, it seems as if everything would be alright. Her problems melted away, and everything fell into place. Oh, what a dream.
Chapter 3: slavery
Chapter Text
WARNING: FOLLOWING THEMES OF SLAVERY AND ABUSE ARE MENTIONED. TRIGGER WARNINGS AND VIEWER DISCRETION IS ADVISED
The sands of time in the region of Prussina held mountains of golden deserts as far as the eye could see. But, among these great sands was the capital of Sintasha. A great city with wealth, power, and prestige. That place among the golden sands lay beside the river Eurate, the perfect place for a growing bustling land. The harvest was plentiful, the people were happy, and the rulers were kind. But this city was far from what it seemed. Oh no, far from it. On the outside, what looked like to be a prosperous place, was built under the foundations of slavery. No one but the slaves calls the Capital Muenaa, the capital of suffering.
In a children's home, the sound of laughter is heard from a mile away. It certainly was the opposite of the bad things in Sintasha. A young girl was playing in the dirt, drawing a picture with a stick. Her hair is as red as a rose, and her eyes as purple as amethysts. She looks up and sees her fellow friends playing a game of tag. Wanting to join the fun, she stands, walking towards them with a smile. As she plays along, a woman with curled brown hair leaves the tall brick building.
“Surely you don’t want that girl. Her hair is the mark of a witch. Her father died in a war, and her mother from such an awful sickness. To top it off, the child is mute.” A woman talks with a wary tone, looking at the red-haired girl a few feet away. A man in a well-dressed suit gives her a sympathetic look.
“She is a beautiful child. I’ll take her with me.” The little girl stops, feeling a sudden tap against her shoulder.
“My dear, there's someone I wish for you to meet.” The red-haired girl stands in place with the older woman. Her eyes glance up at the taller man with sparkling eyes.
“This is Mr. Sils. He wishes to adopt you.” The woman happily proclaims. The child's eyes widen with surprise. In her five years at the children's home, she's seen many people come and go. She never thought it would be her turn. Mr. Sils kneels towards her short height, ruffling her red curls with a carefree smile.
“You will be under my care. Anything you want, ask, and it will be given to you.” He replies with a fatherly tone, one full of warmth and compassion.
“Go pack your things dear.” The woman instructs. She obeys, running inside towards her little room. Though she didn’t have much, a little stuffed bear was on her bed. She takes it in her arms, walking down the hall towards the man who would take her to a place called home. He holds her hand as he takes her through the double oak doors.
“Thank you. I will take good care of her.” Mr. Sils says aloud. The little girl waved goodbye to her friends who watched outside their windows. Though sad, she knows she’ll see them again. The red-haired child follows him, walking alongside Mr. Sils with a smile painted on her features. She’s happy, but her mind races with hundreds of questions she wishes she could ask.
What was his home like? Did he live in a pretty house with flowers by the window?
Were there more children like her whom she could play with?
Will she have pretty dresses with bows and frills like she's seen on other children passing by on the street? Regardless of the questions, she only thought of the happy life she would live from this point on. Oh, how exciting.
“You’re going to love what I have in store for you. There are many children like yourself to play with.” Mr. Sils seemed to hear her inward thoughts. The little girl shows him her stuffed bear with pride. The well-dressed gentleman nods.
“Yes, I see you have a stuffed animal. It looks very nice.” He responds shortly. They walk a little further from the children's home. The little girl notices the pretty colors of the Bazaar, the silks, and the satins, each at a different price. The smell of spices made her sensitive nose itch, and the loud music hurt her ears. Nonetheless, she enjoyed the stroll. After all, she's never even been past the children's home in her small years of living. She was so preoccupied with her newfound father figure that she hardly noticed how sinister the surrounding area seemed. It went from colorful and full of life to dull, gray, and dark. When they turn the corner, the man's grip becomes tighter.
She was scared something awful would happen. She felt it in her bones. The alley they walked through looked so terrifying. In a child's eyes, it reminded her of the monsters she was told were under her bed. Or even worse, the dark.
“Don’t look, frightened child. Everything will be alright.” He reassured. It worked. Her anxious nerves calmed to high degrees, though she clung to him with whatever might she had within her small body.
The air around them grew sinister, but she trusted him. It wasn't until Mr. Sils stopped in his tracks and gave her the most pleasant smile, did she feel uneasy.
“We're here.” He says quietly. The child looks around, feeling fear bubble in her core.
“Chain her.”
Confused about what he meant, a man appears from the corner with silver chains in his hands. The man was much taller than she was, so much stronger. She forcefully removed herself from Mr. Sils’ grasp, running as fast as her little legs would carry her.
“Don’t just stand there! Grab her!” He orders with a tone that the child hears from a mile away. She gasps for air, turning into a small crevice hoping she lost her assailant. She stood quietly, watching as the man ran by. She waited for a moment, then another till the coast was clear. Seeing nothing and hearing nothing, she leaves her hiding place. A shaky breath leaves her lips. She was free. No, no, she wasn't. She felt the eyes of someone stinging her back, and it was only moments before her surroundings suddenly went black.
—
Her eyes slowly opened, but all she saw was darkness. Her head hurt like crazy, and she felt something heavy around her wrists. Was she dead? Has her small life suddenly ended and now she awaits the afterlife? No, that wouldn't make sense, she still feels, and she can still see. There must be something going on. She tries to remember, but only very few memories come to remembrance. She was adopted, or so she thought. Chased after, then everything went black.
“Our final piece of the night!” She hears a male voice echo through the place. She felt something resembling a hood being taken off her head. The darkness around her shifted to brightness. She squints a little, though it only takes a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the lights on her form. She suddenly hears loud gasps and people whispering quite loudly.
They were stunned. They could see how she was quite beautiful though so young. Her eyes seemed to sparkle in the lights, and her rosy cheeks looked even rosier. Her red hair is what grabbed every one of their attention. Red as the rose, but the mark of a witch. They couldn't help but be dazzled by a child of such great beauty, but is it possible that she could bring luck as well? Hair color like that, even with the stigma of a witch's mark, could be very profitable.
“ Now, peace!” The sound of a gavel hits a wooden board once, then twice. The red-haired child looks at her surroundings with a keen eye. Blue curtains, candles lit brightly in glass cases, a wooden stage, and masked men and women in black plush seats.
The masks on the people's faces varied from dark red to black, with laces, feathers, or jewels. It looked more like a costume party, but the reasons why they were masqueraded were so sinister. It smelled funny too. She looked at the rusted nails holding the wooden planks together, is that where the smell came from? Or was it the scent of something rotting? Despite this, she felt like she was missing something. Oh, that's right. Her little stuffed bear was gone. As this realization comes to light, she sinks into despair, noticing the heavy metal chains around her wrists and ankles. God, it hurt. The skin around it began to bleed. It was so painful to move.
“This child is more than you could ever ask for! Let's start the bidding at 1800 krona?”
Bidding? Oh no.
“2600 krona!” The first bidder yells, but the audience still talks amongst themselves.
“Do I hear 2600 krona?”
“3600 krona!”
“4000 krona!”
“7500 krona!”
“7500 Krona? Ladies and gentlemen, you are all too generous! Do I hear 7500 krona?” The announcer asks the crowd with a pleasing smile. His eyes were full of greed. All that money. What could a man like him do with it all? Maybe gamble a little. He wanted more. But what could he say that would bring those numbers higher and higher? Oh yes, he knew the perfect thing.
“I must mention. This child is one of the last magi folk in this region. She has a birthmark against her arm, or so I’ve been told from where we claimed her.” The man tells the lie with only one thing on his mind, money, money, money.
“10,000 krona!”
“12,000 krona!”
“13,500 krona!”
“20,000 krona.” A man speaks aloud. The crowd stops. 20,000 krona for a child? That was too much and far too pricy to outbid him.
“Do I hear 20,000 Krona? Going once, twice, sold to number 28!” The man claps his hands as the audience does, though begrudgingly. Her eyes begin well with tears as she was tugged away by her chains.
She was led down the hall to her new owner, and like a dog, she was dragged towards a man in rather interesting attire. Black and gold harem pants with swirls along the hem, a turquoise puff long-sleeve shirt with burgundy tassels. Around his head was a turban of some sort. The middle was decorated with ostrich feathers and jewels. He wears a black lace mask, his eyes shining with pride. His thick black mustache was curled towards the end, and a pearl dangled from his ear. The man kneels towards her while forcefully grabbing her arm. She winces in pain as she tries to evade him.
“Quit moving! Don’t make me hit you.” He warns with a malicious voice, the little girl shaking in her oversized dress. He lifts her sleeve, expecting to see the mark of a magi child, only to his disappointment and wrath when there was nothing but pale skin.
“Why You–” He looks up at the announcer with the intent to kill, guards appear from the sides as they were about to apprehend him. He saw the man with a malicious smile painted on his features. He was deceived!
“You liar! This child is not magi.” He refrains from yelling, though one could see he was trying his best not to show his anger. He didnt want to make a scene. The money he signed away was no longer in his grasp, 20,000 krona down the drain. The man grabs the redhead's hair with his hand, his outward expression was calm but his eyes are full of anger.
“Enjoy your little plaything. Now, get out of my sight!” The announcer says, the man leaving them in the dust.
“Hmm… as I suspected. A waste of money.” A frown appears on her owner’s face as he grumbles something under his breath. A crooked and unkempt smile made way on his face, the man suddenly full of ideas. “I’m sure I can find a purpose for you.” His smile disappears as he throws her against the ground. “Mark that child!” He commands while pointing towards her. There was a look she saw in his eyes that she couldn't quite place. Was it seething anger? Or was it indifference?
It didnt matter when she was pulled away by one of the guards so forcefully that her wrists began to bleed again. They took her down the hall to a room glowing with such intense light. She could feel the heat from the fire. A metal rod is in the blazing flames, the metal turning a mixture of orange, red, and yellow.
“She's just a child!” She hears the guard yell towards the other. A miniature argument was starting to form within that small room. He looked young. His hair was a pale blond, his eyes green like a forest. Freckles dot his cheeks as a painter does on an empty canvas. He was tall as well, but the expression on his face was a mixture of fear and pity.
“You think I care? A slave is a slave. You knew what you signed up for when you said you needed the money to feed your family. Now get the job done. If you don’t, I’ll do it myself. Saves me a few extra coins.” A rugged man replies. Silence ensues. The younger one of the two kneels towards her as he ruffles her sleeve.
“Pass it to me.”
“I’ll do it–”
“I said, pass it to me!” He commands, holding the hot branding iron with the letters J and M. “Close your eyes. It’ll hurt less.” The kind soul gives her a small smile. She looks at him with tears in her eyes as she feels them against her skin. Her sobs echoed through the quiet halls, and suddenly her eyes opened with a start. Gasping for air, she shakes like a leaf in the wind. Her newfound friends were still asleep, yet she suffered the torments of her traumatic memory. The redhead looks at her wrists. The scars were there from her chains, ever prevalent, ever painful. The branding mark underneath her sleeve felt like it did that night when she was burned. Sometimes she could still feel that sting. She rubs the mark with her fingers, wishing it would go away. The two letters that signified that she was a slave stood for Jancis Molek. The name of her so-called guardian.
She recalls the night when he brought her to his shop in town. She was so frail from the weeks-long journey that she was unable to comprehend what was happening. He showed her an empty room where she would stay as he closed the door behind him. It was constantly cold, but she was used to it now. Three years after her arrival, she was eight. Jancis first made her clean the home while he was away for business. When he returned so late at night, he reeked of liquor and would find whatever he could to see her at fault. When there was a speck of dust? Smudges on the windows? She would be hit.
At ten, she listened to music for the first time when a festival was present. She doesn't remember what festival it was, but she knew that it was only slightly different from the decorated town from a few hours before. The redhead watched as dancers in beautiful fitting costumes moved around and about. They looked so happy. Watching their moves with a keen eye, she mimicked them. She danced so carefree and beautifully that it caught Jancis’s attention. A light switch flicked in his mind. He saw the perfect opportunity to make her useful. She was his property, a slave, but maybe now she wouldn't be so useless as he thought. He waited until she was 14, and only then did he see her purpose. He brought her costumes to her room made of different fabrics. The colors varied from white to black, each different, each unique. He was well aware that the girl was maturing into a charming young woman. He knew that if her captivating beauty and equally amazing dancing could capture attention, then the sales would increase if he associated with her as his ‘daughter’. It was a strange logic, but even then, his income dramatically increased. The more money he earned equaled more material things, and more material things equaled power.
No longer wanting to dwell on the past more than she should, she decided to clear her mind for a bit. She puts on her slippers, strapping the laces against her ankles. She tiptoes across the wooden floorboards while reaching for the handle. Relieved that the hinges didnt creak, she exits the room swiftly. She closes the door behind her when suddenly, the shifting breeze hits her skin. Though her nightgown was long, it was still thin. She remembered the caretaker Mr. Roland, and his warning about late-night wanderings. She didnt want to disobey, but she found it much better walking about the palace than dwelling on her thoughts.
The redhead wanders the quiet halls with a heavy heart, still unsure how to deal with the aftereffects of her nightmare. She ignores her emotions for a brief moment to gaze upon the architecture of the place. She observes the columns holding the structure together, each with its intricate details. The other doors to the servant's rooms were locked, albeit her room since she left a few moments ago. She turned a corner, as there was only one way to go through the servant's quarters of the palace. She pauses when she hears the loud snores from the paper-thin walls. The barracks held lodging for the emperor's soldiers and knights, though she was surprised no guards were roaming around at night. Not to mention, it was a little dark, but the moonlight guided her path. She takes a moment to gaze at the empty field. Her intuition told her that it was the training ground for the knights in the emperor's court. She knew they train from dawn till dusk to serve him well.
She imagines each guard using wooden swords, training dummies, and the like. She continues her excursion, nearing an iron gate. She couldn't help but wonder what was behind this iron gate, but the lush tree above it gave away its identity. It was a garden and a well-kept one at that. She pushed the gate, surprised that it was unlocked. It doesn't hurt to explore a little does it? She asked herself with a smile. She walks through the gate, her eyes widening at how amazing and beautiful it is. The arches that held up the castle were built to surround the area, though it seemed it would go on forever. There is different kind of flowers, more beautiful than in the flower shop she went to a few weeks ago. Red roses, purple fox gloves with their bell-shaped petals, pink Geraniums in a cluster, white Jasmine flowers that bloomed under the moonlight, and champagne peonies in a row.
There was a cobblestone pathway that led to two statues on either side and as a centerpiece, a grand fountain. The hedges of flowers surrounded the fountain, the young woman walks up the mini stairs only to find something so beautiful and familiar. Despite all the flowers in this garden of wonder, the camellias outshined them all. They look magical, the way they glowed under the moonlight, their flower petals open wide for the pollinators that would return in the morning. Weren't they out of season? She recalled the flower shop woman’s words, “these are considered the kingdom's flower. Ever since the beginning of Algeria, these flowers have been growing along the forest's edges for quite some time. Sadly, they've been uprooted and are unable to grow back”. So why did these flowers bloom? In her mind, these were the last remaining flowers for this season, and she would be a fool if she didnt gaze upon them closer. Her heart lept out of her chest with happiness when she saw the dark shade of red that matched her hair, along with the golden pollen which matched the accentuations on her costume.
Fireflies accompany her as they flew about the area. Their little glow made her eyes shine all the more. For a moment, it gave a lemon scent, jasmine, and anise. Altogether combined it was lovely. She wanted to pluck one for herself, but who was she to take one from the emperor's garden nonetheless? She pauses when she hears a sound like footsteps. They echoed through the hall as they reached her sensitive ears. Was it a guard? A knight? Maybe a wanderer like herself. Panic settles, her heart beating faster than a jumping rabbit. Her shoulder brushes the flower when she turns to face the sound. A few petals fall onto the ground when she flees the scene quietly but quickly.
A man walks from the opposite end of the garden in expensive attire. He wears a red button-up with a black overcoat embellished with gold swirls and buttons. Even the sleeves were not spared from such decoration. A white belt holds his outfit in place and helps to refrain from being so monochromatic. His pants matched his coat, this time just plain instead of the many designs as it is on his upper torso. The collar of his coat held a ruby, and finally a red cape over his shoulders with white tasses. It truly is magnificent.
“It’s late, shouldn't you be asleep rather than wander the castle grounds so late at night, your majesty?” A man with pale white hair asks the lavishly dressed man. His armor clinks loudly, along with a sword strapped to his side.
“I hardly finished the paperwork on my desk. The study is filled with them. If I’m going to stay up late tonight, then I need to clear my head Jean–” Emperor Jotaro pauses, listening intently to the footsteps down the hall.
“Someone is here.” He observes with a keen eye. Jean quickly takes out his sword, standing in place as the metal leaves its sheath. They gaze down the hallway, only to see a shadow disappear around the corner.
“Should I go after them?” Jean asks, the man raising his lightly colored brows.
“No. If they were after anything, they would have attacked either me or you. Let's not waste time. I just needed some fresh air. I got what I wanted.” As he takes one last glance at the flower, the two left the gardens down the corridor. There was much to do, after all, they had a party to deal with.
Chapter Text
The clock chimes once, twice, then six more times. The sun is already in the sky, still needing to reach its highest point. Amara stretches her limbs as she yawns her last. In doing so, she removes the covers from her frame as she stands upright on the wooden floorboards. She walks over to the others, giving them a nudge to awaken them.
“Come on, Nora and Kalis. Breakfast in the mess hall is ready by now. We have a big day ahead of us. After all, the party is tonight.” She smiles brightly while her fellow dancers, including the redhead, rise from their beds.
“Just a few more minutes.” Kalis nearly trails off. Amara lightly shakes her again until the young woman remembers where she is. “Oh, right. I’m not at home anymore.” Kalis ran a hand through her hair, stopping when she felt the knots.
“I’m excited! We can finally do something other than stay in this room all day. Sure we explored a little of the palace, but not all of it a few days ago.” Nora pulls a brush out from her luggage. The bristles run through her black locks, while the redhead blinks a few times to get used to the sun's rays. She remembers her brief excursion in the middle of the night, though she had better things to do.
“Thank you, emperor, for giving us a room with a place to freshen up.” Amara makes a prayer-like formation with her hands. The girls giggled as they glanced at the young woman, who seemed to shine gleefully. Altogether they changed into suitable but brief outfits for the day, freshened up their hair, and later strapped their shoes. The redhead followed them out the door. They could practically smell the scent of delicious foods prepped by the cook and his aids. When the dancers walked through the door, the guards greeted them with smiles and nods.
“Good morning! Are you guys ready for tonight?” One of the guards asks with a curious look in his eyes.
“Yes, we’ve been looking forward to it for a little while.” Kalis proclaims as she stifles a yawn. The other young women nod in agreement as they move around the kitchen for a little while
“ The emperor wants us to guard every area tonight, so we won't be around to watch you perform.” Another informs the small group of young women. As they helped themselves to a plate, the few men pulled up a chair for each of them in a gentlemanly manner. They blushed, feeling such treatment from rather handsome men was only found in fairytales. It was nice. Their breakfast consisted of eggs, bacon, and a small piece of bread, freshly baked and cut. It was a delicious sight. The guards enjoyed the yummy silence, not a word until they finished. The conversation continued for a while, the guards asking more questions their curious minds needed to have answered.
“You're all dancers, right? I’m only assuming, since how else would you have arrived here if it weren't for the emperor's invitation.” A nervous guard asks. The man scratches the back of his head, the other waiting patiently for their replies.
“Yes, we all are. Nora, Kalis, and I were waiting for a few more dancers to arrive, but we were lucky to have her room with us.” Amara motions to the redhead. The young woman nods as she gives her best charming smile.
“How long have you all been dancing? Days? Months? Years?”
“Do you have aliases or names for yourselves when you dance?”
Nora, Kalis, Amara, and the redhead averted their gaze as they were deep in thought. Kalis opens her lips to speak.
“A year. Not very long, but my family loves to perform, so naturally, I wanted to too.” She replies cooly, moving her plate away from her person. Amara looks around with a bubbly expression.
“Only two years. Not awful, but It’s something.” She looks to the raven-haired woman, who finishes her hot drink.
“Two and a half years. I'm grateful for the opportunity to be here.” Nora replies. Lastly, all eyes landed on the redhead. She fidgets with her utensils, snapping out of her trance as she holds up six fingers.
“That's amazing! Six years?” A guard waits for her response. The lavender orbed young woman nods as she looks at her friends. They nod approvingly.
“To answer your questions about the names, I know I don't have one. But Amara goes by blossom, and Nora goes by raven because of her hair. That lovely redhead over here, I don’t quite know her dancer name yet.” Kalis motions toward her. Silence rushes over the room momentarily while the blond readies another question.
“I wanted to ask.” Nora pauses, and the men around move their attention toward the lass. “Why aren't any female servants or guards in the palace? The only gender I see is male. Don’t get me wrong, nothing is wrong with that, but I was just curious.” The question lingered as the guards stopped what they were doing. They give each other a side eye as one clears his throat.
“Well, to answer your question, um… the reason why there aren't any females in the palace is that–” The guard was interrupted when he saw the cook come around which a wooden spoon in his hand.
“You have your training to do before the guests arrive tonight, don't you? I need to prepare all the dishes. Trust me, lads, there are many of them. Now, out of my kitchen, out out!” He shoos them away. As each of them leaves through the door one by one, he turns to the four young women. “Yes, even you lasses.” The plump man gives a smile through his thick mustache. The redhead waves towards the cook, a thank you for his delicious meal. The man nods once, turning around to order his aids around. The four women close the door behind them with eyes full of interest, watching the guards stand in the hallway.
“If it's alright with you, can we watch your practice for a little while? Only for a little?” Amara pleads as she gives them doe eyes.
“I agree. I’m interested in what young men like yourselves would do during the day if a party isn’t around,” Kalis replies in response to Amara’s question.
“It’s not every day you go into a palace and see guards up and about. Training at that.” Kalis interjects, and the brunette twirls her hair around her finger. They couldn’t help but look at each other and give in to the beautiful girl's request.
“I don’t see a problem with it, but when we practice, we watch two of the best knights duel, and we are to mimic it. It doesn't happen often, but we have to pay close attention. On the other days, it's free training with wooden dummies. Since tonight is the event, you’ll be watching Sir Jean Pierre and Sir Amadeus.” The guard pauses when his eyes move toward the hallway
“Oh, there they are now.” One of the guards points to two men in shining attire. One wore his helmet, while the other did not. The redhead turned as she tilted her head to the side. When they approached closer, it would be a lie if she said he was not an attractive man. Hair white as snow with streaks of silver in a small ponytail, eyes as blue as the Samacian sea, and broken-hearted earrings hanging from his ears. He holds his helmet in his other arm while his armor is polished and shined. Each piece found its purpose, and lastly, a sword against his side. Though it’s hidden in its sheath, she knew he could wield it well. She watches as the girls blush while they fan their faces so quickly. Were there always handsome men like this around? She seemed to question this silently, the silver-haired man looking her straight into her eyes. The contact lasted only a second, but his mean facade faded when he reached the men.
“I see you all are ready.” Jean pauses, looking at the redhead once more, then the others who accompanied her. “And, you must be the dancers I’ve heard so much about around this part of the palace. I'm Sir Jean Pierre. My helmeted friend here is Sir Amadeus.” He introduced himself swiftly. “Might I know your names?” He turns and looks at the dancers with his light brows raised.
“I’m Amara.”
“Kalis, a pleasure to meet you, sir. ”
“I'm Nora. You’re quite tall.” She compliments Jean as the man gives them a wink.
“And, who is this lovely lady?” He asks, taking the redhead's hand as he kisses it. She tries to motion something, but the knight tilts his head in confusion. She pointed to her throat, and then, with quick intellect, he understood. “Oh, forgive me. I didnt realize you couldn't talk.” He apologizes briefly, signaling for the guards to follow. “I’m assuming you ladies wish to watch me and Sir Amadeus duel?” He queries as he focuses on his helmeted friend.
“I see no problem with it, Jean. Let’s hurry. His majesty will need us within the hour.” Sir Amadeus finally speaks. The guards and the young women stand in the courtyard, away from two knights.
“They’re not going to hurt each other with their swords, right?” Amara asks her question aloud, and one of the guards shakes their head in response.
“No, not at all. Sir Jean and Amadeus will use the wooden ones from the armory, but we already have them out and ready for them. I can explain each stance if you’d like.” A guard with brown hair volunteers with a smile.
“That would be lovely, thank you.” Kalis thanks him with a smile, and their eyes move toward the guard. With his wooden sword strapped against his hip, as they all did, he copies one move, then another. The girls watched the poses that came and went seven times while noticing that each step's sword placement was different. It was a quick observation.
“The first one I completed was an ox guard, where the sword is lifted and pointed straight. The power comes from the legs more so than the arms. Within each stance, my legs should be apart and my knees bent. Plow guard, as you saw earlier, is when the sword is brought inward and pointed up.” He copies the moves again. The man pauses to make sure the girls understand. “Fool’s guard is where my right leg is straight, my left knee bent while the weapon is towards the ground. As the name suggests, the roof guard follows the same pattern as the legs, but the sword is brought back, almost above the head. Think of it like you're going to hit someone. Tail Guard, the weapon is behind me. High guard, lifted into the air, though your arms mustn't be straight but bent. Last but not least, the long point guard. My arms are straight, and my sword is pointed straight at you again. I know it’s alot, but as you watch Sir Pierre and Amadeus, they’ll copy those moves at a different speed, much faster than the slow version I did.”
“That's amazing,” Kalis whispers, the clinking of metal catches their attention as they look toward the knights of high standing. Jean looks at Sir Amadeus with a heavy expression. A fire ignites in his blue orbs. He places the helmet on his head, closing the visor until nothing of his face remains. Silence ensues for a moment. The redhead watches on with an expectant gaze. Like drums, her heartbeat in her chest when they threw away their wooden swords. They weren't using them. Why?
They pull their weapons from its sheath. The swords are beautiful, made of the same metal, shiny and lethal when wielded. Though if one looked closely, one could see their distinct variation. Sir Jean's sword was quite long in comparison to Amadeus's. The handle is elaborately decorated with swirls and miniature encrusted rubies. Amadeus’s sword is plain, but it’s shorter than usual. But in his prime, it was a great weapon. Oh, how times have changed.
“Huh. That's new. Sir Jean and Amadeus are not using the wooden ones this time.” A guard replies. Metal upon metal was apparent. The way it clashed so loudly startled them, but not bad. These men were trained from a young age to serve the Emperor with their very lives. There was no room for error. No, an error was not allowed. Perfection is key. Like a dance, there were spins and turns for every movement. Pauses for each person to catch their breath, and the fighting continued. There isn't a single clue to tell who was who and which sword was which unless you were closer to them. The joust happens in a blur with such speed and accuracy that it’s incredible. Though, they could all tell that one had the upper hand. With a firm kick, the shielded knight overwhelms his opponent, disarming him with his sword. The quiet courtyard is full of laughter and claps. The knight helps his opponent as he takes off his helmet.
“You win again, Jean! If you keep this up, you might take my place as Officer.” Sir Amadeus proclaims with a voice full of laughter. Of course, it was Jean who won. Compared to the other knight, Jean is much more agile and quicker. Though it may have been an unfair advantage, Sir Amadeus takes his helmet off. The man's face was not as age-struck. He looked around 30 to 40 years old. A scar is traced from the top of his brow to his cheek on his left eye. He appeared blind from how pale green his left eye was compared to the emerald right. His hair is as brown as a chestnut, along with his curled mustache.
“Tonight, your swords will be replaced with real ones. As you have previously seen me and Sir Jean Pierre fight, you will practice for a few hours with them until it is time for the event. I trust you will be fine around the Palace, as many of you will be in different areas. Many nobles may ask you to accompany them for their safety, but I assure you they are safe within these palace walls. Remain where you are unless you hear or see something threatening. With these words in mind, begin your training.” Sir Amadeus continues his role of officer with ease. The guards follow his command, walking to the dirt field as they wait by the armory.
“It was a pleasure to meet you four. I will see you later tonight, but for now, duty calls.” Jean bows a little as he takes one more glance at the redhead. The knight turns and walks away with Sir Amadeus while the two keep a watchful eye over the many guards practicing their moves.
“Great stars, Jean was a lot to look at.” Kalis comments. The brunette fans her face a little. The girls giggle at her action as the four walks down the hall to return to their room.
“He was looking at you the entire time. I don’t blame him. You’re so pretty.” Nora turns her gaze toward the mute girl. She hugs her like they've been friends for the longest time. The redhead blushes a little, not used to such affection.
“Let's go. We have to get ready. Knowing me, I take a long time to look my best.” Amara fluffs her hair playfully, pouting at first, then gives a smile. She opens the door to their room, finding everything as it should be. Their beds were still a mess, but nothing that a little cleaning won't do. They set the sheets straight, moving the bedding as they pulled it over the fitted one. Quick as it was, their room looked a little neater than it did before. The redhead and the others put their cases on their beds as they looked through their costumes.
Kalis brought out a midnight blue outfit with diamonds along the bodice. Though it was a two-piece, it fit her calm and collected personality. Nora set a white two-piece on her bed. The intricate yellow designs on the pants and the top shined like gold. There were a few faux rubies on her necklace and a jewel on each pointed golden shoe. It was pretty and matched perfectly with her black hair. Amara’s was bright red, with a variety of sequins and shiny tassels on her dress. It was somewhat tight fitting but gave her enough room to dance without the constriction. The lavender orbed young woman looks at the many costumes she brought, knowing only one had her heart. The iridescent green sleeves sparkle as the jewels she sewed on from yesterday hung on the ruffles. She was lucky that this design would cover her forsaken branding mark. Her sleeves connected to the many layers of her emerald green dress made of satin, silk, and a sheer layer on top. To pair her outfit, she packed an embroidered pale green corset. Though her waist was already slim, the corset wouldn't do any damage other than bring it together and hold the dress in place. The gold thread embroidered flowers on the corset bust are very beautiful, and the laces on the front were equally valued. As if her guardian Jancis wouldn't want her to stand out even more with a layered necklace and fingerless gloves. He would kill her if he found out she brought this one. Despite how it appears she's had this one for years, compared to the frivolous new ones that her guardian bought recently.
“Oh, that one is pretty. It would suit you very well.” Amara motions towards the green one, and the redhead touches it.
“I agree,” Kalis replies with a smile.
“Green is your color, I'm sure of it. Especially with those lavender eyes of yours.” Nora comments while she lifts her cream-colored blouse. The clock on the wall chimed twice. She didnt expect it to be this late. It only felt like five minutes ago that it was eight o clock and they were eating breakfast in the dining hall. The conversation, introduction, and joust took up to six hours. No, she couldn't believe that. But alas, as soon as nightfall dawned upon them, they could dance to her heart's content. Only when she danced did she feel the invisible chains break. No more Jancis, no longer a slave with no name, but she was a person. A human being that lived and breathed. She dozed off as she looked outside the window and at the tall walls that separated the peasants and nobility. Whenever there was an event in the past, the townsfolk would celebrate with dances and drinks from the taverns. The streets flooded with music, each from a different region with their own story. She can only wonder what type of music will play tonight, but regardless she would dance and dance.
The redhead sets the necklace out on her bed, surprised that the gold chain with diamonds wasn't tangled his time. The last time she brought something appealing like this was the night of the blossom festival, and that was years ago. It’s a pretty piece, and it would fit around her dainty neck quite easily, though a part of her wondered if she was trying too hard.
“An inner war is happening. I can see it right on your pretty face.” Kalis elaborated. The brunette crossed her arms as she observed her with a keen eye. “If you’re worried that you’ll look overdressed, I can assure you you won't.” She laughs a little when she sees the redhead's surprised but honest look. “I’ll prove it to you.” She pauses, tying the last lace from her costume. She looks extravagant. “I’ll help you get dressed, and you’ll look just the same as the rest of us.” She claps her hands as Nora and Amara’s ears pick up when they hear her suggestion.
“I’ll help too!” Amara proclaims, her blonde hair now in a ponytail. The locks of her hair look fluffed and curled.
“I’m in. You’ll let us help you?” Nora asks gleefully. The redhead covers her lips as she gives a grateful bow. It warmed her heart with how kind they were when she was used to the awful treatment and bruises that would form after Jancis’s punishment. She nodded quickly as the girls touched up on their makeup and hair. They look gorgeous. She admired how they always did. Even with the brief touch of makeup, their faces didn’t change but were enhanced. She secretly hoped she would look just as beautiful. “Amara, you can take care of her hair. I’ll help with the costume and Nora, you can help with her makeup.” Kalis instructs with an excited tone. The three young women bustle around and about the room. The blonde grabs the redhead's brush quickly. Amara pats the space next to her while she gives the redhead a welcoming smile. It was a smile that said, ‘I want to help you look your best’ instead of a smile that wanted something. The lavender-orbed girl sits in front of her while the blond analyzes her hair with curious eyes.
‘Ah, your hair is so smooth and silky, long too. I wonder how you kept it from damage. You’ll have to tell me your secret someway, somehow.” She shrugs her shoulder briefly, wondering what hairstyle she could do.
“I'm going to braid it and then let it sit for a little while. I think that your hair down would be best suited to your outfit.” Amara told her thoughts aloud. She split her hair in half, setting it into three sections. Not even a second goes by, and she quickly braids her hair. Each lock intertwines with another piece, then another. It looked funny for a moment, but when she did the other side, the redhead smiled a little when handed a silver mirror. Tied with a ribbon on each end, it looks more like a child’s hairstyle, at least from what she's seen in town.
“I know it looks funny, but you have to trust me. Your hair will be wavy in no time.” Amara confidently smiles while her eyes shine with glee.
“Change your costume, and I’ll help you tie that corset in the front.” Kalis vocalized. She was lucky that there was a divider on the side of the room to change into her dress. The redhead was getting nervous that the others would witness her branding scar. She held it in her hands as she changed from her outfit to her dancer's costume. Shame lingered when she glanced at the letters. What would they say if she knew she was a slave? Would they treat her just as badly as her owner Jancis, or worse? Would they shun her? She didnt want to be exposed. There are some outcomes if that happens. Jancis would be incredibly upset if someone else knew. Only she knew what he’d do to her. Despite this terrible factor, they would flee to another region, though she remembered one thing: slavery was outlawed here. There was hope that she could be free, but Jancis was her owner, her guardian. She would have nowhere else to go. A life of enslavement was better than the streets.
Though Alanis was a safe place during the day, it was not when nightfall arrived. Her district wasn’t exactly the best place to live. She wondered why with all the money Jancis earned, they never moved to a different location. Maybe he was comfortable, or it was a factor that a new building cost more money. He wouldn't let a new place to live slip his mind if it cost him more than the clothes on his back. There were rabid dogs and alley cats who would meow and bark during the quiet nights. She could hear glass break and the drunkards yell amiss in the neighborhood. Brothels were around the corner, and taverns were full of shady men and women. Crime rates flew over the roof, sexual assault ran rampant, and violence with such tensions was unbearably high. She managed to overlook these things when she was younger, but now she could finally see the problem. Whenever she wore her cape outside, she would quickly put the hood over her head and blend in with the crowd if she ever arrived late at night due to Janci’s errands. It was a miracle that there were no robberies and break-ins during her years living in the quaint room above the shop.
When she was brought into the black market, she knew firsthand that the underground was more than just what meets the eye. Gang wars, assassins' guilds, folks that went rogue, and wars fought in secret. There are merchants like Jancis, corruption in the governments, and nobles that wear masks to cover up their schemes.
“Are you ok? You’re taking a while.” Kalis laughs a little. Her voice brings her back to reality. The redhead quickly fixes her dress as the elastic band holds the off-shoulder sleeves above her scar. She comes out from behind the divider. The girls nod approvingly at the red-haired beauty.
“Lift your arms for me, please,” Kalis asks sweetly. The lavender-orbed young woman did as instructed, feeling the corset fit around her waist. “You’re already so slim. I don't see why you need the corset, but you know your costume better than I do.” The brunette meticulously fits the ribbons through the corset’s eyelets, looping them through before she ties a bow on the front. She hides it underneath the corset. The young woman reaches for the layered necklace with careful hands. She holds the article of jewelry in front of her, snapping the latch on the back. The pendants dangled around her neck, some going past her collarbone. The redhead put her gloves on her hands, fixing the lacing with the other.
“My turn!” Nora exclaims with excitement. The ravenette holds a small vial in her hand full of clear liquid. “This baby right here is some perfume from a shop. I think the scent will suit you perfectly. You’re a natural beauty, so makeup is hardly necessary.” Nora takes off the cork cap and dabs her fingers over the opening. She nears the redhead, pressing some of the scented floral perfume against her neck and wrists. Nora puts the lid back on and sets it back in her case. Quickly she takes out the ribbons, and Amara pulls apart the locks of her hair and brushes them out. They take a step back and marvel at the work their hands created.
“You look beautiful.”
“Gorgeous”
“Unique in every way.”
Each girl compliments her with a round of applause to accompany their approval. The redhead smiles brightly. The young woman gives each of them a warm hug as she spins. She looks at her reflection in the small mirror Amara handed her. Her eyes widen with surprise, pointing to her review, almost asking if that was her.
“Yep, that’s you alright.” Nora winks as she compliments the redhead. The young woman grabs a facial veil from her case, the sheer fabric full of lace and miniature gems that dangle from the edges. She places it on her face when suddenly they hear a knock at their door.
‘I’ll get it.” Kalis responds. She opens the door, surprised to see Sir Jean Pierre.”What are you doing here?” She asks with a surprised tone. The girls turn their attention towards the male voice, noticing sir Jean in rather fitting attire. His uniform of black and gold with the emperor's crest embellished on the right side. Tassels are on each shoulder, gold thread which signified his high standing as the second officer. There are plentiful decorated medals pinned on either side of his broad chest, each shining. His sword was strapped against his side, the same one they saw him fight with Sir Amadeus.
“I’m here to escort you all.” He replies with his charming smile. The girls nodded as they closed their cases. They tidied up the room, Amara clasping onto the redhead's hand, Kalis with the other.
“How exciting.” Kalis hummed in a sing-song tune as the oldest of the group closed the door behind them.
“You all look very nice. There is much in store for tonight. Dancing, drinking, lots of merry fun.” Jean proclaims with a loud voice. The dancers smile at each other while the knight opens a double oaked door. “After you perform, you are more than welcome to roam around the castle. I wish you all a good time, for now, I will return to the emperor.” The dancers enter one by one, the four ready their minds for the dance of a lifetime
Notes:
comments not necessary but appreciated
Chapter 5: The party
Chapter Text
A valet, along with his coworkers, knocked on the door to the emperor’s study.
“The door is unlocked.” The deep voice of Jotaro Nobelius Kujo responds with a bored tone. He doesn't look up from the many papers on his desk.
“Your majesty, the party’s decorations are complete. The others, including myself, are ready to dress you when you complete your work.” The man responds as he alone stands by the doors.
“Good grief, that party is today.” He mutters under his breath. He sighs as he sets his quill aside and places the cork lid on the ink bottle. He stands from his seat as the man looks at his servants with a dreadful look.“Very well.” He replies slowly. The man leads the way to his private chambers on the east wing, and the servants under him follow with their heads held high. It was an honor to dress the emperor; each would make him look his utmost best. The man opened the double doors to his room, the grand chamber full of light from the sun’s rays. “I’ll keep these on. They should go with whatever you plan to dress me in since you ordered a new outfit for me to wear. I trust your judgment.” The man motioned towards his black pants but waited for the valet's response.
“Those will work with what we have or you. The retainer should be bringing everything now, your majesty.” The valet replied with a knowing voice. On cue, a knock was at the door. One of the valets peeked before they let the retainer enter through the doors. In his hands was a rather large white box.
The head valet walks to him and opens the lid with care. Jotaro did not look at the contents of it. He was well aware the royal seamster did an excellent job per usual.
“This will fit well on you, your majesty. It's the latest trend around.” He states with a knowing tone. The raven-haired male extends his arms, quick at work to take off his casual attire. The servants pass each article of clothing to him as he adjusts the first layer. His white shirt fit his broad shoulders and chest, a casual blouse like the one previously worn. The next layer consisted of a hidden button-up white long-sleeved top that was etched with designs of golden thread. The cuffs held the same design but consisted of a dark red hue. A belt is strapped against his midsection, not tight but fitting enough. Next is a gold and white sash draped over him as it rested against his chest. The man lifts his arms to get a better feel as he looks in the mirror to get rid of any wrinkles. A dark red overcoat with tassels is placed over his shoulders. The chain attachments jingle when he touches it. The long coat reached the ground, but luckily the seamster understood that if it were any longer, the emperor would surely trip.
Lastly, a pair of gloves is handed to him, white and made of fine cloth. He places them on each hand, walking to the large mirror as his servants stand behind him, pleased with their work.
“Leave.” He lifted his hand, and the men bowed before him slightly before they left his presence. His outfit was rather grand for a party such as this. He needed to look his best for appearances per se. Appearances are everything in his court. Not a hair must be out of place, not a single wrinkle in his clothes. He must be completely perfect, a role model for all nobility. He is in that matter, with such good genetics flowing through his veins and the power he holds, he is the perfect candidate for political marriages. He groans as he dreads the lengthy conversations of barons, viscounts, earls, margraves, marquesses, dukes, and the few archdukes attending tonight. They would introduce their sons. Yes, even their daughters, hoping he would find someone worthy to stay within his court. Ha! As if that would happen.
“Give me a break.” He speaks informally to himself in the mirror. The man looks outside the window, pulling the sheer drapes so no prying eyes can see him. Oh, how he hates parties. With careful concentration, he listens, hearing not a single step outside his room. He knew all the secret passageways in this palace like the back of his hand, though it was unfortunate there was none in his room. Besides this factor, he would spend the next few hours in his private library, reading away until nightfall. That all would've been arranged if it wasn't for the knock at his door.
“Who is it.” He asks viciously, hearing laughter from the outside.
“Come on, Jotaro. You should know your buddies knock by now.” The voice of Jean replies with a cheerful tone. Jotaro leaves his room. The man opens the door, meeting face-to-face with the knight.
“You look different. How will you protect yourself without your armor?” The backhanded compliment made Jean laugh a bit, patting Jotaro’s shoulder with a gloved hand.
“Thanks for the compliment.” He rolls his eyes funnily. “I have my sword. That’s enough for me. You don’t need to talk so formally. There's no one around.” Jean thanks him, all the while mentioning that obvious fact.
“Good grief. If you’re here to watch over me, you don’t have to. Headin’ to the library to pass some time.” His casual way of speaking makes him appear more human.
“If you say so.” Jean shrugs his shoulders. “Don’t forget. Everyone will be expecting you in the ballroom!” He exclaims as he watches the man walk down the hall at a somewhat quick rate. He turns a corner, and the silver-haired man slips to the opposite end. He had some things to do.
Jotaro passes by each window. The slowly fading light shined on him once, then the shade took over. The light would reappear again and find some way to make him look otherworldly. Until he reached the end of the other hallway, he quietly maneuvered up the staircase with his hand on the railing. The quick detour from his usual duties led him to a white with gold engraved locked doors. There was a keyhole on the taller doorknobs, the man reaching in his pocket for a single brass key. When he pushed it through the keyhole and turned it right once, it clicked.
He opened the door, shutting it behind him as he found the silence and solitude comforting. A place where no one can bother him, perfect. He looks at the books piled on a small wooden round table, finding the ribbon bookmarked on his last read page. He lifted it from the pile, taking a seat in his plush velvet chair, flipping through the pages as the words spoke to him in generous volume. The present book he was reading was one of the seas. It told its tales of monsters lurking in the deep and the life present in those dangerous waters. His eyes scan the printed words carefully, his brows raised up and down with each page turned. One could tell that he was smitten with the knowledge he was learning.
Time seemed to pass until there was no light in the room left. Full of darkness, his quiet time came to a close. Jotaro left the room, listening for the automatic lock to click itself.
“Unfortunate, damn this party.” He grimaced. The lights in the palace turn on with a wave of his hand. Yes, he was no ordinary being. No, not at all. There was magic flowing through his veins, a power passed down from generation to generation. His great-great-grandfather, George Nobelus Joestar, was the first to have a magical gift. Then his son Jonathan Nobelius Joestar, and so forth. His magic ability was something that only a few knew, that being his immediate family and the council who served under him. Even then, he always wondered how that magic gift came to be. He was often told in his younger years by his grandfather that it was a blessing gifted from the heavens, but somehow he didn’t beleive it. Magic was sparse in this country, and he was well aware he was one of the select few who were a part of such magic ways. With mages and sorcerers from the past who helped him control his power, he kept this magic hidden away, only using it on special occasions. His entourage was there waiting for him on the second floor, his many knights of high ranking that would guard him and lead him toward the grand ballroom.
“We’ve been expecting you, your majesty.” Sir Amadeus proclaims with a smile through his thickly curled mustache.
“As you were.” He advised with a monotonous tone. He was well aware of where the ballroom was. He blamed the council for being so overprotective. He made it very clear how he despised them and their wishes. Not that they cared, but he was very vocal about making his opinions known on what he liked and disliked. He halted by large double white doors as a disinterested look appeared on his incredibly handsome features. By now, the music from within would stop, and lights would be centered on him when he entered. Oh, how fitting that he would be the center of their attention. He anticipated his every move and practiced to perfection for each yearly party. Although each entry is different and always so meticulous, he tried his best not to show his distaste for it. ‘Be a good sport,’ his grandfather would always tell him.
“Old man..” He grumbles for a moment. He hears trumpets blare from the inside, a merry tune to catch the listener's attention.
“Ladies and gentlemen! I give you the sun of the empire, Jotaro Nobelius Kujo!”
The doors open as the guards stand to the side. Jotaro sighs as he lets his face become still.
The man walks down the flight of carpeted stairs while his overcoat trails behind him. He reaches the final steps as the crowd parts ways for him. Each member bows towards him in respect, a few curtsies there as well which came from the grandly dressed ladies. His knights follow behind him with their hands against their swords. Should there be any ill-will actions, they wouldn't hesitate to strike them down regardless of gender. Jotaro continues towards his designated throne, looking around him at the elaborate hanging decorations, the tables of food, and the orchestra playing an entrance song. The knights stand beside his chair. The raven-haired male turns as he motions for the crowd of bowed members to rise.
The music stops as he clears his throat to speak.
“Good evening to all nobles of the Algerian Empire. I thank you all for coming from long and short ways to attend the 200th anniversary of the founding of Algeria. As you know, this event only happens once a year, so enjoy yourselves. Let the festivities begin.” He says aloud with a powerful voice. He claps his hands once while the orchestra continues the music. The nobles give another bow to him as the chatter continues.
“Pass the time with chatter.” He grumbles as he leaves his throne. He motions his hand, commanding the guards to stay where they are. They obey as they keep a watchful eye over him.
He would talk to the nobles for however long he needed to. He grimaces at the thought of doing so, but he would look like a bad host if he sat on his throne all night.
As he walks toward a group of people chatting with wine glasses in their hands, they notice him with such quickness.
The men and women bow towards him in respect. Graced by his presence, they took in his magnificent appearance. Eyes only slightly full of envy with how far of a trendsetter he is, they let it pass, considering he is the emperor after all.
“Your excellency.” A man with graying hair addresses him happily. His attire is plain with some attributes of fancy embellishments. His collar is slightly open, the next layer on top black as the night sky with blue patterns on the front. Golden buttons line from the top of his chest down to his midsection. Around his waist are a black and gold belt and a pair of black slacks. His glasses fell against his nose, but once in a while, he would push them back up again. His mustache made his haggard face look even more so, but there was still a glimmer in his eyes despite his age.
“Duke of Asan, It is good to see you.” Jotaro acknowledges him with a bit of warmth in his voice. “Duchess.” He nods approvingly, finding the match between them acceptable.
“You have not yet met my daughter, is that correct?” He asks with a hopeful tone. Jotaro clenched his fist as he withheld his hatred for introductions with the noble ladies.
“No, I have not.” The Duchess holds her hand as a young woman with dark brown hair makes her appearance. Her dress held too many bows, too many frills, and laces. Pearls and diamonds embellished within every crevice. It was far too much for his eyes. Quite childish that a young woman his age most likely would wear something like this. She looks like a porcelain doll that a child would have!
“This is my daughter, Elaine.” The duke introduced Elaine to Jotaro. The man waited for her response.
“Your Majesty.” She curtsies effortlessly, most likely practicing like that for hours to get it correctly. He curtly looks toward her. The young woman avoids his gaze, curtseying one last time before scurrying away to the other group of noble young women.
“I apologize. My daughter is quite shy.” The duchess flutters her fan against her face, fighting the embarrassment and shame that overcame her.
“A pity. I bid you farewell. Enjoy the rest of the party.” He leaves them to themselves, unbothered by how immature their daughter is. He’s aware that his presence makes people feel inferior, but they should muster the maturity and courage to talk with him for hours at this event. Irritated, he approaches a lavishly dressed man and his wife. The woman noticed him quickly before she motioned to her husband to pay attention.
“Your Imperial Majesty.” The woman regards him with a deep bow. Her husband smiles a bit as he places his hand over his heart.
“Good evening, your majesty.” The man was dressed in dark blue and silver attire. His overcoat is full of swirls and silver leaves on the front. There were no visible buttons but tassels on each shoulder that swayed from side to side when he moved. His white pants matched that of his gloves as well. His pale green eyes were calm. Not an ounce of casualty lay within them. His brown hair was without his crown, and his beard, though greying, was trimmed only slightly since the last time he saw him. What was with men of older age wearing blue? Is it a passage of some sort? A showcase of maturity? Jotaro disregarded this factor, making eye contact with the man before him.
“We see eye to eye on most occasions, King Rist of Renaldi. If there were hardly any guests around, I would have said to refrain from the formalities. But since there are so many, we must keep up with what these nobles expect from us.” They shake each other's hand, and Jotaro lets a short smile appear on his face, though it disappears just as quickly. The alliance between the two regions was not out of the ordinary.
“Yes, good to see you again.” The older man smiles a little. His wife beside him, Queen Cassandra, flutters her face with her feathered fan and curtsies.
“Pardon me, your majesty.” She says aloud. The woman walks to the group of older noble women to have their conversation, most likely gossiping.
“The trade routes from the capital have expanded.” King Rist brings up a topic of conversation. The raven-haired male nods in agreement, sticking his hand in his pocket.
“I agree. The shipments of ores’ spices, especially flowers, have increased in the marketplace. Many people travel far and wide from this region to receive the first batches of unloading by the docks. The rest scatters amongst Alanis.” Jotaro informs Rist, and the bearded man beside him opens his lips to speak.
“Speaking of spices, Prussina imports more spices than we do,” Rist replies with a bit of hatred. “Do you think the Prince of Prussina came tonight, flaunting his wealth as usual?” He asks his emperor with itching ears.
“To an event like this? I hardly think so. Since his father passed two years ago, he no longer feels obligated to grace us with his presence.” Jotaro remarks casually, knowing the prince is only a year older than him. “Cassum is a different breed of nobility.” He sets his hands behind his back for a moment to reflect.
“You’re right. That playboy Cassum has no business being a noble when he spends all his wealth on himself rather than the welfare of his people. It’s disgraceful.” Rist clenches his fist by hide side. Desperate to change the topic, the man clears his throat. “Won’t you dance with the young ladies tonight? I know you have a distaste for women, but perhaps one may catch your eye. Maybe my daughter? Princess Marina?”
He motions to a young woman chattering away with others like herself. Her Brown hair is standard. With a red dress with so many frills, also the same as every other young noble lady here, she's not much to look at. He’s heard of Princess Aurelia Marina before. The leading noble lady of high society. The trendsetter for young women with their looks and etiquette. Everyone wanted to be her and act like her. Yet, she had a crush on him. Yes, one that has lasted for over a few years. She proclaims to the women of society that once she ‘gazed upon him with her eyes, she fell in love instantly.’ How awful it is that it left a bitter taste in his mouth.
“If you’re trying to get me to talk with her, it won't work. I'm not interested. Nor will I ever be since she continues to have that childish crush.” He clenches his jaw tightly, his hand in his pockets. The king beside him laughs off his embarrassment. Everyone's attention turns to the orchestra as they stop playing their delightful music.
Jotaro eaves for his throne, turning around as a passing butler offers him a drink.
“A toast to tonight. For now, the place is full of lively dancing and music. But what else would be more extravagant if we didnt have entertainment? I present Ilana Asici and Tomas Celeste from the Imperial Magic Academy, the top students of the institution.” He holds out his hands as a boy and girl come forth. The audience claps as the two bow and curtsey toward him. The young woman Ilana Asici has blond hair and blue eyes. Her freckles dotted on her cheeks were so minuscule, but up close, one could see they looked like stars. Her skin is tan like the Prussina sands and complimented well with her dark blue uniform holding gold tassels and medals on the right side of her chest, the other of the embroidered academy crest. Her taller counterpart Tomas Celeste has raven hair like Jotaro, though a shade or two lighter. His eyes were brown like chocolate, and his skin was pale as a porcelain doll. He was older than Ilana by a year, and his uniform fit his age. Burgundy with gold tassels on his left shoulder with medals pinned against his chest. A fitting pair indeed.
The music begins again as Ilana and Tomas wave their hands in strange formations, and their lips move as they pronounce their spells.
“Shinest ilepsium.” Ilana calmly whispers as her hands shine brightly. The glow, which appeared from her hands, formulated a ball of light, then another. A few more appeared until Ilana created a grand circle of orbs. Each one is as white as snow. Suddenly without warning, the glowing balls of light each changed colors, which varied from pink to dark blue. They popped like bubbles until multitudes of flowers appeared in the air. The crowd clapped their hands and gasped in awe at the glimpse of magic which proceeded from the academy. Before the flowers can touch the ground, they fade into sparkles. The young woman bows as she moves out of the ballroom floor to make way for her friend.
Jotaro watches the boy perform with bored eyes. He has an appreciation for magic, but at the moment, he didnt care. He was waiting for this party to be over.
“I’ve returned, your majesty.” Jean suddenly appears next to him.
“And, where were you exactly?” The raven-haired male asks with a curious tone. The man keeps his eyes on the magi student. His silver-haired companion also does the same as he smiles a bit.
“Remember those dancers the council wanted here from different regions?” He asks, reminding him of what his council wanted explicitly for this event.
“Yes, what of it?” Jotaro raises his brows as he turns his gaze toward the knight.
“I was just escorting them here. After all, the announcer will tell the audience that dancers from different regions of the country have come to delight us. Something like that, maybe in much more eloquent words. Then the night will be full of dancing, which I know you despise.” Jean replies with a rundown of how the night will go.
He nods, keeping his boredom at bay with how many more hours were left. Without his watch or a clock on the wall, he couldn't precisely tell what time it was. For all he knew, the party started a mere hour or two ago.
His eyes return to the boy waving his hands in a spectacular formation, stopping them as the magic disappears. The audience applauds with approval, and whistles echo through the ballroom. As it ceases, the announcer of the night clears his throat.
“Wonderful, absolutely wonderful. On behalf of the Sun of the Empire, performers from different regions have been invited tonight to perform. I present to you the dancers of the night!” He proclaims loudly. The raven-haired male sits on his throne as his audience of nobles stands against the walls, leaving a wide open circle in the middle of the floor. He sips his drink, finding it acceptable. The two students from the academy wave their hands as one dims the lights and the other creates an illusion of stars above them all.
The orchestra sets their instruments away as local musicians with drums and handheld instruments stand in front of them. The musicians look at one another, nodding as music fills the room. It was much different from the eloquent and grand orchestra behind them with their years of advancement. The drums were battered against with batons, then the others with strings were strung more quickly than slowly. A woman in a midnight blue outfit slowly walks to the middle of the ballroom, standing with her hands gracefully extended. Another with a white two-piece look follows her fellow dancer's footsteps. Bright red sequins join the mix as well, accompanied by tassels attached. It all looked perfect, three dancers with spectacular costumes, but all eyes couldn't help but stare at the next dancer walking towards the space.
The crowd watches in awe at the dancer of green. The nobles whisper amongst themselves quietly. Her iridescent green sleeves sparkle as the jewels hanging from the ruffles move when she walks—the many layers of the green dress made of satin and silk shine under the illusion of stars. The golden embroidered corset added a certain glow with an otherworldly perspective. Even with the lights dimmed, the magic stars drew near to her. It encircles her with stardust, leaving little sparkles in her hair. The audience gasps with this action, finally noticing the enticing red hair. It put the rose to shame, and even the kingdom's flower, the camellia.
“Such beautiful red hair.” A noble whispers.
“Indeed, but it is the mark of a witch. Or so I’ve heard.” Another commented, but silence came over them when this sudden dancer spun in a perfect formation. One dancer used ribbons, another flipped, and one turned and spun.
Jotaros eyes sparked as he watched the dancer in green. Her hands extend from her body into the air. She steps into the music, closing her eyes as he can practically feel the oneness of the music within her. Her dress skirt elegantly flutters when she spins once more. She jumps into the air, landing perfectly on the floor with a pose. The audience claps as their eyes focus on the others, though secretly, they are fascinated by this veiled redhead. The others dance to their heart's content. The midnight blue, white, and red sequined dancers danced how their merry hearts wished. Completing flips like it was nothing, they were masters of their art.
The music speeds up as the redhead accomplishes a breathtaking move, then another. The spins and turns were endless. Though, her hands added a graceful factor to her dance.
“That dancer…” Jotaro whispers as his brows raise. Jean overhears him, the knight clearing his voice.
“There’s four of them.” The silver-haired man replies casually. His hands rest behind his back, his eyes unable to leave the young woman.
“The one with red hair, Jean.” He doesn't take his eyes off her. It would be foolish to say that she wasn't a good dancer when her moves captivated the eyes of many, including himself.
“Oh her? Does her dancing strike your fancy, your majesty?” Jean’s invisible brows lifted, and a smile found its way onto his face. Jotaro stays silent, his aquamarine orbs focusing on the redhead. Not only was her outfit different, the way she danced, or the veil that hid her features, but there was something else he couldn't place.
“I’ll take that silence as a yes, your majesty,” Jean states, fighting the urge to snicker. Jotaro looks at him, his hand rubbing the side of his temple. He sighs, shaking his head from side to side.
“My silence doesn't always mean a yes. I’m only curious.” The music comes to a close, the dancers bowing as they collectively join towards the middle. The audience stays silent for a moment, coming out of their trace as they cheer loudly. Their claps echo through the ballroom as Jotaro watches the audience with an approved nod. He stands from his throne, his gaze following the escorted dancers until they leave his sight. He ignores his trance, motioning for the two magi students to make the room appear as it was before. The stars disappeared from the ceiling, and the lights were bright again. The night was coming to a close, and he was glad it was.
The audience looks at him as they await a response, something to show that he is pleased with their performance.
“I thank the students from the Imperial Magic Academy for showing us the valuable skills they have learned from their instructors. Well done. To the dancers of the night,” He pauses shortly. “Their beauty and graceful moves will be remembered in our eyes. My friends, I thank you a final time for appearing at this event. I wish and hope for everlasting peace.” The man bows his head in gratitude as his knights go before him. The audience applauds as they watch him leave their sight. The grand doors open as the members leave the ballroom, their carriages waiting for them.
“Sir Jean.” Jotaro looks at the man beside him, the doors closed and locked behind him.
“Yes, your majesty?” He replies casually, keeping his eyes on the other knights alongside him.
“I’ll be taking a detour. No need to follow me.” He dismissed his knights, and each of them nods in approval while the man walked further away.
Chapter Text
Kalis, Nora, Amara, and the redheaded young miss were escorted by one of the nearby guards from within the ballroom. The man opened the door for them, leading them down the hallway. The lights from the candles mounted against the wall shined brightly and showed off the color of the dark red curtains. They gaze at the decorations, fighting the urge to open their mouth in awe. It was grand, far too lavish. Everything from the carpeted floor to the glass window panes screamed wealth. Yes, the man they saw dressed in kingly apparel was the emperor, but for someone to rule all of Algeria with many wealthy things in just one hallway? It’s astonishing how much riches he possibly accumulated from tax, trading across the other regions, or just inheritance from generations of the emperors before him.
They walked a little more, taking a turn down another hallway. The double oak doors ahead of them were much taller than the guard. It was seven feet, compared to how small they looked when standing by it. The guard opened the large door for them, and the four young women found themselves in the castle gardens. They knew this was the public garden, fit for visitors or friends of the royal line. There were many bushes in a cubic form, not to mention the animalistic shapes of a deer, a bear, and a few swirly trimmed trees. Rose bushes and petunias lined in pretty rows, and the cobblestone paths beneath their feet added a distinct look to the gardens. The man solely responsible for this garden kept everything in tip-top shape. Not a leaf was out of place, or the grass untrimmed.
“This is a pretty garden. Now that I think about it, I don't think the emperor would mind if we strolled until we were called back to our room. ” Kalis brings up a point. A smile appears on her face as she touches one of the rose petals.
“What do you think the emperor is doing right now?” Nora asks her little group of fellow dancers, her brows raised at her question. The rest of the girls look at her with curious eyes, and the redhead beside her motions something. She puts her hands together while moving them toward the side of her face.
“Sleeping? I mean, it’s not that late, to be fair.” Amara replies casually. “Though it's a good guess, I believe he’s slaving away in his work. An empire of an entire nation must have a lot of papers to complete, and the work piles up ever so much.” The blonde twirls her hair around her fingers while Nora nods.
“That’s possible. I think the emperor is enjoying himself in a good book. He's bound to have a private library all to himself. Before we appeared, I noticed he looked bored.” Kalis started with a knowing tone. The young woman walked to the fountain, sitting on the granite ledge as she looked at her reflection in the water.
“Speaking of the man looking so bored, I want to say as soon as you stepped out, his expression changed. Dare I say those eyes sparkled with curiosity.” Nora pointed out to the redhead standing beside her. The lavender-orbed young woman shook her head from side to side, looking at her friends with disbelief. She walked towards Kalis as she sat beside her, hoping what her companion said was true or false.
“I didn't pay attention. I was too entranced in the music to focus on the emperor. But you can read the room better than anyone Nora.” She compliments her as the four of them agree with her words. She stands from the fountain, looking into the moon high in the sky. The stars sparkled brightly, even though they were hundreds of miles from where they stood. Sure, the illusion from those magi children was incredible, but the real ones outside tonight were better.
“Let’s split up and explore this massive garden. We can meet back at this fountain once we’ve seen everything,” Amara suggested happily. The four young women nodded as they went their separate ways. Nora walked towards the north, Kalis facing the east, Amara towards the west, and their redhead companion towards the south. The redhead looks at the tree beside her, thinking about the shade it probably provided during the summer days. Upon looking closer, she noticed that it was not just any tree but an apple tree. Some of the flowering blossoms were white with golden yellow pollen in the center, and luckily for her, a delectable-looking fruit was within her grasp. She refrained from touching it, but it looked so sweet. She pouted, wondering if her maturely formed conscience would strike her if she plucked it from its branch. She shakes her head from side to side, walking more down the paths. The lavender flowers matched her eyes, and the woman smelled the herbal scent that came from it.
She understood that the soap shops back in town and the apothecary valued this over the other kinds of flowers. Knowing this factor, she promptly enjoyed the fragrance a little more, understanding its value. Beside it was a flower never seen before. It wasn’t in the lower shop she visited a few days ago. Was it one that only grew in the emperor's gardens? Most likely imported from another region? The pale purple petals were pretty, but the darker portion in the center made her eyes sparkle with delight. She looked for a sign, maybe written in the region's language. She found one, to her surprise, kneeling as she squinted to see better. Though she couldn't understand the written words because of her limited knowledge of the region's alphabet, she tried making out the name of this flower. The shape of an ‘o’, then maybe an ‘r. Following were the letters ‘c, ‘h, ‘i’, and ‘d’. Writing the letters on the dirt beside it, she found out the name of this flower was called an ‘orchid. How pretty it was, and the name fits it so well. A pretty name for an equally lovely flower, she seemed to think to herself.
She stood as she saw more flowers, but she somehow felt that these paled to the flowers, well, that one flower in the private gardens. She closed her eyes as the wind flowed through her hair, seeing little glowing balls of light flying into the night air. She tilts her head to the side, following them. She left the gardens, letting the little ball of light lead her into the unknown. Like a hand taking her into an abyss, her legs carried her further away from the others. The scenery changed, but she didn't mind. Her excursion was more than an adventure. The tall columns holding the buildings above are white like snow, probably made from the finest material known to man. The breeze was still there, ever-present, following her with every move she made. This place was unlike the corridors in the palace or by the servant's quarters. After all, she was clueless as to where she was going but simply followed the single ball of light. The redhead paused to take a breath. Funnily enough, it waited for her, floating in the same place until she regained her senses. Even so, when she heard the sound of rushing water and witnessed trees surrounding her, she knew something was hidden from her sight. It had to be another garden. After all, there was a public one, the emperor's private one, and now this one? She wondered silently how many more secrets this place held. Passing the green hedges, she is met with a tall iron door full of intricate designs. The light from the moon showcased something from within, a fountain of some sort.
The little light went through the openings of the gate with such ease that she grew disappointed that she couldn't get through, even more so when the handle wouldn't turn. She thought of another solution: pulling the door towards her person. Surprised at how it worked, she was lucky that the hinges on the door were so rusty, not to mention the lock, which was the one thing that was supposed to keep her out. She enters through with curiosity coursing through her veins, looking above her head as vines cascade down to the cobblestone paths beneath her feet. She touched them, seeing the ball of light further down the grassy hedges. Her eyes widened at the spectacle set before her. There was not just one light but many. They were fireflies, the silly fool she was, thinking it would be some magical creature like a fairy upon close inspection. The fountain spurts water from its triple-tiered head. It fell into the pool below it, creating ripples that would go on for a short while until new ones formed. She turned around, looking at columns holding little arches above their pedestals. A little pathway went all around the rectangular garden. But what took her breath away was the dark red camellias on each side. Guarded by the green hedges, she walked towards them with such love in her eyes. Oh, how beautiful the gardens appeared, such loveliness and splendor. When touching the petal, it stayed intact rather than the ones in the emperor's private gardens. They didn't fall apart. How marvelous! She could stay here for hours on end, years even. There was something about this place that made her feel at peace. Yet, that peace didn't last long when she heard footsteps from behind. Fear gripped her heart as she looked for someplace to conceal herself. Where, where could she hide? The pillar was her sanctuary. It was thick, it would hide her thin frame. Following through with her quick makeshift plan, she covered her hands over her lips.
A man enters the scene. His jet black hair, eloquent apparel, and observant blue eyes noticed something was off about this garden when he witnessed the open gate. Jotaro looks at the pillar, turning his body towards it. The moonlight created a shadow beside it. That shouldn't be there.
“ It's a foolish thing to think that a mere pillar will save you from my gaze! Come out, trespasser!” He yells loudly. An angered expression paints itself on his handsome features. His hand was against the dagger, hidden but strapped against his side. If this person is a threat, he would remove them by any means necessary. The redhead peaks out, and he can see something. Though it halts him, he realizes that this person has to be a young woman, judging by the length of the visible locks. Upon seeing that red hair, his demeanor shifted. Only briefly though none would have noticed regardless. Then again, after a moment of thought, how would one react to a woman? He hates them, but one that happens to appear in his garden, a private one no less.
“Cowardess!” The word left his tongue with such distaste, like poison, it affected her. She stayed silent, risking the decision to run away or to face him. He called her a ‘trespasser. Would he show her mercy? Yes, he might. It was a risk worth taking.
She took a step beside the pillar as she walked towards him, fear gripping her heart as she began to shake like a leaf trying its best to stay on the branch.
Jotaro looks at her, crossing his arms against his chest. He opens his lips to speak.
“Good grief, give me a damn break. You’re one of those dancers from earlier, aren’t you?” He asks calmly, refraining from yelling in the quiet night. Seconds pass to his surprise, fighting the urge to raise his brows. Unable to produce patience after a long night, his expression turns sour.
“Damn you…” He pauses, and the young woman steps back into the shadows.
“As a dancer, you should know your place and where you belong.” He directly insults her, aware of her common birth. His brows furrowed in contempt, finding himself annoyed.
“Are you so struck with fear that you are unable to speak?! Mere Common looking girl…” he grumbles the last few syllables, gritting his teeth as his temper rises.
“Stand in front of me, and maybe I’ll refrain from punishing you for trespassing in a place like this.”
Jotaro caught himself acting like an angered teenager. Like a child when they didn’t get their way. He was an adult now, an emperor. Long ago were the days of his childhood. Now was the time for maturity. He takes a deep breath, rubbing his aching temples as he sticks his hand in his pants pocket. She still kept her distance, finding this action to be fitting since he did speak to her quite cruelly.
“I recognize your costume, and I assumed correctly, as you are one of the dancers. Your hair, though the mark of a witch, is recognizable.” He pauses, and he tries to collect his words fittingly and formally. “I’ll ask you this once, and only once. What are you doing here in my gardens?” Asking the single question, he is met with silence, the crickets chirping away their melody as always. He watched her fight with her hands, her brows furrowing with unusual emotion. “Your silence is strange. Speak when you're spoken to, woman.” When the words left his lips, he watched as she struggled to formulate them. She opened her mouth, but not a sound left it. Her hands trembled, her lips quivering as she stopped what she was doing. She brought her shaking hands to her throat, hoping he would understand. It only took a moment to deduct this one thing. This simple fact changed the course of this one-sided conversation. This girl was mute.
“You… cannot speak?” He asks. The red-haired young woman nods, relief practically shining in her amethyst orbs. Though he could only see her eyes, he was interested to see the rest of her features, as curious ones would be. “That veil you wear. It’s useless now, as your performance is complete. Take it off.”
A moment of hesitation sparks in her eyes, the deep purple shows more emotion than any other he has seen, maybe because hers were entrancing, to begin with, and he couldn’t help but stare deep within.
“Are you deaf and mute? I said, "Reveal yourself at once!” His tone is slightly more emperor-like, as it should be. Once again, out of habit, she obediently followed the command. A glimpse of interest peaked in the emperor’s eye, though only briefly. As the dancer slowly revealed herself, he couldn’t help but be curious as her deep crimson hair already captured his attention. So then, what beauty would await him if he saw to who this hair belonged?
The dancer removed her facial veil, though when she did, she didn’t look him in the eyes, keeping her gaze low, learned through her owner's cruel antics.
“Lift your head, girl,” Jotaro instructed. She did as he commanded, and oh, how he was stunned by her beauty. Those eyes sparkled, her freckled cheeks hid her blush, lips red like the rose. She was a spectacle. He fought every urge to widen his eyes and let his mouth agape, but he withheld himself from doing so. He had to admit she was gorgeous. He couldn’t identify an ounce of powder as her skin was flawless! No makeup as the noble ladies would use to make their lashes appear longer, give themselves “perfect skin,” or even a false rosiness on their cheeks. But this woman, a young woman, was natural. She was beautiful, absolutely breathtaking. He’s at a loss for words. Speechless even was a rarest event for the emperor.
“You…” he let out, trailing off as a new look of wonder reached her face with a mix of confusion and fear, though how dare she!
“Don’t you dare stare at me, especially with such an expression” His voice reverberates through the garden walls. He speaks the words from his icy heart. Startled by his rage, he frightened the young woman. He quickly regains his composure as she looks away with fear embezzled in her eyes. She keeps her head down and low in submission. In some hope in her mind, she repeats an action that would appease her master. She gains some courage and looks into his eyes with a compassionate gaze accompanied by an awkward smile. It was a kind of look to tame such a man with wild emotions. In a way, it was proof that she was no harm to him.
“G-get out!” He commands while looking away from her angelic face. She bows, taking off in such a hurry, like a little dormouse caught with a bit of cheese.
She leaves through the makeshift garden corridor, running as fast as her legs could carry her. When she was far away and out of reach from the emperor's wrath, breathed a sigh of relief. She had to admit he was just a little scary. Her quiet movements hardly echo through the palace, until she hears quick steps coming straight from behind.
“There you are! We’ve been looking for you!” Kalis held her hand against her chest, the redhead turning around as a smile appeared on her face.
“You just disappeared. We were getting worried.” Nora replies with a sad countenance.
“You can say that again. We finished exploring the garden a few minutes ago. It was a small garden, but it wasn't bad to look at.” Amara twirled her blond hair between her fingers, making a cute gesture.
“Were you just exploring the palace for yourself?” Kalis asked her. The lavender-orbed young woman only could respond with a head nod. How could she explain that she had run into contact with the emperor, the sun of the empire? They nod, finding it hard to remain angry with this girl.
“Well, I’m glad you're ok. Let's head back to our room now. We will be traveling back to our hometowns in the morning.” Kalis interjected, and the four young women followed her with small smiles. Yes, they would go their separate ways, but who knows what fate would have in store for them.
The emerald-green dancer takes a final glance behind her, thinking of that grand emperor with such a temper. That garden of camellias was beautiful to look at, but that emperor's dark aquamarine orbs would forever grab her attention.
—-
Jotaro sighs, looking at his reflection in the fountain water, the ripples disfiguring his face. It took him a moment to recollect his thoughts, but he asked himself something. Only then did he realize his error. He stuttered, In front of a commoner no less. Embarrassment hardly made its way to his face, but he felt it. What was with that girl who made his emotions in such disarray? It was foolish, absolutely foolish! Yet, she was a trespasser in his most sacred place. No matter how beautiful– confound it! What did it matter?! A trespasser was a trespasser!
“Foolish girl…” He grumbles under his breath, looking at the camellias from afar. Now that he thinks about it, when was the last time he’s been in this garden? A few weeks? Maybe a month? Jotaro was surprised at how beautifully the camellias grew. No weeds crept in to torture the flowers with their mimicry. Not a petal has fallen off, nor has the tree's leaves withered away. This garden was left untouched, and on the rare nights, such as this one, he would visit. It was almost by chance that he met someone under the full moon. What a strange thing indeed. There was no need to stay in this garden any longer. He walks through the hallway of bushes, closing the door behind him. A final picture of that redhead dancer slips into his mind, shaking his head from side to side.
“Dammit, what a night.”
Notes:
comments. kudos, and hits are not necessary but would help!
Chapter Text
The clouds in the sky covered the bright golden sun as the region below it was gray. The redheaded young miss looked out the window of their room, fully dressed in her attire for the day. It was the same outfit she had arrived at the palace only a few days ago, though it felt like forever. She had already finished packing all her belongings while cleaning the room to ensure it was presentable for the next guest, if any, who would be hosted here. Kalis, Amara, and Nora, whom she quickly made friends with during her stay at the palace, were sitting on their beds patiently waiting. Roland, the man who constantly made sure the emperor's guests were as comfortable as possible, would be the one to dismiss them of their service. Kalis would return to Celtina, Amara from the farthest part of Alanis, and Nora to Renaldi. The lavender orbed lass lived only a few minutes away, but she knew she would most likely be the first to leave, if not the first, then maybe the last.
A knock at the door echoes through the quiet room, alarming the girls as they look at each other with expectancy. Who would be the first to leave, they seemed to ask.
“Kalis and Nora.” A male voice calls out to the brunette and noirette. Opening the door, she was not surprised that Roland had called their names only a few moments prior.
“I thank you on behalf of the sun of the empire for your dancing. A carriage is waiting for the both of you to escort you to the docks. To all of you ladies, there is a gift for each of you. See to it that you use it well.” He pauses as the girls look at him with such surprised faces that he smiles compassionately. “Kalis and Nora, you have a few more minutes until you are ready to leave. I will leave you to say your goodbyes.” He closes the door behind him, the brunette smiling only briefly.
“Such a shame that we have to part ways like this.” She states with a sad countenance. She walks towards the girls, the older woman giving all of them a tight hug. “Amara, you dance like no other.” The blonde fans her face as she tries to stop the tears from overflowing. The noirette signature smile appears on her face. Kalis takes the redhead’s pale hands into her own, squeezing them a little. “You, stay strong. Don't be ashamed that you can’t speak because we understand you regardless, and someone will too, whoever that person may be.” The redhead nods, watching as the oldest girls of their little group grab their cases and leave.
A few moments pass until Amara sighs and reads the little book that she brought along with her. The redhead could tell it was old due to the frayed book cover edges and the yellowing pages. She could sense the curiosity radiating from the redhead across from her quickly, passing her a kind glance.
“Do you want to know what the book is about?” She asks with a small smile. The young woman pats the open space next to her, her fellow dancer stepping across the floorboards to meet her. She flipped through the pages, some with a few designs and others full of words and symbols, most likely from her region's language. “It’s a love story about a knight who fell in love with the princess who he was to protect. In each chapter, they get older, and their feelings slowly develop. But here's the thing, she’s blind, so she falls in love because he treated her so well, with human decency, as everyone disregarded her. I love it.” Amara thoroughly explains.
The redhead smiled with stars in her eyes, though that smile faded when she heard another knock at their door.
“Amara, another carriage is waiting for you to take you to the Irica Providence. You have a few moments.” Roland mentions briefly. The blond looks like she’s about to cry. She withheld her tears when Kalis and Nora departed from them.
“Ah, I don’t want you to see me cry. I look hideous.” She laughs her sorrows away, giving the read head a heartwarming hug. “I’m sure I’ll see you again soon. But until now, it is not a goodbye, but a see you later.” She wipes away a falling tear from her eye, waving her hand in her final goodbye. The redhead waited until she was alone, her face full of despair. But now that she was alone in a place like this, she wondered what would be at home. Jancis, her master, would be gone. Maybe at the local tavern drinking away and spending the money, he earned from his sales. Would he be waiting for her with a smile full of requests like the one he did when she left a few days prior? Most likely. She grabbed her case from her bed with an afraid expression. Roland would be here any second now, and when he knocked, this safe place, this palace, would all become a distant memory.
She sensed the footsteps of another, opening the door as Roland appeared with his hand in the air. He adjusted his monocle, his gracious smile appearing once more.
“Follow me if you will, please.” He states calmly, the young woman closing the door behind her, refusing to look back. “I remember you walked here, but if you’d like, I can have one of our knights escort you back home.” He politely suggested. She pondered this suggestion, but then again, she lived in an awful area with an equally terrible master. She didnt need any unwanted attention to her pitiful situation. She declines by shaking her head and giving an elegant smile. “I understand. For your reward, the emperor has wished to gift you this,” He hands her a pale white box with a black ribbon tied around it. She set her case down, holding her hands out to receive it. It was heavy and looked expensive. With careful hands, she opens the box, revealing itself as a beautiful purple brooch. With small diamonds encrusted on the silver lining, and a shiny amethyst gem lay in the center. “It matches your eyes perfectly. I wish you a safe trip back home to your family. With warm regards from the emperor, farewell.”
He pats her head with a gloved hand. She places the cover back onto the box, placing it in her dress pocket. The gates open as she takes each step carefully, drawing further away. She didnt want to look back. That glorious place with such beautiful gardens and interior. That emperor, with such havoc emotions too. It harbored and blossomed, but now looking back on it, she was uncertain if she would ever see it again. No, she wouldn't.
The town, still decorated from the night previously, would stay that way for at least a week to commemorate such an event. She knew this as she had seen this from her bedroom window. Despite living in an impoverished and low-status neighborhood, her master’s shop was the tallest in the town. From that window, she watched as all the lights and the celebration took place. She was sure the palace only held parties on such rare occasions since she had never been until now. She had only been dancing for a few years, as she recalls the other festivals that took place. But she will never forget this for as long as she shall live.
Pondering all of this, she was unphased by the change of scenery. The faded blue and red banners of ‘Jancis’ lacked its luster. Why did she only realize it now? Was it because of the splendor and luxury of the palace that she realized her insignificant status? Or had she become so used to the kindness and compassion that she disregarded and forgot about her home life? It had to be a combination of the two.
She takes a deep breath, fighting her instinct to tremble. She failed when entering the shop. The place looked the same, unkept in some areas, but still the same nonetheless. Without warning, heavy footsteps. It didnt take long for her master to come down with a smile.
“What treasures have you bright back for me, if any?” How typical, asking if she had something of value. No welcome or hello was waiting for her, but only his greedy and selfish wants. She motions that nothing was on her person, and this response only made his expression turn sour. His face crinkles like a prune, and a snarl makes way on his aging features.
“You brat! I told you specifically that you should bring or steal something! You disobeyed my orders! Why you–” Without warning, he held his hand high. She felt her heart stop beating in her chest. He was going to slap her. By now, she was used to this. Though it shouldn't be the norm, it was. He brought his hand down with her face turned against him. The slap echoed through the quiet shop as it reverberated around the wooden plank walls. It was more like a slap of reality than one of his abusive antics. Thinking back, she was no longer the talk of the palace with her red hair. No polished and pristine knights could protect those in need like herself at this very moment when there were none. No kind glances from her friends who could comfort her.
God, how could she be so stupid?! So foolish to believe that she’d be spared from her master's wrath. He was far from done with the beatings, just the beginning. He grabbed a fist full of her hair and brought her reddened face towards his own. She could see the pure rage and hatred in his eyes. Why did he hate her so? She never did anything wrong. She just wished to live through this cruel world. He threw her towards the floor. Her body could only take so much, and this was not one of them.
She bit her lip, bringing a hand to her cheek shakily. Another bruise would form soon, and she would wear her cloak whenever she went out to hide not only her hair but the marks with it. Tears threatened to fall from her cheeks, and her sobs of torment would never reach his ears as he only cared for himself. Another blow to her body is when he kicks her side with his shoe. It wasn't much force as she thought it would be, but it still hurt. “I bought you at such a price! How dare you disobey me–” He yelled loudly. But what made him stop was the box that slipped from her dress pocket. She quickly tried to hide it, but his firm grip around her wrist made her wince.
“You little bitch, trying to hide something like this.” He pried the contents from her hand, turning his back towards her. “What do we have here?” He whispers to himself, removing the lid of her gift. “My word, such a beautiful amethyst! It must be worth a fortune! I’ll be rich beyond my wildest dreams! I must check this with the jeweler!” He voiced his thoughts aloud, unable to comprehend the massive stone in his possession. His happiness ended when he heard the sniffles of his slave. “Quit crying. Don’t forget your place! You are beneath me! The scum of the earth! To think that a slave would have a jewel like this one! Ha, it baffles me!” He bellows and holds his nose high like a pompous noble. “When I come back, this place better be spotless. Pathetic girl.” He slammed the shop door behind him, leaving her alone on the floor. Her case was still there, untouched by his filthy hands.
She mustered the strength to stand, grabbing it while it seemed like it gained 10 pounds more. She goes up the stairs to her quaint little room, back to her makeshift bed. The redhead sets the case down as she looks at the desk with her little mirror. There was a minor crack, but she could still see the purplish mark forming on her cheek. She cursed herself for saying no when she could have avoided this by being truthful. But either way, the brooch would have been taken from her as her master would never let her keep something so precious unless it was a part of her frivolous costumes.
She was lucky that whenever Jancis would send her on errands on rare occasions, whatever money was left over, she would stash and hide from him. Yes, she knows her conscience would strike her, but what she used it on was necessary for her survival. She was no stranger to herbs and medicines in the town apothecary. Whenever she was away from her master, she would purchase vials of liquids. The cork top is tightly screwed in, and she had to use most of her strength to pull it off. In this case, she was happy she had enough to last a little longer. She pulls a small glass jar of cotton balls from underneath the covers of her makeshift bed. The redhead pulled off the wooden lid and grabbed one with her hand. The little ball of fluff was soft and looked like a cloud. She pours the vial of clear liquid into it, the ball of fluff becoming soaked. She looked at the vial, her worried glance in her eyes. That was it. She figured there was enough, but there was no more left. She would have to go into town again when Jancis would send her on an errand, whenever that was.
She brought the cotton ball to her cheek, making circular motions. She covered the entire bruised area with the medicated ointment, double-checking this in the broken mirror. When she came home, she looked at her scarred shoulder and the fabric that failed to protect it. Those damned letters “J.M” was her connection to that man. That man treated her like she was the scum of the earth, and sometimes she believed what he said to her. ‘Brat, ‘bitch’, and any other name in the book. He nitpicked everything about her. From how she dressed when they were out in public, disregarding the fact he never bought her anything other than costumes, to her hair. Her red hair that she took care of, the mark of a witch, and how he scammed out of his fortune for thinking she was a magi child. Oh, how he never let her forget it. She was just property, his property. God, how she wished she was free. She caught herself falling into a spiral of emotions again. She needed to stop doing that. After all, this was her reality, a reality too painful to bear.
The redhead stood from her place, dusting off the layers of her dress from her somewhat clean floorboards. She reached for the doorknob as she quietly walked down the stairs. Tasked with cleaning the shop while her master was away, she looked about her surroundings. Only a few areas were in disarray, mostly her master's pile of papers, a few opened books, and the glassware that needed a bit of dusting. She kneeled towards the stack, organizing each one while glancing at each page only briefly. But what caught her attention was a picture of a comet. Knowing that Jancis often read about constellations, shooting star sightings, and comets, he believed in those fairytales. The ones that would say that if you wish on a shooting star, your dreams will come true. She bitterly smiled when thinking about this, as she had often hoped that her dream of being free would happen. It seemed like only yesterday when she was a child again, 11 years ago when she came into this shop.
It was raining that night, a heavy downpour from the cloud-filled sky. Jancis pulled her wrist towards the front door, rummaging through the pocket of his harem parents for his two brass keys.
“Where are my damn keys?” He grumbles under his breath, finally feeling the metal with his fingers. He grabs them quickly as he ignores the rain. He regarded himself and hardly batted an eye at the girl soaked from head to toe. He opened the door and looked from side to side, dragging the girl inside so forcefully that she fell onto the wooden floors.
“Pick yourself up, brat!” He yelled towards her as the young girl flinched at his commanding tone. She did as instructed, somehow finding the strength to stand amiss during the long and exhausting journey. Walking and riding on carts from region to region in secrecy was not exciting. How could it be when a slave like herself would be in captivity for the remaining years of her life? She looked him straight in the eyes, and for some strange reason, it angered him. “You think you’re all high and mighty where a slave like you can look me in the eyes?!” When those nasty words left his slips, he raised his hand and struck her.
At that moment, she knew, at the tender age of five, that she needed to survive. Jancis did not hesitate to grab a fistful of her red hair, where she could see his face.
“Those tears better not leave her eyes, or I won’t hesitate to give you another reason to cry. Understand?!” He threatened. The girl nodded, wiping the droplets away from her face. Her shackles that lay on her rest were long before they came here. It would be even more suspicious. Jancis wasn't an idiot, no, not at all. He knew that while living here in the shabbiest part of Ilicia, the prying eyes watched his every move. No wonder why he was so paranoid most of the time.
“Hurry up.” Jancis lowered his tone to his normal voice, walking up the creaky stairs. Unable to comprehend what he was doing, she daringly followed. That’s what he wanted from her, right? She asked herself this question, the man leading her to a room. “Get to cleaning!” He ordered as he walked down the smaller hall to his lavish room. She was so tired, and while she wanted to sleep in a cozy bed like the one back at the orphanage, she couldn't. She opened the door, finding the room quite dark and dusty. Sheets covered furniture and the window. Luckily for her, there was a broom, a dustpan, and some rags that were a bit damp. She first removed the sheets from the furniture with her hands, grabbing them tightly as she pulled them off.
Dust flew across the room, the young miss coughing as she fanned them away. She didn't want to be so loud that she woke up her new master. She understood there were worse things than receiving a painful slap to the face. With a flame of determination in her eyes, she looked at the furniture. Hoping that it wasn't too heavy to move, she saw a broken mirror with little drawers attached to it and a chair. She quietly and hesitantly moved the chair to the corner of the room. The mirror with drawers was heavy, in her opinion. After all, she was only five. How much strength could a child at five have? Certainly not much. There was a small mattress of some sort, probably fluffed with feathers. She saw how dusty it was, full of lint and a bit of dirt. Some of these things were likely salvageable. Even then, where would she sleep tonight? If not in this room, then on the floor downstairs. Even a dog had better treatment than this.
Disregarding this painful factor, it was a quaint little place now that she thought about it. Since she was small, her childlike view made everything look bigger than it was. She grabbed the boom and dustpan and swept the floor. Although it was much taller than her, she would make do with what was given to her. The red-haired child saw the dust and dirt pile up as she brought it onto the pan with a sad look on her face. The rags, which were still damp, she placed on the vanity mirror. She wiped the area clean, sticking her tongue out as she got between every nook and cranny. The mattress, well, some form of it, was then dusted off and cleaned with her cleaning utensils with dedication.
An area in the wall was full of sheets, white and clean ones, thankfully. She brought the chair towards it and grabbed the pile. Very clever. She threw them onto the squeaky form of the mattress and covered them with the faded quilted bits. With tender love and care, she had someplace to sleep tonight. A makeshift bed was better than none at all. She then moved her attention to the vanity on the opposite end of the room. Look’s like that will have to stay there.
She stood against the door, looking at the progress she had made. There was a significant difference before and after, and she was pleased with herself. The red-haired child saw the blue curtains, curiosity striking her mind. Her eyes had already adjusted to the dark room long ago, but why had she not noticed this? She moves the curtains to reveal a pretty stained glass window. Sure, it needed cleaning, but she noticed the iron latch on the door. She stood on the tip of her toes another time, touching it. With a subtle nudge, the windows open as she looks into the sky. There was no more rain, thank goodness. She was still a little damp, but her clothes were nearly dry. The clouds parted to reveal the endless and unlimited stars in the sky. Her eyes sparkled with wonder as she saw one that shined brighter than the rest. Yet one thing was for certain it was moving. It fell across the sky so slowly that she wondered if it was a shooting star. Yet she knew it had to be something else. A comet? Yes, that had to be her best guess.
Taking a chance, she folded her hands together. She looked to the comet, closing her eyes as she silently made a wish. She wished for her freedom, to be free from this place that was now her home. She continued wishing in her head, squeezing her hands tightly, desperately hoping that her little wish would pass. When she opened her eyes, the comet was gone. Truly.\, it was a strange sighting. Funny how things haven't changed. She didnt even realize that she was reminiscing until she dropped the broom. Luckily, she had already finished cleaning and remembering this painful memory, but her healing bruise was even more painful. She cleaned the glass with the damp rag, looking at her completed work with sad eyes. She looked outside, seeing that the sun was beginning to set. She had been cleaning for a few hours, and her master wasn't back yet. Now that she thinks about it, he probably sold the jewel and squandered his money as usual. She walked towards the front door, moving every lock to the right. He had the key. He could let himself inside.
She puts away the broom and rags in the closet, heading up the stairs. She closes the door behind her to her room as she changes out of her pale white dress, now dirty with grime in some areas. She undid the laces of her corset, taking it off and setting it neatly away from her. She would have to wash her dress with her things after completing Jancis's laundry first. Her chemise was left, the young woman closing the curtains slightly in case they were prying eyes. Her nightgown was folded on her pillow, the redhead placing it on herself. Her brush was on her little vanity, along with her ribbons. In times like these, when she was alone, she could tenderly care for herself and pretend she wasn't in captivity. The knots sounded like popping popcorn as each bristle coursed through her hair. Her red locks were braided and tied with ribbons, the young miss setting her things down as she looked out the window. Just her luck, another star. She bit her lip, looking at the star shining brightly in the sky. She folded her hands together like she did when she was younger. No, it wouldn't hurt to try again. Just this once.
She made her wish, clenching her hands as a sob left her lips. Let me be free, she wishes silently. The young woman let a single tear fall down her cheeks before she wiped them away.
Someday, somehow, she will be free.
Notes:
comments and kudos are appreciated but not necessary
Chapter Text
The town’s decorations were put away a long time ago as the festival for the founding of Algeria came to a close. Things were back to normal, but for some strange reason, there was a bustle among the people. There was the usual chatter and selling of goods from the square by various shops, though smiles and sparkling eyes were all the more prevalent. The baker's sweetbreads came out of the furnace as he placed them on trays. The windows, with fresh product, let out a delicious scent as it traverses invisibly through the capital square. The flower shop staff set out some plants to photosynthesize in the sun, along with some of the lilies practically in perfect condition to bloom. A few women walked by with woven baskets in their hands full of linens, cotton, and on the rare occasion, silks. Today was wash day when young women of the house would head to the stream and wash the household's garments. The sun was high in the sky with a perfect amount of clouds. The wind was slow but was still ever present. Yes, the perfect day for laundry.
With quiet steps, a red-haired young woman held a basket on her hip. It was far from heavy, but many garments needed tending to. A black cloak is in her other hand, something she would put on later. She trails behind the other women, following, all the while keeping her head low. She could hear some girls talking to one another, some in silence, but she knew what she would do. It was a process she had done since she was ten. When they reached the river closer to the forest, she would find a secluded spot, wash every garment, set them on rocks to dry, and sit under a tree. For others, they hated days like these. Having to wash continuously? A complete bore! With hands that would be full of soap and constantly wet? No not a task fit for most people. But for this young woman? A perfect day to be away from the house. Away from that hell she lived through. A place where she could be away from her master. Time for herself.
Without knowing, she had reached the edge of the town. She hardly remembered passing the docks or walking across the bridge. Perhaps she was too deep in thought. Yes, most likely. She sees the mothers with their children, young girls, and women like herself nearing the shore. It was nice to see that there would be some bonding time for them. She missed having a family like that, but even then, she didnt remember much of her life before slavery. She felt her eyes prickle with tears, shunning herself away from them as she walked towards the trees of the forest. She let a sigh leave her lips as she follows the river side by side. Thank goodness the waters were not gushing fast. She saw a clearing ahead, full of grass and very few flowers. All of this accompanied plenty of rocks. How convenient.
She set her basket beside her, kneeling towards the stream. She looked through the basket of clothes, finding the lye soap in paper wrapping. There’s a perfect amount left to clean her master's clothes and hers. She grabbed the first shirt, smelling the barbaric stench, and quickly dunked it into the water. She then grabbed a bit of soap, lavender one at that, and moved it across the fabric. Quite quickly, soap suds began to form as she used her hands to scrub off the dirt or grime remaining on it. The once dirty garment quickly turned white in some areas. She dunked it into the water, watching as the soap suds were carried away gently. The young woman smiled, knowing that her efforts were rewarded in such little time. The red-haired miss rang out the water as it fell back into where it came, taking a moment to walk towards the large rocks. The sun's rays which miraculously fell through the shaded branches made it a little warm. They would dry much quicker with this factor.
She walked back to her basket and grabbed another shirt. This time there was a wine stain on the front of it compared to the smaller one on the right sleeve. She grabbed the soap once more, brushing it against the fabric. Bubbles and suds were gradually appearing with each stroke of her hands. Her form was over the slowly moving river, scrubbing away to the best of her ability. She only hoped that the lye lavender soap would remove a good amount of the red and purple pigment. She brushed away her hair, her locks touching the grassy floor. She forgot her ribbons this time, so it wouldn't be a moment until some strands would stick to her sweaty skin. She let out a breath as she dunked in the water, closing her eyes and peaking one open as she awaited to see a forever stain on her master's shirt. To her surprise, it was hardly there. Ah, what a skill to have.
The redhead repeated this process a few more times. She waited patiently as the clothes dried under the light of the yellow sun. Now thinking about it, her garments were somewhat clean, unlike Jancis’s–which someway, somehow, were always splattered with unknown stains. Rather disgusting. She shuddered at the thought of the messes he made and the cleaning that would sometimes come after it. She didnt even want to think of the undergarments. Finally finishing the last article of clothing, she was happy that her chores were complete. She felt one of the shirts residing on the rocks nearby, damp yet dry in some areas. Yes, there were still some stains. It was not perfect, but it would do. After all, scented lye soap was a luxury hard to come by, even for the richest persons.
While waiting for the rest to dry, she pondered what to do next. The temptation to bathe in the river was ever present, yet she wondered if her decision was worth following through. Her skin was glimmering with sweat after a hard day's work. She was glad her labor kept her busy and away from Jancis’s abusive antics. She had a reason why she would come home late, and she wouldn't be yelled at once he saw the basket of clothes in her hands. The only downside was feeling unclean at the end of the day. She wanted to stay hygienic as possible, unlike her master, who wouldn’t think twice about stains, especially with the amount of food consumption he does. She looked at her surroundings, but not a person in sight. Perfect. She wouldn't want any prying eyes to see her, even through the shadowy thicket of the endless trees.
Drifting away from the clothes, she walked upstream, finding a clear difference. The crystal clear water appears more blue and pure before the wash. Not to mention, a fresh smell came from the few flowers which grew around her. The river compiled into a pool, and it was far from shallow. Little broken streams branched out from it in different directions, so it wasn't an accumulated mass of water. She took off her laced shoes, bringing her feet towards the water. Oh, it was a little warm. The warmth was convincing enough to bathe, and she was ready to commit to her decision. She untied the laces of her brown corset, setting it on the grass. Next was her white dress that she wore wherever she went. It was the only suitable clothing she owned, sadly enough. She slipped off her dress, leaving only her chemise. It was sheer, as it was the undergarments of ladies wear.
That was the last piece. It fell from the redhead's body, feeling the wind brush against her exposed skin. It was a little chilly, but she slowly walked into the pool. Enveloped by the warmth, she swam through the waters, closing her eyes and holding her breath before submerging her head. It only took her a moment to plop back out of the pool with her red locks drenched. The curl diminished as it was straight like a board. The young woman ran her hand through her hair, letting any dirtiness wash away whenever she did this action. Luckily for her, by her clothes was the soap. Only a miniature cube from the extensive washing, but it was just enough to use as a shampoo. The wealthy and noble women often used lavender-scented soaps or any scented soaps, for that matter. She wanted to look her best, as she held pride in her appearance.
She grabbed it quickly, running the soap through her hands, the soap suds immediately forming. She runs them through her hair, from the roots towards the tips. Yes, her hair was very long, and often the maintenance was tricky and a handful. When she was at home in the bath, it had to be when her master was asleep. Sure, the water was cold most times, as Jancis often used all the hot water for himself, but it was something nonetheless. The soaps and the expensive oils Jancis used, he forbade. With the extra money she stashed away, she bought a blossom soap that was perfect for her. Whenever the tub was full of water, which miraculously hadn't woken Jancis up because the pipes were loud, she would wash her hair first. It took a few minutes to let the soap fill every portion of her hair, and whenever she submerged it in the tub, the suds remained in the water.
In the forest, she would have to do things a little differently. She submerged her hair once again while all the soap left her roots. Her hair was shiny and smelled lovely. She adored and was happy about this. The bubbles carried away down the branches of broken streams, her little pond to herself. Sometimes it was the little things she appreciated, this bath being one of them. It was the perfect spot, something out of a picture book she saw in the library, only once, but beautiful. The little bubbles, or what remained of them, hugged her slim figure. Sure, she may never live a life of royalty, yet somehow, in this peaceful moment, she wasn’t a slave. She was finally a person, not property, the thing her master constantly reminded her of. This was her peace.
The water began to feel cold as the sun, once high in the sky, began to set towards the horizon. She had lost track of time so quickly too. The rays of light slipped through the branches. To her sadness and regret, it was time to get back home. Jancis would expect dinner soon. As she began to leave the water, the bubbles slid down with the current. She Submerged herself a final time, swimming towards the grassy shore. The water flowed off her while shining from what remained of the sun's rays. It hit her skin at such an angle that she began to have a blanket of beautiful orange and yellow lighting dancing on her skin. If anyone else was around, she might as well appear as a goddess to them. The mix of her silky red hair, as her porcelain skin, shines with droplets. Yes, she would be the spitting image of one. She underestimated her beauty, as it would have been strange if anyone had complimented her.
She rang her wavy red curls, water falling onto the grass below in multitudes. Her hair hid the marks of her feminine nature, the miss grabbing her chemise as she slipped it on herself. Her dress and corset were the next things. The redhead touched the ribbons on the back of her corset and tightened them. She was unsure why she needed to wear one when her waist was so narrow, but in a way, it pulled her look together. She walked faster towards the now dry clothes, grabbing them off the rocks and folding them neatly in her basket. Her black cloak was beside the tree, clasping the little buttons together. Picking up the basket, she headed towards the capital square. She would return to society and her enslavement– only one of those things she didnt want.
The young women, mothers, and their daughters left a while ago, as she was the only one left. She placed her hood over her hair and walked towards the home. Sometimes it would be dangerous at nightfall. She didnt want anything awful to happen to her. Very few of the shops were still open, most likely for the wanderers like herself. The bakery was closed, not that she had money on her to purchase anything, a pity, but it was a dream to be able to buy bread for herself. She needed to concentrate and focus on getting back home before her master became angry. Even though the emperor's wrath was scary, it paled to Jancis’s. His eyes would be full of rage, his lips twitching like wildfire, and his hands which formed into fists would hurt like hell. She saw how the sun had finally disappeared, quickly running towards the shabbier areas of town.
The sound of steps and the echoes of glass bottles breaking frightened her. Sure, her home was not a place for her well-being, but it was better than facing the crooks and the drunkards on the street. She saw the blue and red banner of her master's store, hearing men's laughter coming dangerously close. Her hand reaches towards the knob, opens it, and enters the shop. She locked everything and nearly sunk to the floor, but she felt her senses heightened when she saw Jancis drunkenly walk down the steps.
“There- *hic* you are b-brat!” He held a bottle in his left hand, pointing at her with his other one. “Took yer long enough..” He hiccuped, his face flushed with red. Oh, he was drunk this time. She still held the basket in her hands, the man taking the final step before he nearly fell. “Yer lucky that I had something at the pub, or you would have been *hic* dead by now.” He laughed a little, the chubby stout man taking another swig of his wine bottle. She nodded, keeping her gaze low to appease him. She was going to walk right by him to leave him in his drunken misery, but he grabbed her forearm so tightly that she winced in pain. “Theres a beauty contest tomorrow afternoon– yer gonna enter it, right?” He asked, nearly stumbling over his words. She shook her head ‘no, his grip tightening as she dropped her basket onto the floor. “I said yer gonna enter, right?” His tone was more aggressive, fear biting her in every part of her body. This time she shook her head Yes, that's what he wanted to hear. “That's more like it.” The reek of alcohol flew from his breath, the man throwing her away from him as she touched her arm.
She grabbed the clothes from the floor, taking them upstairs to her room. She stumbled, opening the door until she was in the sanctuary of her quaint little room. The door closes behind her as she collapses on the floor. No, she had to be strong. She has to endure to the very end. A beauty contest? Why now, a week after the emperor's celebration? So strange was this capital. Despite living here for 11 years, she never grew accustomed to the festivals, despite dancing in some with others like herself. She wiped some tears from her eyes and lay down on her bed. She just needed to rest, just a little. Her eyes threatened to close, and in moments she drifted off into the land of dreams…
Her dream must have been too pleasant. She could have been in her fantasy world for a little longer if it wasn't for the stomping from outside her door.
“Wake up, brat!” Jancis barged in, alarming the girl to high degrees. The man rubbed his aching temples, his grimace quickly replaced with a smile. She knew he was full of requests. “Get ready for that contest, now!” He ordered viciously, grumbling under his breath. As he closed the door behind him, she waited patiently for his footsteps to fade away. She looked for her dress with long sleeves, mostly to cover her forsaken branding mark. It was a soft cream color with a few designs on the hems. She sewed this one herself, tailoring it to fit her measurements. Today was indeed a fitting occasion to wear something like this. The redhead found her green corset with white ribbons, messing with the laces as she loosened it. She undressed, leaving only her chemise from the day before on her figure. She quickly put on her dress, trying to button the back to the best of her ability, but it hardly mattered as her corset would hold it together and hide it nicely.
A few moments later, after completing her look, she sat by her little vanity. She grabbed her brush as the knots went through the bristles. It combed through as straightly as possible, yet it always managed to hold its curls towards the tips. Putting her hair up would make her look better, and Jancis would refrain from having a fit, just as he usually did. She opened one of the drawers, grabbing a red ribbon from the bunch. Without hesitation, she put her hair in a high ponytail, the ribbon miraculously staying in place. Yet a wave of dread and tiredness hit her all at once, having to go through all the trouble mainly for her master. The actions he would take to win. He even thought of getting makeup– even though it’s relatively costly, such as powders, rouges, and creams. Her master never bought them unless it was necessary, on rare occasions. Despite this, she would rely on her natural beauty. For now, her natural looks were her pride.
She gazes at her reflection, knowing she’d have to fake a smile again. She sighed, standing as she tied her laced shoes against her ankles. A wave of dread and lies came over her once again…Here goes nothing.
Notes:
comments are appreciated but not necessary! Thank you to everyone who is supporting this work!
Chapter 9: the contestant
Chapter Text
The town was lively with dancing, music, and merry good fun. It's not very often that beautiful women would be in the same area, or at least that's what the locals believed during this event. It was rarer than a blue moon! The redhead looked at her surroundings, though she felt the eyes of her master digging into her back like a sharp dagger. Now that she thought about it, it was no wonder why she felt a shift in the air. The bustle of people from the day before and the baker producing more loaves than ever were for the beauty contest. The capital has never had one before, but according to Jancis, who explained something to her nicely, the beauty contest originated in Celtina and moved from region to region. The crown prince of Prussina held a beauty contest to gain a new wife, as he had many. The King of Renaldi did the same, but the motives were much more pleasant. Algeria hesitated as the people saw that there was no such thing as perfect beauty but gave into the requests of the nobles– who wished for one.
The redhead kept her head held high, although the temptation to creep away and look downcast was all the more prevalent as her master put on his usual act. The stout man walked beside her, wearing his best attire. He wore thick black harem pants, a white peasant blouse, golden bangles, shoes, and his black hair turban with a white ostrich feather. He looked grand, and he wasn't afraid to flaunt his wealth. Well, the newfound wealth that he now had. Since he received 3000 kronor from pawning off ‘his’ jewel, he had money to spare for his expensive taste. Not that his slave would ever receive the benefits, sadly enough.
“Keep close to me, brat! The girls will form a line toward the stage. Then I want you to follow them.” He paused to breathe, seeing her dark cloak in her hands. “You’re going to wear this today.” He motioned to the dark velvet fabric. “It will add more mystery to you, my dear.” She nodded solemnly, cringing at how nice he sounded. They were nearing society, leaving the slums and dark corners of their neighborhood for the light and affluent areas of town. She saw flowers, mountains of them. There was an oak wood stage, used for executions, very rare, but one for the beauties to walk the stairs and stand for the crowd to see. Her eyes widened, seeing people dancing to music, laughing, drinking, and enjoying everyone's company. She turned behind her, finding Jancis had already found people to converse with.
She clasped her cloak over herself, walking towards the basket of flowers as she plucked one from the batch. It was a red rose, and oh, how it smelled divine. It wasn't as pleasant as the emperor's camellias, but the flower took her worries away. She smiled slightly from underneath, the young woman turning her attention to the dancing. The costumes were beautiful. The men and women looked like stars sparkling in the night sky with the way they looked. She wished to join them, and with all her might, she wished she could. But she shied away from it as she remembered Janci’s orders. Wear the cloak, and enter that competition. She would follow through with it. After all, what was she to do as a slave? A sad fate indeed.
She heard the clopping of horses' hooves and wheels turning. Looking ahead, she saw carriages arrive, parking by the street. The onlookers were surprised, just as she was. Yes, they knew nobles existed, and the fabulously wealthy would never dare to trudge here, at least not by themselves. They would send their servants to do the shopping, the laundry, and other activities deemed ‘commoners' work. Unless they were here for the only thing, the beauty contest. She stood by the lamppost, watching as a beautiful young woman left her carriage in an array. Her silk dress was in a light shade of pink that suited her complexion very well. Her hair was brown, a standard color, but in a curled updo. Pearls were around her dainty neck. Golden rings were around her neatly manicured fingers. Her face was full of makeup, yet from a distance, it looked like nothing was there. Rouge for the lips and cheeks, mascara on her lashes to show off her blue orbs, and skin covered with powder. She fanned her face with her feathered fan, another young woman leaving a carriage with the same array but different color.
Her dress was white lace and green silk, with a few gems and a diamond ring on her finger. The young woman’s hair was medium-length and blonde. So blonde that it looked like gold. Her eyes were green as well. Her outfit must have been planned from the very start. She observed them quietly, wondering how someone like her would ever win a beauty competition when she had nobles so lavishly dressed to compete against. The horse-led carriages left the town, and more arrived within the hour. The noblewoman looked gorgeous, yet a twinge of insecurity filled her heart. The same material of dresses and yards of skirts would traverse across the cobblestone, later becoming dirty, but would be washed by the laundress's careful hands.
She recognized the baker with his little hat since she’s seen him from the window the day prior. She witnessed with a smile as he passed his pastries to children with pocket money and the parents following close behind them. They made small talk amongst themselves, the children leaving them as they looked at the wooden stage with curious eyes. Yes, they had no clue what was going on. The idea that some announcements happen seemed to formulate in their little heads. Their childish innocence made the redhead smile even more, the girl setting the flower back into the basket.
Her attention turned to a fancier carriage than all the rest, led by well-groomed white horses. A man exited from it, a purple and gold robe on his person. His hat looked funny, but she and the nobles immediately recognized this man as the emperor's announcer. Now it all made sense. The man is probably searching for the beauty of his wildest dreams. But then again, she considered this and deconstructed that the emperor was unfavorable towards women. After all, he oppressed her the night they met in the garden, though he had reason to since she was a trespasser on his sacred grounds. The emperor's announcer stepped on stage with a parchment, most likely a speech. The once small crowd clumped together and surrounded the place like ants swarming towards a morsel of dropped food. The redhead saw that this was her cue to walk towards the stage with the other girls like herself.
The man cleared his throat, looking at the crowd with excitement shining in his chartreuse eyes.
“My dear friends, and the nobles who have come a long way to be here with us today, I welcome you all!” He bellowed powerfully, so loudly that the whole world could hear. After all, there were more than 500 people. “For those unaware of who I am, I am Felous Amarino, the emperor’s announcer appointed by his most trusted council. I have been sent on behalf of the Royal Line to partake with you all. This contest originated in Celtina, one of our regions across the sea. It's a time to celebrate the beauty and what it can do for us. It can enchant us, bewitch, and change the course of history in ways you may never know. Everyone can join, regardless of who they are or their status. All are welcome to this event!” He shouts his words loud and clear, as it was fitting since more joined the multitude. The girls beside the redhead giggled and laughed with happiness, some unable to contain their excitement.
It contrasted with the noble ladies with common folk here and there, yet those of status were quite reserved and focused, but she wondered why they were here of all places. Yes, this contest didn’t discriminate against their gathering, as the man had stated only a few moments before, but to come here? The backwater of the land? She smiled at that factor momentarily, stars shining in her amethyst orbs.
“I know very few of you young ladies, but remember that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and if you don’t win, don’t be so discouraged!” Felous smiled brightly, continuing his practiced speech. “The contest winner will be escorted to the palace to meet his majesty. You may request anything you desire, and guaranteed he will give it to you!” The village girls screamed while the men and husbands smiled pridefully at the beauties. Meanwhile, the noblewomen fanned their faces even faster. Maybe with rich-filled daydreams. So that explains why they’re here, to see the emperor? Or seek the reward? Amarino did say that the emperor could grant a dream come true if he wished.
Meeting him face to face seemed like a distant and meaningless thought in the wind, but it sounded like a treat indeed, more than a treat for the redhead. It was a chance to see him again after all this time. The village girls have never seen him, and all the ladies at the party never had the opportunity to speak with him. At least, not personally, yet she had the chance to “speak” to him before. Even though the one-sided conversation didn’t go as one would have hoped, she still hoped she could see those aquamarine orbs, just briefly.
“Until then, let us enjoy ourselves. Music, carry on!” He clapped his hands as others followed his lead. May the first appear before me?” Felous requested. The first young woman fluffed her hair as she stood on the stage. “Now, my audience, clap and cheer for every girl beside me. Your enthusiasm will mark the winner for today!” The mix of alcohol and excitement in the air riled the crowd! Men and women are ready to praise the beautiful contestants.
“Now, your name?” He asks the woman beside him curiously.
“Elena Navano.”
“Elena Navano, everyone!” The claps and cheers started and lasted only a few seconds until they died. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, after all. “Ah, a tough crowd, I see! Off you go then, and remember you are still gorgeous.” He replied swiftly, motioning his hand to the next girl. Much to her disappointment, she pouted and pursed her lips. She discontentedly nodded as she walked down the stage, mumbling words filled with spite. The noblewoman with the pink silk dress stood this time in her competitor's place.
“Lady Isis la Rose.” She hid her face with her fan, the announcer pausing dramatically.
“A noble has graced us with her presence as I introduce Lady Isis la Rose! Please do a spin and show your eloquence, my lady.” He spoke highly of her, as he should since she was a noble. Still, the redhead felt an ick when she saw only a few claps and shouts. Maybe the people had a distaste for the noble or just this woman.
“I heard she seduced one of the dukes to get her standing in court. She is now his wife, though she is ten years his senior. How shameful.” She overheard the not-so-silent whispers of a competitor, the snickering making Lady Isis furious.
“Shut your mouth, commoner! You lowlifes are beneath me!” She stormed off, somehow managing to look elegant while she shouted in an unladylike fashion. Her carriage awaited her while her escorts stood ready. The crowd stayed silent, yet the cloaked woman could see the unpleasant stares from the people.
“My word! A viper! Who knew under all that wealth was a predator lurking about?” Felous tried to fix the atmosphere, the music changing to a much happier tune. More people came to join, and some watched from the second floors of their homes.
Another noblewoman she recognized earlier. This was the one with the green silk dress. She lifted the hood of her cloak to see more, this time hearing the announcer repeat something similar to the maiden before this one.
“Please give a warm welcome to Lady Marium!” He shouted to the crowd. The beauty smiled casually, her gaze kind. That stunned the people to a high degree since it was common for the nobles to look at them as if they were a disgrace. There were a few claps, then built up into shouts and cheers. She curtsied elegantly, lifting the hem of her dress while fanning her face with her fan. “What a crowd! I assume you all are happy, I assume?” He asked rhetorically. The few nods and smiles answered his question, the man taking her hand as he led her toward the side of the stage. “We still have plenty of contestants to go. My dear friends, save your applause and cheers for our next few guests joining us in just a few moments!” He commented as the music played a little louder than usual. With the sounds of various instruments, his voice would be drowned out by now.
That was far from the case, as each contestant appeared before him. He announced their names and waited for the crowd to be filled with passion or distaste. They did as they were asked, and some competitors came and went. Most with unpleasant faces and disheartening glances towards the crowd. It seemed as if Lady Marium would be the victor of this beauty contest in all her wealth and splendor.
“Your enthusiasm and support for each of these lovely ladies is remarkable. Now it has come to a close as we only have one final competitor with us this morning–no afternoon now.” He chuckled at his mistake, looking at the sun now high in the sky. The redhead ascended the steps, her cloak hovering only inches above the stage. The crowd whispered amongst themselves, looking at this mysterious figure whose cloak covered their body. It reminded them of a ghost, as they only saw the color black and no shoes from underneath where the fabric fell. The music changed for a moment, where it was so soft, it was fitting. The silence grew to the point where it became uncomfortable for everyone. Lady Marium, with all her grand and elegant composure, narrowed her eyes at this figure.
“Come now, take off that cloak. Though it is not my place to say, would you think that perhaps a monster is underneath?” She knew what she was saying, and her word was carefully composed but laced with venom. Was it so common for these nobles to be so stuck up? She wondered this, yet she fidgeted with her fingers in anticipation.
“My dear Lady, do not assume.” He chuckled momentarily, pressing a comforting hand against the redhead’s back.
“Yeah! What if Lady Marium is right? What if the person beneath is a monster in disguise?” One of the men proclaims with an atrocious voice.
“It could be possible!” An older woman exclaimed, holding her child closer to her person.
“Now, dear friends, let us give our last contestant a moment to speak for themselves.” He calmed the crowd down with this opportunity. The redhead looked up with a positive beam in her eyes, gazing at the man before her. He kept his eyes on the crowd, and until he met her eyes, his composure faltered. Instantly, he lost the words he wanted to say, and his mind became blank. Those eyes were beautiful, purple, and so full of vivid color that he wished everyone to see this magnificent beauty.
“Y-your name, my dear?” His young face grew red as his voice was loud for all to hear. She shook her head from side to side, and that was enough for him to understand her, thankfully.
The people down below wished to see her face, and their voices soon became angry when they began to shout. The cloak then fell from her as a pale hand removed the clasp which held it together. The heavy fabric was on the stage floor, and an audible gasp escaped the lips of every person. She stood straight and tall, looking at the announcer with pleading eyes. With that expression, she almost asked him to say something to dissolve the silence.
She lifted the hem of her dress, just as Lady Marium did a long time before, and gave a bow with her hand against her chest. When she looked at the mass of people, she smiled so beautifully. Her ribbon loosened as the ruby red curls fell towards her back. Never before have they seen red hair, purple eyes, and a smile so lovely. With no words to say, the announcer clapped his hands for the beauty. It was the gesture where men who couldn't believe their eyes followed the action. Women were dumbfounded at such grace and eloquence that their loud praises drowned out the music. The once silent and tension-filled crowd cheered with loud voices and applause.
“Do you hear these praises, my fair lady? They are for you! You are the winner of our contest! I congratulate you!” The crowd roared with excitement, smiles appearing on their once scornful faces. This beautiful woman had won! The redhead even doubted this for a second while Lady Marium was filled with a jealous rage. She kept her composure to the best of her ability. It seemed she lost this one, and rightfully so. The amethyst-orbed young woman looked at Armarino, the man gently taking her hand to lead her closer to the front of the stage. Flowers were thrown in the air as the multitude lay against her sandaled shoes. She picked one up from the stage floor, bringing it to her nose as she took in the sweet scent. How pretty.
She felt something being placed on her head, tilting her head briefly. What appeared to be a crown of roses matched her complexion and red curly locks.
“Please enjoy yourselves for the rest of the day, and you lovely young ladies…you have done well!” He proclaimed loudly, the people below the stage nodded at his words, still clapping and cheering away. “If you will come along with me, I will be the one to escort you to our noble emperor.” Amarino led the redhead down the steps, the crowd suddenly being pushed to the side by a man. It was none other than Jancis with a happy expression, yet she knew his underlying motives.
“You have done well, my daughter! May I speak with her one moment before you escort her?” Jancis pleaded with a smile, a smile that she knew all too well.
“Ah, she is your daughter? You must have great pride in her! Yes, yes, of course. But don't be too long now.” The man stands by the carriage as Jancis leads her to the side. It would have been suspicious if he had not hugged her. She shivered at his touch, feeling her body tense up.
“Disgusting brat, I won’t ever let you hug me ever again with your low status.” He smiled evilly, the girl keeping her head low to avoid his gaze. “Look up at me!” He whispered yet she could sense the anger in his voice, though she knew why. If people saw her looking so solemn, they would think something was going on, and that was far from what Jancis wished. “Now, my dear, when you go to the emperor, you're going to ask him to give you plenty of jewels. Batter your eyes, make him give you whatever you request, use that charm, and put it to good use. Remember to look happy, smile, and bring those jewels to me.” Another request, does he ever stop?
She nodded, not wanting to make him angrier. She quickly left his presence, walking towards Amarino with a smile. The carriage was grander up close, and she looked in awe at the gold plating and the plush red velvet seats from within.
“Allow me young miss.” He held her hand as he led her into the carriage, his kindness making her smile. He entered it as well, as one of the guards closed the door behind him. “Driver, to the emperor's palace!” He announced, focusing his gaze out the window in silence.
She did the same, looking into the clouds as she daydreamed about the emperor. She was going to see him again. What would fate have in store for her now?
Chapter 10: Again
Chapter Text
The redhead kept her eyes outside the window, watching the clouds pass by quickly. She sat comfortably on the plush velvet cushion seating, the carriage halting to a stop. She looked at Amarino, the man looking behind himself as the driver exchanged a glance. She watched as the massive gates opened, just as they did when she arrived only a few weeks before with nothing but an invitation and luggage.
The noble steeds led the carriage inside as it turned around the circular courtyard.
“We’ve arrived, miss,” Amarino announced quietly, the girl in front of him nodding as she understood where they were. In a place like this, she was away from the treacherous man that would lay his hands on her, leaving gruesome marks of his abuse. She shuddered momentarily, her scar feeling hot like the branding iron.
She was pulled out of her thoughts when the door was opened by one of the guards. Amararino left the carriage, the man offering his hand like a gentleman.
“If you’ll allow me, my dear lady.” He smiled genuinely, the young woman being mindful of her steps as she exited the horse-led transport. She looked at her surroundings, a smile appearing on her face as the grandness of the palace was like a dream.
She was not surprised when she saw the lineup of the guards with Sir Jean and Sir Amadeus leading them. They took notice of the carriage and the beautiful girl that had stepped out from it. Their brows raised in surprise, along with recognition of the redheaded beauty that had appeared to them before this.
“It's that girl again.” A guard whispered though he wasn't so quiet after all when the rest listened with attentive ears.
“The dancer!” Another proclaimed, pointing with his gloved hand. Sir Jean and his companion watched as she walked towards them with Amarino. The carriage was driving away, most likely back from where it originated, the two pausing as the others followed their captain and officer.
“Amarino, I see you are doing well.” Sir Amadeus smiled, showing his perfectly white teeth. The announcer shook hands with him, the man motioning his other hand to the woman beside him.
“This is our winning contestant from the beauty contest. We have just arrived from there just a few moments ago.” He started with a proud expression.
“Ah, I remember you, my dear. It’s good to have you back. We meet again on another good circumstance.” Sir Amadeus replied, giving her a polite nod. “Im sure you remember my companion Sir Jean, and these men behind us?” He asked with a smile. The young woman nodded, waving her hand towards the men and Sir Jean.
“My goodness, how could I forget! You looked quite familiar. Now I recall that you are one of the dancers that performed. I’m quite foolish to have not recognized you.” Amarinos face lit up as he was brought to remembrance by Amadeus’s words.
Sir Jean stayed quiet, the man finally opening his lips to speak.
“You look lovely. It was no mistake that you won the contest.” He smiled brightly. The guards nodded in agreement with his words, a few offering her congratulations. She thanked them silently with a smile. Her smile was magical. They couldn't help but fall for her grace and natural charm.
“I have done my duty. Now will one of you gentlemen gratefully escort this young woman to the emperor's study?” He requested with a smile. It didn’t take long for those men to shout with a start, volunteering for the redheaded young miss.
“I can do it!” One excitedly shouted, feeling the blood rush to his face as silence ensued. Though this didn't last long, an uproar of the men volunteered to take the young woman to the emperor with the purest intention of helping the miss.
“Men! Calm yourselves!” Amadeus yells, an angry expression painted on his features. It faded away as quickly as it came, the man’s smile making the redhead return the gesture. “Forgive my men’s sudden burst of enthusiasm.” He humbly said, the young woman moving her hands about in a manner to say it was ok.
“Sir Amadeus, I will take her to the emperor's study. I have no duties other than to watch these men. Not to mention their training is done for the afternoon. I have an hour or so to spare. It won't be much trouble.” He calmly explained his willingness to take the young woman.
Amadeus contemplated this. His decision was made when he nodded his head in approval.
“Amarino, men, let us leave to our designated places. Sir Jean, I will keep her in your careful hands.” The small group of men left the two of them alone together. The empty courtyard was peaceful, minus the few birds that landed on the cobblestone. Their chirps filled the quietness.
“This way, my lady.” He motioned his hand to one of the doors. She nodded as the two guards standing beside it opened both handles. The window’s curtains drew back to let the natural light beam from the stained glass panes. The red velvet carpet beneath their feet concealed Jean's heavy stomps, and the redhead's steps were more like pitter-patters of raindrops. “If my memory serves me right, you couldn't talk, correct?” Jean asks with a nonexistent brow raised. The young woman beside him nodded with a sad countenance. The guard beside her gave her a warm glance, almost to assure her.
“I don’t mean to remind you of that, as I'm sure you are often distraught about this factor.” Jean assumed with his armored hand scratching the back of his neck. Desperately wanting to change the subject, he cleared his throat. “I heard recently that many noble women would also participate in the contest. As it has already passed, was this true?” Jean questioned. They turned a corner, following another path down an endless hall. She nodded with a smile.
Unsure of what else to say, he understood the conversation would be mostly one-sided. As the redhead could not speak, he carefully considered what he could do. His critical thinking was cut short when he saw the closed double doors of the emperor’s study.
“We have arrived. Wait here for a moment.” Jean commanded, holding his hand out from his person. The man knocked on the door, clearing his voice.”
“Your majesty, I have arrived,” Jean says a little loudly, the woman watching and listening as she hears the shuffling of papers from within.
“What is it now? Does that council of mine need me again?”
Ah, she recognized that harsh tone anywhere. So it was happening. She is going to see the emperor again. Now that she thought about it, she hardly remembered his name. Sure, Amarino announced it on the night of the festival ball, but she was preoccupied with the girls’ laughter. Oh, how she missed them.
Pulled away from her saddening thoughts, Jean spoke up again.
“No, they have not. On the contrary, I have brought a guest with me.” He explained with a smile. Silence ensued for what felt like forever, and it took every ounce in the young woman's body not to make a strange expression.
“It’s the winning contestant for the contest Emperor Jotaro.” Jean's happy expression changed to boredom. He turned to her with his pale blue eyes, shrugging his shoulders.
“What contest?” Jotaro replies with an aggravated tone, Jean rubbing his temples, which now ached with the oncoming headache.
“The beauty contest, your majesty. The one you and the council approved a while ago.” He explains, the smile returning to his face.
The redhead beside him twirled a piece of her hair, hearing the sounds of something behind moving from across the floor.
“Very well, let the contestant in.” He reluctantly replies. Jean opens the door first, motioning for the girl to follow him. She does silently, her amethyst orbs spotting the figure with his back turned against them.
When the door closed, the man finally turned around, his eyes only slightly widening when he looked at her. His gaze didnt last very long as he turned his attention to Jean. Yet she couldn't stop looking at him. His unruly locks of hair hung against his forehead, his orbs forever aquamarine, his skin tan like caramel. Jotaro’s robes were grand. With a white top with roped buttons, the collar and waistband navy blue, and tassels on his right shoulder. A light blue and yellow sash hung against from the right, swerving down to the left, pinned with an emerald gem. Lastly, the red coat on his left shoulder, strapped with a golden rope and embellished with two more emerald stones. He looked dashing.
“Leave us. You know where your station is.” Jotaro dismissed his closest knight.
“As you wish, your majesty,” Jean replies humbly, bowing before he leaves the room. It was just the two of them again. The tension in the room wasn't as high as it was on that night. Not so much, at least. He finally looked at her again. His eyes turned cold and unwelcoming. Not wanting to upset him, she hoped that her looking down at the floor would appease him.
“Look up. My eyes are not on the floor.” He commands with an aggravated voice. She flinches a little, a worried expression painted on her features. “I know you cannot talk, but that does not excuse your lack of manners.” Like a dagger, his words cut deep. They were true. She couldn't deny this, but it still hurt in a way.
She did as she was told, her amethyst orbs meeting his. It felt wrong to look at him in any way. Jotaro momentarily crossed his arms against his chest as he was wondering about something. But, he instead put his hand in his pocket.
“So you are capable of learning manners. Shocking.” He plainly stated. “Funny to think that a commoner would win a beauty contest.” He pauses as his expression is relaxed and stone-faced. “Plenty of others attended this, those damned nobles too.” He grimaced momentarily. “But you, of all people, a mere common girl, won.” He rested one of his hands on his desk, looking primarily annoyed that he was continuing this conversation.
“Good grief, it feels like I’m talking to a wall!” Jotaro yells, annoyed by her presence.
She flinches, keeping her head low. He opened his lips to speak again. “Don’t think I forgot you can’t talk. I still remember that night you trespassed into my garden.” He brought up the past like a foul memory, the young woman nodding at his words. “You must feel like you’re on top of the world, as whatever you wish from me will be granted, correct?” He asked with his hand clenching into fists.
“So then, girl, what are you looking for? Are you searching for what everyone else desires? Wealth? A title? Fame and glory?” His brows furrowed as he looked about to burst with seething rage. Thankfully, he didn’t, as that would have been a disaster. The redhead looked up immediately, shaking her head in a ‘no’ manner.
Jancis requested jewels, beautiful jewels beyond comprehension. Knowing him, he would pawn them off and have enough krona to buy plenty of things to support his drinking habit and expensive taste. She wouldn't receive anything from it. Even if Jancis is on his last breath, they will bury his corpse and all that money.
“Then what is it that you want?” He asks again. The girl looked briefly at the emeralds on his chest. Jancis wants them, yet, she desired something more than that. Her freedom. A pricey thing. He would have to die for her to gain it. A new owner was out of the question. There was no such thing as slavery here. It’s outlawed.
“Theres no need to lie. I saw your eyes move toward these, correct? Jotaro asked once more. She nodded, but her eyes moved to the flowers. Those flowers, for that matter, were an embodiment of the future she could never have. Those were her momentary hope in a cruel world such as this.
She pointed to the flowers on his desk. Though artificial, still beautiful nonetheless. The dark green stems stuck out from the vase, along with the tulips, roses, and another flower she couldn't identify. What a gorgeous arrangement.
Jotaro raised his brow in curiosity but also shock. Flowers? Of all things, flowers? He shook his head from side to side, almost disappointed she chose something that would hardly last long.
“You wish for a flower? How unexpected. It makes me wonder why you would choose something as minuscule as that. Is this a form of a trick? Do you have underlying motives?” The man asks these questions with narrowed eyes. She could tell that he didn't believe her request. Not that he needed to, but it would have been nice if he understood. The red-haired maiden shook her head in a no manner, pointing again at the flowers with intent.
“For once in my life, I'm surprised. Congratulations, you are the first to choose something perishable.” Jotaro sighed, his angered expression returning to his handsome features. The redhead fidgeted with her fingers, looking about the room to avoid the emperor's gaze. She didn't enjoy the silence. It was an unnerving thing. The quietness dissipated when she heard his fingers tapping against the desk. Was he expecting something? It was odd.
“Sir Jean,” Jotaro called the knight's name from within. The man opened the door with a smile on his face, though it only lasted for a split second. “Take this… girl to the gardens. Her request was a flower. You’re dismissed.” He waved off his hand, turning his back against them as he did in the beginning.
“Yes, of course, your majesty.” He turned to meet her gaze, his eyes giving her a sympathetic look. “ Follow me if you will.” He instructed. She smiled, glancing at the man before her, biting her lip as she left the room. Jean closed the door behind him, not a single word leaving his mouth as he took her down the hall. She looked about her surroundings being mindful of the curtains, the carpets, and sometimes the stained glass windows that illuminated the room with color. She wondered just how big this palace was. From the outside, it looked like it went on for miles and miles. Impressed by the decoration, they turned a corner to a double-oaked wooden door.
She only knew Jean for two days, well more than that considering she stayed within the palace walls during the party for a while, and now again after this most recent event. Yet, it was strange that he didn't talk after the emperor dismissed them from his presence. However, her racing thoughts and questions were put aside when she saw he was about to speak to her.
“You'll have to forgive him for speaking to you like that. He grows annoyed by the day with a counsel always at his door. Don't take it to heart. If I could, I would teach him how he should correctly talk to a young woman like yourself– any woman.” As Jean explained what he was thinking, he opened the door. She was back in the public gardens where she and those other dancers explored. “I'll be honest with you. This garden doesn't have the prettiest flowers. Follow me. I know a better one.” The knight took her to the other garden, the emperor's private one. She was well aware of what lies within those garden walls. After all, she's been inside only once, but they were the prettiest flowers. She almost forgot about the other one, wherever it was.
Jean looked about his surroundings, making sure no one was around. Sir Amadeus and his fellow knights were probably in a mess hall eating, so the coast was clear. He pushed open the gate with his hand, the iron door opening as the metal hinges creaked. “His Majesty said you requested a flower as your reward. Take your pick of any. I’ll use my dagger to cut off the stem so you don't prick your finger, as most of these have thorns.”
The redhead smiled at his generous offer, although she had the emperor to thank, as he was the one who would give her anything that she wanted. She noticed the camellias by the fountain, still beautiful and ever-blooming. Was it really okay for her to have something like this? She understood it was just a flower, but it was almost impossible to request anything from where she came from. She was blessed and lucky to experience something like this.
She pointed to the flower, the man beside her nodding as he pulled out one of the sharp daggers strapped on the side of his waist. It was shiny and encrusted with a jewel in the very center of the handle. He carefully handled the stem. With one quick motion, he cut it off and handed it to her. Her eyes sparkled with happiness as she looked at the beautiful petals. She placed a hand on her chest as she bowed in appreciation.
“Your face just lit up when taking that.” Jean laughed a little, pulling out something from the side of his waist. “ I'm not supposed to do this, but here.” He handed her a heavy tassel. Its color was purple, gold, and white. She saw on the very top a strange crest and recognized it as the emperor’s. It matched the one that was on the gate outside of the palace. “A tassel like this is important as it can grant entry inside. It wouldn't be questioned, not even by the guards stationed outside. I'm not sure why, but I feel compelled to give it to you. Mostly for the sole purpose of gathering flowers if you'd like.”
The redhead’s eyes widened with surprise. What a kind soul.
“Keep this to yourself. Time is up for me, so I'll have to leave you. But hopefully, I'll see you around under another pleasant circumstance.” Jean bows towards her, waving goodbyes as he leaves her by the gardens. He turned a corner as he disappeared from her line of sight. Preoccupied with her new materials, she would see herself out as she did not want to overstay her welcome. She knew the rest of the way from here.
She was offered to be escorted by one of the knights, but she politely turned him down with a smile. When those gates closed, she quickly walked through the busy streets of people celebrating the remnants of the beauty contest. Luckily for her, the people that saw her acknowledged her with warm expressions and small congratulations.
The redhead gave them all a polite nod but recognized that her master was no longer there. Curiosity overwhelmed her as she wondered where he could be. The sun, once high in the sky, was starting to set over the horizon. The pale white clouds were now pink and looked like a portion of heaven. She didnt think that the day would end so fast. Time flies when you're having a good time. When she went down the dark alleyway, everything looked so sinister, gloomy, and unwelcoming. Luckily for her, there were no suspicious people around. She heard shuffling from a bit away, the young woman picking up her pace. Her home was close, and she was thankful she reached the door before the sun went down. She sucked in a deep breath, clutched the flower close to her chest, and entered the shop with a heavy heart.
Chapter 11: execution
Chapter Text
There was a chill in the air as if the snow from winter had returned a few seasons early. The redhead entered the shop beneath her quaint little room, glancing from side to side, hoping her master was nowhere to be found. But oh, how wrong she was. It didn't take long for the heavy footsteps of her master to echo through the quiet room or for her expression to change to fear. Her complexion paled, and her eyes widened with terror, her cloak covering her person and hiding the flower within, but it didn't spare her from his expectant gaze. She saw how flushed his face was and how he swayed back and forth like a weak branch in the wind. He was drunk again– only partially.
“Brat…” His words were almost incomprehensible to understand. Blubbering like a fish out of water and slurring his words like a madman. His lips trembled as he was about to fall over, but his vacant eyes turned to her with greed and expectancy. “Out again this late *hic* at night?” He hiccuped, the man grabbing one of the bottles on the side of the room. The wine reeked from his person, or it might have been his lack of self-care and hygiene. He took another swig like it was water, gulping it down until he dropped it onto the floor.
She nodded, fear gripping her heart as she tried her best not to look into his eyes. But she felt him draw near her and shivered when she felt his hand on her cloaked shoulder. “Ye brought the jewels, right?” He asked with a smile, his crooked yellow teeth making her want to vomit with disgust. She lightly nudged him away, but his grip on her grew tighter. She winced, but this pain was tolerable for now. “I said… the jewel!” Jancis yelled, holding out his calloused hand.
The young woman shook her head in a ‘no’ manner, hiding her face. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her distress.
“Ye want to disobey me now, do ye?!” He yelled, gripping her arm so tightly she felt it would break. She was already fragile enough, but what was one more bruise to add? “Ye think you’re so special *hic* since you won the contest, ye?! You seemed to have forgotten your place beneath me, you scum of the earth!” He pulled her down, her body by his pointed shoes. “What’s that you’re hiding, huh?!” He saw her other hand within her cloak, the girl doing everything to hide that thing from his eyes.
Unfortunately, he was much stronger than her. In all aspects, she saw how his eyes dimmed when he saw the now wilted flower. Her struggle had caused the petals to fall as soon as his eyes met them. “A damned flower?! You selfish little bitch!” He yelled at her with extreme anger. The stout little man pulled it from her grasp, throwing it onto the floor. She tried reaching for the petals, but Jancis fiercely stomped on her hand.“What do you think you’re trying to do, eh?!” He snarled, the man watching her wince in pain.
She wriggled like a snake, the girl removing her hand from under the sole of his shoe. It hurt, burning like flames with the way it throbbed. It could have been worse now that she thought about it. He could break her hand, wrist, or arm. He had done it before. Her master grabbed a fistful of her hair, lifting her only slightly. Tears fell down her face as she looked at him with eyes begging for mercy. It seemed that the alcohol was fading away, and the remnants of his aggression were left.
He was gnashing his teeth, dragging her form towards the stairs, the young woman trying hard to flee his grasp. “Resisting me?! How dare you, you scum!” With a loud swoosh, he struck her face with incredible force. The redhead tried to scurry away, but he stepped on the hem of her now dirty white and green dress.
Her hair was a mess, in absolute disarray, but somehow still looked beautiful despite her pain. She pressed her hand against her cheek firmly. She saw a drop of crimson on the floor. Not the first time her lip bled, and it won't be the last. She had no time to recover when she felt the blow to her side. His heels dug into her ribs continually.
She curled into a ball, covering her head as it hurt everywhere else. Her vision grew blurry, but she needed to leave. He kicked her again, and again, and again. When would this suffering end? When would she be free to leave this damned place, this hell that bound her? Her strength faded as he gripped a fistful of her hair again. Her eyes grew dim, and she was powerless to stop the next thing that would happen.
She closed her eyes as she felt something sharp against her neck, the man pressing his small dagger against her skin. It felt like a thousand needles.
“Next time I say to get something, don’t you dare disobey me again, or else that lip of yours won't be the only thing bleeding.” He tossed her away from him like a discarded and mistreated doll. The young girl lay against the glass cases, hardly breathing at all. It hurts to move. Her arms, neck, side, and back ached fervently, and her cheek slowly swelled up. The dress was now dark brown with wrinkles in most areas and stained with blood on the torso.
She tried to stand for a moment but fell back down again. Her strength had left her, but the will to live had not. She needed to get to that place, even if it was just for a moment. The redhead used the glass case to stabilize herself, standing upright– even if it hurt. That monster was asleep by now. She grabbed her cloak from the floor, taking one step after another like a baby’s first walk of life.
She was taking a risk, leaving this place at night, but anywhere would be much better than here. Closing the door behind her, she was thankful to the heavens for the full moon lighting her way in the dark streets. Her ankles hurt a little, but that never stopped her before. There were no lamps like there were in the capital square, but the dirty cobblestone roads were the same. The redhead passed by some buildings, placing her hood over her head as she was careful to avoid being a target for suspicious characters to overtake her.
With minimal time, she reached the palace. The lanterns hanging above the iron gates illuminated the standing guards stationed at their posts. She hid behind one of the shop walls, biting her lip. Was it worth it? She understood the risks, but she needed to be protected. When one can hardly fend for themselves, they look to others to help bear their burdens.
She breathed in and out, taking a few more steps toward the stationed guards. Immediately, their eyes gazed at her form, weapons ready and their stance in perfect position.
“Halt! Who goes there?!” One asks, the girl looking up and seeing more guards walking back and forth with crossbows. Unable to utter a word, she took another step forward. She put both hands in front of her to show them that she was unarmed and not a threat to them. But she withdrew her hand back into her cloak to reach for something from her dress pocket.
“Is this some kind of joke?! Leave this place before I have you thrown into the prison for trespassing!” He threatened, but his breath seemed to have been hitched in his throat when she pulled out the physical form of the emperor's seal. The gold, white, and purple tassel swayed back and forth like a pendulum, taunting them.
“His majesty’s seal…” One of the two whispered in awe. Without much choice, they would have to let her in. It was strange to them that a cloaked figure emerged from the darkness in the middle of the night with the emperor's seal, but how could they question it? How dare they question it. His Majesty would only give that seal to those he trusted with his life and with whom he kept close connections.
“Let this person in! Open the gates!” One yelled loudly, thankfully only enough for the others to hear. Instructed by him, the gates opened so slowly and creaked like the rusted hinges of the emperor’s private gardens. She gave a curt nod, heading inside with only one place in mind. She was safe, for now.
—
“A cloaked figure entered the palace with one of my seals?” Emperor Jotaro raised his brow with curiosity but faded to his annoyed look.
“Yes, Your Majesty. Some of my men awoke with a start in the barracks from Sir Amadeus, and are standing in the surrounding area where the trespasser is.” Jean replies, his expression firm and resilient.
“I will see to this inconvenience myself.” He pushed himself out of his desk, walking out the door with a twinge of anger. The man walked to the area, his knights beside him as they led the way to where this mysterious cloaked figure stood. They let him go ahead, the man dismissing them with a wave. “Have everyone leave. I will only have Sir Jean with me. All of you here are unnecessary. I have a feeling that this fiasco will only take a few moments to deal with.” Jotaro instructed them coldly.
He saw the cloaked figure touching one of the flowers before he slowly walked toward them. His severely quiet steps did not catch this figure's attention until his hand reached the velvet fabric.
“Since you will not reveal yourself, I will be the one to do it for you!” He yelled fiercely. It didnt take long for the moonlight to shine on this figure's red hair, milky white skin, and the dress he was familiar with seeing only a few hours before. This person held her hands together, her expression surprised. They lock eyes for a moment, both taking a moment to look at each other.
The redhead turned away in shame, but the man before her said nothing. His stone face was hard to read, but he was observing. He saw the bruised arms and what appeared to be a broken wrist. Blood on the torso, and her cheek was red with a hue of purple. The left side of her lip was red and almost looked like it would bleed again when touched. But what brought his attention more was the very visible “JM” on the girl's shoulder.
He raised his brow, the silence between them deafening. He saw how the redhead tried to hide it but failed miserably. Without a word, there was an awkwardness and a lingering state of despair.
Jotaro opened his lips to speak as if he was going to say something, but he heard the footsteps of another being.
“Your majesty, there is a commotion at the front gate. A drunkard is trying to get in, saying something was stolen. Say the word, and I will follow your instructions.” Sir Amadeus appears from the shadows, his eyes looking at the girl with pity.
“Let him in. Have your men bring him here in front of me.” Jotaro commanded. The girl looked at him with surprise, turning away as she saw solace in the form of the flowers planted adjacent to her.
It didnt take long for the quietness of the night to be interrupted by the gradually loud yelling of a man.
“Let go of me, you swine! Do you have any idea of who I am?!” The redhead recognized that voice anywhere, and a chill went up her spine when she saw the stout little man who had tortured her so. She witnessed Jancis's arms tied tightly with a twisted rope behind his back. The two knights of high standing held both of his arms as he kneeled on the floor.
“You scum! Let go of me this–”
“Silence!” Emperor Jotaro yelled, the area surrounded by his guards, knights, and this girl of no particular title.
“Oh… think you’re someone of high standing do ye?! Who do you think you all are standing above me like you’re somebody!?” Jancis yelled, but his expression turned to absolute rage when he saw the shivering girl he owned.
“I’ve been told that something of yours was stolen. Care to explain, foolish man?” Jotaro asked with his hand in his pocket. Jancis tried to escape and reach for him, but the knight's grip was firm like iron.
“You dare to call me foolish? You and your clothes! You’re absolute rubbish, you fool, you scoundrel!” He yelled as the guard's faces contorted with anger.
“Peasants will always be peasants with the way they act. You are beneath them all with how you dress and carry yourself.” Jotaro says with an affirmative tone. As if Jancis wasn't already angry enough, his eyes looked like they would pop out of his head with how wide they were. “Tell me, who is this girl to you? Who is she?” He asks with curiosity.
Jancis begins to laugh, his boisterous gaze turning to her with hate. The men watched as she flinched, taking a step back.
“This girl is nothing to me. The scum of the earth, a foolish brat! I’m lucky I never have to associate myself with a lowlife like this!” Jancis replies foolishly and arrogantly. “You bitch! Wait till I get my hands on you. I’LL BEAT YOU WORSE THAN THIS TIME! I’LL KILL YOU!” He threatened. How could a man have this much hate within his heart?
“How unfortunate to talk to your daughter like this.” Emperor Jotaro states with brows furrowed.
“Daughter?! That ugly bitch is not my daughter but a slave!! You idiot!” The air around them turned grim. Jancis was too drunk to realize what he said. Everyone looked at the girl with sympathy, some hearts breaking at the thought of this girl being a slave under this man.
“So the truth is revealed. You must know that having a slave in this region is outlawed.” He paused. “I'll correct myself. Everywhere, it is outlawed. You are the fool, not I!” Emperor Jotaro yells. “This crime is punishable by death. Away with him!” He replies with a harsh tone. Jancis's smile fades as he realizes who this man is. She saw Jancis show fear in his drunken state. That was a first.
“Y-you’re the emperor? The sun of the empire!?” He stumbled over his words.
“YOUR MAJESTY!” He yelled with a start.
‘Now you address me with formalities.” Jotaro laughed a little.
“Anything but death, your majesty!” Jancis pleaded, the man's eyes widening more as sweat began to drop down his aging face. “YOUR MAJESTY, I BEG OF YOU! YOUR MAJESTY-”
The man's sentence was left unfinished as a loud ‘crunch’ echoed throughout the courtyard. Blood slowly seeped from his neck until one droplet became two and two into a pool. It didnt take long for his head to drop from his shoulders to the cobblestone floor beneath his dead feet. His body slipped from the knight's grasp, crimson flowing through the crevices.
The bloody sword's tip rested against the ground menacingly. Jotaro removed his glove as if he would ever let tainted blood touch him. He grabbed one of the handkerchiefs from his pocket and wiped the crimson from his sword. With one clean slash, beheaded. “Deal with that fool's body as you will.” Jotaro replies, his angered expression all the more prevalent when he looks at the blood that continuously seeped through the courtyard. What a shame.
Jotaro placed his sword back into its sheath, looking at the girl with a brow raised. “Woman.” He called to her. The other knights around them left, leaving the two alone, with only Jean and Sir Amadeus by his side.
She looked at them as the moonlight showcased her scar and bruises. Jotaro saw her shake with fear when she glanced at the crimson that stained the cobblestone. Afraid of what he had done, yes, but no longer of her deceased master. The look in her eyes expressed gratitude. Though she could not say it, her amethyst orbs were enough. There was a sparkle in them, a new sense of hope. She was finally free.
“Judgment was served where judgment was needed.” Emperor Jotaro stated, turning his back to her as he walked away. He gave Jean and Sir Amadeus a look, though only momentarily. The knights could tell what he instructed without a word leaving his lips. He left the three of them alone, the man watching as the knights led her out of the gardens.
“Good grief, what a damn night.”
END of Vol. 1
Chapter 12: New
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The redhead awoke with a start, her body hurting as she blinked a few times to adjust to the light. When she stopped seeing saturated hues, she looked at her surroundings. Despite the dull pain in areas of her fragile state, she hardly recognized the room she was in. It was rather grand compared to where she used to stay, with that horrid man– now deceased. The plush bed with silk sheets and pillows looked so plump that it was like a cloud. It was so luxurious that she couldn't comprehend it. The headboard behind her was also decorated with gold, as with the wall with its light green encrusted gem.
When her bare feet touched the floor, she expected it to be splintery and cold but was met with a fur-white carpet. Beneath that was solid and pristine wood, so glossy it looked almost slippery. Looking to her left was a grandfather clock, the chimes and handle swaying back and forth. A plant inside some pottery resided on both sides, covering only a portion of the large glass windows. The vanity held many expensive things, like brushes, perfumes, and cosmetics. The large mirror showcases her reflection, standing in front of it with a smile. It’s not cracked. Her cushion chair went with the room. It was perfect. There was also something she’d never seen before. It was some sort of divider in the corner of the room. Not that she knew what its use was for, but her curiosity was setting in.
Just when she was about to inspect it, the doors opened cautiously. She quickly turned around, surprised to see a young cluster of women standing with black dresses and white frilly aprons.
“I’m happy to see that you awake, my lady.” A woman with chestnut brown hair pulled in a bun and a pretty face spoke to her with a sweet smile. She looked a little older than her, maybe by five years or so.
“My name is Martha, and I am the head maid-in-waiting.” She explained briefly. She opened her lips to speak again. “Beside me are some of my girls. They are my fellow maids in waiting. We will do our best to care for you for the remainder of your stay!” She clapped her hands together, her red lips uplifting as she motioned for the girls beside her to introduce themselves.
“ I am Beatrice, my lady. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” A brunette introduced herself, her blue eyes making direct content with her own as she smiled welcomingly. The two girls, who looked similar, approached with a step.
“I’m Claudia, miss.” A blond with chartreuse eyes introduced herself as she waved hello with her hand.
“I’m Claudette! Me and my sister are happy that we will be helping you for as long as you are here.” Claudia smiled at her, the two sisters standing back as two more had yet to announce themselves.
A girl with black hair walked forward, wearing a pair of thin wire glasses. The lenses showcased the reflection of the light.
“Good morning! I’m Bridgette! I’m pleased to meet you!” She curtsied very little by lifting the train of her dress.
Lastly, the young woman beside Bridgette had freckles and strawberry blonde hair with more orange hue than red.
“Hello, my lady, I am Sam. All together, the six of us will make you look radiant from dawn till dusk. But that won't be difficult as you are already a natural beauty.” She complimented.
The redhead could not comprehend their kind gestures and what they meant, but it was nice to see some friendly faces. Their hospitableness warmed her heart. She gave a discreet bow of thanks, though her fear that they would hurt her physically if she did something wrong filled her brain with anxiety.
“Bridgette, Claudia, Claudette?” Martha called their names peacefully. “Can you prepare the things we need for today? It's still morning, but I’m sure this young miss would like to feel freshened up for the remainder of the day.” The three girls nodded and left the room swiftly, closing the white door quietly behind them.
“Come with us, my lady.” Beatrice motioned out her hand, the redhead hesitant to move from the spot she had been standing in for a while.
“We won't hurt you. We promise we won't. It wouldn't dare cross our minds.” Sam replied with a smile, the redhead nodding as she bit her lip. She knew things weren't all as they seemed in some areas of her life, as she had grown so used to cruelness and hate. Not to mention, they did respect her boundaries. Yes, she was positive she could trust them.
“She stepped forward, following them as Beatrice placed a hand against her back. The three women led her down the hallway, with Martha taking charge of the next few hours ahead of them. Passing by all the windows, curtains, carpets, and unlit candles, she saw how more maids were scurrying about with sheets, food, and parcels with tied strings. There wasn't a single male in sight, and it was more shocking that there was female staff in this palace area when there had been none.
They knocked on the door of another room, motioning for her to stand in place.
“Is it ready?” Martha asked, cracking open the door. Receiving the answer she needed, she turned to the maids and the redhead with a nod of approval.
“Please follow us inside.” Sam requested, the redhead entering the room when she felt the once cold air turn steamy. Her face grew perplexed as she looked at the candle-lit room. Those wax figures must have been there for ambiance purposes. On both ends of the room were glossy wooden tables with costly oils and soaps that smelled divine. The windows on the sides of the room let the morning rays inside, casting a warm glow alongside the candles. There was a mirror against the wall, a large one at that. The tile floors held intricate designs of purple, blue, and gold leaves, along with its counterpart divider, which matched it perfectly. In the center of this room was a large marble tub full of steaming hot water.
The redhead looked at the maids with a worried glance, Martha holding her hand as she gave her a warm smile.
“We are to help you bathe, my lady. No need to be so alarmed. It is a customary thing to do.” Martha seemed to have read her expression, the others offering comforting looks.
A customary thing to do? It seemed impossible to beleive that, but then again, she reminded herself that she was a guest in this palace. The wealthy had access to this at their convenience. It was interesting how something like this was so normal when this was a luxury for someone like herself.
“We want you to feel comfortable here. We understand that there is a speech barrier between us since you're unable to talk to us, but if there is ever a moment where you are uncertain, please stop us however you see fit.” Claudette chimed in. They would see her scar. That was far from what she wanted. She motioned to her arm with a shaking hand, looking away in shame. The women understood immediately and nodded quietly with eyes full of compassion.
“Your status from the past does not matter to us. You must harbor pain and fear from what you used to be and with that awful man. We were sworn to secrecy, and so were the rest of the staff, including the knights, by order of the emperor. Your secret is safe with us. With all of us.” Beatrice calmly explained. The redhead’s worries faded, for now, the young woman bowing deeply in gratitude. When she arose, the maids waited for her consent to begin the process. She took a quiet step forward, the maids knowing they received what they needed. With gentle hands, Beatrice and Claudia helped her undress behind the divider, setting the now dirty and bloody dress on the wooden frame. Her chemise was the only thing left, see-through, but still covered a small portion of her delicate frame. Leaving it behind, she saw how Claudette, Sam, Bridgette, and Martha put some of the oils and a bit of soap in the hot water, the bubbles forming on the very surface. The last garment fell onto the floor from her person, and now they can see the damage inflicted on the girl's body.
They all shared a glance, but it wasn’t in disgust, but rather the knowing that however long they would care for this young woman, she would be cherished. The redhead hid her chest, the young woman feeling embarrassed by their stares. Yet, understanding that the bruises covered most of her white porcelain skin, there was reason to. She took a step towards the top, Sam lending a hand as she ensured she didnt fall and hurt herself further.
She inserted a foot into the water, oh, how glorious it was. The cold river in the forest was something that she was so used to, and it felt incredible to be embraced by the steaming warmth. She lay in the bath, Martha grabbing a silver pitcher from one of the tables.
“I'm going to pour this over your head, my dear. Please close your eyes for me.” Martha instructed warmly, the redhead closing her eyes as she felt the liquid cascade down her locks. Bridgette, Beatrice, and Claudia grabbed some of the costly soaps and a soft sponge-like brush. They poured some of it on while the soap suds quickly formed.
“We’ll be gentle when bringing this across your skin. If you have discomfort from some of the bruises, do not hesitate to take your hands away from our grasp.” Beatrice smiled.
She gave Bridgette her arm and Beatrice the other as they glided the brush across. She could smell the flower fragrance from just the soaps alone. Not knowing many flowers, she deduced that it must be a spring one. Sam poured some of the soap into her hair, and Martha added more water so more bubbles could form. The two ladies walked to the room's opposite side as Claudia carefully ran her fingers across the red strands. A little scrub on her scalp made the young woman almost fall asleep. She has never been cared for before like this.
More water and more soap later, she felt so incredibly clean. Her skin glistened like a diamond. Her hair was often so flat that now it looked healthier, and more volume was within those locks. Claudette held open a towel and covered the redhead's body with it. Drying off from the warm bath, the redhead contemplated what would happen next. They gave her a slip to dress into, gently putting it over her head as it fell onto her person. A robe was placed over her shoulders, silk and soft. Martha opened her lips to speak as she gave a nod to the others.
“Sam, Bridgette, Claudia? Will you please take our lady back to her quarters? The others, myself included, will clean up this area until we need it again.” She stated warmly, her maids nodding as they escorted her out.
Down the same hallway again, there were more maids about the area, some greeting her with a smile and others acknowledging with a glance. So strange. Observing the once messy bedding, which was now in order, she saw a dress set out for her. It looked to be made of white silk, brown ribbon in the center, and gorgeous ruffle-like sleeves. Velvet boxes were around her vanity, blue, red, and green with golden embellishments. How grand!
“My lady, will you allow us to dress you?” Sam requested hopefully, the redhead nodding as she felt herself smile for the first time today. That was enough confirmation for them, and they were pleased that with such little time, she was becoming comfortable.
They lifted the garments off her body, placing another one made of soft cotton. They looked at her and were surprised, noticing how her waist looked so thin. Noble women wear corsets to achieve a certain look, but before them, it was clear that she had already attained such an impossible figure. It could have been genetics or the lack of food intake, but either way, she still looked radiantly beautiful.
Bridget and Claudia untied the back of the dress with ease, motioning for the young woman to step forward so they could finish. With one quick motion, they slipped the garment from her ankles to her shoulders. Within a few minutes, her dress fit her frame, and she was quite surprised that something of this quality would belong to her. Yet, her beautification wasn't over as they took her to the vanity and brushed out her hair. Bridget and Sam collectively worked together to pick the best with jewels.
“Although I am not very educated with jewels, I know a good one when I see one. Especially gold or silver, which would equally look amazing on you, my lady.” Claudia picked up with a smile, Sam opening one of the boxes as she carefully picked one up from its plush satin contents.
“That's a great one! I know that whatever we choose will look amazing on you since you're already naturally so beautiful that anything will compliment you.” Sam complimented her with high praise. They placed a golden necklace around her neck and dangled earrings on her ears. Claudette fluffed up her hair and twirled a few strands around her finger so they could maintain their curly nature. The redhead could hardly recognize herself in the mirror, and for once in her life, she saw herself in a positive light.
She heard a knock on her door, and one of her maids ran to attend to it. Beatrice, Martha, and Bridget stepped into the room and were quite pleased to see the young miss gazing at herself in the mirror as she looked like she was about to cry.
“My dear, you look lovely,” Martha said warmly. The girls adjacent to her agreed silently as they too, were pleased with their work.
Only a few moments later, one more knock is heard throughout the room. Martha opened it slightly and saw Sir Jean and Sir Amadeus accompanied by two others.
“Ah, Sir Jean, Sir Amadeus. What do I owe the honor of you coming to visit our lady?” She asked with curiosity.
“The emperor is requesting her presence. Is she ready?” Sir Jean asked with his brows raised in curiosity.
“But of course, see for yourself.” She replied as she looked at them with a soft gaze. Quite beautiful indeed.
“As you heard, the sun of the empire would like for you to see him. We will escort you to his study.” Amadeus smiled as he explained to her their reason for being there.
She stood from her seat, picking up the hem of her dress as the taller men walked out of her room.
The redhead gave a small smile to the maids and a grateful bow of appreciation. In moments, she was gone from their line of sight.
“I hope things will go well for our lady,” Bridgette noted.
“I'm sure she will. She is a strong girl. After all, dealing with that treacherous man of a master for most years of her life, she is bound to have courage. If not now, then it will blossom soon.” Martha stated with a gleam in her eye. The women nodded, tending to the room of their lady, as they would wait for her brief return.
Notes:
my apologies for the lack of updates. I don't think I should continue since I don't receive to much feedback, but please let me know if you would like me to continue as there are many many MANY chapters to go!
comment wheat you think
Chapter 13: Interest
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
These halls were only a little familiar by now. The red carpets and the curtains in all their fanciful splendor, the stained glass windows with the sun's rays showing a kaleidoscope of colors. Sir Jean and Amadeus led her quietly to the other side of this massive Palace she was in. Despite how big it was, she could not be more surprised at the staircases that led up to the second, third, or fourth floor.
“My apologies for the long walk, but it might do some good to get some exercise since you've been asleep for a little while.” Jean cut through the silence with his words, his superior beside him giving her a sympathetic glance.
“Where we're walking through now is the east wing, where you reside. Just a few hallways down, we will enter the west wing, where the emperor mostly is. The east wing will be yours to navigate for the remainder of your stay. You won't be alone in this matter. Others will attend to you, as you have seen earlier this morning.” Sir Amadeus explained thoroughly with a warm temperament. The young woman between them nodded with understanding, feeling grateful that she received an explanation.
“If you don't know where you are, it's best you try and backtrack your steps until you have someone to accompany you, at least for the moment. Sir Amadeus and I will see you from time to time, but your ladies and waiting and the maids will be the ones who will be with you day by day.” Jean scratched the back of his head, the redhead fidgeting with her fingers as all this information was so much to absorb. It was not difficult to believe, yet she wondered why she was offered this treatment and sanctuary.
She took notice of some portraits on the wall, most likely close relatives or lineages from the past. If it weren't for the quick steps, she would have taken some time to appreciate the brush strokes and the colors coordinated on the canvas. She took one last glance at the hall, counting ten portraits, yet one of them was covered by a curtain. Strange, yes, but not concerning nonetheless.
The scenery around them changed. The walls were a different color, with more carpets and chairs for a person to rest by the window. It was only reasonable to assume they were now in the West Wing. From the looks of it, it seemed that there were endless halls full of beautiful things, but the only familiar thing was the closed double oak doors that she recognized as the emperor’s study.
The two knights paused momentarily, giving her another warm look as Jean knocked on the door.
“Your majesty, we've brought her as you have requested.” The silver-haired man spoke loud enough for the emperor within to hear. Sir Amadeus waited for the emperor's reply, the man hearing the shuffling of papers.
“Very well, bring her in.” She listened to his voice, raspy and annoyance hindering behind his vocal cords.
Having received permission from the man to enter, they did so willingly. Following his command, she looked at the floor, still afraid to meet his gaze.
“Sir Amadeus, Sir Jean, leave us. I will need a moment to speak with this…girl.” He motions to her with his hand, waving it around as if casting a spell like a magician.
She looks at the two knights, almost pleading with them not to leave. She was not afraid as she used to be, but the idea of being alone with a man who she was well aware hated her did not sit well. The door closed shut, their metal gear clinking further and further away until there was a silence.
“Your low status is still very apparent, but your dress does not match it.” Emperor Jotaro comments rudely. It did sting, but it was the truth. A humble birth with enslavement forever tied to her body. The scar was forever apparent of that. “Look up!” He commanded angrily, the girl shaking only briefly. She hesitated, looking into his eyes with that lingering state of fear.
He stood from his chair, holding his coat with an arm on one side. He raised his brow, making it apparent that he was superior. “Quit shaking like a leaf. You are not under the enslavement of your master any longer.” He observed quickly, though when he went to take a step forward, she took one step back. “Fearful girl.” Jotaro bitterly told her.
The redhead meddled with her hair, quickly looking back to the floor. He sighed, crossing his arms as she wondered what else he could say.
“So fearful to the point where you fainted in the middle of the hallway after the execution of your former owner.” He brought up the memory as if it annoyed him so. She didn't remember that, but that would explain why she woke up in a room she had never seen before. He was about to say something, but his words were cut short when he heard the agitated voices of the council members.
“Your majesty, we have an urgent matter to discuss.” Jotaro recognized the voice of Lord Tolomy. It was only fitting that Lord Huron, Lord Akirus, and Lord Rendel accompanied him.
Emperor Jotaro looked at the girl in front of him with commanding eyes. His hands curled into fists as he turned his gaze to the door, his expression full of anger.
“I will allow you to enter my study once.” With permission given, she saw four older men with graying hair and beards. Lavish robes made of fine materials and golden rings on their fingers.
“Lord Huron, Lord Tolomy, Lord Akirus, Lord Rendel, have I not warned you four not to bother me?”
“Your majesty-” One paused, looking at her. Red robes with gold trimmings. White pants with some sort of design in the form of swirls on the hem. His eye twitched in annoyance as he crossed his arms across his chest.
“Lord Akirus, complete your sentence. I do not have time for idle babbling.” Jotaro sat in his chair. He grabbed something from his drawer. It looked like a little twig from a branch, but he brought it to his lips. He held a finger to the end, a small flame emerging from the tip of his pointer finger, and lit it with ease. Smoke danced from his lips as he kept one arm on the desk.
“This girl is the cause of the sudden shift in this palace! You girl, who are you?!” Lord Akirus questionably yelled at her, the woman unable to keep her emotions at bay.
“Lower your tone or I won't permit you to speak.” Jotaro cooly stated, his power overseeing the room.
“Your majesty, you are underage. It is unfit for you to be smoking.” Another man, dressed in purple and white, coughed a little.
“It is unfit for you to suggest what I can and cannot do, Lord Tolomy. ” The Emperor bit back a reply, the councilman looking to his counterpart.
“Your majesty, will you permit me to speak?” A man with a beard and dark green robes asked with a hand in his pocket.
“Granted.”
“It is unfit for her to be here in this study and this palace alone. We understand that you were the one to execute the judgment, but this former slave should be sent away immediately.” Lord Huron’s eyes shifted to the girl, the man observing her hair.
“That red hair is the mark of a witch. It is unlucky to keep her here.” The final man, with royal blue attire, commented his opinion with superiority.
“Lord Rendel, quiet.” Emperor Jotaro crushed the cigarette into the ashtray bowl beside his pen. Like a signal, the men opened their lips to speak. The redhead watched as the men erupted into multiple words, arguments, and accusations.
“Your majesty!-”
“Your Excellency!-”
“Sire!-”
“A witch!-”
“SILENCE!” Emperor Jotaro yelled, seething rage radiating from his person in waves.
“I have decided!” Firm on his words, the men were stunned. “You girl, leave us! I will deal with you later.” He commanded, the woman leaving the room quickly and quietly shutting the door behind her.
“You do this to spite us!” Lord Huron accused. The man’s brows furrowed as the emperor kept his gaze on the council members.
“You dare to accuse me? Do not forget my grandfather appointed me to be the ruler of this land before he passed. You do not have authority.” He concluded, passing them by before he turned with a hand in his pocket.
“Hire a tutor. I will not be lenient if you disobey my orders.” As he closed the door again, he left the four members biting their tongues in compliance.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
—
Sir Jean and Sir Amadeus were correct in that the west wing was hard to navigate. She was lucky enough that one of the maids from the east wing recognized her immediately, as her red hair was a dead giveaway of who she was.
“Excuse me, my lady, are you looking for the east wing where your quarters are?” The maid asked with a curious voice. With those words, the heavy feeling that seemed to be on her shoulders lifted instantly, and a sigh of relief left her lips as she nodded sheepishly to her question. “I’m sure Miss Martha will be expecting you.” The maid stated with a small smile, the girl following her as she left the empty corridor.
It didn't take long for her to arrive at the east wing of the palace, where now, the familiarity of the interior decoration was comforting.
“Here is your room, miss. I must return to my duties now. I wish you an easy rest of your stay here.” The maid gave her a small courtesy, the girl turning around to see the double white doors of her quarters. She quickly opened the door, seeing the maids fixing up her room from when she was getting ready. They were not the ones who helped her earlier, but they were still kind to her when they showed her a carefree smile. Seeing how sad she looked, they each gave each other a small nod, leaving the room to leave her alone.
The redhead quietly watched as they left, sitting on the bed as she looked at her now empty room. How else did she expect him to treat her? With kindness and compassion? No, far from it. Despite this, he was the noble emperor of the country of Algeria, and she was a former slave at his merciful hand. She saw the small pile of her old clothes on her desk, dried and washed until a blemish was not left. She ran her fingers over the fabric, feeling a vast difference in the quality of the clothes she wore then versus now.
She didn't want to stay in this room all day. Her mood would only continue in this state, and she didn't want to burden others with how she felt. Not that she could explain, but she did not want to be questioned.
The redhead was grateful that no one was in the room with her. In this situation, if she were with her master, she would have fled the house by now and not returned until dusk. But she was in a place where the castle grounds were so unfamiliar. Regardless of where she was, it would be impossible for her to navigate by herself, but it wouldn't hurt to try.
She walked over to her door, putting her hand against the handle, and creaked it open by only a sliver. Not a single person in sight. No maids or anyone coming in to check on her–this was perfect. Noting that her door was the only one in this hallway with pure white color, she began to walk away from her quarters. She passed down the hall, being mindful of where the bathing chambers were, as she had been earlier this morning. Towards the end, there were two ways to go, a right or left. The windows on the left side look clearer and appear to lead to someplace outside. She wouldn't mind exploring the gardens again. After all, they were pretty.
She reached a tall double-closed wooden door with golden handles, the young woman pulling it out toward herself. Alas, the door did not budge. It was locked. She was about to try it one more time, but the sound of heavy heavy footsteps prevented her from doing so.
“Woman.” The redhead heard the apparent voice of the emperor behind her. Without thinking she turned around and looked at the ground in anxiousness. “Do you keep doing that action to annoy me? Good grief.” Jotaro had one hand in his pocket, brow raised as he looked down at the short girl. The redhead looked up a little but still averted her gaze. “Those maids of yours were looking for you. You seemed to have run off for what? To find some door that is locked?” He replied with an angered and annoyed tone in his voice.
She motioned to the door, putting her finger on the handle as she tried to make him understand that it was locked, wanting to know what was behind the door.
“I already said, it was locked. If you're that curious to know, that is a library and nothing more.” Jotaro told her, rolling his eyes. The girl tilted her head to the side, unable to comprehend what a library was. “You cannot speak and you cannot understand a simple word like a library?” He asked genuinely with a bit of harshness in his words. She shook her head, ashamed. “It is a place filled with books. Lots of them.” Jotaro stated shortly. He walked away from her a little, yet she stood in place and watched him drift further and further away. “Do I need to tell you to follow me, or will you just naturally do things for yourself?.” Jotaro stated, not bothering to look back.
The redhead picked up her dress as she hurried a little towards him. In a way, despite his brash attitude, she was grateful that he was taking her somewhere other than dead ends. The silence was deafening, but she understood that maybe he didnt want to talk more than what was needed. The hallways looked familiar again until she saw the double white door that was her room. He opened the door as his eyes drifted to the few maids fixing her room.
The redhead was a little disappointed that she would come back here again since there was nothing to do, but she concluded that he didn’t want her in the way.
“Oh, there you are, my lady! I was worried about you.” Martha placed a hand on her chest, fanning her face with the other.
“The miss is back?” Claudia and Claudette chimed in at the same time, poking their heads from behind Martha.
“Greetings to the sun of the empire.” Claudia, Claudetter, and Martha gave a warm bow, the man before them not uttering a word.
“You are the head maid, correct?” Jotaro asked.
“Yes, I am, your excellency. How may I be of service to you?” Martha welcomed the redhead inside, the girl suddenly being fawned over by the twins.
“Have her ready tomorrow morning for her lessons.” He stated, the man looking at the redhead a final time. “Etiquette and knowledge of literacy. That is all.” He finalized as he left.
“Yes, of course, Your Majesty,” Martha replied, shutting the door until her coolness faded. “Ah, how exciting! Did you hear that, my lady? His Majesty will see to it that you are educated! You must do your very best, my lady.” She instructed with love, the redhead's eyes shining with a flame of determination.
“Come now, my lady, there is much to do.” Claudette stated with a cool reply, the girl nodding as she wondered what to expect for this ‘tutoring’
Notes:
comments are very much appreciated!
Chapter 14: writing lessons
Chapter Text
“My lady, I know you're nervous, but don't fret! It is common for ladies of noble birth and those of a common one to receive an education!” Martha brushed her hair as the redhead fiddled with her fingers anxiously.
“Martha is right. You know there's no reason to feel ashamed when school attendance was out of your control, my lady. I am most confident that you will be perfect in your studies. I can see it now, the model student with perfect penmanship and a great understanding of materials.” Bridget, who came in earlier that morning, stated with a sparkle in her eye.
“I can feel it within my soul! You're bound to be an excellent writer or even someone who can read books quicker than others.” Claudia chimed in. Their enthusiasm and faith in her abilities made her want to begin learning immediately. Even then, she slightly doubted herself. Yes, she understood some letters to make out something, but that did not make up for her inability to read complete sentences and books or comprehend fanciful words.
Her cluster of worries diminished when she heard a knock on her door. One of her girls quickly opened the mass of wood to greet whoever was there. The young woman turned her gaze to the side, seeing the two guards, Sir Amadeus and Sir Jean.
“Good morning, my lady. If you will, please follow us as we will escort you to the library.”
Sir Amadeus gave a warm smile, the girl nodding her head slightly as she exited through the door. With a final glance back towards the maids who took great care of her, she tried her best to give a confident look. They each smiled at her, still believing she would succeed in all that she did.
The walk felt shorter, but the unfamiliarity of the palace grounds would remain a mystery, at least for some time.
“Don't look so nervous. I can read the expression on your face. You'll do just fine.” Sir Jean reassured her just like her maids did before, his fellow knight beside him agreeing silently. “You are free to enter. Please make yourself comfortable. I wish you a good first day with your studies.” Jean continued as the two waved goodbye to patrol the grounds.
She took a deep breath in, placing her hand against the doorknob as she opened it quietly. Her eyes widened as she looked at the stained glass windows, the colors shining through the glass by the sun's rays. Plentiful White pillars upheld the ceiling, and a few other shelves held many books. There were chairs with tables on one end and candles on the other side that were unlit. Two staircases led to the second balcony, ladders against each bookcase for the shelves too high to reach.
The floors were brown and white marble, and the interior decoration was white, brown, and a slight emerald green within the ceiling. The carvings on the wall depicted a scenery, but she needed clarification on what it was, not to mention the number of statues in each corner of the room to give some sort of Ambience to it. Despite the library being small, the decoration and the sense of interior decoration made it look larger than what it was. She would have continued gazing in awe at the scenery before her, but that was rudely interrupted when she realized she wasn't the only one there.
A chair was facing towards the window, her eyes noticing a tuft of black hair coming from the very top, and from the side view, someone holding what looked to be a heavy and lengthy book. The book closed shut, the emperor standing from his seat in his usual regal attire. He observed her, his brows raised as he chose not to say anything to her. The silence was bearable, but it was sometimes unnerving when he just stared at her attire and how she carried herself.
However, the sudden sound of the door opening behind her caused her to jump. It was a saving grace when she saw someone new.
The girl was thoroughly surprised when she saw this new person. The woman before her held some books in her left arm, accompanied by a few parchment papers. Her skin was the color of chocolate, her eyes the same with a yellowish hue. Her hair was curly yet in the form of many tightly woven braids formed in an updo. This stranger was taller than her, but not by an outstanding amount.
Her attire was a white one-piece. The designs in the middle are gold with an orange hue within the designs. An orange cover-up rested on her frame, the fabric sleeves flowing but form-fitting. A gold belt rested on her hip with three similar silver bangles on each side. She wore a pair of leather boots in a dark brown shade. It matched the color of the bark on most trees. A cloak close to the color of her outfit rested on her shoulders, the garment moving side by side as she closed the door.
“Greetings to the sun of the empire,” The stranger stated the greeting with a bow of respect. When looking at the emperor, she was surprised to see a regular expression other than the scowl that looked forever imprinted on his facial features.
“As you were.” He replied with a normal tone, the woman noticing the redhead standing a bit away from the both of them.
“Is this the young lady I am to teach?” The woman asked as she gave her a warm smile. Jotaro walked towards her as he nodded.
“As I mentioned in my letter, she cannot speak, read, or write, so it seems. I trust you to teach her the basic etiquette as well. Are you up to the task, Avdolia?”
“Yes! I am!” She stated with enthusiasm, the redhead greeting her sweetly with a smile. She quickly understood that this woman’s name was Avdolia, and just by the look of her, she seemed incredibly smart and wise. Avdolia held out her hand for her to shake, the miss reciprocating the action with nervousness. “Excuse the curt introduction. I am Avdolia, head mage of the Imperial Magic Academy, but you will know me best as your tutor.” She reintroduced herself warmly, the girl nodding as she understood this woman was of great importance.
“I have some matters to attend to. The basic introductions of subjects will suffice.” Jotaro replied with a lack of interest.
“Of course, your Majesty, nothing but the basics for now,” Avdolia replied, setting the books and parchments on the table in front.
Jotaro looked at the redhead, his eyes narrowing into thin slits. “ Do not disappoint me.” With chilling words, he left the grand library, leaving her and Avdolia alone.
“Hah, ignore him. He has all those grand words and phrases to say. Pay no mind to him.” Avdolia offered her a hopeful remark. “Come take a seat. Starting today, in the mornings, you will have writing with literature, accompanied by math, geography, and politics. You will have an hour or two for a break, and etiquette lessons will begin soon after with history. I know it may be alot, but you will do great. Do not be afraid to fall, as your failures will show where you need to improve.” When Avdolia finished her miniature speech, the girl wanted to prove to herself that she could learn quickly. With resilient eyes shining with determination, she was ready to begin.
With a quick snap of her fingers, a chalkboard appeared in the front of the room. The black and white board looked daunting and somewhat intimidating. Though she understood that magic existed, she never expected to see it up close and personal.
“To begin today's lesson, we will go over the alphabet. The basic letters will form into words. These words will be in the books you read in the future or other things after knowing the basics.” Avdolia placed a few papers on the desk. Not a moment later, she began to write letters in the basic format. The chalk moved across the board. The deep engraving left dust in its wake. “This is letters A through J.” She motioned with her hand, pointing to the spaces next to them. “I will write each letter, and I would like you to copy my movements as much as you can,” She instructed with a smile.
The chalk moved on the board, the redhead standing– later handed a sliver of chalk. She moved in in the like motion, her hands leaving wavy lines as they still formed the letter A. “Very good, your hands are a little shaky, but it is alright. You are brand new at this.” Avdolia complimented, pleased that she picked up the learning quite fast.
Each one still held its wavy essence but still formed the letter nonetheless. K to T was next as the board erased itself, the woman copying the letters again. U to Z finalized the alphabet, the miss completing all the letters within moments.
“Excellent job. Now, please rewrite all letters from A to Z without my help. If you do end up getting stuck, then please feel free to give me a look.” Avdolia replied, the girl writing the letters. With confidence, the letters A through J first, K through T, and U through Z in a few minutes. The redhead looked at Avdolia, the woman hiding her surprise well.
“I must admit you are very good at remembering. The little ones in any school often have a hard time as it takes a few days.” Avdolia stated, the girl tilting her head to the side.
The next hour and a half was an intense round of learning. Rewriting the letters again until it was like clockwork, forming these letters into words and writing those exact words on paper. Next, use words and form them into sentences. Describing sentences was something new in itself, but now that the young woman understood what most meant by Avdolia's explanation, it grew on her to an extent. What should have taken weeks for most students in any given school took her an hour and a half to learn.
Avdolia carefully instructed what was left, using her hand to motion to the endless amount of books that were in the library. “As the writing portion is complete, I will bring you a book to read. Don’t worry either as it’ll be easy to understand. With this book, I want you to read it and write what you learned and what it meant. We will work with children's literature, fairytales, and the like.” Avdolia instructed with a smile, the woman walking to one portion of the library.
Avdolia set her boots on the ladder as she climbed to the tallest shelf. She pulled one book out, the leather backing looking a little worn for wear, yet the gold lettering was legible and readable. She carefully climbed down the ladder, walking towards her as she handed her the book.
The redhead looked at the lettering, running her fingers across it. It read– Children's Fairy tales of the noble lines. Ah, it was some form of nobility fairy tale? She wondered with a brow raised.
“Pick any story you like, theres plenty of those where that came from,” Avdolia suggested, the redhead nodding sheepishly. She flipped through the pages, stopping on one called Irodophous. “Have you found one?” The brunette asked with a brow raised. “Ah, Irodophous, my favorite as a young girl.” She paused to reminisce on the past. “Take a seat wherever is comfortable. I will return in one moment as I have an errand.” Avdolia mentioned, leaving the girl alone in the quarters of the grand library.
She flipped through the pages, reading through the words at a slow but steady pace. So far, the story was about a girl named Irodophous who was mistreated in her own home, working as a servant girl despite her family being blood relatives. Throughout the story, she is allowed to attend a ball in honor of the prince, as he invites all eligible maidens, regardless of their status, to attend. Unfortunately, her family did not permit her to go. The result was her being alone to do chores.
A magic fairy appeared and granted her a wish, and she danced the night away in a beautiful gown glittering in gold. However, when the clock of the grand tower struck near midnight, she fled the scene, leaving a gold ring in such a hurry. The prince looked day and night to find her, traveling to every home with his attendants to find the girl whose finger fit this ring. The sisters first tried when the prince requested it, and lastly, she received a second chance. As fate brought them together, the ring fit, and they were married.
She was pleased with how the story ended, wondering how Irodopous must have felt throughout the torment of her life. With her book finished, she walked back to the table. The girl dipped the quill into the little ink jar and began to write on the parchment in her signature style. The minutes passed as she carefully thought of the words she wished to portray, tapping her finger on her lip as she struggled to form another sentence. However, after a deep thought, she decided to give it another go. She glances at the book again and back to the page, completing at least a paragraph. Standing up from the wooden chair, she walked along the library grounds, looking at various colors and sizes of books.
Avdolia returned as she was about to pluck a book from one of the lower shelves, the woman smiling as she witnessed her. “Your lessons are complete for today. I have something that came up, so we will begin with mathematics, geography, politics, and your etiquette lessons tomorrow morning. Rest that mind of yours. There will be plenty of topics we will be discussing.” Avdolia replied suddenly, the girl was upset that her learning was stopped for today, but partially happy since she could rest and prepare for tomorrow.
When she arrived back to her room, her maids were eager to know what she learned.
“The lady is back!” Bridgette replied, the maid gathering up the others as she was greeted with her small entourage.
“What have you learned today, my lady?” Martha asked, the other's eyes shining with expectancy. She motioned for her hand as she was writing words in the air. “Ah, Sam please bring our lady a paper and the ink bottle,” Martha instructed Sam carefully bringing the requested items.
The lavender orbed girl wrote onto the paper with steady hands, her maids carefully deciphering the letters. The paper read: I learned to write and read today. Thank you for believing in me.
She paused to think about something, writing again underneath the written words. “I wish there were a better way to show how I feel or what I want to say, but my words are small.” The women were proud, ecstatic that the lady could write so eloquently despite her first day of learning.
“You learned so much! I know very well that great things will happen.” Claudia suggested. She wrote some more, her hands moving the pen across the page as quickly as she could.
“The garden is around here. Can you take me there? I wanted to look at the flowers. I'm unsure if the emperor will allow me to, but I don't want to be here all day.” She asked, Martha smiling as she grabbed a pair of outerwear.
“It's windy outside, Martha.” Beatrice looked outside, the brunette grabbing a thin coat.
“Yes, so it seems. We are on the border of fall. Winter is bound to approach soon.” Martha stated with a knowing smile.
“Let's put this on, my lady. After, a few of us will take you to the gardens.” Claudette placed the coat on her shoulders, the white fur-trimmed ends made her neck tickle.
“Let us go now, my lady,” Bridgette suggested, the women leaving together as they left for the gardens.
Chapter 15: The etiquette of names
Chapter Text
“Let's try again,” Avdolia suggested as she motioned toward the first plate. On the long table were five chairs with four plate setups. The first was breakfast, the second was lunch, the third was dinner, and the fourth was a formal banquet.
The breakfast setup showcased a singular napkin on the left-hand side with a fork. In the middle were three plates, each varying in size. A knife and spoon with a small cup, most likely used for coffee or tea, was on the right.
For lunch, some silverware placements were similar to the past one. Instead of one, there were two forks on the left side, three plates, one napkin, a knife, and a spoon.
The dinnerware showcased the napkin underneath the two forks, a knife for the side plate, and two smaller ones on the left side. Should there ever be a formal event, it was customary for two plates, with one knife, a larger and smaller plate with a folded napkin on top in the middle of the table, two forks, two spoons, one knife, and a glass for wine to be there.
The redhead looked at all these placements as she stood away from the table. Previously, she already had her lessons for the morning, and now her etiquette lessons. There was a correct seating arrangement and the High Society greetings. Both were quite the hardest to learn.
The redhead looked at Avdolia, the young woman fiddling with her fingers as she waited for the placement to reset.
“Remember that table settings are just as important as anything for breakfast as it is for dinner. His Majesty, the head of the house, will sit at the head of the table. Should there be a guest of honor, they will sit next to him, and if that guest has someone accompanying them, say a friend, they will sit on the other side of his majesty. Important guests are seated near him, and others at the table are arranged by interest, usually near people they can speak with. If you are married or engaged, these guests generally do not sit with one another. Most of these dinners are in men-women arrangements where these formal ones would have assigned seating.” Avdolia informed with a knowing gaze.
The redhead nodded, understanding her words. She noticed that on the table were plenty of cards with names on them. These hypothetical names had the title of Lord or Lady, Duke or Duchess, Prince or Princess.
“Now, His Majesty has been seated. Show me what you would do in this situation.” Avdolia requested with a smile. As she was a guest, she walked over to the chair next to His Majesty's place. As this choice was correct, the butler behind her pulled her chair. “The food has not yet been served. Your hand should remain off the table. When not in use, place them on your lap.” The woman further instructed.
The redhead did as told, keeping her eyes focused on the wall. She was fighting her habit of staring at the floor.
“Let's say the food is on the table. The hosts, or his majesty, will reach for the napkin and place it on their lap. You would do the same. Show me which silverware you would begin with first.” Avdolia asked her to showcase the knowledge she had learned the previous times she tried this. With her lavender eyes, she understood that for silverware, one begins with the outermost pieces and works your way in for each course. She used her hands to motion to the inner fork, knife, and spoon. The braided woman smiled and nodded, pleased that she finally corrected herself.
“One only begins eating or drinking when the host does. In this case, the emperor. When served, you do not need to thank the servants. I know you are a sweet girl and would love to do so, but for the sake of etiquette, do not.” Avdolia then motioned to the cup and wine glasses. “There are strict rules involving drink. Most of the courses have their own wine. White wine served with fish, red wine with meat, and champagne for dessert. It is safe to say that coffee and other drinks are for after supper.”
The redhead touched the glass, unsure of what wine would taste like. She was sure it tasted bitter like a lemon.
“You are intelligent indeed. Since you mastered the breakfast platter, I'm sure you would do the same for the others. As this portion of etiquette is done for the day, we will begin the correct greetings of High society.” Avdolia Quietly thanked the servants within the dining room, the woman motioning for her student to follow her down the hallway to the library. Since the dining hall was relatively close to it, it didn't take long for them to arrive at the double oak doors. The redhead sat in one of the plush chairs as usual, Avdolia snapping her fingers as all of the past papers and writing utensils from earlier this morning disappeared within moments.
“Should there ever be a moment when introduced to nobles of the high society, it would be best to follow some of these basic rules. From my experience as a young one, I did not understand that there were rules to this, as I often mistook them as just regular citizens. As I know you cannot speak, we will practice a form of address. You will curtesy to a noble or his majesty since they are the deepest and fullest extent when greeting them. When greeting, you would perform that action. The rules would apply just the same if you were to say your farewells.”
After explaining, she showcased how to do so. She grabbed both sides of her cape and set her foot behind her as she curtsied low. The redhead watched as her gaze was first sent to the floor and then looked up towards her.
“Now, my dear, follow my action just as I did, and I will correct you if you need it.” Avdolia Showcased the same motion again for her to see, the redhead trying to follow her example to the best of her ability. She set her foot to the back of her just a little bit, picking the Hem of her dress on both sides as she curtsied low. Keeping her gaze on the floor for a moment, she looked up towards her tutor with her eyes full of respect and compassion.
“You almost have it. I will place my hand on your back just to straighten your posture.” Avdolia moved her hand behind the redhead's back, pushing against her spine a little as her posture was better than a low-ranked noble. “Try one more time. Remember to keep your back almost as straight as an arrow. Though my hand is not there, pretend it is for reference.”
The lavender-orbed woman repeated the action, lifting her dress, setting her foot behind her, and curtsied low. Her humble gaze was enough to show her gratitude. Not only to her tutor but to others whenever and wherever she may showcase her manners.
“I will be honest, I thought these lessons to go a little longer than usual. You surprised me with every moment, and I'm pleased you are doing just as well as you did days ago.” Avdolia gave her a big smile, the woman ruffling her student's hair affectionately. “I think it's safe to say we're done with lessons for today. Earlier than expected, yes, but still, I believe it is a reward nonetheless.” Avdolia reached for the books, placing them back on the shelf for another day. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning. We will do the usual. Politics, history, mathematics, and a little writing here and there. Get all the rest you need, alright?” Avdolia waved her hand as she cleaned up the rest, the redheaded woman nodding.
She still had her notebook in her hands, the miss clutching it to her chest. It was still relatively early, mid-afternoon. With nothing to do, walking around the castle grounds would suffice.
She saw one of the familiar doors leading outside and walked through. However, her peaceful stroll was interrupted as she heard the sound of what seemed to be clinking metal. Curious at what could be creating that noise, she followed the direction of where it was coming from.
The training grounds were full of people– the guards in training, already existing ones with stations, and the knights. Her eyes widened when she saw that silhouette of a familiar man.
She did not expect to see the emperor in regular attire for once– a plain peasant shirt with a small opening by his collarbones, a pair of black pants, and leather boots. She watched as he hardly broke a sweat as he swung his sword around elegantly but fiercely. Every movement was swift and precise, blocking his opponent's strikes with ease. The mere fact of him holding a sword that looked so heavy, and half her size was astonishing. She hid behind the pillar, unsure what to do, but it would be much better than getting caught for snooping around.
She heard more guards that sounded like they were heading back towards the training grounds, and she felt a twinge of anxiety rise to her core. It was either getting caught or merely walking around, someone noticing and thinking she was taking a stroll. That would be the better option, she quietly decided.
She walked over, Sir Amadeus noticing her from a distance. The Emperor noticed that figure, as the red hair gave her identity away. He raised his brows, looking at Sir Amadeus with his usual expression. That bored look conveyed a message that only his closest attendants knew, knights included, and it seemed he had something up his sleeve.
The knight quietly excused himself, walking towards the redhead to accompany her. Her presence alone would cause the men to uproar in a blushing and fawning frenzy.
“My lady, would you allow me to accompany you?” Sir Amadeus asked, the redhead turning her head to the side. She quickly wrote something in her little blank book with her fountain pen.
“Sir Amadeus, I don't mean to be a bother. I was taking a stroll today, and I wound up here. I apologize for the inconvenience.” Her message read with better penmanship.
The man smiled with a hint of surprise, pleased that she could write and showcase what she wanted to say.
“You are no bother. You are welcome to watch us train today. If anything, my men, I fear may be a hindrance to you. They are quite the jumpy bunch.” He states, the woman nodding as she followed him towards the dusty grounds, picking her dress hem to prevent it from getting dirty.
It didnt take long for the whispers of the soldiers to turn into a rowdy conversation. The emperor grew annoyed for some reason, but he didnt care too much.
The woman looked at the raven-haired male with a small smile, relaying her respect towards him and his status by her practiced curtsey. Her eyes seemed to say to him, “Greetings to the sun of the empire.”
“Sir Amadeus, you and your men, take a break. I am done sparring for today.” Jotaro told them with a commanding voice, all walking to the kitchens for a snack prepared by the cooks.
“You heard his majesty. Be back within 15 minutes!” Sir Amadeus proclaimed with a loud voice, thanking the man as he left the two of them alone.
He watched as she looked a little frantic, his eyes narrowing as he felt a sour taste in his mouth. “Quit looking so nervous. I would have thought that your mannerisms would have changed by now.” He told her harshly.
She nodded, writing something quickly while showing it to him apologetically. “I'm sorry, Your Majesty. My habits are hard to break.” She showed him the book. The man couldn’t hide his surprise at her writing and choice of words.
“It seems that your lessons are beneficial to you. You can finally communicate and say something rather than looking around blankly.” Jotaro crossed his arms, watching her scribble.
“I wouldn't have been able to do this. Thank you, sir.” She held the book again, her hands shaking a little. He opened His lips to speak again, placing his hands in his pocket.
“You talk so formally and practiced, it's annoying. You’re what,18?” He seemed to ask, aware that even though she received her lessons, she wouldn't know how else to talk.
“I’m around 16, your majesty. I don't know precisely how old am.” She replied in her book, the man shifting uncomfortably.
“You have a name, don’t you, woman?” He changed the subject, asking her this question. However, it seemed it made her look quite sad and ashamed. She shook her head, Her fingers tapping the page. He waited for her response, showing him the book again.
“I have none, Your Majesty.”
He could see the sadness in her eyes, though she hid it well. Despite this, he couldn't help but feel the tiniest sliver of pity.
“Good grief, I don't understand how you couldn’t possibly have a name.” He shook his head from side to side, the woman in front of him gazing towards the floor. He sighed, an annoyed look on his face as he turned his back to her. “Try to keep up.” He stated, walking away as she was suddenly confused by what he asked.
She followed him, running a little to catch up to his quick steps. He didnt look back, but he stopped by the library doors, the redhead nearly out of breath. He opened the door, motioning for her to step in.
“Do I have to hold this door all day, woman?” He asked, raising a brow. She hurried inside, watching him close the door and walk to the bookshelf. He grabbed a faded leather book and blew on it with intense focus. Dust flew off of it and made a small cloud in the air before it dissipated about the room. He handed it to her, grabbing another as he flipped through the pages.
“Look through it.” He commanded with an assertive tone. Curious and not wanting to disobey his orders, did so. She looked at the title, a smile coming to her face as she saw the name. “Beautiful Words and Names.”
She turned the page, bombarded with names and words that she could expand her vocabulary with. She read through them all, standing as she listened to him flipping the pages quickly and then putting the book back onto the dusty shelf.
The time passed quickly as she realized that she had gone through half the book already, deeply unsatisfied with the names printed on the pages. Maria, Thalia, Margaret, Lilith. Yes, they were all beautiful, yet she grew frustrated and sad that despite choosing a name, the process of doing so made her wish she already had one.
Parents would give their children a name with love and care. Yet even when she was born, she was sent to the orphanage, and even the caretakers there didnt want to either. Jancis, with his awful treatment, could have cared less.
She sighed, closing the book slowly and setting it on the shelf again. She runs a hand through her hair, hearing the man beside her whisper to himself.“Kalithea.” Jotaro stated quietly, feeling the tug of his shirt. “What?’ He asked, raising a brow. He looked at her expression, her eyes begging him to repeat that word. “You want me to say it again?” He asked, the girl nodding her head. “Kalithea.” He repeated louder, the redhead motioning her hands to herself.
He seemed to understand her message, closing the book he was reading. The man crossed his arms as he looked at her expression. She seemed to be at peace as she looked to the side where the sun's rays shined delicately on her face. Her lavender eyes shined brightly, and her lips upturned into a genuine smile.
“Kalithea.” She turned to him, acknowledging the name that was said and given. He raised his arm, reaching out to move her bangs to the side of her face. He realized what he had done and stopped himself immediately, setting his hand back to his side where it belonged. “Leave Kalithea.” He commanded. She curtsied a final time with a smile that remained on her lovely features.
He heard the door close, lifting his hand as he clenched his fist, turning his eyes to the door with an unknown feeling in his chest.
“Kalithea, damn woman.”
Chapter 16: Waltz
Chapter Text
Kalithea looked at herself in the mirror, fixated on the necklace in a red velvet box. The pretty sapphire gem glowed in a particular way, not that it mattered, but the intricacy was magnificent. Unsure of whether something so grand was fitting for the continuation of lessons, she looked at the maids, giving them a surprised glance.
“I can read your expression, my lady. Today’s lesson will be a bit different according to His Majesty and Avdolia's wishes.” Sam replied, brushing Kalithea’s hair until not a single knot was left in her luscious waves.
The girl was curious about what it would be and couldn't help but wonder what aspect of the lessons it would fall under. Social etiquette? History, politics, math, or language perhaps?
She pointed to the necklace and then to herself, her hands almost afraid to touch it, in fear it would break from the slightest touch.
“Yes, my lady, it is most certainly for you. It was one of the gems his majesty suggested should be a part of your collection.” Martha fluffed the back of her dress while saying so. The blue and white dress suited her complexion perfectly and looked rather regal with the color and design of the gown.
The final touches were almost complete, yet one of her maids looked at the crystal-compacted cosmetics. Bridgette looked at it confusedly, opening up the case as it left a sour taste in her mouth.
“Even though these are pretty compact cosmetics, you, my lady, do not need anything. Don't you agree, Martha?” Bridgette looked at her fellow maid, the woman nodding shortly.
“Yes, of course. Lady Kalithea will only have it applied on her shoulder should the style of the dress show her scar.” Martha told her with a ready remark, the woman smiling at her mistress with an adoring smile. “My lady, that will be on infrequent occasions.” She continued momentarily, motioning towards the velvet box that Claudia was holding. She gently placed it against Kalithea’s neck, clasping it until it fastened securely.
“Lady Kalithea, you look gorgeous as usual,” Claudette stated, helping to clean up the mess.
Her comment made her blush, touching her cheek as she felt hot like the flames of a fire. They giggled as they fawned over their lady. Meanwhile, Martha sprayed a floral perfume against Kalithea's neck and wrists. The scent flowed through the room until it dissipated into the air. Kalithea thanked them with a respectful bow and a smile, a knock at the door with an almost urgent request.
Sam quickly opened the door, the maid smiling with a welcoming expression. Avdolia was at the door with a few guards, the three waiting on the miss. “Is she ready? His Majesty is waiting for her.” Avdolia checked her golden pocket watch, motioning the guards to step forward.
Kalithea is taken to the door, and the woman is surprised by the female entourage. The knights in question were quite beautiful, and it was safe to say that seeing female knights in the palace was new.
“I’m sure you may be a little surprised. This is Dame Adeline and Dame Erin.” She motioned to two women, the first with dark brown hair, blue eyes, and a scar on her left cheek, and the other, Erin, with strawberry blond hair, green eyes, and a few beauty marks gracing her features.
“As Miss Avdolia has introduced us to you, we pledge to protect you, Lady Kalithea, until our final breath.” Dame Erin proclaimed, the miss placing a hand on her hip.
“ There are many of us female knights that you will grow accustomed to for as long as your stay remains, but we two will be under your close watch. His Majesty personally wished for us to take care of you. Never hesitate to ask us something.” Dame Adeline stated with her formal words. The three older women thanked the maids and led her down the hallway to another location within the palace walls.
With a miniature notepad and pen tucked into the pocket of her dress, she quickly wrote words onto the blank page.
“Has there always been female knights? I beg your pardon for asking, but I couldn't help but wonder.” She showed them her question, Dame Erin opened her lips to speak as she took a steady breath.
“It's been a few years since there have been female knights. Suddenly, it seems His Majesty has turned his thoughts about us around. Many knights have been recruited, of various ages, of course.” She stated happily.
“I’m grateful there is no prejudice on whether we are fit to serve the Lady or His Majesty, as most are aware that regardless of gender, if one has the means and the ability to protect and serve, then there is no objection to say who and who cannot be a knight.” Dame Erin chimed in.
“I understand. I thank you for explaining to me.” Kalithea wrote, showing them her reply as she put the notebook back into her pocket.
They walked down the stairs to a massive double-oaked door, Avdolia waving her hand as magic flowed through her veins. It opened slowly without their hands touching it, Kalithea looking at Avdolia with a smile. She grew surprised to see the lights aglow and his majesty waiting in the middle of the floor, Sir Jean chatting beside him. There was a mini-orchestra, not as fancy as the one on the night of the country’s founding, but still an orchestra.
“Greetings to the sun of the Imperial Empire.”
“Greetings to the sun of the Imperial Empire.”
“Greetings to the sun of the Imperial Empire.”
Avdolia and the two knights accompanying her greeted his Majesty with a bow, lady Kalithea greeting him with a curtsey. The redhead looked about the room, her eyes scanning the area around her. The floors were polished to perfection, with neither stain nor scrape against the marble floors. The candle lights against the columned walls, lit with
a brilliant flame.
“Today's lesson, for now, has been constructed by his majesty and myself. As winter is approaching, it will be much colder around here, but it is also a time when nobles and other members of society will attend the winter ball.” Avdolia paused. “You, my dear, will partake in this event and learn the art of waltzing.” She finished, the woman turning her gaze to the knights.
Understanding her silent signal, they stood off to the side. Jotaro, Avdolia, and Kalithea remained on the floor. Within a few moments, music began to play. The symphony is beautiful to the young woman’s ears. The violin, the cello, the flute, and various other instruments coexist harmoniously. Avdolia waved her hand as the room lighting shifted to dimmer than usual.
“Refrain from stepping on me,” Jotaro replied with an annoyed tone and an unapologetic glance. She nodded, Avdolia shaking her head from side to side in utter dismay.
“Your Majesty, Lady Kalithea is unfamiliar with the waltz. Will you permit me to dance with you to show her how it is done?” She requested, the emperor sighing as he complied.
“Very well, I will allow it this once.” He offered Avdolia his hand, the music changing as it started slow.
The two stood before each other, Jotaro placing his hand behind her shoulder. Avdolia reciprocated the action by placing one arm on his shoulder, holding his hand as they moved.
He led the first step, and the woman followed his lead. One step, another, and another, until they were in complete harmony. Like clockwork, it was predetermined where the next move would be, when she would be spun, where they would stop and pause, and the like.
She watched how beautiful it appeared, remembering how she used to dance for festivals before she remained here. Maybe she could still keep that passion for dancing in one form or another, and perhaps this was one way she could.
She touched the fabric of her blue dress, swishing it across the floor as the melody coursed through her ears. Until she saw that they were slowing down, Kalithea watched as Avdolia gracefully departed from the emperor's embrace. He held open his gloved hand to Kalithea, Avdolia nodding with certainty.
In a few moments, she was led to the center of the grand ballroom, the music changing to a very slow pace.
“Now, Lady Kalitea, follow his majesty’s lead,” Avdolia instructed. Jotaro hesitantly placed his hand behind her back, the redhead copying the same motion as her tutor. She looked at him, with a smile, hoping he would reciprocate some form of want to be here. However that expression never came, when he put one step forward. Her instinct quickly told her to move back so he wouldn't bump into her.
Avdolia watched how Jotaro’s expression of indifference looked surprised, but only briefly. That look on his face quickly faded away like the wind. She quietly chuckled, waving her hand as she adjusted the light a certain way. Kalithea’s hair shined like stars, the man looking at her eyes and seeing those lavender orbs. Becoming fixated, he immediately stopped himself, the two moving in circles from side to side. Forward and backward.
“Be mindful of your steps. One two three, one two three, one.” She proclaimed, her voice echoing through the nearly empty room. Kalithea nodded, closing her eyes as she first listened to the rhythm of the symphony. She felt more relaxed, the man raising a brow but picking up the pace to follow. It did not take long for the two to be completely in tune with each other’s steps, and how he could guide her as his temporary dancing partner.
“You’re doing marvelous! Continue and do a spin.” Avdolia smiled, Kalithea enjoying herself as the man led her in a graceful turn. Her dress looked like a blossoming flow in the way the layers spread out. She smiled, almost wanting to laugh at how fun this lesson was.
“The lady is an excellent dancer.” Dame Adeline complimented, watching the younger woman like a proud older sister.
“Yes, I was told by some members of our regiment that she was one of the dancers from the founding of our country’s party.” Dame Erin paused momentarily to catch her breath.“I hope Lady Kalithea will continue to be very happy here.” Dame Erin finished.
Sir Jean yawned, the man looking at the sorceress next to him. He scratched the back of his head, placing his hand on the hilt of his sword focusing on the two dancing.
“He doesn’t look like he entirely hates what he’s doing.” He stated, the woman next to him nodding.
“I suppose this is true, Sir Jean. To my knowledge, you’ve known him for more years than I have.” Avdolia commented, the knight nodding to her statement.
“I’ve been assigned to him since birth by Emperor Joseph Nobelius Joestar and his daughter, the Mother of His Majesty.” His expression remained still like a stone, but it changed when Avdolia sighed.
“I knew his grandfather since he saw my potential with my abilities. Hence the reason why I am now the headmistress of the Magi Academy. That however is a story for another time.” She stopped, Sir Jean clearing his throat.
“This is the first time I’ve seen his majesty like this…” Sir Jean quietly whispered.
“Without hatred in his eyes and a calmness about him?” Avdolia replied in the same whispered hush, the man nodding surprisingly.
“I suppose you and I understand him in our own ways.” Sir Jean looked on, the two dancers concluding the motion. Avdolia signaled for the musicians to stop, Jotaro placing his hand in his pocket.
“That’s enough for today.” He placed his hands behind his back, Kalithea’s smile leaving her face as the music faded into the air. He signaled for the musicians to pack their instruments away from where they came from, Kalithea sighing a little as her time of dancing came to an end. Avdolia nodded, motioning for the knights to come forward towards the lady with a simple gesture.
“Is there anything you would wish for Lady Kalithea to do? Her tutoring lessons are complete for today if you choose to end the waltzing session.” Avdolia stated warmly, the redhead looking at the emperor with a glance full of wonder and curiosity.
“I have already decided. If you wish to keep busy, I suggest you read something worth your time.” Jotaro turned his gaze to the side, his demeanor once again filled with indifference.
Kalithea nodded, her knights accompanying her on each side. She curtsied, keeping her gaze on the floor as her joyful countenance which was present a few moments before, diminished before his very eyes. His gaze faltered, shifting uncomfortably as he witnessed her shining orbs becoming dim. It bothered him, and he didnt understand why.
“Yes, of course, your majesty. Lady Kalithea and I will take our leave. Farewell to the sun of the empire.” She placed a hand on her chest, acknowledging his presence with a slight bow. “I will withhold you for a moment. Dame Erin and Dame Adeline, escort your lady to where she wishes.” Jotaro commanded, Jean raising his lightened brows in curiosity.
“I will meet you where you are, Lady Kalithea. This will only be a moment.” Avdolia reassured the young miss, the redhead nodding as she left the ballroom. The moment passed and he waited till only the three of them remained. “What is it that you wished to speak about with me?” Avdolia tilted her head slightly, Jotaro sighing as his irritation was prevalent.
“No need to be so formal. You are one of my closest aides.” He responded, walking towards the other door as he motioned for them both to follow.
“You are still the same as usual.” Avdolia smiled, the woman walking with him and Sir Jean.
“Her lessons, is she doing well?” He requested the information with only slight interest.
“Yes, the lady is doing quite well.” She paused, crossing putting her hand in the pocket of her robe. “I hope you take no offense to this Jotaro, but you must be kinder to the lady.” Jotaro grits his teeth a little, but he listens as a friend to a friend.
“I have to agree. The girl always looks so nervous. I can't speak for Lady Kalithea, but I believe she is still afraid of you.” He paused his hand against the hilt of his sword.
“Afraid?” Jotaro looked on as he walked past the garden, his eyes cold like ice.
“Miss Avdolia, you are around her more often than anyone else in this vicinity. Would you agree with me?” Sir Jean set his concerns into the conversation, the brunette almost thankful she wasn’t the only one who noticed.
“I know you have informed me Jotaro about the details of her past and where she came from, but I can't stay silent about this. She is still afraid of you, not as much as before. Even then I believe she holds a sliver of hope that you will treat her warmly. Avdolia finished.
“Good grief. How irritating.” He clicked his tongue in distaste, the man stopping in his tracks. He turned around, narrowing his eyes. He listened to the sound of clinking footsteps, seeing two members of the council accompanied by knights.
“Lord Akirus, Lord Rendel, I have not requested your presence.” Jotaro, Avdolia, and Sir Jean looked at the two men with annoyed glances, feeling their conversation had undoubtedly come to an end.
“Headmistress Avdolia, Sir Jean, leave his majesty. We will be needing him more than what you deserve.” Lord Redndel stated rudely, adjusting his reading glasses with superiority.
“Lord Rendel, with all due respect, you are interjecting a conversation,” Avdolia replied with venom in her voice.
“His Majesty is not scheduled for a meeting. I am sure that you are aware.” Sir Jean stated, the two standing their ground.
“You impudent fools! Remember-” Lord Akirus was cut short.
“Silence your blabbering mouth.” He rubbed his aching temples, feeling a headache coming on. “Lord Akirus, you ought to remember your place as I am the one who decides things and what will take place. It would be best for you and Lord Huron to leave my presence immediately before I deal with you harshly.” Reclaiming the superior stance of the conversation, the two council members left fuming and their lips shut. “You are free to leave,” Jotaro stated, leaving the two in the hallway before he paused in his path. “You still have that dog walking around your academy?” Jotaro asks Avdolia curiously.
“Yes, he lays around on his cushioned pillow when he’s not.” Avdolia and Jean exchanged a glance.
“Send for someone to bring him.” He walked away from them, Avdolia nodding as the two left the scene.
Chapter 17: A dog and the Dress
Chapter Text
“Your Majesty.” Jean knocked on the outside of the man's private library, waiting for him to respond to his call.
“What is it?” Jotaro replied with an annoyed voice from within. He sat on his chair, flipping through another page of a book.
“Avdolia has brought her companion from her travels. Should I send for them to meet you, your majesty?” Jean requested, his hands behind his back as he waited patiently. It didnt take long for the raven-haired male to unlock the door, motioning for the knight to enter.
“I see your library is still as messy as ever.” Now, in a private place, the formalities were dropped, as it was a friend to a friend.
“Good grief. It means I can continue the books I want.” Jotaro stuck his hand in his pocket, looking outside the window as he saw Kalithea walking about the gardens with her knight.
“Jotaro, I don’t understand you. Why did you want Avdolia to bring that vicious little mutt with her?” He questioned, looking at Jotaro’s expression.
“I have my reasons for doing so,” he muttered quietly, rubbing his aching temples as he looked continuously at the redheaded girl. “How irritating.” He turned to face Jean, the man’s expression still like a stone but his eyes shining with mischievousness. “I know that look in your eye, Jean. Don’t vex me.” He commanded, the two walking out of the library with a snicker leaving the armored man's lips.
“I don’t know what you're talking about, Your Majesty. It's partially funny knowing that you're getting annoyed by a pretty girl.” Jean teased, Jotaro showcasing a look of indifference.
“It doesn't matter to me in the slightest. Regardless, it is my affair.” Jotaro turned his attention to other matters, his demeanor shifting. “Has Lord Akirus and Rendel cooled off their foolish minds?” Changing to the subject at hand, Jean dropped his carefree attitude.
“Yes, Your Majesty. So it seems since they greeted me with utmost sincerity.” Jean's lips curled into a look of disgust. “Pardon me for saying so, Your Majesty, but they are the worst kind of noble. Worse than Prince Casium, in my opinion.”
“I take no offense. I frankly have to agree with you. However, it won't be long until dismissed. I only have to deal with those four until I am of age.” Jotaro bitterly replied, the two walking down the hallway to the conference room. He paused by the doors, feeling the faint trace of a migraine coming on.
“You should enter your majesty,” Jean suggested, standing outside the door near the crimson-colored walls. The silver-haired man could hear shuffling from inside, like the sound of rearranging chairs and the whispers that weren't so quiet.
“I suppose I will. I frequently remind each of those lowlives of their place. Today will be another one of those days, I assure you. From today onward, you will be entering these meetings with me. I cannot say when there will be a time when I snap, but it won’t be today.
“That's better than anything else, your majesty. The last thing you need is for each council member to go against you for some reason such as this.” Jean stated with a way tone, shivering at the idea of rebellion. Against the emperor, no less. Jotaro nodded, motioning for his aide to enter alongside him. Waving his hand, he opened the doors, the masses of oak shutting quickly behind him with the click of the lock.
From somewhere else in the palace, the sound of clashing swords was prevalent throughout the courtyard. Sir Amadeus and a few fellow knights were discussing amongst themselves. Their chatter of battle strategies was not a trifling matter. A few other guards, lower in rank, were about their business, patrolling the grounds. Kalithea and Dame Adeline were in the garden, the young lady picking a few flowers and weaving them into a crown.
“Lady Kalithea, your fingers will become dirty. I’ll cut them for you.” Dame Adeline suggested, Kalithea pointing to the flowers that needed to be stripped from their stems. Accumulating daffodils and roses by the dozens, she heard quick but little steps nearby. She turned with a brow raised, pausing Dame Adeline in her tracks while writing something on her notepad.
“Dame Adeline, I will be back one moment.” Kalithea smiled, the knight scratching her head as she felt uneasy.
“You will not be far my lady?” She asked the redhead with a curious gaze, the woman nodding as she disappeared around the corner. She listened quickly for the steps to reappear again, and they did in a few moments. Like rain falling from the sky, she wondered what it could be. However, it didn’t take long for her to see what resembled a tuft of hair- black and white. As she neared closer, she was surprised to see a little black and white dog pop out of the bushes.
Seeing that this little creature had been found where it stood, it immediately went into a defensive state. She wondered how a dog with a noticeable color coat could bypass the guards in this palace. Unless it was a guard dog, then that was a different story. She laughed a little with how small it was, the woman crouching down towards its level. The animal refused to step closer, and Kalithea used her hand to coax it into coming closer.
Despite the animal's hesitancy, she noticed one little thing. A metal replacement was on one of its legs, most likely to help it stand. She wondered what could have happened to it, the feeling of pity setting into her soul. She waited for something to happen, yet the dog stood in the same place, unresponsive to her hand reaching out to him. She stood up quickly, making sure not to fall on the train of her dress, the redhead sighing in defeat. She was not going to win this little game of standstill, and clearly, the dog had no interest or want to be touched.
She waved a small goodbye, walking back down the narrow hall of vine-covered pillars. Yet she didnt expect to hear the tiny pitter-patter again, following behind her like a chick would its parent. Testing what she thinks she heard, she speeds up the pace, and those same paw-printed steps sped up following her own. She hid her smile, walking towards the garden with Dame Adeline looking surprised.
“My lady, are you aware that a little dog is following you?” The knight questioned quietly, the redhead nodding until she stopped the act. She turned, pleased to see the little black and white animal sitting on the cobblestone path. Its little face sparked interest, almost as if expecting her to do something unusual. Noticing the animal’s demeanor shift, she quickly scribbled in her notebook. Despite doing so, the handwriting was still neat and legible.
“Do you still have that little flower crown I tried to make?” Kalithea tilted her head to the side, her orbs shining with delight at the makeshift flower crown that Dame Adeline had carefully tried to mimic.
“My apologies, my lady, for the lack of detail in the woven intricacies. It’s quite hard to do this with metal coverings.” She apologized, the woman awkwardly smiling. Kalithea placed a hand on her arm, the knight placing the crown in her hands. The woman kneeled low, the dog taking one paw step away until she put the crown of flowers on the dog's neck like a collar. He barked, standing on all fours as he ran in circles around Kalithea.
“I think he likes it, my lady! Usually, dogs this size would not act so erratic unless they liked something or begged for a treat.” Dame Adeline laughed a little, Kalithea taking her hand as she walked quickly toward the kitchen. “My lady, where are we going?” The knight questioned, Kalithea placed a finger on her lips, motioning to the dog following behind her.
The redhead turned, reaching the large door of the cook's corner. She peeked in, the plump man startled as he smiled upon her arrival.
“My lady! What do I owe the honor of having you in this place?” He grins, the apron around his waist full of baking powder from the remnants of breadproofing.
Kalithea wrote something in her book, and the mustache man was pleased to see her skill and improvement.
“My apologies for interrupting you while you are working on preparations for lunch, but do you happen to have something to give to a dog as a treat?” She smiled hopefully, the man looking past as he saw a dog sitting outside expectantly.
“Well my lady this is something I did not expect, but I may have something.” He paused, turning to his sous chef. “Ellis, can you grab the compartment in that cupboard?” He asked a plump middle-aged woman.
“Your secret stash of coffee-flavored toffee is coming up.” She teased, the plump man taking it from her hands as Ellis returned to her duties.
“Though it is not as sweet, the components I used to make this treat suit dogs.” He chuckled, handing her the jar.
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly take your secret stash. You must have put alot of work into making these.” Kalithea wrote quickly, the man positively shaking his head.
“Don't worry my lady, a recipe like this is easy. Give it to the little one, that fluffball must have a taste.” He held his spoon in the air like a victory, Dame Adeline nodding with a knowing smile.
“Thank you, chef, my lady appreciates it.” She concluded, the two women waving goodbye as he continued his work, bustling about in the kitchen.
Kalithea kneeled, the little dog still standing a bit away. The dog watched her pull something from the glass jar, his blue eyes spectating. She placed one singular toffee in the center of her palm, the dog's ears pricking up in excitement at the smell. Without a moment to lose he opened his mouth, chewing it in one sitting. Overjoyed as any dog could be, he placed his head on her lap, his eyes begging for another taste.
“He seems to want another one, my lady.” Dame Adeline pointed out. With such happiness surrounding a simple moment, she offered him another. Kalithea smiled as she stroked his little head, the two women pleased. Though the dog is quite small, she daringly tried to pick him up. Yet, to her shock, he willingly let her do so, compared to his previously uncooperative actions. She held him in her arms, petting his fur as he was practically in heaven by her affections.
“Shall we return my lady to your chambers?” Dame Adeline requested, her companion nodding as she walked past the training grounds. She waved a quick hello to her fellow knight Dame Erin, who was fighting strategically with another similar to her size. “It is good that you don’t have lessons today my lady. Although education is fit for young ladies, it's alright to have free time, don't you think?” Dame Adeline asked with her hand resting on the hilt of her sword.
Kalithea smiled, agreeing with her words with a simple nod, the two turning the corner to enter the palace hallways. However before they reached the door, it burst open like a firework in the sky. “Your Majesty, I have been trying to find that little-” Avdolia halted her words.
“Dog…”
“Greetings to His Imperial Majesty.” Dame Adeline greeted the emperor with a still and stone-faced expression. The redhead curtseyed to the best of her ability, despite the dog being preoccupied against her chest. Jotaro raised a brow, withholding his confusion.
“Lady Kalithea, our apologies for the interruption. We were looking for Iggy everywhere, but I am glad he is in your care. It is almost unsettling that he’s letting you carry him without problems.” Avdolia laughed, seeing how contrasting it was for an uncharismatic dog to be utterly and completely in bliss.
“We had quite the odd encounter. However, it was my lady who had approached him first. He followed us after Lady Kalithea withheld from petting him. Yet after being given a treat, graciously provided by the chef, he permitted affection.”
Jotaro sighed, looking at the dog with disinterest. Kalithea locked eyes with him but quickly averted her gaze to the floor. “You are heading to your quarters correct?” He asked, the girl nodding in quiet confirmation. “He is to be another companion of yours. He should be somewhat enjoyable despite his barking and occasional erratic behavior.” He concluded, Avdolia hiding the curve of a possible smile.
He didnt expect her lips to turn upwards, into a genuine smile. He had not seen that expression since their dance days ago. She set the dog onto the cobblestone floor, the little animal almost disappointed she did so. Humbly she curtseyed with a hand on her heart, one of utmost gratitude.
“My lady I will meet with you soon, His majesty has an errand to run with me. For now head to your quarters. It is getting too cold for you.” Avdolia replied with a smile, the woman nodding as she waved goodbye to Sir Jean. The knight watched the little dog trot behind her, covering his lips as he tried not to laugh.
“Never would I have guessed that that hostile dog would be tamed. But I suspect that jar Dame Adeline was holding had done the trick just fine.” Avdolia placed a hand in her pocket, looking at the Emperor.
“That mutt was never nice, to begin with Avdolia.” Jotaro boringly replied, the man remembering Kalithea’s smile as he quickly shook that thought from his mind.
“Then why did you ask me to bring Iggy here? Surely you did not truly want him here as her companion correct?” She asked Sir Jean, listening for a response.
“It Seems that I have received two of the same questions. One from each of you.” Jotaro sighed, looking at the pocket watch hanging from his belt. He walked with them silently, contemplating her joyous response to a mere dog.
“My apologies your majesty. Let us continue with the preparations for the winter ball.” Avdolia bypassed his annoyance, the emperor closing his lips and eyes cold like ice. “It's getting colder. I would expect it to snow soon, perhaps any day now with the way these clouds are. Wouldn’t you say, Sir Jean?” Avdolia asked the knight in question, who had stayed silent throughout the conversation.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if even the slightest bit of snow fell within the next few days. The palace grounds will be covered in it.” Jean replied cooly, his eyes turning to his friend. “What should we do then Your Majesty? If it does start to snow, my regiment will not be able to practice as often. Even then, Miss Kalithea won’t be able to explore the grounds as usual.” He recited with a normal tone.
“You make a fair point Sir Jean, I'm sure though, his majesty will figure it out.” She stated confidently, the two waiting for a reply from the silent emperor.
“Wintertime will be an easy feat to overcome. I already anticipated something like this to happen. You, Sir Amedius with your regimen and others in this vicinity will have more than enough to deal through this harsh winter. The seamstress finished most of the garments. I expect a shipment to come soon.” He casually proclaimed, the knight nodding with respect.
“Thank you, your majesty. We very much appreciate it.” He smiled at Avdolia, the woman returning the expression.
“Speaking of the seamstress, I have requested her presence to appear in Lady Kalithea’s quarters as you had requested. She should arrive at any moment now. Although, I expect the lady to be surprised to see a new visitor.” She laughed, and it seemed that she was right.
Kalithea sat in the study, with her plush chair reading a book. Her maids-in-waiting dusted off some things in the room, Martha returning with a plate of cookies and tea. “Here you are, my lady.” She placed them on the table, Kalithea noticing a note written by the chef.
“You must try this new creation Lady Kalithea! The glass jar is more treats for your new companion!”- Chef Jouli.
She smiled, showing Martha and the others what was written on the card. They smiled, talking amongst themselves.
“How kind of Chef Jouli! He outdid himself this time.” Claudia replied, Kalithea writing something in her notebook quickly with intent.
“Won't you all join me? I'm still full from breakfast this morning. I can't possibly finish this all on my own.” She asked with a smile, her kindness touching the women’s hearts.
“You are too kind my lady. But if you would like us to join you then, how can we deny?” Bridgette smiled, the women taking a cookie each for themselves. Though there was quietness, Iggy quickly jumped from his plush cushion. The young woman waited for what he would do, the little dog, jumping into Kalithea’s lap until he found a perfect spot.
“My lady, are you excited for the winter ball soon?” Claudette asked, dusting her frilly white apron off. The redhead nodded, munching on another cookie while reaching for a piece of toffee for Iggy. She was going to write something on the pages of paper but a swift knock on her door interrupted everything altogether. “Allow me to answer the door, my lady,” Claudette replied, walking to the door with her hand resting on the handle.
“Hello Miss Claudette, how is Lady Kalithea?” Avdolia asked her with a smile. Claudette noticed the figure standing next to her. A tall and rather slim woman with thin-frame glasses. Her hair was short, midnight black with a gold pin holding a portion of her hair.
“She is doing well headmistress. Please come in.” She replied, Dame Adeline and Dame Erin trailing behind them with round boxes. “Oh my apologies Dame Erin and Dame Adeline, allow me to open the door wider for you!” Claudette obliged to open the door wider, the rest of the maids helping the two knights set the boxes down.
“Thank you ladies. I appreciate the help and direction.” The new voice spoke elegantly, moving her glasses back up the bridge of her pointed nose. “Allow me to introduce myself, my lady.” She curtseyed lightly, the redhead's brows raising with this newcomer. “I am Linali Salova, his majesty’s seamstress. I have been requested by his excellency” Her face was still like a stone, yet her eyes showed a great deal of warmth.
Iggy walked over, sniffing her shoe before deeming her uninteresting. The terrier promptly sat next to Kalithea’s dress, Lanali raising her brow questionably.
“My apologies Miss Lanali for my inability to speak. Though I cannot, I hope that my expression will show that I am happy to have someone new.” She showcased her handwriting, the seamstress nodding as she placed her hand in front of her in a calming manner.
“I understand, his majesty let me know in advance about your situation. Though, I bear no ill will to you about anything. I feel quite an immense amount of joy. On the contrary, now that I have a young woman like yourself to dress, it’s my honor to do so.” She nodded, Avdolia nodding for the knights to leave the room.
“Thank you, Dame Erin and Dame Adeline. I will see you again soon.” Avdolia waved goodbye, the two women bowing respectfully as they waved goodbye to their lady. As the attention was centered on the amethyst-orbed woman, Avdolia cleared her throat. “Miss Lanali has prepared dresses for you to try. Though some may have to be altered, that won't be a problem.” She stated casually. Kalithea nodded, looking at the boxes with ribbons and bows, motioning to them.
Kalithea, held Iggy in her arms, the terrier’s blue eyes scanning the boxes as his newfound friend did the same. She pet the tufts of his hair, the dog relaxed until Lanali walked to the boxes to explain.
“Oh, these are for you, my lady. These have already been approved by His Majesty. I hope you enjoy them.” Lanali lifted one of the box lids, for Lady Kalithea and the others to see. Inside was something she did not expect. White fur erupted from the box, the woman feeling the softness of her hands. She lifted the fur out of the box, the dark blue fabric flowing from it as she couldn't help her eyes wander. “This is an unrevealed part of a collection I have been working on. As winter is nearing closer, His Majesty suggested something warm for you to wear in your quarters.” Lanali pointed out, Avdolia beside her looking quite surprised that the cold man would ever think about something like that.
“Let me help you place it on my lady.” Martha held the coat, and Kalithea placed her hands through the arms. Though it was quite heavy, she felt extremely cozy. The little dog had already predetermined that he too would be quite warm if he were to sit on her lap.
“Lady Kalithea, I’m sure it will keep you warm. You already look so sleepy my lady.” Sam suggested the young woman, helping Claudette stack the other boxes.
“Now my lady, I will show you the latest designs.” Lanali gathered the ladies around, unwrapping the box with care. A cream-colored dress made of satin with silver trimmings caught Kalithea’s eye immediately, the young woman’s eyes sparkling with delight. Another similar style is in dark emerald green, with diamonds embroidered on the collar and layers of taffeta. Lastly, a puffy Dark blue dress with shimmering designs and an empire waistline.
Though all were beautiful, she touched the cream garment with a longing in her eyes, the silver accentuations and pearl embroidery were the most beautiful of all. Lanali seemed to notice this, smiling knowingly towards Avdolia.
“Lady Kalithea, may I take your measurements?” Lanali asked, pulling a tape measure from her pocketed skirt. She nodded, the woman lifting her arms as she wrapped the tape around her waist. “My goodness, your waist is so slim! You’ve never worn a corset before?” Lanali asked, shocked at the proportions.
Martha gave the writing utensil and notebook to her lady, the woman taking longer to explain. “I never knew what one was until Avdolia told me about the fashion and etiquette of young ladies. Then again, had I known before, I doubt I would have been able to afford one with my low social standing.” Lanali scanned through her words, measuring her bust and legs.
“There is nothing wrong with that my lady. You are fortunate to have an unattainable figure. Most ladies of society, including the nobility would go to great lengths to achieve what you have.” She laughed, the maids agreeing with her words with a subtle nod. “I believe I have one more dress to make. Though those on your bed are for grand events such as the winter ball… I have something else in mind that will suit you, my lady.” She finished momentarily, Martha, Bridgette, and Sam folding the dresses back into the box. “I will take these for alterations, as I have made the waist too large and the bust too small. I thank you Lady Kalithea, I will return sooner than you think.” She curtsied once more, Avdolia opening the door to lead her out.
“I will lead Miss Lanali back to her carriage. Iggy, would you like to come along too?” She asked the dog, the black and white terrier yawning before he pranced to his pillow and closed his eyes. “I suppose not.” Avdolia chuckled, waving goodbye and thanking the ladies for their cooperation.
Martha looked outside, seeing the first bit of snow falling from the sky onto the windowpane. “Well, it is now officially winter. My lady you have the perfect opportunity for your coat,” She smiled, the young woman pressing her fingers against the fur once more, closing her eyes as she felt like she was about to drift off into the new dreams that awaited her.
Chapter 18: grandiose
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Kalithea looked at the snow outside, the snowflakes though small, rested on the windowpane glass. The fireplace blazed with a bright glow, the heat resonating from the flame. She would have fallen asleep in her chair if not for the door opening quickly with her maids and Lanali running in.
“My lady we must get ready! Have you forgotten that tonight is the winter wall?” Martha quickly set her vanity with perfumes and other costly oils. Her eyes widened with the sudden burst of energy, Lanali smiling her way. Kalithea promptly stood up, the young woman growing quite nervous at her absent mind.
“Bridgette, Claudia, will you please take the lady to the bath? Draw the hot water and make sure those windows are shut tight! We must make our lady the bell of the ball!” Martha proclaimed ecstatically. Sam took the dress from Miss Lanali’s hands, carefully setting it on the bed sheets.
“Martha, we have many hours for our lady to get ready. It does not start until 6:00.” Bridgette, held onto her blue coat, setting the garment on the plush sofa beside her lady. She giggled, sighing as a sudden calmness came over the room again.
“She’s right you know. We can’t stress Lady Kalithea before the ball tonight.” Sam readjusted her apron, tying a bow behind her back. The women laughed collectively, Martha included as she felt her face flush red with embarrassment.
“I suppose you’re right. Let’s take our time with what we have as best as possible.” She concluded, clapping her hands as Claudia, and Brigette led the young woman to the baths where she would undergo extensive beautification.
“Aren’t you excited my lady?” Claudia asked Kalithea warmly, the redhead smiling as she thought about the dancing and festivities awaiting her. However, it was quite nerve-wracking with the idea of meeting with nobles from every corner of the country. “I’m positive that today will be more than you realize and what you're expecting, but I hope and pray you will enjoy yourself.”
She smiles, feeling the warmth of the steaming bath the other maids had prepared. Though the water looked similar to dew on plants, the blissful pleasures of simplicity were more than she could ever expect. Bridgette and Claudia put soap into the tub, the suds accumulating and resembling plentiful aggregate fruits. Flower petals floated on the surface, the floral scent gorgeous and smelled like perfumery.
Kalithea took off her chemise, the wounds on her body had long healed, leaving the faintest scars, though only one could see upon closer inspection. The young ladies helped her into the tub, the water surrounding her person as aching muscles from an odd sleeping position slipped away. Bridgette carefully poured water over her hair, with expensive oils and lavender within the liquid.
Despite the overflow of water and scented multitudes, she was curious about how tonight would look. Though a ball would be full of grand expenses, how would she converse with young men or noble ladies should one ask?
However, that question simply disappeared from her mind. As if anyone would recognize her, or care in that matter. Her hair was lathered in a softening conditioner, each lock curled like a cat's tail. A towel was placed over her head, Claudia drying her hair as Bridgette offered another towel to the lady. Gratefully accepting it, a robe was put over her small frame, with slippers to protect her feet from the cold, wet floor.
“Let us return to your room, my lady,” Bridgette suggested excitedly, Kalithea and Claudia leading the redhead back to prepare the extra extremities. Despite how cold the palace is, she hardly focused on that aspect, letting herself feel excitement for something new. The three women entered, closing the door behind them, Martha handing her another pale chemise to change behind the wooden divider.
“Feeling refreshed, my lady?” Martha asked as she set a pair of silk stockings on the bed with white-heeled shoes. Kalithea nodded, surprised to see one article of undergarments most commonly associated with beauty. Though it appeared to be a corset, it did not feel like one made with classic boning. Instead, it was soft and made of silk.
“My lady, this is an undergarment called a bustier. Corsets are common, yet this one has not been publicly displayed in societal circles.” Lanali explained, the redhead nodding as she understood this new garment. “This may feel strange my lady. But it will help with the gown’s silhouette I have prepared for you.” She pushed up her glasses, Bridgette holding the bustier to Klaithea’s chest. The sockets were firmly snapped until each hook was in place. The laces in the back were pulled, Kalithea holding onto the wooden headboard with both hands.
“My lady, let me know when it is too tight.” Bridgette pulled the strings a little more until the loose ribbons became tighter and tighter, Kalithea waited a few moments until finally, with enough pulling, her back was supported. She nodded, looking at herself in the mirror. Though her waist remained the same, the only noticeable appearance was her rather swollen chest. She blushed in embarrassment, covering her reddened cheeks with her hands.
“It's quite normal my lady for that effect to happen. It surprised me more than once, I can assure you.” Claudette motioned to her waist, smiling as she held the stockings. Kalithea slipped her legs into them, the endings with bows cutely attached to the hem. Martha helped her into a pair of layered shorts, which were so frilly, that they looked like a fancily decorated porcelain cup. She couldn't help but almost laugh as she mentally compared herself to a cotton ball.
Another maid knocked on the door, Martha welcoming her fellow worker in as Beatrice held a pink bowed box in her arms. Kalithea was wondering what it could be. Another box? Is it an accessory for tonight? A feathered fan of a pair of satin gloves to wear? That question was not just hers, but every maid within the room.
“Thank you, Miss Beatrice,” Lanali replied, the brunette nodding as she fixed her apron carefully. She brushed her bangs out of her face with the blow of her lips, the young woman smiling happily.
“It had arrived an hour ago! I was grateful one of the knights at the front gate delivered the package to Lady Kalithea. Is it from your workshop Miss Lanali?” Beatrice asked with a questionable glance, the redhead looking at the seamstress in tow.
Lanali smiled and nodded, holding her hands together with a pleased expression.“Indeed it is!” She paused, Beatrice handing the carefully wrapped package to her. “I had finished preparations for your dress a few days ago, though my closest aide helped with the details. She would have come to visit but had other matters to attend to.” She paused, removing the gown slightly and slowly. “Nevertheless, I hope this is to your liking, my lady!” Lanali enjoyed the suspense, her miniature audience gasping at the beauty and craftsmanship.
The dress was white as snow, yet it appeared periwinkle in the shadows and crevices of the silks and satin layers. The bust portion of the chest was embroidered with grey flowerlike patterns. The empirical waistline was held with a thin but firmly strapped blue ribbon with a sapphire blue pendant lined in the center. The off-shoulder sleeves were short but pleated like ruffles, delicately and carefully sewn with the best threads. On the sides, similar to the sapphire pendant, were smaller and size with a dropped teardrop diamond hanging like an apple of a tree. Beneath the waistline were layers upon layers of silk taffeta and satins. They were quite long to the eye, but as Lanali held the dress to Kalithea’s height, she nodded decisively.
Kalithea touched the dress with shaking hands, her eyes sparkling at the extravagantly beautiful gown. She smiled, feeling tears come to her eyes with such gratefulness. She couldn't help but smile joyfully as a few streamed down her face.
“My lady, are you alright?” Martha asked sweetly, the amethyst-orbed woman nodding as she felt the decisiveness to hug the seamstress. She walked to Lanali, holding her hands as she politely gave a bow with utmost gratitude and happiness. It was a gesture that she did not expect.
“Dry those happy tears Lady Kalithea! Your reaction is more than enough for me to continue my work.” She paused, the woman sighing with a soul full of possibilities, wonder, and contentment. “In all my years of working as a seamstress, from the beginning to the level I am now, not one dress has moved my commissioners until now. Though I have said it once, I am more grateful to you for motivating my artistic creativity.” She passionately proclaimed, fixing her glasses while wiping the smudged lenses with a cloth.
The redhead nodded, Sam and Bridgette grabbing the hair brushes from the table. She looked at her locks, writing something in her little booklet with words to portray. “Is there some way where you and Sam may fix my hair upwards? I’m not one to speak about my hair, but Ive had it free-flowing for so long that I want to try something new.”Sam and Bridgette’s eyes widened and shined with delight, their hair skills would be put to use today!
“How would you feel if we put a portion of your hair in a small braided bun, where most of it will cascade on the side?” Sam asked the young woman, Martha and Claudia looking at the three with thumbs up.
“I can bring some curls towards your face, and curl a portion of your frontal bangs too.” Bridgete paused, whispering low. “Tight ringlets are worn among the royals, and noble woman, but in my opinion, if I may, they remind me of porcelain baby girl dolls.” She laughed, Sam pushing her as they both laughed together.
“Oh, Bridgette!” She laughed, Kalithea looking at both with a confirming nod to begin their work. The passage of time seemed to continue as the clock ticked by each number until it was close to five. Claudia, Claudette, Martha, Brigette, and Lanali talked amongst each other, placing things in the room where they needed to be in order. The sun was hidden behind the clouds, yet the once bright-filled day dampened under the constant snowfall.
“My lady your hair looks gorgeous!” Claudia and Claudette replied simultaneously, the woman looking in the mirror as she looked at the lightly curled tips that framed her face. The luscious locks cascaded down to her waist like a waterfall. She smiled, yet the final step was yet to be completed… the dress. The women helped her carefully, lacing the back of the dress with the hidden seams and ribbons that were carefully with such great care. The redhead was grateful that the bustier would help her stand upright, considering the dress upon her shoulders was only partially heavier than her previous ones.
Martha and Sam fluffed the back of her dress train to allow the design and layers to show. It was puffy should a dress be worn, but thanks to Lanali it looked effortless. Kalithea looked at herself in the mirror, astonished that such a grand and form-fitting dress belonged to her. Although wearing such an expensive dress with jeweled adornments was something she still could not understand, it would take an immense amount of time to get used to this portion of luxury. Then again, she knew this event would have no business with only regally comfortable gowns.
She turned her attention to Beatrice who had helped her place on her white dancing shoes. They were not as heeled, yet they were a proper height to wear. Kalithea had a small dainty light blue gemstone pendant placed against her neck, with similar earrings adorned against her ears. She was glad that the jewels in her possession were not as big as something in the royal treasury, or perhaps she would have been the target of scorn and jealousy.
The finishing touches were yet to be complete, as Martha placed a small silver tiara-like extension in her hair while Bridgette dashed a few sprays of heavenly perfume. The clock on the wall struck six times, with a harmonious melody, Kalithea was standing from her chair when she heard a knock on her door.
“Do not worry my lady, most of the nobility are arriving just outside the gates, see for yourself.” Lanali released the curtains from the window, the redhead looking at the horse-led carriages with starstruck eyes. Now she was incredibly nervous.
“Lady Kalithea you look stunning!” Avdolia complimented, the redhead turning around with surprise and a perfected smile upon her features. Avdolia's signature colors of orange, dark blue, and white were exchanged for burgundy attire. Her embroidered top and harem pants were a dark red hue. But overall the coat-like extension went from a gradient crimson down to a faded dark orange. The bishop sleeves were very much puffed with clasped hands towards her wrist, arranged in silver buttons. It was different from the mage robes she was so accustomed to wearing inside and out of the palace, but for great appearances and events such as this, burgundy and regalness would suffice.
“The guests are just arriving and most are entering the palace ballroom. Dame Adeline and Erin will be around the crowd under a guise, should anyone have ungracious intentions toward you.” Avdolia stated with a grand smile. “Though, expect others to talk with you. It may not happen but it is a possibility. As headmistress of an academy, you are my pupil and yet like a young sibling if I may say that.” She laughed, Kalithea smiling as she felt the endearment within her words. “For now, I am your escort, as an older woman who has attended far too many of these events. Enough talk my lady, we will head through another passageway.” She offered her hand, as Kalithea gave the young woman a nod.
Dame Erin and Adeline came in with fancy attire, bowing respectfully towards the maids and seamstresses with a smile.
“Thank you all for your diligence in preparing the lady for tonight. Relax and enjoy yourselves.” Dame Adeline stated merrily, her counterpart Erin agreeing silently. The maids bowed, waving goodbye to their lady as she was escorted to the ball which would surely test manners, eloquence, and grace. Kalithea looked at Avdolia, smiling before her face returned to a picturesque scene until finally, those large wooden doors opened to the scene before her. Oh, what a wonderful sight!
Notes:
feel free to leave comments or kudos! My apologies for such a late chapter its been a long time but expect more to come!
Chapter 19: The Winter Ball
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The long but chatty line of nobles was before her as she entered the drawing room adjacent to the ballroom. Avdolia guided her pupil quietly, yet her eyes scanned the area before her with a noble and expressionless gaze.
“Do not fret, I can feel your hand tensing like a brick wall. As I stated before, you are well taken care of.” Avdolia chuckled, Kalithea smiling as she felt the sudden weight being lifted off her shoulders.
“The Duke and Duchess of Castro!” The announcer bellowed aloud, as the precedent line grew shorter and shorter within minutes. The redhead noticed that the highest ranking would be first, and everyone with a lower title would come hereafter. Though this was intended for a specific purpose, she couldn't help but grow weary of her insignificant status. She was a woman of humble birth, the past slave of a man who was killed by the emperor's hand. How could they address her without a title to her name?
Until she approaches the door that had closed, Avdolia pats her hand like a parent to a child. She took a deep breath keeping her gaze on the prize– a wonderful night.
“Headmistress Avoldia and her pupil Miss Kalithea!” The ballroom doors opened, and she was greeted with the bright light of the ballroom, and the musical instruments playing away such a wonderful merry tune. The young woman held the hem of her dress to glide across the floor while her mentor walked confidently.
“The Headmistress has brought a pupil with her?”
“That girl looks so familiar. Does she not?”
“Has this pupil received an invitation from His Majesty?”
“My word that is the mark of a witch, perhaps she possesses some inherited magi ability?”
“Such beauty! She is quite Gorgeous!”
“I am envious of her dress… how could such a pupil receive such a dress like that?.”
The not-so-quiet voices of the noble's questions and statements reached both of their ears. To think that she was the object of such chatter! Kalithea followed Avdolia as she walked to the throne of his majesty, the two approaching Jotaro as he sat quietly in his chair. Kalithea curtsied in his presence, Jotaro raising his brows surprisingly at her beauty and eloquence, the young woman kept her gaze low as she felt the presence of watchful eyes on her back.
“Greetings to the Sun of the Empire,” Avdolia stated happily, motioning for her pupil to leave his presence as they greeted others with the same likeness. Jotaro kept his gaze on Kalithea for a moment, until his attention was dragged elsewhere.
“You did well. Now the only hard part of the night is to converse.” Avdolia smiled as she grabbed both of them a drink from one of the many butlers surveying the ballroom floors. It did not take long for many to greet Headmistress Avdolia quite the swarm of miniature nobles and those of the elite class walked by themselves or with a partner.
“Good Evening Headmistress Avdolia. I pray you are doing well these days?” A plump man with a thick mustache and overly done attire asked with a cheeky smile.
“Good evening Lord Silaus. I am doing quite well. The students of the Imperial Magic Academy are finishing the exams for this season, yet I am positive they will always be at the top of each class.” Avdolia Replied, the man turning to Kalithea with interest.
“This must be the pupil you have brought with you. A fine young woman indeed.” He took her hand, kissing it as she felt an uncomfortable shiver travel up her spine. She thanked him with a nod and a charming smile, Avdolia opening her lips to speak.
“You are correct Lord Silaus, my pupil Kalithea is a hard worker in her studies. However, pardon her quietness, she is unable to speak. Though, I know you, being an understanding man will have no objection to limitations.” She took in his questionable look, the man nodding as his lips twitched.
“Of course, you praise me quite well.” His words conveyed his quiet disdain for being corrected, the redhead looking at him with a practiced expressionless face.
“Headmistress Avdolia, how wonderful it is to see you. Your pupil has not just myself formulating questions but I am sure others here are interested to know who she is.” A woman with graying hair yet kindness in her eyes greeted her with a smile.
“I believe you after all this is the first time I have brought a student to an event like this, your grace.” Avdolia and Kalithea looked at this woman skeptically, yet they instinctively knew she was of no harm to either of them with mindless gossip.
“You are a very stunning young lady. Your beauty surpasses my youth.” She chuckled, Kalithea curtsying slightly to offer her respects.
“Headmistress Avdolia, how are the students of the Imperial Academy?” A man in a tight-fitting coat requested Avdolia’s answer with interest, his partner, undoubtedly his wife, looked at Kalithea with only a glimmer of envy, yet the rest of her underlying emotions were hidden behind her fan.
“Very well Lord Danbrur. I told Lord Silaus about the season's exams not too long ago. Though the number of students is small, I am grateful to you and her ladyship for your patronage.” Avdolia smiled, Kalithea nodding as she tried her best not to twindle with her dress.
“You are Miss Kalithea correct?” Lady Danbrur asked with narrow eyes, yet a sly smile. She brought her fan down into her hand, her heavy makeup visibly under the lights. “You must have a magi ability of great power to attend the winter ball.” Lady Danbrur’s words struck doubt into the minds of the nobles, wondering if this ‘pupil’ really did possess an ability.
“Lady Danbrur, the Imperial Magic Academy has been open to students without magic ability yet possess intellectual advancements. Surely you are skeptical of Magic's ability only by the color of her hair? Pardon me but wasn't your portion of your husband's land that first started the rumor alongside Prussina?” Avdolia chuckled, Kalithea was shocked to see this side of Avdolia. Quick-witted and very blunt with topics regarding topics such as this.
“Headmistress Avdolia is right.”
“I believe it is true that that rumor started from there?”
“How shameful.”
The others whispered, leaving Lord and Lady Danbrur embarrassed about how this conversion backfired.
“N-no It was not started by us. I was merely curious, that was all.” Lady Danbrur covered her weary expression with her fan once more, placing her hand in the crook of her husband's arm. “Excuse us, Headmistress Avdolia.” The two left, and the sudden quietness of the crowd caused them to feel awkward,
Kalithea took a sip of her drink which suddenly tasted bitter. It did not take long for the conversation to start again as Avdolia was overcome with endless conversation. Kalithea, growing bored by their indecisiveness and ignorance of her presence, walked to Dame Adeline whom she recognized amid the crowd. She walked alone, towards the knight with intentions to escape the small talk of the night. This ball was not how she had expected, and this would continue for hours upon hours.
The mere thought of this was almost annoying. She figured she would sit on one of the plush chairs against the wall, while the other nobles and high-class citizens did not mingle with her much to her dissatisfaction. Even then, she was internally grateful since she could not converse without her guardian. She watched as the scenery of the dancefloor opened in a circular formation once again, as the music stopped.
The violin began to play, as other musicians followed in a suite of the lead player. Kalithea looked down at the floor, hoping not to draw any attention to herself. Many groups of people were talking amongst themselves, the miss sighing as she watched many young men requesting the dance of a young lady. Some like herself did not receive the invitation to dance, but those select few had another to converse with. She was stopped as a young man of considerable polish approached.
“Pardon me for my intrusion. I could not help but approach, as I heard you were a pupil of Headmistress Avdolia.” A man with thick blond hair and blue eyes started casually. Kalithea nodded, folding her hands together delicately.
“I am Patronus, the son of Lady and Lord Danbrur.” The blonde introduced himself quickly as he took her hand to kiss it. Despite his friendly approach, she could not help but feel uneasy. “May I offer you a drink Miss Kalithea?” Patronus smiled, taking one of the champagne glasses off the butler's tray. She nodded, handing her a drink as he sipped a portion of his own. “I have only a question to ask, if I may.” His expression remained, yet she nodded once more to confirm his response. “May I have the request for the next dance?” He smiled, and she could not help but feel embarrassed as she had misjudged him.
She smiled with a charmful expression, as he bowed in thanks. He walked away from her as he conversed with another man. Someone had asked her to dance. How wonderful! She awaited when the next song would play, hopeful that the night would change for the better. She smiled quietly, waiting for the next song to play, as she would be swept to the dancefloor by her charming partner. Avdolia had surprised her from behind, Kalithea quickly turning around as a smile came to her face.
“I apologize, the nobles were asking far too many questions about you. Though I did my best to deter away from the conversation, you slipping away for a little way gave me the perfect leeway.” Avdolia stated happily, looking at the conversating guests as she checked the watch in her pocket. “Have you been asked to dance by someone yet, my dear?” She asked, the redhead nodding as she motioned to the blond.“Ah, Patronus. He was a student at Magi Academy. Unfortunately, his grades were not up to par as requested by the institution.” Avolia narrowed her eyes, Kalithea was shocked, yet could not pass judgment.
Her happy mood suddenly shifted, and her hopes sank as her promised dancing partner led another woman of higher class to the dance floor. She sighed, yet smiled as they walked to the floor. That woman was blushing, yet side-eyed her with a haughty laugh. Promising a woman to dance, yet choosing another partner is shameful and embarrassing.
Avdolia's passive-aggressive smile said one thing, but her hand in her pocket glowing a bright red said another. Kalithea wrote something on a small pocket-sized paper, grateful no one paid attention.
“Please Avdolia, do not bother. I am a mere ‘pupil’ in the eyes of the guests tonight. I promise you I am more than happy to watch others dance.”
Avdolia sighed, patting her hand as she silently prayed that she would have no ill will to manhandle that one in a most confounding way.
“A mere student thinking she would have the privilege to dance with high class.”
“This is quite hilarious. I expect the society columns to mention only a portion of this.”
“Oho! How embarrassing, I can't help but laugh at her.”
“I don't expect anyone to pity a mere common girl.”
The noble young ladies fanned their faces laughing as Kalithea did her best to pay no mind. She could feel their gaze on her, and they were unforgiving, but she would never let them see her tears. More people collected new partners, as she was the unspoken outlier. Footsteps appeared each one heavy and almost echoing. It stopped momentarily, the ballroom quiet where all could hear if a pin were to drop it.
“Kalithea.” The rugged yet notable voice brought her attention back to reality. She quickly looked at Jotaro, in his grand splendor. A heavily decorated white cape is fashioned upon his shoulder, with a dark navy blue coat with silver accentuation to match. The collar was lined with pale cream ruffles, embroidered delicately. His white pants were pristine without spots or blemishes, though most of the ends covered his black shoes. How incredibly handsome he looked. She curtsied before him, keeping her gaze low as the area around her was graced by his presence.
Jotaro took her hand and lifted her from her low curtsied position. She looked at him with such surprise, his expression cold but a severe calmness lingering. He kissed her hand, shocking the guests as they had begun to talk in their fashionable frenzy.
“The sun of the empire has never danced willingly with anyone before!”
“Who is she when he favored her as his dance partner?”
“He had kissed her hand, such action by the Emperor no less.”
“How could His Majesty ask her!”
Those similar voices of the crowd that had once mocked her for a missing dance partner had shifted into awe. Their perceived thoughts of her possible low class and silence were much different– now believing she must be the daughter of some high noble who hid her from the shadows of society. If the Sun of the Empire wished to dance with this woman, how dare they say anything about her and whom he chooses.
“Headmistress Avdolia, I request your pupil to dance with me. Is this permitted?” Jotaro stated cooly, Avdolia nodding as she placed a hand behind Kalithea’s back, urging her to follow his lead.
“She would be delighted.” Avdolia placed her hands in her pocket, the hidden swish of her hand made her pupil’s dress sparkle and shine with a more heavenly hue. His cold expression towards the crowd silenced their crude thoughts. Jealousy had begun to stir in the minds of the young ladies. Seething with such green-eyed envy, their position as gossiping socialites was undoubtedly stripped in a few moments.
Jotaro held her fragile hand within his own as he led her to the pristine marble space. He looked at how her hair framed her narrow face, and how beautiful she looked up close. Her dress was fit for a princess, yet she carried such elegance. She looked at him, with such happiness that he could not hide his surprise when her eyes became glossy with tears of gratitude.
Jotaro wrapped a hand around her back, It was almost endearing with how gentle he was. Gentle was not a word he would ever consider himself, yet for once he didnt feel any anger and harshness for her in this moment. She placed her hand against his shoulder, and the conductor readied his baton in a swaying motion. The violins and cello started an easy tune, Jotaro taking the first step to lead her, just as they had practiced. She was tense, worried that she would make a fool out of herself, but his hand around her waist pulled her in closer.
Note: valse de l’amour from Cinderella (song and dance are the inspiration here- enjoy readers!)
The harp, flute, and strings, started as he began to take her across the dance floor. He swayed her from side to side, Kalithea moving alongside him with the same quickness of speed. He let her go for a moment, holding the edges of her hand as she spun away from him. Her dress expanded as it looked like a blossoming white rose, her hair in its updo had fallen just a little. Their hands swayed up and down, like waves upon a beach. This motion of a waltz was difficult to articulate, yet they had mastered it.
She was perfectly spun, where the space until the guests accompanying their dance willingly stepped out of the space to let them have room.
“What grace!”
“What beauty! How lovely she waltzes”
“I am envious of her skill.”
The guests gathered closer to watch the two dance so wonderfully. They could not critique her; she had completely wowed and stolen the young men's hearts who had frowned upon her. Kalithea smiled, where Jotaro averted his gaze for a moment, as she was brought in close once more. The musicians smiled, while the conductor nodded approvingly as no other pair could have captured the essence of a waltz.
The final moments were upon them, the strings being pulled with such vigor, as the raven-haired male lifted her in the air and spun in a full circle. The audience, gasped for air, as she shined like a beautiful radiant gem. Jotaro set her down, holding her hand a final time before he dipped her in a glorious ending. As they separated, Kalithea curtsied low, Jotaro bowing as he placed a hand against his chest.
Their partnership had stunned the crowd into silence and brought them to their senses as they clapped and cheered with new vitality. Jotaro lifted her off the ground by her hand, leading the young woman back to Avdolia. The nobility’s lips were sealed as she walked by, almost as if they uttered a word, their supposed slander would be silenced instantaneously by the fierce glare of his majesty. Kalithea curtsied a final time, the man acknowledging her with a single glance.
“You waltzed well. Should another quick dance appear, may I ask you again to be my partner for the remainder of the night?” Jotaro cooling asked, his question stunning the ears of the guests once more as if his mere dancing with her was not enough of a surprise and shock to the nobility and upper class. Kalithea nodded, curtsying again in his presence as he left to receive a drink for himself.
Kalithea’s cheeks held a light flush of color, her eyes shining with profound emotion for the man who had seemed to hate her. Perhaps it was pity, or empathy for her sorry state, why else would he have danced with her? To save face yes, even more so than the predetermined dance they have completed with each other. Would he have done the same action if she was not in his palace as a guest? Nevertheless, she refused to let her mind wander on the ‘hows’ and ‘whys’, but more so on how lovely the music was.
“My dear? Are you quite alright? You look so in a daze as you have seen a spirit.” Avdolia chuckled. Her voice sent her pupil out of her mindfulness, the girl nodding as she wrote in her miniature book quickly with such rigor.
“Oh, Avdolia… I have much more on my mind than what you have said. How can I even thank his majesty for saving me from such embarrassment– a possible scandal? He was so kind in that moment and for a second, it seemed as if he did not have such scorn for my presence. But, why did he do it?” Kalithea asked, handing her book to Avdolia as she smiled with empathy.
“My dear, I may have known his majesty for the longest time, yet there are things that I have yet to comprehend. How he feels, acts, or what he thinks is not within my limits. Maybe that is something you can ask him one day.” Avoldia patted her pupil’s shoulder as she nodded. She looked at His Majesty from afar, the man looking annoyed with his conversation yet talking nonetheless.
Dame Adeline motioned for Avdolia to follow her, the knight looking grave with such dramatic air.“It seems Dame Adeline requests my presence. Dame Erin is in the corner conversing with one of the soldiers in Jean’s squadron. Go to her my dear, I am unsure how long this meeting is requested of me.” Avdolia instructed, Kalithea nodding as she understood there must be some mysterious matter to attend to.
Kalithea walked with her eyes set on finding her knight, yet, by some odd encounter, that same man who had nearly shamed her with a dance appeared in front of her yet again.
“Miss Kalithea, you must allow me to apologize. I was caught up with one of the ladies.” Patronus replied with a simple smile. Figuring he wished to redeem himself into her good graces, the woman sighed with inconceivable boredom. “May I ask you to come with me?” He held her hand with such force. Although she tried to evade his grip he would not let her do so. “It would be my honor to escort you to the gardens.” His expression darkened yet his smile stayed the same. The guests did not mind them, as they had undeniably wished for the downfall if not Patronus, then both.
Patronus gripped her hand tighter, pulling her through the open doors of the ballroom. He evaded the knights watching the guests closely until he bypassed the hallways and dark corridors of the palace. She could not scream for help, nor pull away from him. Oh, how afraid she was of what could occur to her. She was fearful, yes, but whatever sick thoughts lingered in his mind could never compare to what Jancis had inflicted on her.
The man pushed her against the wall, his expression angry and full of unfathomable disdain. His blonde hair framed his face like a spider’s web, and unfortunately to her utter dismay, she was the prey he sought.
“You filthy vixen! How dare you dishonor my family and my name with your awful seduction! You wretch! Seducing the emperor to displace me from my pedestal to one of shame! Have you not seen how they looked at me, and how with such ravish did they at you! WELL, I WILL SHOW YOU AND REMIND YOU OF THE PLACE ON WHICH YOU STAND!” Patronus was frothing at the mouth, his teeth bared like a rabid animal.
“Favored by the headmistress, and somehow were accepted in such a grand school! I find it impossible that she would see you were worthy to be brought here to an event when I fought every tooth and nail in my power to be brought in! Ha!” He paused quickly, laughing like a maniac for only a moment. “My family was brought up from the shambles of my dismissal from that Magi Academy! How dare you take my place!” His demeanor shifted as her chaste dress seemed to somehow, in his eyes, look as if it was his own will to remove.
Kalithea could tell that look of lust from anywhere, she had seen it from the many unfavorable men in the tavern, whenever she was forcefully brought along with Jancis. However, that similar look he gave sent chills down her spine, the hairs on the back of her neck sticking on its ends. It was an unpleasant feeling, and her gut was telling her to flee, or somehow put up a fight!
She removed herself from his grasp, covering her chest which was an unfortunate feat for him to ignore. “Quiet yourself, and maybe I’ll be gentle with you.” He grossly instructed. With those words alone she knew his motives, and oh, how unsightly it was! She closed her eyes, expecting the worst to come. Just as he placed a hand over her mouth, and his trailing hands almost wandered, the world around her seemed to stop in slow motion, as if time had stopped. The hands of her perpetrators were removed by a slash of what appeared to be a sword.
The scream of Patronus echoed loud within the garden walls, yet the music that played within covered his undeniable cry of anguish. He fell on the floor, one of his hands severed from his person, until the man who had danced with her only a while before had appeared by his side, towering above him. Kalithea looked at him, tears in her eyes– ones of gratitude and fear. Crimson stained the winter snow red, where it was tainted with such a feat.
Her chastity could have been soiled had he not come. She slowly fell against the sides of the pillar, leaning on it for support. The man looked at Patronus with hatred, yet with his usual cool and nonchalant expression. It did not take long for a few of his knights to apprehend the bland who had passed out from the pain.
“Tend to his wounds, and send him back where he belongs. It seems the minuscule Danbrur line is to be terminated for rampant gossip, cheats, and pathological lying, but for laying hands on one of the pupils of the headmistress. I will deal with him as I see fit.” Jotaro dismissed the knights, and the man offered his hand to Kalithea who softly placed her’s within his own. She wrote something in her booklet with a shaky but quick hand, handing it to His Majesty.
“I knew not his intentions. I must beg you for your forgiveness Your Majesty for my misconduct-” Just as he neared the end of her words, he placed the notebook in his pocket.
“I won't ask you for the story of how it went. The mere thing is that Avdolia was looking for you, and Dame Erin witnessed Patronus forcefully taking you away to this very place. That is enough in itself.” With those words leaving his lips, she reached out, wiping the spot of blood that had landed against his cheek.
The moonlight shined upon her hair beautifully, her skin pale like the crescent in the sky. Her eyes seemed to shine as the reflection of the millions of stars placed itself in amethyst. The frosty wind flowed through their hair, the woman bringing her hand back against her side. Graciously he stared, and she kept her gaze low. Though she was not afraid of him as much as she used to be, he took the chance to lead her to someplace she had not seen in a long time.
The iron gate that she had recognized, and the gardens of camellias with their flower petals around the buds like a blanket made her expression shine with delight, and her countenance at ease. The man looked at her touch the ice-cold water in the fountain pools, as he opened his lips to speak.
“You are permitted here whenever you may wish. This garden has been shut up for many years and managed to maintain a certain condition. During this cold winter, I charge you with taking care of this place of your own accord, as it is the first place I came across you.”
She quickly looked in his direction, flattered and her heart touched that he remembered such a thing. To think that a man of such high standing would recollect her. Let alone the location of where they had first met face to face. She thanked him with a bow, curtsied as she had always done to showcase her gratitude. The man is quiet as he has averted his gaze.
The music from the ballroom echoed from the garden, another song playing, the man gently wrapped her hand around her waist, pulling her in closer to him than ever before. The man gently held her hand as she felt her breath hitch in her throat. She smiled, the man waltzing with her a final time into the night, away from the prying eyes of the nobility, in the quiet space of a snow-covered wonderland. This night had undoubtedly started to chip away a portion of the iciness of his frozen heart, and yet, her anguish and lament of such longing had solitude was slowly being washed away, like the sand grains being swept into the sea.
Notes:
my apologies for such a late chapter! my computer has locked me out! I will come again soon my dear readers! for now, enjoy! Happy 4th to all you readers in the U.S too!
Chapter 20: Cup of challenges
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Iggy waltzed about the garden grounds, wearing the small boots on his paws, which his friend graciously requested to be made for him. Should the snow stop abruptly, the winter would mourn its accompanying friend, and spring would appear early.
The snow had fallen the week previously, the open gate to a world of ice and bitter frostbite– if left unchecked would lead to an early demise of said appendages. However bleak as it may be, this case would never be for certain in the Emperor’s palace.
Kalithea looked at the sky, mittens on her hands as she cupped the snow. Like powdered sugar on the baked muffins in Chef Joulies kitchen, the picture-perfect appearance of a blanket of ice made her smile at the mere thought of it. Iggy barked as he wished to stay close to his friend's side, yet he understood she was not alone on this snowy field because of her loneliness. Avdolia discussed a quick matter with Dame Adeline and Erin, but to their credit, the frigid and chilly air discontinued their words.
From the high window of the emperor’s study, Jotaro pushed back the curtains as he looked into the sky to predetermine if today was another snowfall. He figured as much, the man seeing Kalithea hold Iggy in her arms as the blue coat he gave her lay snug around her person. The documents on his table have shrunk from his diligence to slaving away at incessant nonsense. Today is an easy day to relax and enjoy the splendor of the weather, then perhaps it would be fit for him to do the same.
The redhead who had looked into the cloudy sky had noticed the Emperor gazing down at them. The young miss waved hello, her smile ever present to give her greetings. The open curtains had fallen back down across the frosted windowpane, his abruptness as it seemed, was back to how it usually was. Saddened but not surprised that he had grown cold again she walked to her dearest and closest people whom she called friends.
Kalithea wrote something quickly in her nearly filled notebook– mindful of the ink splots that had left her pen. Just as she finished, she showcased her eloquently written words, despite some pen marks that had escaped.
“Do you suppose that Chef Joulie finished that supposed drink? The snow is biting the tip of my nose, I only pray that I will not receive frostbite on this very day.”
Avdolia, Dame Erin, and Adeline pondered this, contemplating the wonders and inevitability of that said drink Chef Joulie requested for them to try. Despite his gruff appearance in the kitchen, his kindness and eagerness towards the lady were very much appreciated. Like the bell on the church towers, Chef Joulie rang the kitchen bell signaling for herself, but the many men who had paused their training for a hot refreshment.
“Well, it seems your question has been answered, my lady.” Avdolai laughed, looking at her watch tucked in her jacket pocket. The chain dangled as she held it, looking at the time passing so slowly. Without the sun peeking through the almost melancholy clouds, it was impossible to deem what time of day it was, and when nightfall would apprehend their sleep. “Now then, shall we go inside the kitchen? Dame Erin I dare so cannot contain her excitement.” Avdolia mentioned the knight, alarmed and embarrassed.
“Oh, you tease me so! I cannot help but become an utter fool at the mention of a drink. Taverns in our free time, have limited the expenditures of coffee beans, dare I say even the ground bags in the market. Only God knows that the nobles must have stockpiles of them.” She laughs a little, taking her gloves off her hands. “Yet I am quite grateful to have a little glimmer of heaven in a cup.” Dame Erin adjusted her hair, and the four women neared the kitchen door, Joulie’s eyes sparkling as he relished in excitement.
“You must have a taste. Unfortunately, the little pup cannot have any! You will see why.” The man set the cups on the table, Kalithea and her accomplices accepting this with a smile and a grateful nod.
Kalithea took a sip, savoring the taste of chocolate, powdered sugar, and honey. A delicious treat that sent soothing waves down her spine, to the tips of her hands. It was no wonder Iggy could not have a small cup, he would beg for it.
“My word, Chef, you have outdone yourself. I must have the recipe!” Dame Adeline replied, placing a hand on her face. “I know how you like to hold the precious sheets of parchment to yourself, yet I will offer the best coffee grounds as compensation.” With this statement, Chef Joulie quickly turned intrigued by this offer.
“Make it two.” He held up two fingers, the woman nodding as they shook hands as the affair was settled in moments.
“My lady, this happens at least once a week. She hardly offers me her secret stash of coffee!” Dame Erin whispered, Kalithea covering her lips to hide her smile. She nods, Chef Joulie and Adeline talking amongst themselves as he shows her a copy of the recipe with quick motions.
“Avdolia, what do you think? I think he did an excellent job. I usually am not one for honey and chocolate but this concoction is wonderful to smell and taste.” Dame Erin asked Avdolia, the two women, and the dog looking at her expectantly.
‘I am very much surprised. My reaction is the same as yours. Although, nutmeg and chai would be a perfect extra topping.” She whispers the last syllables, but her words never reach the ears of Chef Joulie.
Kalithea nodded, the four sitting at the table as the men had already picked up their portions individually before their arrival. Just as she was about to finish, she looked down at Iggy whose ears gradually fell due to disappointment. She put lips over her mouth to silence the lips of her companions, setting the cup onto the tiled floor for her little furry friend to try. Kalithea stood from her seated position, writing something only for the Chef’s eyes to see.
“My word!” He stated quickly, fixing up a small cup of the drink and handing it to her. “Good luck my lady! Send me back a reaction, I must know.”
Seeing Chef Joulie’s eyes shine with enthusiasm and excitement made them wonder what could cause such a change in his usual calm demeanor. Despite this observation, the determination in the lady’s eyes was more than just an eagerness. What did their lady suggest?
The redheaded beauty’s quick leaving with a cup in her hand and a smile working on her face, made them each raise a brow. Despite Iggy’s senses suggesting an ability to smell delectable things from miles away, I have sensed something to come.
“My lady!” Dame Erin called, the woman about to rush about, her counterpart doing so in the line of duty, but the speedy return of Kalithea in the kitchen cooled their anxious driven nerves.
“I Will be right back! Do not look for me. I’m to run a quick errand. I will return in ten minutes without spilling this on my attire.” Kalithea stated in her notebook. Placing the paged artifact back in her tailored dress pocket, the woman held the cup and saucer in her delicate hands, walking so a single droplet would not fall onto the pavement beneath.
She passed the doors, wondering if her suggestion was too outlandish to be advised as a good idea. Yet, on the page addressed to the Chef, written simply: “Chef Joulie? I would like to bring one to His Majesty, may I have one to bring?”
Reminiscing and Preoccupying, her thoughts and considerations of how the emperor would react, if any reaction at all, to a simple drink that Chef Joulie prepared, would allow him to act that certain way he did at the winter ball. Perhaps, if he was in a good mood– which rarely looked like it happened, she may ask why he wanted to dance with her. Yet, her supercilious manner at that very moment halted when she was greeted by the guarding Sir Jean.
“Lady Kalithea? I never thought I would see you here at this time of day, especially in these frigid parts.” He pauses, looking at the drink in her hands. The cup's brown liquid still had strands of steam from the heated cup. “What, may that be?” He pointed to it questionably, a quizzical-formulated brow appearing on his face.
A quick scribble answered his swift question, the knight nodding as he pondered if he should snatch one from the kitchen himself. The smell contradicted his stomach’s desire to engulf that said drink in her delicate hands. Besides this matter, he forgot why she was here, nevertheless, he asked her what was on his mind.
“I suppose that is for His Majesty?” Jean asked casually, Kalithea’s shocked expression confirmed his guess. He brought his hand motioning her to come closer, whispering in a low tone. “I can’t let you in, but seeing this is a special visit, I'll announce you, alright?” Jean smiled, and the woman thanked him with a profuse bow. “Your Majesty?” He seriously responded, hopeful to hear the gruff reply from the man he called a friend.
“What?” The simple and rather annoyed reply Jotaro made made her quite nervous. She felt embarrassed that she should bring a cup of Chef Joulie’s to His Imperial Majesty no less. She felt obliged to leave based on his indifference but Jean asking if she may enter diminished her plan altogether.
“The door is open, see to it yourself,” Jotaro replied, Kalithea’s expression trying to remain somewhat positive despite her skittish nature. She opened the knob, the woman looking at the fireplace full of crackling wood. Jotaro glanced away from his papers which he had coincidentally finished upon her arrival. If it were one of his council members, he would not hesitate to shoo them away or bade them a snarky remark. It was common knowledge among all of his staff and his guests that should they need him, they must request an audience.
It must have seemed to slip her mind however that this minor detail disrupted his line of work, and annoyed him partially. Jean was kind enough to close the door behind her, the raven-haired male looking at the cup in her hand.
“I'm assuming by the cup you're holding that must be some form of drink you want me to try?” Jotaro looked at his papers again, putting on his reading glasses where miniature prescription details were etched on the glass lens. Kalithea’s surprised glance confirmed his question, and he grew rather suspicious of her. “How would I know it's not poisoned? Though Chef Joulie I trust with my life you, however, I do not.” His serious expression remained painted on his face, and yet Kalithea’s heart sank to her stomach hearing those words.
She had hoped that maybe his demeanor and attitude might have changed if not a portion, then the sliver of hope she had that he might offer her a chance of friendship, diminished. Daringly with a little determination and persistence, she was going to place the cup on the desk, far away from his documents. That plan however failed when his firm hand grabbed her wrist tightly. His small squeeze was not gentle and indeed painful.
Kalithea winced, the pain shooting up her arm and her balance wavered. Unable to hold the cup to a certain degree, it shattered onto the floor. Jotaro cursed under his breath, the hot liquid falling onto her silken dress. She brought herself low to pick up the fallen pieces of the cup, Jotaro stopping her as he lifted her from her position with his hands in her own.
“Kalithea, are you hurt anywhere?” Jotaro asked, Kalithea looking away as she held her wrist within her hand. “Come with me.” He asked her to follow, the woman lifting her dress, as he left the room from a side door. A secret pathway perhaps? She pondered where he was taking her, the man leading her down the hall where they had evaded Jean’s ears and line of sight. It didn't take long for them to arrive at the large oak doors, Jotaro opening it swiftly with a hand firmly placed against her back. The redhead had no way to say how she felt, and even then her booklet was most likely wet by the chocolatey drink.
”Doctor Marian.” He diligently called that person's name, quick footsteps echoing from the steps of a flight of stairs.
“Oh my! Greetings to Your Imperial Majesty.” A blonde-haired woman with graying roots smiled with a curtsey.
“No need to be so formal, Doctor. A cup’s shattered pieces may have caused a few if not grand, then minor cuts.” He formally stated, averting his gaze as Marian nodded.
“For you or the lady?” She asked, the man motioning to the shorter redhead standing beside him. The woman looked at Kalithea’s hands, though with no cuts, the minor burns on her hands were not grave but a simple ointment would do the trick. “I’ll put some medicinal cream on the areas where you are burned, my lady. Just keep this bandage on your hands and you should be fine until later on tonight.”
Kalithea readied her notebook, the man beside her watching her shaking hands as he felt remorse that his presence there might make her fearful of him again.
“Done! I think as I grow older my skills with bandaging are much better than when I first started.” Marian laughed, Kalithea thanking her for her services with a smile and a nod. “This is for you. Apply this cream just in case this happens again, your hands are quite shaky my dear.” With those finishing words, Jotaro thanked the Doctor once more, the two leaving as Kalithea waved goodbye.
Leaving the Doctor’s designated room in the wing of the palace, Jotaro stops her. “Shit, I owe you an apology.” He apologized, looking sorrowful that he had caused two accidents, her wrist, and her dress.
“You’re still afraid of me I assume?” Jotaro presses, Kalithea is shocked he could utter such a thing, and though she was not, she was very surprised he would consider her feelings. She quickly shook her head writing in her notebook that was still dry despite the accident.
“I am not afraid of you, Your Majesty! How could I be when you offer me a sliver of kindness despite the iciness in your words? I find myself drawn to you, like a moth to a flame. You are not who I pictured and yet can you blame me, your majesty for wanting to understand you?” Kalithea showed her response to his majesty, her subtle but powerful words shocking him. He was speechless, and could not utter a single word despite this.
“I'm sorry, I was too free of my words… pardon me Your Majesty for my carelessness…” Kalithea wrote again, writing quickly so her message would come across and shake His Majesty from his silent moment.
“Good grief…” He grumbled under his breath. “What… was that drink you were trying to offer me earlier?” Jotaro reluctantly asks with curious vigor. Kalithea’s eyes sparkled with delight, the woman grabbing his hand as it was now his turn to willingly follow her directions. Being careful and mindful of her lightly bandaged hand, he had unkbenkowistly been led to the kitchens of Chef Joulie.
“Oh my lady, you are back! Have you finished your excursion-“ Avdolia asked, yet the appearance of His Majesty behind her silenced her and the other's questions quickly. “If Chef Joulie sees you he is bound to drop-“
“Your Majesty!” The exclamation of Chef Joulie caused them to flinch, the man dropping his wooden ladle spoon on the ground.
“his spoon..” Avdolia finished again, chuckling at Joulie’s astonished face, and his smile that beamed like the rays of the hidden sun! Jotaro cleared his throat, Kalithea writing in her book yet again, Joulie nodding gravely for a moment yet readied another cup of the chocolate goodness.
“My lady, you must be careful next time!! We would hate for you to burn your hands again.” Joulie mildly scolded like a parent to a child. The protective radars of Dame Adeline, Dame Erin, and Avdolia sprung into action, the knights asking the first question.
“I knew I should have gone with you. How did that happen after all my, lady?” Dame Erin stood up to examine her bandaged hands, Kalithea showing her written notebook page.
“I accidentally spilled it on myself, just a minor burn, nothing more, nothing less! I'm just happy His Majesty was kind enough to take me to the infirmary to get this checked out!” Kalithea explained, a sigh of partial relief leaving the woman’s lips.
“It is great to see you back in this kitchen! I have not seen you enjoy anything sweet or hot since your early youth. Oh ho! Such a good day this is!” Joulie handed him a new and fresh hot drink, the man sipping it with care, the cup hiding his perplexed and almost embarrassed expression.
“It's good, well done.” Jotaro complimented the man, setting the cup down on the table, beside where Kalithea stood. “You will join me for dinner, correct?” Jotaro asked Kalithea, the woman blinking a few times, to register what was said. Usually taking her meals in her room far from the emperor's dining hall, she nodded eagerly. “Chef?” He asked, the man turning from his dough kneading.
“Yes, Your Majesty?” He replied swiftly, rubbing his hands together to remove the endless supply of flour on the crevices of his hands.
“I will count on you to make something fit for the both of us as you usually do. However, I’m giving you the freedom to choose whatever dish you have in mind with your knowledge and expertise.” Jotaro states, leaving Joulie shocked and honored.
“Y-yes! It will be done soon, your Majesty! Now you ladies leave the kitchen if you please! There is much work to be done!! Elis?! Elis! Where are you, Elis?” Chef Joulie turns the corner and disappears, the five of them leaving the kitchens to Joulie’s devices.
“I will see you later this evening.” Jotaro looked at her, the woman nodding in agreement as they parted ways, Kalithea looked back as Jotaro walked further down the road, the snow crunching underneath his boots. An interesting person with such a questionable character.
“Let’s go back inside my lady. I’ll get us a head start so Martha will start the fireplace.” Dame Adeline stated, the four leading their redheaded miss to her bedchambers.
As the snow continually fell from the sky, the weather was unlike anything that anyone expected before. Even in the region of the Alanis Empire, their neighboring county Prussina did not receive the glistening winter snow, but the endless heat of the Kastrov Desert.
In the capital of Muenna the walls of the palace were full of palm trees, and the courts were full of men and ladies dressed in splendor. With vibrant colors of silks, satins, and spun gold, this seemed the epitome of wealth and nobility. A man dressed in a turban walked down the sand and limestone halls, the servant girls greeting him with a nod.
The closed reed doors of the room were full of escaping essence smoke, the man knocking as both doors opened wistfully.
“May the goddess of Prussina bless you endlessly, your Highness the Crown Prince Casium.” He greets the man with favor. This person did not respond, yet the dark room continually let out the streamy waves of smoke.
“I suppose you have news to bring me from our neighbors?” The sultry voice of a man asked this question quietly and with indifference.
“There is much commotion in society- one of which the Emperor seems to have caused.” The man kneeled, the rush of a blow of fresh air entered into the Crown Prince’s lungs.
“Mhm. Astros ready the camels, and the royal treasury. It seems we owe the good Emperor a visit.” As he blew his smoke a final time, his amber eyes narrowed as he looked to this new conquest of sorts where he wished to stand and claim his ground. So awaits this new challenger, a new battle of champions, and indeed an unveiling of secrets. So comes the serpent with his fangs barred.
End of Vol. 2
Notes:
A new challenger will come into play, along with variety of things to overcome! Stay tuned!!!!
Chapter 21: Cruel fate
Chapter Text
The skies above had partially showcased the sun, which had been so profusely shunned away from the Capital of Ilicia. The snowfall had withdrawn only for a short amount of time. Specifically on this day, it was no coincidence that the whole capital should receive a visitor in otherworldly splendor and an abundance of wealth.
A fleet of cedar ships decorated in gold leaf and an excellent array of vibrant silks neared the wharves. Like a naval army, the vast array of colors and heavy hues of pinks, blues, and reds, were married to the costly aroma of perfumes. The smell of incense was not short of the mark but coincided with the flowering blossoms thrown over the ship's top deck.
The beautiful ladies are adorned in jewelry fit for princesses, and the crowded dock of onlookers did not shy away from their ogling eyes. The capital was in a frenzy! A visitor from the neighboring region across the cold sea was here! To pay a visit to His Imperial Majesty, with such a statement— there would be no way that he could ever ignore such a sight, or commotion.
The men grabbed a hold of the ropes, docking the ships as the sails were lowered so their neighboring cousins would not drift. This beholding sight was like a new fresh breeze, one that blew from across the desert sands, blessing them with the goddess of newfound beginnings, if any at all. The landing dock fell gracefully down, as the women in glittering gold walked down with baskets of gifts and leis of pink and blue flowers, originally grown in the region of Prussina.
Their guests did not mind or fathom the snowfall and the nearly empty streets as it was winter. Where their home lies in the forever summer, and arid nights full of passion. To their watchers' amazement, they did not flinch at the cold snow beneath their feet, almost as if they were invincible beyond all reason.
The cheering crowd begged for a show, and their visitor undeniably agreed with music playing as soldiers dressed in white flowy robes and longer hair pinned in a braided updo, guarded those people of importance. The procession of the stoic young and older men made such women fan their flushed faces in such a frenzy. Their collared shirts were in an ambient array of stars, each with a decorated jewel fit for their certain rank in the very center.
Their predecessor ships lay with gifts for His Majesty and traded goods that had long been awaited by the merchants of the city. More soldiers and knights of their degree came out of the ship and went through the wide open streets. There were no animals as the weather was something they could never be accustomed to, yet the glorious display was not over yet.
The Crown Prince left the boat upon a bed of gold, with strong men supporting the weight of him and that hefty loft. The young prince’s robe was made from golden thread, similar to that of spun gold only told in fairy tales. His expression was not one of interest, yet those amber eyes were like that of a viper—narrowing into thin slits as he almost looked ready to snatch upon his prey. A thin fabric veil hung from his dark black turban hiding those features only those close to him may see. An emerald-encrusted gemstone pin held the pieces of his headpiece firmly in place, while pearls of luminescent color and possession hung from his neck.
Behind him were those closest aides who would gladly give up their lives should anything befall upon their heavenly blessed prince, the rightful heir to the Prussian throne. Other characters were those who carried his luggage, burly persons with only their eyes seen, and black robes dark as the night skies. Though a large boat, the first passengers were few. The others who were not brought by his highness would be left behind on the boats, and if given special permission, were free to run amuck the town.
The crown Prince’s entourage left for the palace, the crowd cheering and smiling wonderfully as this amazing procession never seemed to end. The gates of the palace, which were close enough as they walked quite quickly, opened as a line of many knights of high ranking upon white, brown, and black horses greeted them. The prince seemed pleased that he was welcomed, yet that smile faded as it was all for show. Those few people he brought came through the gates and as each person was accounted for, those gates shut behind them and the people returned to their previous state.
The door opened as the entourage entered the courts of the palace, His Imperial Majesty waiting for their approach as the throne room was much more glamorous and luxurious than their appeal to the people. Despite the icy weather outside, it was quite warm inside—a perfect temperature for the people of Prussina. His Imperial Majesty stood on the steps of his domain, the men of his council watched them with uninterested and even disdain. How dare a mere prince of the neighboring region show up announced and uninvited, those men seemed to think.
That prince stepped off his pedestal, as he now knew his true position in this line of nobility. His considerable polish, his divine rule, could never match the pureblood noble in front of him. The crown prince held his hand towards the man, bowing low in the grand salutations to his majesty.
“Greetings to the Sun of the Imperial Empire, may our goddess of new beginnings bless you favorably.” He lifted his eyes to meet his gaze, a bold move that would have never been accepted in the courts. Jotaro seemed to accept this, yet his expression changed as he grimaced with annoyance.
“You flaunt your wealth as you always do Cassium. Your words of flattery may work in the courts of Prussina, yet here your words are not remarkably favored.” Jotaro coldly replied, his hands holding his lavish coat as he showed his disdain and even hatred for this man in front of him.
“You are still the same as ever, your Majesty.” He laughed, snapping his fingers as the man held chests of gold, pearls, emeralds, and other varieties of jewels, and even one full of spices which could make every nose turn up at the scent, yet for the cooks and ones of great taste— a clear delight. “I hope my sudden appearance may be appeased with these simple gifts. The ships upon my arrival are making a small trip to the townhouses and Imperial holdings.” He smiled, the council coughing as if this was a hidden queue.
“I will pardon you, yet I will not be favorable to you if this happens again. Since your noble father passed a great while ago, you esteemed the courts that you would never step foot in any land other than your own. However, you seem to go back on your word, only if something is favorable to you.” He paused, the Prince hiding his twitching anger. “I will ask why you are here. Merely to make an air of yourself, or is there some other means?” Jotaro raised a brow, the man refraining from snapping.
“My business here is to request that the trading market may begin again with Prussina. I admit, it was my error that I had deliberately decided to never set foot again in this vicinity- or any other than my own.” Cassium paused momentarily, continuing his practiced and most gracious words. “Since it is winter time in Ilicia, and perhaps all of Algeria, I came to offer a trading goods on the market no one has seen.”
He motioned to one of the bearded men, one of them holding another chest full of weapons, jewelry, fabrics, costly oils, and perfumes. All were worthy and would make a fortune on the market, thus the royal treasury would be filled substantially despite its mass of overflow.
Jotaro could feel that if he did not accept this offer, the endless and unwavering complaints from the councilmen would annoy him. There would never be a riot as well from the common folk, they would never dare to. Yet his popularity would be staggering if he did not comply with this very chest, and would cause great scandal. Appearances must always be upheld in the sight of the courts.
“If this is what you offer on the pretense of business then I will comply with you, yet if there is other things you wish to converse other than the means of trade, then I will not stand idle chatter.” He paused, motioning to the four older councilmen. “Lord Tolomy, Lord Rendel, I charge you to discuss his matters. Matters are being prepared as I assume your stay will be lengthy.” Jotaro left the throne room, his attendants following him as his knights led the way.
“If you please may follow us.” Lord Rendel replied as Tolomy began the conversation with the expressionless Cassium. While their rooms were being prepared, Cassium’s servants quietly walked about, carrying his belongings as they were instructed to follow the Emperor’s butlers. Though his room was very far away from the palace wings, this form of confinement was welcoming in their eyes. The open space was fitting indeed, and the room was quite large indeed. With such quick anticipation and readiness, his quarters were suited to the area accustomed to.
A man watched as they placed the garments of considerable polish with watchful green eyes. His blondish locks were as pale as snow, yet with a golden hue similar to that of the sun. His skin was tan from the exposure to Prussina, yet that factor made his freckles appear much darker. Though his somewhat tall height coincided with his formidable appearance, he opened his lips to speak.
“No need to set everything away. The crown prince requests that his garments be hung, you understand how particular he is of such things. Furthermore, I predict that they are to hunt later today before another set of snow is to fall— Albeit His Highness’s request.” The man informed the servants, each regarding him with a humble nod.
“Astros, you seem so sure. Even then what will his highness wear? We have this readied for him, yet if they are to go through the palace backway towards the forest, he may be cold.” A subordinate asked with curiosity.
“That is for his Highness to decide. He hardly ever gets cold, especially in weather such as this. However, for now, finish and relax in your designated quarters until his highness calls for you. I will see to it that his highness does not cause trouble for our benefit and his. May the goddess allow you to rest well.” Astros finished, leaving the servants to continue their line of duty.
Escorted by one of the knights down the hall, Astros stood quiet, his stance stiff and practiced. The two men did not utter a word to each other, the tension high and thick. To take into consideration his lowly status in the palace of the great emperor, was something he was not accustomed to. Yet he sighed once and let that masqueraded stone face remain ever present on him.
He was welcomed into the dining hall, and Prince Cassium stopped his discussion with the Emperor and his councilman within moments. He smiled warmly, yet Astros could tell that it was fake, drawing him in like a predator would a prey. He walked towards noting the many delights of food on the table, and the lavish drinks only the emperor could afford. Indeed this was not his place to be.
“Astros, I must now formally introduce you to His Majesty.” He stayed in place, the turbaned man looking at Jotaro with a carefree glance. “Astros is my right-hand man, a close aide of mine. I only trust that your subordinates may take good care of him.” He laughed, sipping on a nearby glass of wine.
“Indeed we will. His Majesty is very particular about things but there is nothing to worry about.” Lord Akirus noted, the rest of the men dining nodding in agreement with his short response.
”I do thank you for your easy reminder, but I simply must look out for him. Nevertheless, I have heard in most recent times Your Majesty that the forest is booming with the game, and yet attacks the commoners. Surely this is only rumors?” Cassium requested this with a knowing smile, that such a rumor never existed.
“This supposed rumor is idiotic. I trust you do not believe these rumors do you? I won't be offended if you do, since you believe anything regarding the downfall of this region.” Jotaro jabbed at the Prince’s ego, the amber-orbed man laughing heartily.
“No, I do not believe in such rumors.” He paused, the man sipping his final bit of wine, the man looking at the council members and the Emperor at the head seat of the table. “On this certain subject, why not go hunting? If I remember correctly, in my youth during those hunting competitions you were very good. However those days have long passed, and I do doubt that your niche for it has fallen away.”
With those words, the guests were stunned into silence. He had indirectly done something none should ever do—challenge the Emperor. If it weren't for his sickly friendly nature and his position as the crown prince of their neighboring region, that would have cost him his head.
Jotaro did not utter a word, his silence making the prince grin like a Cheshire cat. He took a long sip of his wine, a generous amount that caused the four councilmen to frown in disapproval. He set the glass down with a thud, turning to Cassium with a subtle glare.
“Hunting will do us some good. I only hope that you are ready for the cold weather and a barren tree forest.” He paused, motioning for those guests to leave.
“I am quite used to this particular area already, yet I’m sure in my chests I will have something suitable in my quarters. I only hope to achieve the highest quality of animals, whatever they may be.” Cassium sneered, leaving the dining table with Astros by his side. “Astros, go on ahead and ready my garments. I am aware you knew something like this would happen. It's only natural.”
“I will do just that, Your Highness. Pardon me for a moment as I fetch what is needed.” Astros turned his gaze to the side, walking away with his hands behind his back, his stra-to-the-point nature peeking through the surface of his icy face.
”Yes, be a loyal obedient dog.” He stated, looking at the pictures and decorations adorned. His smile appeared effortlessly on his face, though the seething envy invoking itself in his eyes was only apparent to the walls. He looked on, walking to his room as he knew where it was located. Of course, he assumed and was correct that it was the farthest away from the Emperor. Yet, this is a great advantage indeed— privacy and no unwanted eavesdropping. “How perfectly calculated, Jotaro.” With those final words, his new outfit was adorned over his shoulders.
It didn't take long for the news of their new guest to reach the ears of Avdolia, Adeline, and Erin. The three women felt uncomfortable at the thought of his highness, and the many men he brought with him. The root of this issue— their dear lady Kalithea.
“My dear, you should feel no pressure to greet his highness the prince. He is not a kind man, though his appearance and practiced words may be that way.” Avdolia held a cup of tea as she sat on the plush sofa of her lady’s room. Iggy barked at his friend, the redhead picking him up as she kissed the top of his head. A precious sight indeed, that even the most guarded animals will let their tightly woven walls crumble by such affection.
“She is right my lady, though I speak with my own opinion, I also speak like an older sister would to her younger sibling.” Dame Erin adjusted her collared shirt, as her metal uniform was not needed for today. “I have heard from rumors of the society circles in the past that he was a serious womanizer and very much a sly person capable of getting his way.”
Dame Adeline agreed silently, closing the book she was reading with indignation. “Oh! That man makes my blood boil! He may have a pretty face, but that scoundrel has multiple wives! He sees a beauty he likes, and collects her like a jewel, only for her to stay in the harem and perish away out of loneliness and boredom. My lady, please I beg you to refrain.” She pleaded, stating her case as Kalithea decided her answer. She scribbled in her notebook, smiling only partially.
“I would hate for my unknown presence here to be revealed. Should this person be a slanderer and who you say he is, I would hate for His Majesty’s reputation to be tarnished. I am a woman, in this palace as a guest, yet secrets and rumors would change that factor to something else completely.” Kalithea commented briefly, a knock on the door startling her as Martha welcomed Miss Lanali.
“Good afternoon everyone. Headmistress Avdolia, Dame Erin, Dame Adeline. You as well Martha!” Lanali greeted with an ecstatic attitude, holding a box in her hand. “My lady, I have a new dress for you! This is another style I would love to see on your figure.” She excitedly proclaimed.
”Miss Lanali, you always sew dresses so quickly. Don't you ever get tired?” Sam asked as she fixed a blanket around Kalithea’s shoulders.
“Never. My skills are never over. I still have much to learn despite my years of expertise. As I have directed only men’s fashion for His Majesty and a few minor nobles who commissioned me well, it is my joy to always comply with a request for a new dress. You would understand if you were in my position.” She laughed, setting the box on the bed. “Don’t say anything, but it's much more fun to design things for Lady Kalithea than the Emperor.”
Kalithea and the others nodded, silently vowing that her little secret may be upheld and remain only in this very room. Her new dress was similar to that of her gown from the winter ball. The sleeves were off the shoulder, with enough fabric to cover her scar fully. A plunging neckline that would carefully showcase her collarbones, should it be adorned with a necklace. The ruffles were grand, yet they were not to the degree of a very dressed children’s doll.
Minor bows covered the center of her chest, tracing down to her waist as that fabric and embellishments were met with a creme center. The contrasting navy blue of the gown was very much something that she loved, and appreciated. That certain shade reminded her of the Emperor’s wonderful sea-blue eyes. Though at some angles, they glistened with a turquoise hue. Layers of tulle and skirt underneath were not heavy, yet she was grateful that it would keep her lower portion warm during the remainder of icy months.
“My goodness, Miss Lanali, You’ve outdone yourself this time!” Brigette exclaimed, Claudia beside her agreeing silently with a smile and a nod. “It's quite beautiful, and the contrasting colors are eye-catching as well,!” She further complimented Lanali’s skills, the others offering praise.
“Ah, you flatter me. However, I do wonder why His Majesty put such a rush and emphasis on this commission. I could hardly contain my excitement when he asked for a striking color best suited for you. Though creative liberty is scarce, I'm pleased to announce that it was a perfect opportunity.” Lanali stated, taking her glasses off to wipe the smudges with a lace handkerchief.
Upon hearing her words, a great deal of speculation was about their minds, wondering what whims and wishes His Majesty requested of Miss Lanali when asked for a new garment of sorts. Yet, keeping their raging thoughts occupied with something other than this was a trifling feat indeed.
Kalithea’s guests talked among themselves, Martha, Brigette, Sam, and Claudia helping their lady adorn her garments for the day. As the dress was a perfect fit, Martha brushed her hair delicately. Claudette tied a white ribbon around the redhead’s neck, letting the ends fall against her collarbones.
“I'm sure, surprised you did not want to go into the gardens today my lady. Usually on days like these, you're very determined to see the snow.” Sam stated with a surprised look, Kalithea nodding as she showcased her written words.
“Although the snow has stopped for today, I sometimes get bored walking around the same place every day. Though His Majesty’s palace is very large, I sometimes wish that I could do something else. I would have to ask the Emperor’s permission if I wanted to leave. Yet, he and I don't seem to get along very well. In my eyes, he seems to dislike me very much.” Kalithea frowned, meddling with her fingers.
Iggy seemed to notice this change, doing his best to take her mind away from this factor with his cuteness and barks. He snuggled against her dress train, the redhead picking him up as she carried him in her arms. Walking to the window, she looked past the walls of the castle, her line of sight directed at the forest.
With this response, Avdolia smiled as an idea struck her mind. Bound to see her pupil refrain from boredom and the norm of her surroundings. She stood up, setting her cup down on the table. Kalithea turned towards her direction, tilting her head to the side as she wondered what she was going to say or do.
“My dear, why not a change of scenery? Dame Erin and Dame Adeline will join us on our brief excursion, yes?” She faced them, the two women noting this exchange with a positive and endearing glance. “You’ve been here and all around the palace, I think it would be wise to go.”Kalithea turned quickly as she glowed radiantly. She nodded, setting Iggy down as she wrote another response, one question that consumed her thoughts.
“What about His Majesty? Won’t he be cross with me?” Her reply was a feature that they never considered, yet it made sense that if she were to leave without purpose, the Emperor would find some wrong with it.
“Technically my dear we will still be in the Emperor’s vicinity. I think if we were to walk about the forest and see the change in nature’s habitat, it would help ease our senses. I can only speak for myself with this. At the Academy, when the sessions, lessons, and exams are present, I sometimes need a moment to walk somewhere else. Past its walls, to the very glades where I sit and contemplate life and my existence. However, those moments are short-lived when I sense my second in charge is struggling to keep paperwork at bay.”
They laugh at this briefly, Avdolia opening the door as she motioned for her three guests to follow. Kalithea motioned for Iggy to come along, the woman thanking her maids in waiting for their help with a simple smile and curtsey. As they closed the many doors behind them in their wake, they found themselves leaving through the backway of the palace walls.
“Headmistress, the gateway is blocked by men of our regent. Even if we were to somehow persuade them to let us through, His Majesty would know.”
Avdolia smiled knowingly, picturing the interaction that would later become an awkward situation! She walked near the walls, the thick cobblestone layer, hardly crumbling, and yet withstand desiccation, damp, and even scorching weather. She took her hand out of her pocket, a bright orange, almost yellow glow appearing from her fingertips. She touched the wall, a portion of it, crumbling to bits as it formulated a perfect door shape.
“ Now we don’t have to worry! As soon as we pass through this simple makeshift door, the walls will replace itself again. Not to fret a single great deal, my magic is only temporary. If I wanted to, I could’ve destroyed a large portion of it, but since there are only four of us on this intricate travel, there’s no need for me to do so.”
The two nights, surprised that they saw magic in real-time, we’re very much intrigued by this. Touching the wall, the flakes of stone landed in the palm of their hands.
Avoldia turned to face her shocked guests however, the young miss was not phased by this too greatly. Her chocolate brown eyes witnessed the two nights’ flabbergasted expression, their open lips almost making her laugh.
“Don’t look so surprised you two. You’ll make me feel like I’m some spectacle to behold.” Unable to control the grin on her face, she covered her lips with her hand.
“ Headmistress! You are very impressive! Erin and I have never doubted your abilities, but you must forgive us for our shock!” Dame Adeline tried her best to control herself, her counterpart unable to say a word until prompted by a small nudge.
“Pardon, it is very rare for the two of us to see people like you with Magi abilities, sometimes we tend to forget such matters like this do exist beyond our comprehension. I’m almost certain that if we pass this wall, we too will turn into crumbled bits. However, Lady Kalithea is unphased by it.” Dame Erin replied, the four passing through the space with quickness.
By Avdolia’s magic, the wall rebuilt itself, and they were now free to roam the forest. Those leave-infested trees were now barren, the branches covered in a thin layer of frost. Kalithea embraced this new serene change with an open mind, gladly walking around the many acres of trees.
She was thoroughly surprised how the grass had stayed untouched, yet mimicked snow with every step she took. It made a loud crunching noise, and though her shoes would not get wet, it led her to see her small footprints in its wake. In this newfound and undeniably funny sound, that inner child which had been locked away could finally be set free amongst that furthest tree.
Dame Erin and Adeline watched their lady scurry about, walking further and further away— deciding for her best interest to follow. Avdolia accompanied them as they talked amongst themselves, her comforting ring of fire appearing around her person. Offering them the comfort of warmth, they obliged heartedly.
Kalithea walked to one of the bushes, seeing a dark hue of iridescent purple. It may have been the ice that conducted that portion, yet it was a distinctive shade of purple that matched the color of her eyes. She plucked one, holding it in her hands as she intensely analyzed a sliver of mother nature. It was a violet, it had to be. Avdolia’s lessons in herbology proved to be useful in identification.
One turned into two, and three into four, those violets mercilessly plucked from its abode. The large bush was not shy of the mark of quaint, yet it appeared that at every angle it had a flower engulfed by its leaves.
Time had passed by pretty quickly until the sound of a hunting horn filled the area around them. Kalithea panicked, yet her friend's still eyes did not falter for even a moment. Perplexed and anxious, she took a deep breath, praying and silently wishing that her presence would not be noticed.
“My dear, let’s head back. I fear the Emperor and that companion may be appearing from that very place.” Avdolia instructed Kalithea, the miss dropping the flowers from where she stood.
”Will His Majesty be angry?” Dame Adeline questioned, the dark-haired woman shaking her head in disagreement.
”I think he’ll be annoyed, yes, but far from angry. Having to deal with Prince Cassium and his strange.. what have yous, is more trivial than our excursion. Besides, I’m sure we will disappear from his sight before he arrives.” Avdolia replied.
They returned to the wall, the mass crumbling and falling, rising back up again like a phoenix from the ashes. Quickly avoiding whatever conversation to be made, their plan was halted when the sound of another horn blared. The horses’ hooves clopped heavily across the cobblestone, their guests pausing as knights, servants, and butlers, were commanded to halt.
Upon a gray horse, Jotaro looked below, his eyes narrowing, while Cassium’s surprise was equally matched with Kalithea’s.
“Greetings to the Sun of the Empire, and Your Highness the crown prince.”
“Greetings to the Sun of the Empire, and your highness the crown prince.”
“Greetings to the Sun of the Empire, and Your Highness the crown prince.”
They bowed, Kalithea curtseying as her beauty had seemed to silence the earlier words of Prince Cassium. She looked up, Cassium eyeing her features with great detail.
Her hair, which had framed her narrow face so wonderfully, fell over her shoulder. Her eyes as purple as a violet flower were full of miniature intricate hues. Her ample cheeks were full of a blossoming rose, lips full and plump. Despite the external factor, he could read her anxiousness, but her subtle confidence.
”Headmistress Avdolia, you are taking our guest on a brief walk I suppose.” Jotaro stated with an aggravated tone, dismounting his horse as Cassium followed.
”Indeed, our apologies for not letting you know sooner. You have been hunting with His Highness, how could we bother you?” Correcting him and his attitude, she turned to Cassium with a very straight face. “It is surprising to see Your Highness, I pray the goddess is blessing your region well?” She asked, the man opening his lips to speak.
”It seems she has done so now.” He looked at Kalithea, the man stepping forward as he kissed her hand with a sickly amount of affection. “Pardon my lack of manners, we have just come from a hunting spree, hence my disheveled appearance. Might I ask who are you?”
Jotaro felt an unpleasant feeling in his chest, and his mind clouded with judgment and discourse. Why did his actions bother him so, and frankly with her involved? Though he had beat Cassium in hunting, all the game he acquired with his skill hardly mattered. For it was indeed an unfathomable amount of envy that sprung from his heart.
“No need to be formal with any honorifics, your name will do.” Cassium seemed to understand her fear, yet he was surprised as she wrote something and shared in with his highness.
“Your Highness, I first must inform you that I apologize for my lack of action, and even more so my words. I am unable to speak freely as you say, yet I am honored by your kindness and understanding. I am Kalithea, please call me however you see fit.” With eloquent words, Cassium nodded, the man turning to Jotaro who was unknowingly clenching his fists.
“I have never thought you would hold a woman in your courts. Dare I say I understand how you hate wo-“ His words were paused, and the Emperor shouted.
“As you are a Prince of Prussina, is it not uncommon for you to hold those women in your harem?! Need I explain myself? Headmistress Avdolia has brought her pupil with her, they are both my honored guests, I ask you to refrain from your flirtatious ways, it will not go unnoticed.” Coldly ending his words, Cassium sighed, shaking his head from side to side in utter dismay.
”Your Majesty, must you spoil my good fun. You don’t seem to be in the best mood even though you beat me with a crossbow. Astros took great care to polish mine though they were stained with crimson.” He paused, the men of the stable taking away the horses. “Astos you must greet his esteemed guest.”
Dismounting his horse, Kalithea waited for this man to appear. Yet, when she saw him, her blood ran cold. Her heart seemed to stop in her chest, and how painful it was. Her eyes were full of surprise as her body began to shake, no matter how hard she tried for it to stop. The undeniable fear that had taken over her entire body, soul, and mind, where unable to flee. Her breaths were heavy, almost hyperventilating.
Astros met her, his eyes struck with instant regret, and even more so his share of shaking, though he had mastered hiding that well. That remarkable red hair, and purple, eyes, how cruel fate has intertwined this very moment.
Avdolia notices Kalithea’s perpetual shock and outrageous horror, something was wrong. Kalithea could not hold herself back any longer. She curtseyed as best as she could, and quickly ran from the scene, as best as she could despite ringing in her ears.
“Pardon us, your Highness.” Avdolia quickly interrupted, Jotaro watched her form leave with confusion. Was it a worry, one could never tell. The knight excused themselves, understanding the graveness of this situation
“It is rather cold, isn't it, Astros? Snow is starting to fall again. Let us head to our quarters and relax.”
”Y-yes, of course, your highness.” Astros mustered his words carefully, the three leaving as they left the courtyard with only two wondering what on earth had happened.
Kalithea ran, her heart continually beating as that man had not left her mind. She could run no longer, as she had slumped near the column, holding onto the edges for support. Hyperventilating as she could find no room to breathe, she covered her ears to stop the noise and those voices in her ears. Avdolia quickly saw her disheveled state, quickly kneeling beside her as she felt her shake. Kalithea sniffles were uncontrollable, the young miss feeling the warm hands of Avdolia.
”Kalithea! Hey hey.. calm down. Take deep breaths for me ok?” Avdolia tried to soothe, yet her efforts were hardly working as Kalithea’s breaths shortened every time. Kalithea opened her eyes as tears began to flow by the multitudes, her terror leaving her breaths empty. “My dear, tell me how you are feeling, try to explain, i’ll try to help you as best as I can..”
Kalithea, shakily wrote with her pen, unable for her penmenship to be legible. Unable to keep her energy and sanity any longer, she collapsed in Avdola’s embrace, the booklet dropping from her lap. Those 7 very words.. shook their world upside down, into the very depths of such terror, horror, and unfathomable rage. Dame Erin and Adeline could feel their tears flow from such painstriken eyes, Avdolia looked at the notebook, her eyes closing as sorrow enveloped her person.
“He was the one.. who branded me”
Chapter 22: explanations
Chapter Text
The unfortunate circumstances and news of the discovery spread throughout the palace, reaching only the ears of the emperor’s staff. Only pity, scorn, and anger remained like an earthquake's shockwaves. Those who wished to tell the emperor this news by word of mouth were immediately shut down by their higher-ranking officers and employers.
Others with a sense of morality, deemed it was not their place to let His Majesty know, only by the young lady's quill and paper. Though they may never understand the shock and tension that grew within that moment of the encounter, their hearts went out to the redheaded miss who had only shown kindness. Her endearing expression was only in their minds, painted with such fear that a person should never endure.
In this chance of cruel fate, Chef Joulie created something warm to drink for Kalithea’s anxious nerves, one of her maids bringing it to the lady’s chambers. A knock at her door allowed the guests within to open it cautiously. Even to this degree, there was absolute silence as Kalithea rested on her bed. Pale like a ghost and faintly without the looks of life in her once rosy cheeks, they grew worried for her state.
“Chef Joulie made this for the lady. I do hope she is alright.” One of the maids set the tray on the table, Avdolia nodding as she sat by her bed like a dotting mother. Although she was by no means her biological mother, the older woman could not help but feel remorse and an endearing affection for her pupil. She stood, using a wave to close the curtains and light the firewood.
”Thank you Jess for your consideration for Lady Kalithea. The doctor came not too long ago and confirmed she was well. She will wake up at any time when her mind and body are in equilibrium again. For now, I'll let her rest. I requested Martha to check back in an hour, so she will hopefully not wake up alone.” Avdolia stated that she and Sam looked at their lady with a hopeful gaze. The illumination fire was the only light source within the room, Avdolia casting a small spell that would always remain that way until she awoke.
The three women left with hesitancy, closing the door softly. They talked amongst themselves, quietly, as the gloominess of this palace wing felt dull and melancholy In this factor, Jotaro finished his dining with Prince Cassium, that man asking too many questions about Kalithea’s appearance for Jotaro’s liking. That turbaned man who held material possessions and his continuous hunt on that supposed chase made Jotaro’s mood sour.
He dismissed himself then and there, telling his guest to stop meddling in others’ businesses, to which Cassium only laughed and commented about her request to join them for the next dinner. Though Jotaro didn’t respond he would refrain from allowing that wretched man to speak another word— or ask anything else that might irritate him.
Though the butler and the other servants concluded dinner’s plates, cups of wine, and other fanciful things, Jean awaited him looking concerned, and even more anxious. The raven-haired male, preoccupied in his thoughts, than the welfare of his friend and comrade, found himself near the council of those four annoyed men.
“Must you all join me at such a late hour?” Jotaro asked them, equally annoyed at their appearance and expression. The four stood many feet away, Lord Akirus clearing his throat to make whatever sentiments known.
”Your Majesty? Is it not our duty to inform you of the latest news even this late in the evening?” He asked, his response sharp and even with a short tone.
“If that were the case, then there would be no need for a messenger or any of the knights to inform me. If you come to me with supposed events as an attempt to work other accommodations and plans into my mind, then you're gravely mistaken. I have no time for your idle babbling and standing there like statues.” He coldly and rudely remarked with such hatred for their presence there.
“Your Majesty, even then we know what's best for you. You are not of age yet might I remind-“ Lord Rendel reminded with a simple gaze, and Jotaro took a step forward with furrowed brows.
“Do you take pride in lording this factor over my head? I may not be age, but be warned I am not so much a fool to take any suggestions from the likes of you impudent men. If you were to suggest something to me again, or ever for that matter. Should I take liberty myself in sending a warrant for your executions?” He asked the men, their eyes with profound shock and their words silenced. “I am not to be trifled with. I hate reminding you of your place as just council members yet again.”
Just as he was about to walk away from those ignorant fools, Lord Tolomy cleared his voice to speak to His Majesty. Jotaro remained unbothered as he sensed something itching for this man to reveal.
“It seemed like that supposed wench had caused a scene in the servant's quarters. I think it would do you some favor to reprimand that foolish woman– fainting in the palace gardens like a rag doll. At some point, it would be wise to remove her to the streets and allow her to find work rather than burden this area with that stench of slavery and low status.” Cold with a heavy blow to Kalithea’s nature, Jotaro gave him a rude and icy glare, silencing the man greatly to such high degrees.
Unsurprised by Kalithea’s actions, he did wonder what caused her usual calm demeanor to shift into uncontrollable fear– that being to the point of failing. He would later ask Avdolia, deciding in his mind at this very minute. Jean knew the problem, yet he had neither the strength nor the willpower to tell His Majesty the shock factor. Not that it would matter to him in the slightest… possibly.
“Is that fool’s words true? I doubt that he only says such things to irritate me. If this is indeed a mention of dire circumstances, tell me.
“Indeed it is Your Majesty. The news of Kalithea’s unconsciousness spread throughout the servant's quarters and among the staff. Headmistress Avdolia and my fellow knights in my squadron are aware of this fact. I know that the lady’s health is in good condition, but there are other factors I cannot tell.” Jean summed the latest and most direct news, the emperor nodding as he looked at the almost hail-ridden
weather.
“Very well, if this matter is outrageous as it is, I will deal with this matter myself. No need to follow me Jean, and stay quiet for the sake of your peace and my wayward actions.” He ordered the knight, Jean, to honor his wishes and decision and left to his station without a word to be said.
Jotaro walked down the halls, making a few turns to the almost darkened area of Kalithea’s residence. If it weren't for those kind quiet maids to light the candles, he would have assumed they had a disregard for the lady— but that was not so. Yet from within those supposed walls, Kalithea awoke, her mind blurred with the most recent events. She held the blanket around her shoulders, sitting by the fireplace while gazing into the fire.
Shaking with the remnant emotion of fear, it was no surprise that her mind was taunted by her past. A wretched childhood so deeply scorned with that mark embedded into her skin, the memory of her enslaved life she so wished to forget. Now that it was a reality she could not dissolve into the pits of her mind, that figure called ‘Astros’ lay buried. Thinking about that encounter, she shook fervently, breathing heavily with quick and labored breaths.
She covered her ears to cope with that horrible vision, that forsaken man until the quiet opening of her door by one of her maids knocked her from her trance. Sam, checking in on her, was shocked at her state, helping her to stand as she was seated back on the couch from her crouched position.
“May I do anything to help you, my lady? If there is anything at all, allow me to.” Sam whispered, Kalithea writing shakily as she struggled but managed to keep her breathing at bay.
“No… but thank you, Sam. Please, I pray let us be alone for some time. It is no surprise that His Majesty is here and I could tell only from the careful motion you did not wish to wake me. Until His Majesty leaves from my quarters, I ask that you inform none of me waking up..”
With those words written on the page, Jotaro entered, seeing her afflicted and almost broken state. Sam had paid His Majesty His dues, the blonde leaving as she closed the door behind her. Kalithea felt the need to bow, and in almost doing so was paused by Jotaro’s expressional hands.
“It's not worth the effort to offer your greeting as you are in the state you are in. I only came to ask for your health. I have my fair share of questions if you care to explain yourself.” Jotaro requested, the woman nodding as she looked into the fire, her comforting robe slipping from her form.
Jotaro turned away, unfit to see her in her nightgown, and improper as it was, showed her a form of courtesy. Despite this, she had begun to write, legibly and with informative detail. Jotaro stood against the fireplace mantle, watching her with extra detail. He saw how at some moments she paused, wept, and continued her story for the sake of his understanding.
Although he felt pity and remorse for her, he wondered with deep curiosity what could have caused her reaction to be so. He had seen it before, quite clearly in her time here in his palace. Only once, so vivid and clear that he could never erase it from his mind. Beaten and bruised under the moonlight, and a scar of ‘J.M’ visible on her shoulder. The fear of a secret so concealed was revealed to the very man who she had unknowingly asked for help and mercy with pleading eyes. A face so petrified, a face with longing to be redeemed and saved from years of torment.
Utterly in his complexities, Kalithea flipped the booklet, more than five times. Her story was written neatly on the parchment with perfected penmanship, and ink splats from the tears she had shed. She walks towards him, the woman handing him the booklet with shaking hands. She had looked ashamed, the man beginning to read. Her words are as follows:
”Your Majesty, you of all people would understand that I was a former slave under my executed master. I have only my story to tell through the words I have written on these pages. I only hope that you will not think less of me for the things that I have to say.” Jotaro pauses, seeing Kalithea sit against the sofa with tears streaming down her face, his heart aching with pity.
“I was not always a slave, but my precursors to those horrid times of my life are ones I care not to remember. My mother supposedly died of illness, my father killed in action in war— and I was that forsaken child who was deemed a witch. In an orphanage in the city of Muenna, I was placed. Under the pretense that I was to be adopted, a man of a name I do not recall would adopt me as his own and lavish me with the wonders of childhood. That younger version of myself, Your Majesty, longed for a place to call home where I would not be ostracized! Yet, my childhood was stolen from me when that man took me to a dark alley and placed me in chains! Although I had escaped for freedom for a brief moment, that man's accomplice was tall and much stronger than ever was.” Jotaros brows furrowed for a moment as he flipped the page, many of the words stained with droplets of tears.
”I remember seeing nothing but darkness, and only the sound of a gavel and a louder man's voice woke me from my unconsciousness. I remember that veil being lifted from my head, as a crowd of masked people watched me like a hawk. I am not aware of the things that were taking place, but my fear, astonishment, and bewilderment were something I could never forget. I had shackles on each wrist and ankle, so heavy that I could not leave my place from where I stood. It was painful where my skin had begun to bleed, and in my younger days have left scars…though they have disappeared now. That man who appeared to be bidding me off to the crowd had made a lie that I was a magic child, someone with great abilities.” Jotaro clenched the booklet a little tighter, hatred and unrighteous anger swelling in his core. How horrid was this place, and yet he knew exactly what it was. A running rampant black market.
“Various men and women bid for my hand, and my life was nothing but the krona in people's pocketbooks! My master had claimed my life for 20,000 krona. 20,000 krona was what my life was worth, Your Majesty, and even then I still struggle to this day to accept that I am a free woman now. When Jancis found out that I was not a magi child, he looked at me with sickly intent and I was afraid I was going to be killed just for a lie that I had taken just by my presence. I was cast away and pulled by a man to a room with a branding iron. All of those faces of men were covered, except the youngest. I was so afraid of it, Your Majesty, my scar still feels like it burns from the intense flames of the letters. That man, Astros who was with His Highness today, was that younger boy all those years ago, who had branded me. Your Majesty, I beg you on behalf of my meaningless life, that you do nothing of the sort to cause an uproar. I beg you this on your title as Emperor, and mine as a woman who is under the mercy of your hand.”
The raven-haired male dropped the book, the mass falling by his feet. He walked towards Kalithea, the woman refusing to look at him out of shame. Without thinking, he hugged her form, placing his hand behind her head, as her curls intertwined with his fingers. Shocked by this man before hugging her, was something that took her a moment to process. But the warm feeling that she felt, the comforting feeling that he gave, almost felt like he was saying, “No one will hurt you.”
She felt the tears leave her eyes as he held her tighter, the woman letting the multitudes of those saddened and tormented tears flow from those orbs of hers. She shook in his arms as she instinctively held into the crevices of his shirt to regain her stability. There was so much pain in her heart she wanted to overcome, but the longevity of her sorrows would hopefully come to an end. The male did not respond, but let her recover from her melancholy.
That quiet moment between them was broken by his words, that offered her that hope of companionship, and even more so a friend. “Your worthlessness as a mortal are untrue, and you degrade yourself as such. I am an Emperor with standing and a title, but your station from where you are is as equal as mine.”
Kalithea took in his words, the young woman pulling away as she thanked him with gratitude in her smile. Though she finally had told someone who understood her and comforted her, she knew she would need time and great willpower to face that man Astros again. Jotaro opened his lips to speak again, wiping a single tear that was slowly trailing down her angelic face.
“I understand the terror and pain you feel. Some many things and factors shaped you into what you are now, and I…” Jotaro paused, the man sighing heartedly. “I apologize for my wrongful actions toward you. I have said something like this before, but I hope it reigns in your heart the heftiness of my words.” He cleared his throat standing as he regained his composure. “Since you are well, I will page the others for you. Rest well Kalithea.” He left her quarters, the woman closing the door as she felt the burden on her shoulders being lifted.
Jotaro ran a hand through his hair, covering his lips as he contemplated a plan deep in thought. He knew something was amiss, and that the Black Market needed to be investigated thoroughly and without suspicion. How that would concur naturally would be an indescribable feat indeed. It appeared to be unattainable for information, but he knew where to find his source.
“Yare yare, damn Cassium and his folly of a party.” He grimaced, thinking of Kalithea’s horrors. He felt his heart tug like it was attached to a string, thinking of her expression filled with tears. It was something he was not accustomed to, and wondered why such a thing and wondered why such a thing bothered him so yet again. A night would come to a close, and the clouds above began to rumble with a bad omen.
“Formulating a plan is gonna be a hard one at that.” Jotaro clenched his fist as he left his room to get some quality sleep for the night, he needed it and secretly wondered if that girl could too. If the man could see the stars shine in her eyes for another time, he would be pleased, unashamed to admit. But this forecasting shadow that loomed over the corners of the palace was a feeling that he can’t shake. Something was going to happen under his whim, or Cassium’s antics. But, he was ready for one thing.
The defendants and accused would not go unnoticed, but indeed such a fair trial is inexcusable. On one end the lies and the secrets will be opened like a present, and on the other would have justice. Justice has to prevail but at what cost would it take, for a viable moment to hold a high degree? Morals are unchanged and questions unanswered, until that fateful day whenever that would be, the time to sleep was upon the mortal lives of thee.
Chapter 23: confession and apologies
Summary:
Forgive me my friends for not posting, school is hectic and writers block is killing me! I hope you enjoy this chapter’s progression!! 💕💕
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
For some time, it appeared as if winter would never end, and although the snow had stopped for good, the chill of the frost had not. Despite this factor of below temperature, the townsfolk grew accustomed every year to a new change. The children had their winter recess, the parents of those young ones worked shorter hours, and the shopkeepers enjoyed the pleasantries of welcoming newcomers.
At this time of day, those people from Prussina were fabulously enamored with the food that not only lacked some sort of spice but was delectably filling. If it weren’t for the Prince’s command that they should all return to Prussina, perhaps they would have stayed. Even then, the Algerian hospitality was all the more wonderfully accepted. To this end, the Baker’s shop window was so full of breaded goods that he was not the only one who had the privilege to enjoy them.
Kalithea offered the other half of her buttered puffed pastry to Avdolia, Dame Adeline, and Dame Erin, all of which were for once in regular attire. Not wanting their high identities to show to the common folk, decided to wear something normal for a change. It was never a bad choice to begin with, but to their credit, wearing fancy clothes was the norm. Dame Adeline shifted uncomfortably in her shirt, the feeling of it different and only a little itchy.
“Thank you Kalithea, but I’m quite alright. I’m enjoying myself in the scenery of people. Besides, before we left I already had something from Joulie.” Avdolia replied warmly, the hidden knights, however, accepted her kindness. Dame Adeline and Erin took a bite, and like others, found it to be indescribable. They had to admit, to themselves of course, that it was indeed better than Joulie’s only for the taste.
“It’s good that we are out here by ourselves, Kalithea.” Avdolia followed the redhead outside the shop, the woman nodding as she agreed silently. “I know His Majesty did allow you to leave since he understood the predicament of Astros’s presence, but please be careful,” Avdolia warned gently, the woman nodding as she pulled her booklet from her pocket.
“I know, but I haven’t been outside to this place in a while. I'm grateful His Majesty gave me a substantial allowance, but can you blame me for wanting to explore more than what I have known all my life?” Kalithea wrote, Avdolia sighed as she understood and would not forget her past status and what she used to be.
“Dame Adeline and Dame Erin are the ones that usually come around here often. Isn’t that right?” Avdolia asked the two ladies, the women nodded as they each understood what she meant.
“It is true. On the days off we do have, Adeline and I browse around the shops. Mostly for the best food around, and even a few trinkets here and there that we each find acceptable.” Dame Erin paused, snapping her fingers as an idea came to mind. “You know my lady, the Emperor’s birthday is coming soon, I'd say in a few weeks. Why don't you find something for His Majesty if you’d like to occupy your time?” She suggested quickly, Avdolia shook her head but also didn’t mind the idea.
Kalithea wrote something down quickly, with surprised eyes and even a more so expression. She showed them the booklet, her words quick and questionable.
“How old is his Majesty turning? I would love to get him a gift but I doubt that anything I choose would not measure up to his splendor.” She sadly wrote that Avdolia comforting her and easing her doubts and worries with a smile. Without so much of a warning, the three women led her to the flashier side of the town, where the usual classier commoners lived. The shops looked expensive, but the heavy weight of her purse would say otherwise.
“Any of these shops you might have something, my lady. I hope one day to purchase another pair of gloves for my niece here, but I am positive something from one, if not all the shops, will produce the perfect gift for His Majesty.” Dame Erin stated, Kalithea nodded quietly as she looked at the clear window panes of the shop's windows. Their wandering eyes suggested many things, and even then not a single one caught the attention of the redheaded miss.
Yet that soon changed when she saw a bright sparkle from the corner of her eye. Though the sun was still overhead, those shining rays would lead her to a quaint jewelry shop. As if divinely directed, she walked in without warning, her friends quickly following her with so much quickness, that one wondered if they had any stamina left at all. The little bell above the door jingled a merry tune, letting the shopkeeper know that there were indeed guests inside, and the joy of possible customers was a wonderful sight indeed.
A man returned from behind the counter, as he was using a small eye scope to clean the jewels of any unwanted fingerprints. Till he saw the beauty of a redhead and her friends, he knew that he would perhaps make another sale today. Though his eyes were aging, his wit and attention to detail did not waiver.
“Hello, is there anything I can do to assist you today?” He asked, placing his rustic glasses on his wrinkled features. He held his hands against the counter to stabilize himself, the redhead pulling out her book as her custom.
“Good afternoon to you as well sir. Me and my companions were looking around, but the jewels caught my eye. I don't suppose you would have anything fit for a friend of great wealth?” She wrote quickly, the man was awestruck by her inability to speak, but even more so by her demeanor fitting for a noble lady. Even then, her somewhat regular clothes changed his mind otherwise.
“Is there a budget you have in mind today?” He asked with an almost annoyed tone, and Avdolia and the two knights gazed at some of the artifacts around the shop. Necklaces made of a variety of pearls, diamonds, and other priceless gemstones were all unique in cut, variation, shine, and size. Rings fit for engagements and weddings were on one side of the room, the other with pendants and earrings.
Kalithea shook her head in a manner that meant no, as all the money in her possession for the day could easily buy the entire shop. However, with humble beginnings and a better understanding of money by Avdolia’s teaching, she would look for something best fit for His Majesty’s preference. The man beamed, pulling out the jewels from a safely kept velvet box as he set them out on the glass counter.
“Very well, I’ll show some items we have here.” He fixed his glasses, wiping the lenses with a cloth. He showed her a purple amethyst with rose gold etchings on the ring, the redhead glancing but waiting for his explanation. “If you pay attention to the detail here and here, the roundness of the gem is seen. Not only this but the gold allows for all the light to penetrate through. If it were silver it would not hold the same effect. What do you think, miss?” He asked her, the woman shook her head no, as the man pulled another ring.
“This one is emerald. Not many shops have this one-of-a-kind design, but instead of a gold band like the previous one, this is silver with quaint dove etchings.” The jeweler let her hold the ring in her hand for her to inspect it. She could feel the heftiness of it but she handed the small ring back to him and wrote another page for him to see.
”I’m unsure of their ring size, but do you maybe have something else? Neither necklace nor earrings as they wear none at all.” Kalithea wrote, the man rubbing his hand against his chin deep in contemplation.
“I have to check in storage. There are some that I haven't put out yet since the season has changed.” He turned away looking at her with a disdainful expression, taking the box as he closed the door behind him. She looked around the shop, Avdolia eyeing her interested jewel, wondering if she could commission her jeweler to make something just like it.
“Have you found anything, my dear? I know I found something for myself rather quickly” Avdolia asked her pupil, the lilac-eyed woman shaking her head in dismay with a countenance of melancholy. “No need to fret my dear, if nothing here brings attention to your detailed eyes, then I’m sure another shop will! Avdolia exclaimed passionately, Kalithea nodding her head with a little more of a pep in her step.
The two knights stood outside as they talked with each other, their arms crossed as their conversation was full of joy. Kalithea waited for the man to return as Avdolia continued to look around diligently for something similar to her favored gem. However, her eyes were drawn to a jeweled brooch. The lovely color of the artifact was silver, and it almost looked aged with the darker and more rounded edges. The center was aquamarine, with hues of dark green, yellow, and turquoise embedded within the stone.
She stared longingly at it, closing her eyes as she pictured his wonderfully stern orbs, yet somehow they looked almost pitiful. The eyes of His Majesty should portray the windows of his very soul, yet his stone-cold demeanor prevented that from ever being unveiled. She held her hands together, pausing as she imagined his majesty wearing that very one in the center of his neck, or even the left side of his chest— where the heart would be.
It was indeed a wonderful thing to think about, and she hoped that His Majesty would like it. The shopkeeper, however, returned with another box while the surface was only slightly littered with dust. He set it down on the counter, removing the lid as Kalithea walked over to him and pulled out her pen.
“Dear sir, may you open this compartment so I may take a deeper look at this brooch?” She asked, motioning for one in the other area. He pulled a key from his pocket, following her footsteps as she pointed to the very booch she eyed.
“It’s only for appealing purposes, and a reference for the many kinds of brooches my store makes.” He rudely remarks, the man almost quick to walk away. Kalithea wrote another message on the handcrafted page.
“Sir, that very brooch matches that of my friend's eyes. It's a remarkably striking resemblance. Is there some way I can create the same one?”
He disregarded her comment, shaking his hand as if the request was impossible. “It is not for sale… I cannot create a replica. That brooch has been here since the start of this shop! The old ways of machinery and artisanship have long since passed. The new way of making them cannot replicate it to the exact, including the gemstone in the center of this work.” He explained, Avdolia catching word as Kalithea nodded solemnly.
“My lady, let us go back. I'm sure that other places have better options. After all, if His Majesty wanted something like this, I’m sure the seller would offer it in a better manner.” Avdolia commented, throwing the name of the Emperor's title into the conversation.
Kalithea nodded, the man leaving the shop as his face grew pale. His Majesty? That supposed friend is His Majesty? Oh my, the error of his ways and attitude had only now just set in. This lady was friends with the Emperor!
”Wait a moment, I’m sure we can work something out!” Suddenly becoming friendly, he clasped his hands together desperate for this supposed noble lady to return. “If the gift is for His Majesty I can make you an offer!” He stated quickly, the man's crooked smile appeared fake and well-practiced. The two women continued onwards as if he had not responded at all. In a desperate attempt to make his work known to His Majesty, he declared his final words to his small audience. ”I’ll give it to you for free!” He seemed to hope that would work, and for a moment he thought it didn’t but Kalithea turned and walked to him and pointed that very artifact to him.
Her expression was not crude or cold, but her eyes were expectant of him. The man pulled it out and was about to offer it to her plainly, but she motioned her hands in a folding position— signaling for it to be wrapped. He understood and went to the back of the shop, and quickly he came from there with a nice leather box for it. She nodded, thanking him with that attention for his deliverance.
“We do thank you sir for your utmost generosity. Farewell, we only hope his majesty will enjoy it.” Avdolia smiled, letting his past actions and attitude slip her mind as the young lady appeared pleased. He smiled and nodded, as the reflection of the glass door was shut. Kalithea smiled wonderfully, the two knights walking over as they clapped for her gem.
“You managed to find something after all my lady! I’m sure His Majesty will love it!” Dame Adeline commented swiftly, the three women talking amongst themselves as the redhead listened fondly. Though the capital was very much alive with the bustle of people, and a lesser hardship of colder weather, she couldn’t help but wonder what was beyond here or the horizon for that matter.
From where they returned, their carriage arrived as they left for the route of His Majesty’s palace. The capital’s lengthy extension of buildings, shops, and those very few luxury apartments and hotels for the wealthy was something she had never noticed before. Yet, she considered that under the net of slavery and depression, the latter outlook on life was not an option to dwell upon.
The carriage ride lasted for more than half an hour, the four women looking out the window in comfortable silence. Kalithea looked at the countryside mansions that looked so light on the outside, yet the gloomy darkness within said otherwise. Those wealthy landowners who either owned or rented these luxurious buildings were meant to be inhabited for the glorious socialite season.
She was grateful in some sense that she would not ever have to experience something like that in her lifetime, and yet she quietly pitied every woman who would undergo some debutante ball. Her fortunate debut in society was her invitation to the Winter ball a month earlier, yet she can't help but wonder the ‘why’ of His Majesty’s request to dance with him. Unveiling the gem brooch from the box, she pictured again his wonderful eyes full of mystery and almost that touch of warmth to them.
She smiled warmly at that simple thought, the carriage door opening in moments which quickly made her train of thought come to a halt. The four women escorted her to her room, Avdolia sending her prepped handwritten note to send to His Majesty’s office. After all, this little detail was only to tell the man that ‘she’ had arrived and there was no need to bring her anyway near the Prince and Astros for her mental and physical state of being.
Her quick conduct allowed for the four to leave to their lady’s quarters to remain for the day, at least until those men were out of the young woman’s line of sight and nearness. Though her panicked and traumatized sake was a shock, it couldn't have been more so for the lady herself. Her maids and waiting had fitted her in a more comfortable attire, and had provided her with refreshments from the kitchens, books picked by Avdolia’s collection, and yet the very few, but kind check-in from Sir Jean by His Majesty’s request.
Iggy, her little loyal companion, had found himself snuggled in the crevices of her winter coat while she read the la fleur poet columns. The leather printed cover was dull, but the ancient feel allowed for the authenticity of delightful treasures. Martha opened the curtains to the window to let some light enter the room, the woman thanking her kindly with a nod and a smile. Sam and the twins had helped organize her books into a neat pile, all the while offering her brand-new notebooks and quills for when she needed to speak her mind— the materials provided by His Majesty.
”Iggy has grown accustomed to your coat. I'm almost certain when neither of us is around, he buries his little body under all the layers. Don’t you think so?” Brigette asks curiously, the little dog’s ears pick up at the sound of his name being mentioned. He looked at Bridgette with annoyed eyes but promptly stretched on the loveseat. He yawned as if he was bored, yet Kalithea's gentle pats had beckoned him yet again to the comforts of fur, satin, and body heat.
Kalithea nodded and wrote something quickly in her newly printed journal, showing the friendly maid her response with quiet laughter.
”I’ve seen him a few times snuggling with it, believe me. Iggy thinks I'm unaware, but the one time I caught him from the corner of my eye made me believe quickly that that instance has happened more than once.”
The two looked at each other and side-eyed Iggy who had once again, quickly fallen asleep with the pamperdness of a jeweled collared cat. The quiet day had later fallen to a much quieter evening and even wondered if she would take her meals in her room again. Not that it bothered her, but she had felt the slight boredom that came with staying in her room all day. Iggy's ears picked up as he lifted his head and faced towards the door. The women looked at each other oddly, yet the impending heavy steps and the knock on the door proved that the dog again, had an incredible hearing.
Perhaps it was another guest? Maybe it was her evening meal that the chefs had sent her way? Brigette unlocked the door to find Sir Amadeus, Dame Adeline, and Dame Erin smiling as they whispered the quiet news. Kalithea could not understand what was being said, but they quickly left as her maid-in-waiting quickly went to work.
“His Majesty requested that you dine with him! He hasn't done so since your etiquette lessons!” Brigette cheered, her maids gathering some of her nicest dresses, jewelry, and headpieces in their lady’s possession. She tried to dismiss them from grabbing something obnoxious, yet they smiled all the more with her doing so.
“No no, my lady! It must be important if His Majesty would like you to spend His evening dinner with you.” Martha pointed to the green and cream dress in her wardrobe that was much to her fancy, despite the bustline being a little different than her usual attire. “This is one you haven't worn yet my lady. It’s not the most expensive but it will bring out your eyes!” Martha continued, Kalithea nodding as she mentally checked off a list of what she would have liked.
They slipped her into her dress, placing stockings on her legs with a comfortable pair of matching shoes. A small dainty necklace with an emerald pendant shone with the reflection of the fireplace. Her hair was in its usual wavy length, yet it was to her fancy to have half of her hair in a braided updo, while the other was on her side. She was happy that there wasn’t too much distress to wear formal attire, the lady placing her booklet in her dress’s makeshift pockets. Lanali would have clapped with delight if she was here, yet she was in her workshop yet again making another dress by His Majesty’s request. She only hoped he paid her dues with a handsome reward.
Kalithea was then sent to His Majesty’s private and secluded dining hall, escorted by her knights with much-needed detail and preparation. The nighttime ambiance was full of candlelight through the hallway, yet the flickering flame was pale in comparison to the bright light that shone from under the crevice of that very door.
“Now my lady, don’t hesitate to call for us when you need us. Also if you get nervous, there's a side door hidden behind the curtain that will lead you downstairs if he does intimidate you too much.” Dame Adeline tried to lighten the anxious mood, yet Kalithea nodded with a smile, grateful that she had offered a getaway card. She saw the door, the two women giving her a nod as they motioned for her to knock.
“We will see you soon my lady. Our squadron is training tonight so we may not see you till later unless you call for us. Good luck” Dame Erin started with a warm tone, the redhead nodded as she knocked on the door.
“Come in.” The gruff voice of The Emperor startled her, and she felt her nerves tie into a knot, the depth of her stomach feeling like the tightening of a corset. She took a deep breath and entered, her hand against the knob as the light shined on her face. She smiled a little, keeping her gaze low to appease him.
She entered, curtseying as Jotaro stood by the window, gazing at her with easy eyes, giving her a nod to rise from her perfected greeting.
“You are not suffering from that fright, yes?” He asked, wondering how she had been with his delicate words. Although he was slightly still cold in terms of tone, his question of her being still made her feel comfortable. She had pulled out her pen and had begun to write, handing him the booklet for his eyes to see.
Despite the heavy height distance between them, he looked down at her with such care as he read the eloquent strokes of her pen.
“Your majesty, I am well. Although I am grateful that I have not suffered a tremor of terror if I had seen that man, I have you to thank for sending me on a brief excursion.” She wrote, the man nodding as he quickly raised a brow at the scars on her wrists. Without thinking he carefully grabbed her hand, seeing the faint jagged line that had looked like a lightning bolt strike.
“Was that from.. the shackles?” He had asked carefully, the woman nodding gravely as she smiled to show that it did not matter to her that he should ask such a thing. “It does not bother you, even though it is so faint?” He asked again, the woman shaking her head in a ‘no’ manner to answer his question. He let go of her hand though it almost appeared that he was hesitant to by the slight grip of one of his fingers.
He rang a bell as two servers came in they placed the plates on the table with refreshments on another. Kalithea wrote something quickly as he had not paid attention, and when he was too lost in watching them, she tapped his shoulder with her index finger.
“Why have you called me tonight? You never have your majesty. I have no means to pry but more often than not I have taken my meals in my room.”
He read yet again and stayed silent, sitting down in his chair as the last butler pulled out her chair and left. She sat waiting for an answer as he sighed with utter defeat looking at her curious face.
“I did not wish for you to dine by yourself, and if you had thoughts of worry and fear over Cassium’s attendant, I would rather prevent it than have you…” Unsure of how to finish her sentence he just drank what was in his glass.
“I’d rather you not be alone, from what happened.” He stated plainly with a still look on his face as Kalithea smiled just a little. So he did have the capacity to be kind, maybe she was seeing a side to that. She nodded as they ate silently, the redhead eating a portion of her food with a zeal for appreciation. Although it looked like she had barely touched it, she had become full. Jotaro looked at her as he seemed to gaze at her complexion and her wonderful eyes. She was, a very… beautiful woman.
Jotaro stopped himself, the man speaking as he set his napkin down on the table.
“You need to eat more, you are too thin to stop there.” He raised a brow, the woman blushing as she smiled like she was about to laugh. He had never seen her blush like that before. She motioned that she was full, yet he didn’t believe it, not even in the slightest. Again she wrote something underneath her last sentence.
“I hardly eat anyways, It’s a force of habit.” She avoided his gaze as if he was confused as to why it was a habit to not eat as much. “You look at me so strangely, your majesty. It’s normal for me to hardly eat at all, it has always been that way I suppose.” She smiled hoping that he would understand yet he shook his hand as he gripped his hand in a fist by his side.
“That man I believe had forfeited you with the needs of a human person. You have no lack of anything here. Anything you desire. I will offer it.” Replying, as he understood, why that habit was there, she nodded and wrote again.
“You say that, and for that, I am truly grateful. With your benevolence, I'm honored. Yet my request will be too much of a trifle.”
Jotaro almost looked like he was hiding his willpower to smile with a teasing motion. “So you do have something you want?” He asked, taking another sip of his drink. Kalithea tried to shake her head, knowing that she couldn’t get past this one, no matter how hard she tried.
“Ask it.” He commanded simply, the man running his gloved hand through his hair as he contemplated her rash movements. She was quite embarrassed, hiding her face as she stopped herself from acting so childish. She had written a few simple words, sliding over the journal as she had waited for his expression, or received some notice that he had read it.
“Your majesty, I wish for your friendship.”
Jotaro set down his drink, his eyes narrowing as he seemed to look at those words with contempt. He stood from his chair and closed the book. He handed it to her and paused himself by the door.
“I wish you a good night, Kalithea.” He dismissed himself as she had relied on her troubled emotions to lead her out of that very dining hall. Why had he seemed so dismissive this time? Was it wrong to ask him for such a thing, something as simple as a friendship?? Perhaps he truly did think of her as a commoner as she was. With her eyes becoming glossy, she had remembered the door Dame Adeline had described. Behind the curtain, she had said, and she had found it in place. She bit her lip as she left through the door, the many stairs leading her to the corridor near His Majesty’s mother’s garden. How convenient.
His Majesty charged her with the request to take care of this garden, and she had done so well, gardening it as best as she could, and watering the camellias in bloom. Their vibrant color seemed to cheer her sorrows a slight chance, yet the sound of a ‘snip’ made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She looked around, walking forward a bit as she entered through the gate, past the overhead vines and blossoms. Seeing not a soul, she sat by the fountains to think about Jotaro, and yet when she did so, the shuffling of a jacket paralyzed her.
Her heart began to beat crazily as she saw the back of a taller figure, undoubtedly a man. He turned and was walking, looking at the flower he had picked until he noticed that person in front of him. She was met with the astonished face of none other than Astros.
Kalithea felt paralyzed and it seemed that Astros felt the same, neither could move, and none could take the first step. Her mind was telling her to run away, to scream if she could, to get away from this person who was partially a reason for her tormented life. She was about to take a step backward yet, Astros slowly walked towards her. She was starting to feel terrified, trembling as tears left her eyes. She covered her lips with her mouth and stood up to run! In doing so, Astros charged after her with an intent to explain.
“Wait!” He exclaimed loudly. The man grabbed a hold of her wrist as she tried to get away from him. “I know you’re that little girl I branded!” He yelled again, her struggles stopping as she looked at him with wide tear stricken eyes. “I have not forgotten that face, and your hair, that mark of a witch… which is not true.” He stated, looking away shamefully seeing her branding scar that appeared upon her shoulder.
She was about to write, her hands shaking as she dropped the pen on the floor.
“I beg you, allow me to explain myself. I owe you anything more than just words of an apology. I was a mere fool, thinking that I could escape those memories, and I know I am a part of it too.” He stated, Kalithea was still shaking like a leaf, breathing in and out deeply with the hope she would calm down.
Her traumatic response and coping mechanism had worked a little, but she could not bear to look at him. Instead, she walked by the fountain, sitting against the cobblestone while she stared at her reflection in the water. That was a little better, yet Astros only could feel more remorseful as he remembered how defenseless she had looked as a child, and even then was at the mercy of him. His explanations, his apology, and the mere expression of hesitancy to do so.
“I was a struggling person those days, trying to fend for myself and protect my siblings. Though the jobs I had paid good money, THAT one in particular… was very fine.” He whispered low, his hands trembling as he cared not to remember. “That is no excuse for what I did to you. I know nothing of your life, and how you are here at His majesty’s palace, but I hope you know that your face has remained in my mind for these 11 years. You were merely a child, five or six, and I was a teen.”
Kalithea listened, silently and with attention to his words, yet the tears continued to flow as she covered her face with her hands.
“I beg you for your forgiveness. I do not expect you to forget me, or even to accept this now in the middle of this garden, but I pray to the goddess you will. I would ask questions, and try to understand everything you have been through, yet I have no i have no right to. I only hope that you are now free within His Majesty’s walls.” He sighed again, the woman looking up as her tears have dried.
Kalithea curtsied shakingly, leaving as she had listened to all he wished to say. She needed to rest, though today was a wonderful day, the sourness had left a terrible headache coming on, and her skin cold as ice. The man watched her leave, sighing as he too left that garden of flowers. The immense pressure against his heart was heavy with that burden of ruining another life.
In doing so, the itching ears of his highness Prince Cassium, was full of such juicy gossip. He smiled evilly, laughing to himself as he thought about that woman. He would have taken her as a concubine? With such a low status she was better off to be his bed partner for a night, then left to the lustful men of the street.
“My dear, you have left me a perfect opportunity for wealth, power, and status.” He laughed again and walked away, his form camouflaging with the shadows of the night, returning to his room from this fateful encounter of two individuals. He knew something was going to be up his sleeve, a perfect attempt to trap His Majesty in scandal and blackmail… How wonderful.
Notes:
leave comments if you please my friends!!! any recommendations i am open to!!! 💕💕💕
Chapter 24: Wicked plan
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Cassium lay on the loveseat couch as he stared into the flames of the fire. The smoke dancing from the tip of his lips swirled in patterns and looked like the slithering snakes in the desert sands. His amber eyes shined with satisfaction, greed, and impeccable brilliance. He took in another puff of his relaxing drug, the lamp lights burning low as it set the eerie tone of his quarters.
The man stood up from his chair, remembering the fateful encounter of his servant, and the woman he was only mildly interested in. How wonderful was it that he had taken a walk to observe the grounds, only to find that explanations were unveiled before him? He never questioned his servants' passed jobs or what they did, as long as they were stupid to obey and smart enough to withdraw from his private and political affairs.
Astros had served him for plenty of years, up to when he was in his younger days. He caused a commotion in the streets in the night, and with defiance in his eyes, had struck a deep curiosity in him. He had told his father he wanted him as a servant, he looked able to contain secrets and not meddle in others’ business. Now those days were over, it had begun to make sense why he was the way he was. He hated everything to do with the black market, nobility, all of it.
“Maybe I should kill him?” He whispered low, pausing, then closing his eyes as he knew that wouldn’t be the best course of action. It would put him in a position of suspicion, and of course, his blood would be over his expensive clothes. “He wouldn’t dare disobey me. If I told him this plan he would be as submissive as they come. It would be useless for him to even try anything.” He said aloud, the large room about him quiet as can be. If a pin were to drop, or even the slightest shuffle, it would be heard.
Three knocks in a quick row signaled that Atros was outside his door. Although there was a drift of wealth, social status, and a variety of other contributions, it was Cassium’s wish that he would be stationed in his quarters the next room over. The only thing that connected them was the one door to enter, and the wall door within.
“Astros, I know that’s you. You can come in, there’s no one here besides me.” Cassium ordered, the man entering as he looked stiff and utterly dejected.
“I apologize, Your Highness, for my late-night excursion. It was difficult for me to sleep.” Astros explained himself clearly, the prince nodding as he dismissed him.
“I care not what you do. But I know when you haven’t told me everything, Astros. For instance, that red-haired woman that the emperor seems to be so fond of was in the gardens. Your conversation brought great interest.” He smiled cheekily, his intentions evil as they came.
“My past is something you never questioned me about. I dare not bring anything to you that does not suit your fancy, your highness.” He hid his shock with an easy smile. He hid his emotions well, well enough for Cassium to never suspect him.
“Indeed this is true, but when it comes to the markets, you know that I am very interested. Ha, it’s no secret that most of my women are from the courts of slums and wherever I wish. Not that it matters, but my way of running things is to my fancy.” He smiled, nodding as he figured himself the best of the bunch.
“Of course your Highness. We know better than to oppose your views.” Astros continued to pay him respect, the inward of his mind ticking quickly like a broken clock. Not that he wished to do so, but he’d rather keep every part of his body perfectly intact rather than on the emperor’s pristine floor.
“Yes, of course, you know.” Cassium rolled his eyes as a ‘tch’ left his lips, standing as he looked Astros in the eyes. “You must know my plan, you're my faithful.. friend.” He tried to persuade himself and Astros that he truly considered the man a friend, yet they both understood their respective places and where they drew the line. He nearly cringed at his nicety, the turban-haired man grabbing his gold chest for the precious leaves that would give him the ultimate feeling of leisure.
“Your plan, your highness?” Astros seemed to question his words, the man’s eyes scanning the prince’s easy and almost tactical movements. “I am unsure of what your highness means or suggests?” He casually asked, letting his curiosity get the best of him.
“Well the plan is to gain unfathomable riches from his majesty, clearance to sell and traverse the black market overseas, and of course tarnish that reputation of his noble line.” He laughed a little, the smoke leaving his lips as it puffs around and about.
“Why would you want to do any of that, Your Highness? If you were to tell him about the black market and all of the things that happen he could use that against you.” He argued, fearful that more innocent lives would be affected by his greed.
“Fair point, Astros. But let's be clear, I can alter my words in a way where he won't suspect a thing. If you were wondering what I would gain, and my purpose why? It's merely because the more wealth you have, the more power you hold. The one who controls the money controls the markets.” Cassium stated casually and honestly.
Shocked by the man's attitude and claim, he paused and refrained from speaking until the prince was finished with his explanation.
“That idiotic emperor who is younger than my wiser years, rules this empire with no care in the world. Yes, yes, he thinks he can rule when the reality is I who can and will. His royal majesty can remain on the throne as the puppet, yet I will work behind the scenes!” Astros raised his voice to make his point across to Astros who watched as he looked as mad as ever. “Astros, think of it! The riches that would befall me, and the expansion of such wide wealth across the land of which I rule. The capital of Muenna will overflow with gold, diamonds, and rubies. I will be the sole beneficiary.” Cassium quieted himself, as he snapped his fingers as the last bits of smoke left his lips.
“I understand Your Highness entirely,” Astros said with a fake smile, the prince smiling as he knew the plan he was to make out and set to achieve.
“Now the plan is to use the leverage of your conversation, the truth of the matter. That woman is a slave. The emperor owns a slave, can you believe it? The hypocrisy, the scandal of such a thing will run him to the ground! There is no explanation for him being able to deny it! He will be stumped beyond reason. That woman who cannot speak cannot fend for herself. I do not care what happens to her reputation if she has any at all, but it seems this is a secret that is shut up in the walls of the palace. A secret that I have the means to unveil to the public of this entire empire!!!” Astros continued, scheming evenly as the remnant of his herbal leaves burned quickly like the embers of a flame on wood.
“What will Your Highness do if His Majesty retaliates against you and threatens you? What about the young lady? Surely you must have compassion-“
”Compassion?! Ha! Compassion is what makes you weak. It allows for your downfall for those who are stupid. I was thankfully not trained by it, nor by my idiotic father and pathetic mother. My father, you see, died by old age, yet I was greatly overjoyed by his death. You saw, and you were aware. His kindness left the country in shambles, and I knew under my guidance and leadership, it would flourish just as it is now.” He took a bite of an aphrodisiac chocolate, not a large quantity but enough for him to feel that rise out of him.
“What about that wretch of a woman? Though she is pretty, yes, but what's the point of her worth and her life if she is merely a slave? A slave is a slave whether you are free or not, I doubt she is free. She is an asset to my plan, and my bedchamber.” He smiled evilly and lustfully, thinking of those certain parts of her body in such lewd positions and actions.
Astros, disgusted by far, and was indeed very much downcast for the fate of that supposed lady. To think that she should be defiled in such ways by him like an animal in heat, and the poor thing could do nothing about it. If it resulted in her bearing a child, she would be no different from the countless other women in the Prince's court. Sent away, demoted to a slave, and their children deemed illegitimate and without fathering. A sad life indeed.
“I think I need to sleep on this plan. Wouldn’t you think so? My mind can only do so much for one day, and take in all the information.” Prince Cassium asked him with a relaxing voice, the servant nodding his head as the man left for his portion of the room.
”Yes, of course, your highness. I will be in my quarters reading.” He let the man know with respect and decency, sweat dripping down his back with uneasiness.
“Yes, you do what you like to do best.” Cassium sneered with disgust, turning his back again as he grabbed his fanciful chest of leaves and capsules. “I will be in a deep sleep tonight. The palace apothecary has provided me with wonderful, yet potent medication. Don’t you think this is good?” Cassium asked again, disappearing to his bed, far away from the likes of his subordinate.
Astros understood that taking those capsules would allow his highness to sleep as peacefully, and deeply as one could be without it. Though he had faked an illness once or twice, this one seemed to be the one that lasted the longest. The man walked to his room, closed the door, and locked it without even thinking. The grandfather clock that was across from his bed looked ominous and ticked obnoxiously loud. He found himself in silence, with nothing more than just the passing of the hands.
He picked up his poetry book, reading it with the hope that that entire conversation would leave his mind for the best. Yet, he could not fathom that poor girl in such a trifling matter, and knowing the emperor's stable and hopefully long-lasting reign would come to an end, was terrifying. It shouldn’t concern him, but on the contrary, he was very much involved. Much more than he thought.
The fact that he, a past brander, knew about the black market and all the noble families tied to it, and branded countless slaves, haunted him. He knew the sons and daughters of wealthy merchants, business owners, and the titles themselves that took part in it. That crime was punishable by death without the possibility of bargaining. Yet, how could he bypass this struggle, the annihilation, and the lives of not just two people, but the entire empire?
The weight of this overall revelation was heavy on his mind, and he could not shake this dilemma from him. He stood up, walked about, and sat back down again more than three times until the clock struck 10 times.
“I keep spiraling about this… dammit!” He cursed at himself, speaking aloud to ease his temper and spiraling mind. He heard shuffling from the next room over, yet it was simply his imagination. The prince had already fallen asleep an hour ago, thankfully, but now how could he do it? How could he fall asleep now with everything that was happening and that was to happen shortly?
“I need to see His Imperial Majesty. I must let him know… everything.” He thought to himself, yet, the tricky bit was to leave that one door. He turned off the light and waited a few minutes, the quiet and almost lifeless figure of the prince lay on the sofa with soft snores leaving his mouth. Oh, he was out all right. Astros opened the door and quietly closed it without leaving a single sound to the open air and ears. The man left into the hallway, and thankfully by the tour through his majesty’s palace by the head butler, would know where he would be.
“Is His Majesty asleep? I dare hope not, but this is a risk I am willing to take for the sake of his life and reputation, and especially her.” He said aloud, walking towards the direction of the emperor's study. He passed the picture frames of other nobles, the last emperors, and he wondered if “this” one would be just as merciful. He contemplated as he went through the hall again, making another left as he descended the stairs.
The quarters of guests remained on the top floors, while His Majesty resided in the wayward hidden areas of the palace, much to Astros’s dismay. The Emperor’s life was private indeed, and it seemed that no one could ever decode him or enthrall his affections, wishes, and whims. The man ran a hand through his hair, and the band that held it together fell on the floor without him even noticing. The strands fell against his neck as he looked for the emperor's study.
Upon arrival, it looked like it was dark, as his hopes to talk diminished before his very eyes. Yet that subtle flickering light from underneath the study’s door lit this hopeful interaction entirely. Yet, as he reached for the handle against the door, the feeling of two pointed swords on the right and left side of his neck stopped his actions entirely.
“You are Cassium’s right-hand man, correct?” The voice of Sir Jean echoed through the hall, as his eyes were cold like ice and staring daggers into Astros’s back.
“I wouldn't say I am his right-hand man, just a subordinate servant.” Astros defended the man's claim, placing his hand against his side once more.
“Just a servant? Why would a servant demand the audience of His Majesty so late at night?” Sir Amadeus asked with a hateful and cautious voice, his hand against the other hilt of his sword.
“I had important news to give.” He states with a lump in his throat. How foolish. The hopes to explain what would happen to His Majesty were foiled. Cassium will have his head for this.
”And what-“
The double doors of His Majesty’s study opened quickly, with Jotaros hand in the air as the light glowed from his right hand.
“news, do you have to tell me, Astros?” Jotaro asked quickly, his eyes narrowed and his expression full of anger, deposition, and subtle curiosity.
“Cassium Your Majesty, has plans to rid you, and… Lady Kalithea.”
Jotaro’s eyes faltered, not with fear, but of pure confusion, and yet, understood that this man was telling the truth in every way possible. It would be foolish for him not to welcome him in, and if this was a bluff, the price on his head was heavy indeed.
“Amadeus, Jean, bring Astros in. This is not a bluff, and if it is the penalty is death as you know. But, I'm sure this conversation will not go unnoticed by my eyes.”
Notes:
leave comments if you can! Also i post pictures on for everyone to see? Does the guest portion show you the photo or is it only registered users???
Chapter 25: determination and solitude
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“What is this supposed plan that Cassium has rolled up those sleeves of his?” Jotaro asks with a wandering gaze while tapping his finger on his crossed arm. He waited for a reply, yet Astros looked wearily at the emperor. ”I can sense the uneasiness, you have my word for protection.” Jotaro spoke again quickly, Astros quitting his exaggerated nerves.
“I am not entirely worried about my safety as I should. I worry more so for the young lady Kalithea. His Highness intends to use the leverage of her slavehood status against you, Your Majesty.” Astros begin to speak with a cautious tone. The raven-haired male seemed to become more intrigued than he had been before Astros arrived.
”I’m aware that you were the one who branded her all those years ago, she has explained to me with definite assurance and her written hand. Yet why do you seem to care about her now when you seemed to have no regard for that when she was a faint child?” Jotaro asked without empathy, yet in his tone, he seemed more angry than calm.
”Your Majesty, I was a teenager looking for work as my parents passed. I have three younger siblings, all of which are attending Masilias school far away from Muenna. They knew the job I had was difficult, but not particularly what it was or what I did. I want to make things right.” Jotaro did not seem to like this answer, though he understood for an orphaned family of children, the inherent duty of the eldest was to care for them.
“Masilias? An expensive school indeed. You were bound to have been paid well all those years ago, and I assume much more now, yes?” Jotaro paused as Astros nodded gravely. “What does this matter have to do with Kalithea and myself? You seem to do things out of guilt more than regret for your actions.”
“I do it more out of regret than my guilt, Your Majesty. I confess that I have tried to forget that moment, but the piercing purple eyes of fear, especially for a child, have stuck with me ever since. Trauma, Your Majesty, is not something one can get rid of so easily.” Astros contemplated his next words carefully, wondering how he could explain Cassium’s devious plan. “However, your Majesty, it concerns me just as it would for the both of you. I am the one who branded the lady, and I know the black Market.” Astros stated plainly, Jotaro unable to understand.
“You know the black market? Explain.” Jotaro understood what the statement was but not the detail or depth of information he or one could know.
I know the nobles under their masks and the families, businesses, and people connected to it. The Black Market only runs through the entire region of Prussina, as Renaldi, Celtina, and this territory do not involve themselves. The matter at hand is that Cassium wishes to exploit the knowledge of you holding a slave here to tarnish your reputation. He plans to use the treasury and your status to increase the black market trade— that's if you comply with this. If you do not, then he will expose the sin of you with Lady Kalithea.”
”I understand, but he has no way to prove that she is a slave any longer. Her master was executed by my hand, and she is a free woman now. Unless he heard the conversation of it all, hence the reason why you come to me now with this news.” Jotaro finally concluded and understood the dilemma of the situation.
“Yes, Your Majesty. Lady Kalithea was in one of your gardens tonight, and I happened to be there taking a stroll. His Highness was there as well listening away from us and told me his plan with great detail and intent when I arrived back at our quarters. He is in a deep rest at this very moment and is not concerned with me or knows that I am here.” Jotaro was pleased with his words, but not that Kalithea wandered off alone. He was again to blame for this. He acted cruelly again, and in her sadness, left to the grounds of his palace where all took place.
“The families who are known for their ties to the black market, you know each and have proof?” Jotaro asked, Astros nodding as he was handed a quill and paper. “Write all of them down, and if you can, the supposed proof you have.” The determination in Astros’s eyes was like a fiery flame, and he began to write quickly with diligence. He was happy that the other knights were outside guarding the door, or else they might have judged him for how quickly he was writing. Nevertheless, he continues to write the many and plentiful names and even noble ones connected to their ties.
It took ten minutes for three pages of information to be filled, and a dashed line of any common notion and recollection of property, slaves, money, and belongings, purchased underground.
“Your Majesty, the first page is of nobles, the second, businesses and the last are the wealthier people of Prussina.” Astros showed the man the pages, Jotaro glancing over the page quickly and even more than once becoming surprised, disappointed, or even a knowing nod.
Most of these nobles live here in this region, and others in Prussina. It’s no wonder when the season begins there is a surplus of money being spent, while when they're away the money comes in. These supposed letters of credit, slaves, and properties, are for certain the truth of their relations to the market?” Jotaro asks again, the blonde gentleman nods very quickly.
“Yes Your Majesty, for example, Lord Fargaus’s expensive carriage for his daughters was purchased by selling the opinomous drug. Lady Fargaus’s diamonds and pearls were stolen from the forbidden mines of celtina.” That is one of them to name a few. I know because they went to His Highness’s palace for the seal of approval. All purchases have his seal of approval. However, that is when he came to power. When his father was alive, the honorable King Plistine, the black market was only a small room in the tops of buildings. Now, it runs rampant in every part of Prussina.” Astros explained.
Jotaro nodded and listened, thinking of a plan that would save everything, and put a halt to Cassium’s plan.
“The heart of where it begins is in the Capitol Building underground in Muenna. If you track down all of these people and shut down the passages of the black Market, it would save your reputation and increase your favor. Thousands of lives will be saved and spared, and the lady will no longer fear her previous status. The many people affiliated will be caught, and the roads around my home will be a better place for others and myself. I understand this is much information, Your Majesty, but I pray to the goddess you can do something about it.”
“Well, your case and your evidence have surely been made at this very moment in time. I do not doubt in my mind that you have said the truth to me, and I have already pledged that you have my protection, regardless of the outcome. However, I already have a plan to overcome this miniature obstacle.” Jotaro explained with a tone that was far from worrisome. He looked about the room with a vigorous expression, the man before him wishing to know, but he was to do with his eyes.
“Do I have the right to know your Majesty?” Astros asked, hoping that he would at least have some notice of what the emperor was to do.
“Within this week I plan to upturn the course of the black market, and every region of Prussina. In every corner of that place, I have eyes that see in the lips that speak of all that happens. I will have my army and a few of the closest assassinators infiltrate that very area. The plan is to uproot from the core, and the other specifics will be dealt with within the next week. As for all the people affiliated with the black market, they will not be thrown in prison, but simply as I have written in my law, it is for death. You are very bold and have told me all of this information, knowing that if it is false, the price for your lies and crimes is your head, and the possibility of the man you serve knowing.” Jotaro felt tense explaining, yet he calmed himself, taking a moment to clarify within his mind what he had said.
“I thank you, Your Majesty, for explaining this to me. I hope that it will be completed soon and before the prince declares his statement and plan to you. I would hate for you to fail, but I pray that I will see the end of your glory. For myself, I expect nothing more than my death. If I am willing to expose the plan to Your Majesty and by my affiliation with the black market, then I will gladly accept my sentence.” Astros bowed his head, feeling the knock of death upon his door. The atonement for his crimes must be carried out to the fulfillment of the law.
“You speak as if you are to be executed. That will not be so, you are pardoned on my behalf, yet it is not my say on whether that person forgives you for what you have done. You know very well who and what I mean.” Jotaro explained to the man in front of him, Astros knowing very well, what his words were directed about.
“Yes Your Majesty, I know very well what you describe. I have no doubt or hope that the lady will ever forgive me for the crimes that I have committed against herself, but I hope that someday or somehow she will. I don’t expect that to come anytime soon, and yes, I am grateful to you for pardoning my crime and affiliation with the branding of slaves. But with all of this in mind, Your Majesty, I will leave you to do what you have said you were to do. Should you ever need information regarding the nobles or any other ties to the underground, I ask that you please summon me once His Highness is asleep.” Jotaro seemed to nod for a minute before he spoke again.
“Very well, in the meantime, I will have one of the nights to escort you to your chambers. Unless you wish for none of that to happen, then I will accept your wishes.” Jotaro cracked his fingers, as he stood up, Astro’s nodding as he bowed towards His Majesty, and left back to his quarters where he would reside for the remainder of his stay.
“Sir Amadeus, Sir Jean, come in.” He commanded quickly, the two men knowing that they would receive some form of assignment. ”Contact all the empire's embassies in the areas of Prussina. We need to infiltrate the black market quickly before Cassium begins his plan to overthrow my headship. Have the main headquarters in Muenna infiltrate the Capitol Building underground, including the assassins guild. Send Marlin and Edeisu to infiltrate the Prince’s palace by night to look for all the documents. We must be ready for all that he intends to do.” Jotaro lightly informed, the two nodding as they left for their assignments.
“Sir Jean, I will withdraw you for a moment.” He commanded as Sir Amadeus left for the barracks to notify the embassies.
“Jotaro, you're not afraid of what will happen? What about casualties?” Jean asked his friend with a casual tone.
“I’m not afraid, the casualties will be few, or none at all. The embassies are skilled like no other and for good reason. Yare yare, I'm already concluding this will be over in a week. That is already decided.” Jotaro states with confidence that Jean understands him and looks at him with a gruff smile.
“You’ve always been like this, Your Majesty,” Jean commented, his hands behind his back.
“Always had to be. Now I have my thinking and laws to correct.” Jotaro dismissed him, looking outside the window with endless thoughts coursing through his mind. The portrait of his great grandfather and grandfather hung on the wall, Joseph Nobelius Joestar, the man’s forever face imprinted on a canvas. The eagle flying above, and the stern expression on his face. Joseph Nobelius Joestar, with his lifted sword, and his eyes full of determination. He only hoped he would have made them proud with his decision.
”Your leadership and lineage are on my shoulders. I intend to fight Cassium with every bound of my expense, and by the power I hold. If destruction to Cassium’s lineage, power, reputation, and all along with him fails, then I will not let it stand.” He whispered to himself, almost vowing silently that this plan must go through and without falter or mistake. One wrong move could cost the lives of the men who worked under him, and his place as head of this empire.
He heard the clock on the wall chime another time, with the larger and smaller hand pointing to 12. He groaned as he rubbed his eyes, hoping that maybe for once he would get good sleep tonight. He was exhausted, to say the least, and it annoyed him so that Cassium wished to abuse information and people's lives for his enjoyment— then again, in his harem of women, that was where it began. Jotaro waved his hand as the candlelight flame flickered, and went.
The man closed the door, the knob automatically locking it quickly as a ‘click’ made the audible noise. Jotaro walked down the hallways to his chambers, ignoring the ache in his back from sitting in his chair all day. Maybe tomorrow he will hunt in the forest, to let the steam and anger loose from his mind and grip. Not that it mattered what he killed or lost, but it was indeed a better experience than to dwindle on papers and endless sealed stamps.
Jotaro turned another corner until he noticed that the door to the library was opened slightly with a dim light that illuminated it. Curious as he was, he walked towards it, finding the most peculiar sight one could ever find. Kalithea lay against the seat, asleep against the plush sofa with her head enveloped by the pillow. The embers of her candlelight showed her face, as he noticed the remnant of tear stains against her cheek. He stood looking at her, her form looking so frail that if the wind blew upon her she would wither away.
Jotaro kneeled a little lower to see her, moving her locks away from her face as she was deep in a long restful sleep. He only hoped that her trauma would not take the form of a nightmare, and her tears would one day dry. What could he do? He thought to himself, feeling his heart beat a little faster as he thought about her smile. The smile he so rarely saw when she was alone with him. It happened more than once, but by the actions he had done or the words he had said, that smile had instantly faltered into silence, tears, and isolation.
“Kalithea, do I add more pain to your existence?” He whispered to himself, covering his lips with his hands as she shifted momentarily, hugging her hands close to her chest as the scars he remembered that night were ever visible to him. She must be cold, this Library was no place for her to sleep.
Jotaro carefully lifted her into his arms, holding her close to his chest as she remained asleep. The candle finally died, and the pathway to her room was far, but it was something he didn’t mind. Now thinking about it, although the east wing was only dedicated to her and the female staff, the distance to all locations was very isolating. It was no wonder she felt alone, she was almost forgotten. Maybe… he was no better than the people in her life who have used her, abandoned her, disliked her, and hated her.
That thought shot through his heart like an arrow, the man appearing at her bedroom door with that magic use of his. Though the candles and the fire were no longer lit, her room was not as cold as he thought it would be. But even in this weather, he wondered how she managed. It somehow pained him thinking that this life of luxury was something she never comprehended, and even now doesn’t. How old was she when her first winter in Alanis took place? Did she ever eat a warm meal, and feel the flames of the fire? No, the most she could have ever received was the frost-bitten ice of her home and the abuse from that man.
He heard the sound of clicking and clacking, the untrimmed nails of Iggy's paws appeared as he looked up at the emperor with anger. He almost barked at him, but the sleeping Kalithea in his arms refrained him from doing so.
“So you’re awake you mutt.” He sneered, Iggy, growling slightly as watched her lay on the bed with gentle care. Jotaro tucked her in, the little dog jumping on the bed as he guarded her form with intention. His eyes seemed to say, “If you harm this girl, I will bite you.”
“You make it seem like I’m going to hurt her in some way you mutt. I get it, you got your magic, but don't waste your energy on something useless.” Jotaro started with a bored tone, looking at the dog as he cuddled next to her arm and fell asleep quickly.
He stood away from her, looking at her form with interest, and pity. She was alone in this world, with the companionship of a small dog, and her maids. They may pay her attention for a short while, but he wondered if that was enough. Jotaro looked at her a final time, using his magic to replace the wood and light the fire so that the woman could have a better sleep than he could. She asked him for friendship, why did he decline? It wouldn’t have been such a bad thing, would it?
Yes, it would be. He was a cold man who hated women, no matter what age, and she was a humble yet broken girl with kindness, one that his cold heart and hands should never touch or mend. Jotaro closed the door quietly, opening his lips to speak.
“It would be better if she were away from here.” He started, with his cheeks hot like an ember, and flushed like a man with fluttering feelings.
Notes:
im sorry for the comment section spam my readers, i couldnt wait to post this… consider this.. im on a writing frenzy with much drama and creative freedom to soar!! thank you for your support and i hope you enjoyed
Chapter 26: Cheer up
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Kalithea sat at the table of the Alanis Countryside Teahouse. She was grateful that the afternoon light was upon the seas. She smiled as the now faded chilled air dissipated into the coming spring and the season where the many people of the richer side of life would come again. She sipped her rose tea from the flowery porcelain cup in her hands, as the graceful woman enjoyed the comforts of what life could offer her. It was only a few weeks ago that she saw Astros in the garden, and now whenever they are about, His Majesty sends her away. It was kind.
Avdolia returned from speaking to the owner of the Teahouse, the woman smiling at her pupil with such fervor and excitement.
“My dear, aren’t you excited that His Majesty may join us sometime today? I do wonder how that man would simply leave you to your own devices. Yet, here I am again.” She smiled, sitting in her seat while continuing to speak to the redhead. ”The new season is arriving, new debutantes will be presented to His Majesty at the courts, yet this time it will take place in Renaldi of all places.” Avdolia talked plainly, the sorceress feeling absolute dismay that such a grand event would take place in that location.
Kalithea smiled, writing down her response to her teacher, and the mentor she looked up to with great joy and pride.
“Well, I have no words to say to the first part of His Majesty arriving, I very much doubt that he will come today to join us when he has so many things to do. Yet, even then Avdolia, why does it matter when and where the season will take place for and in society? I only remember in my lessons that the season is for the young ladies to find a husband, friends, companions, and even more so for opportunities.” Kalithea handed her card to the woman in front of her, the brunette reading it keenly and opened her lips to speak.
“Anyways my dear, enough of my words. How are you feeling? I have been going back and forth with my other Magi friends, and the studious years for my other pupils are excellent. You don’t feel neglected or lonesome do you?” Avdolia asked, filling her teacup as she sipped it quietly. The redheaded beauty heard some talking from behind, noticing that the newcomers were sitting in other seats away from the two.
“I feel like an outsider in most cases, and the few times I do belong is when I am back in the town. The shops were places that only I could ever dream of, and my eyes couldn't help but shed a tear when I was able to as a free person. To my error, the scar on my shoulder is my memory that I will heal from. I have not seen that man in a while, and yet I have you and His Majesty to thank for allowing me to escape some areas of that place with others out here.” Kalithea wrote again, Avdolia smiling as she held an idea in her mind that might strike Kalithea’s fancy
“My dear, how would you feel if we went on a small spontaneous trip to Renaldi, yes? Avdolia asked Kalithea, the amethyst-orbed woman unsure of what she meant. Avdolia stood up from her, as she dropped a small stack of gold coins on the table. “Let's go on a small adventure to get you out of this small slump,” Avdolia said goodbye to the owner as he smiled and nodded. Kalithea stood up quickly yet quietly, the young woman following her headmistress as the eyes of the others watched her with caution. Kalithea, aware, and thankful that her two knights were not here, turned to the corner to wear Avdolia stood.
Avdolia waved her hand over a door, the light shifted from behind. She chuckled as she knocked, the door opening to an empty classroom.
”Magic my dear, can be helpful in many ways. It can get you from one place to another in a quick period!” Avdolia motioned for Kalithea to follow, and she did quickly by entering and closing the door behind her with a shut! Her heels echoed through the classroom, as she quickly lifted the skirt of her dress. She looked to the window, the second floor from where she was, gave her the best view of students walking along the outside corridor. ”This place used to be one of the best university boarding schools, but now it has turned into a place for the magi children, adults, and even some of the best common people with high intelligence, to come here to learn.” Avdolia spoke with pride, her hands in her robe as she smiled cheekily. “Let's take a tour.”
Kalithea smiled brightly, following the woman as she turned a few corners, and descending the stairs. They were met by the high arched stone hallways, where the students watched them with surprise!
”Guys! The headmistress is back!” One student screamed aloud, causing the chain reaction of other students to huddle up and run towards them. Avdolia laughed as she paused them in their tracks, the students looking at the red-headed young woman who stood beside her with poise and beauty, although behind that well-perfected facade was anxiousness.
“Although I am very glad to see you all, I am only here to give a tour to a probable student. My dear, no need to be so anxious.” Avdolia motioned to Kalithea with a smile, the woman visibly relaxing her nerves and looking at the younger, older, and even same-age students with a simple gaze. “This is my dear friend, Lady Kalithea.” She smiled, the redhead curtsying gracefully with all the muster she could. Her eyes, full of expression, and silent charm allowed them to feel honored in the presence of this woman.
Although the crowd of students was silent, she wrote something down in her notebook, giving it to the youngest child in front of her.
”I apologize dear one, may you read this aloud for me? I am not able to speak to you all and I would hate to be perceived as rude.”
The little girl, though maybe five or six years her junior, nodded with a toothy smile, the woman giving her an appreciative smile. She wrote again, this time quicker, longer, and passed it to the child.
“My friend is unable to speak to you, my dear ones. As you have seen she can only communicate with the stroke of a pen and the ink on paper. I will ask you to please show her the very best of this academy. Consider this the first final of this new semester.” Avdolia talked to them gently, yet her orders were stern and full of advice. Kalithea grew shocked, looking at her friend with a side stare.
”I will come find you soon, I only have to meet with the other teachers, and staff here and call them to order a meeting. I will be back. You can trust these students with your life.” Avdolia smiled, waving goodbye as she walked down the hall.
The little girl opened her lips to speak, reading it to the crowd before her as those students waited for what this woman had to say.
“As Headmistress Avdolia has introduced me, my name is Kalithea. I’m here to visit for a little while. I have never been here to this place before, but by my very short excursion and the length of this corridor, there is much that I have to learn and to see. I hope and pray that you can offer the best spots for me to gaze upon.” The crowd looked at each other, nodding and talking among themselves, deciding the best spot.
” Let's go to the observatory!” A boy yelled, the students heard him with excitement and yet mutually agreed.
”I think the lady will love books and astrology!”
”What about the gardens?”
”The gardens are cool, but there's also the chemistry lab. We can show her our experiment!”
Kalithea felt overwhelmed, as those children began to argue with one another over the best place to show her. If it wasn't for her writing skills, and the little girl screaming as if one was having a tantrum, then the bickering wouldn't have stopped.
“Is there a music room?” The little girl shouted, the others stopping as they nodded. She motioned quickly as she wanted to go there instead of any other place. The smaller crowd that did not have another class attended the young woman to the music room, which thankfully wasn’t too far away from where she was standing with Avdolia earlier.
They traveled down the hall, making a sharp right, straight ahead, and lastly to a room where there were musical instruments galore. A pianoforte in one place, violins and cellos in the other, flutes, trumpets, and a large harp with a golden angel on the side of its helm. She was enamored with the instruments, the children and students grabbing an instrument.
”My lady, can we play something for you? We just learned this piece a week ago.” One of the students asked her with a smile, one of the older boys pulling a chair for her in the center of the room. She nodded, pausing for a moment to write something in her book, the little girl standing next to her chair as she read aloud.
”I am very fond of music. I’ve grown up with it all my life. I'm sure whatever you come up with, the music will be beautiful.” As her words were a signal for them to remember their sheet music, she motioned for the little girl to sit by her. She wrote again pointing to her, as this was meant for the one who was reading her words. “You don’t play? I'm sorry I bothered not to ask for your name.” She apologized with a smile, the little girl smiling as she clicked her shoes.
“I'm Ophelia, my lady! I’m too young to learn music. Next year I will be able to since it is a part of my new schedule!” Ophelia started with a cheeky smile.
“What instrument would you like to learn?” The redhead asked curiously.
“My papa and mama want me to learn the violin! Mama knows how to play the violin, she learned here a long time ago! That's what she said!” Ophelia blushed thinking about her parents, becoming shy as the woman next to her almost gushed at how cute she was acting. “Your hair is longer than mine! I want to grow mine out like yours too.” She motioned to her red locks.
“Oh my, you're too kind, Ophelia. It always gets in my way, yet I'm grateful it doesn't tangle as often as it should.” Kalithea wrote, their small conversation making them both smile with the joys of girlhood.
“My mama always braids my hair. Maybe if you braid your hair too then it won't be in your way!” Ophelia suggested, Kalithea nodding as the sound of the first violin started and signaled their release.” Yay, they're going to start!” She cheered, clapping her hands as Kalithea focused intensely on their future performance.
Song: Taylor Ash- rose-covered prison
A female student sat on the stool of the pianoforte, flipping the sheet music to the correct page. The first few notes of the song were soft, beautiful, and slow. She looked at her notes, then began the next set that would follow after. The violin, subtle in its embrace, followed the musical companion, before the sounds of the other violins erupted, into that symphony of music.
If one could paint a picture of what it could have been like, then it would be the hilly fields of flowers, with the rushing spring breeze. Leaves from the North, onwards to the East. The overpowering of that feeling, the sensation, the power of what the mind could set itself to do in the accomplishment of music. This very song those students were playing, captured the feeling of utmost freedom.
It had continued slowly and beautifully for a little longer, conducting themselves just by memorization, and yet the melody of every single song was crafted into something that was indeed magical, it was something that had captured her heart and mind's attention. Her devotion was wonderfully entranced into the music. She smiled and watched each student, enthralled by their compelled instinct to play, read the score, and yet, each felt the music in their soul.
The pianoforte began again, and again, continuing the same melody, as it had begun, the strings of those other musicians played along, yet the subtle difference was true and strong. The tumult of the new addition.. faint brass horns, allowed for the trajectory of the ending of the song. Kalithea clapped for a while, the students bowing respectfully. Though she could not cheer for them, her expression of sincere gratitude and joy was enough for them to see how much they were appreciated.
“That was beautiful, your skills are magnificent. It was loud, but yet graceful at the same time. If I had half of your skill I would try to master it all.” Kalithea wrote in her booklet, showing it to the students this time, as Ophelia lay her head against her chair.
“Hey, do you know how to play an instrument… my lady?” An older student asked, correcting his address towards the end of those syllables.
The redhead nodded motioning to the harp in the corner, yet pointing to herself. She quickly wrote another sentence again.
“I was taught to play the harp from my lessons, yet I am not very good,” Kalithea admitted shyly, the older students moving the harp with each other’s assistance and moving it to the center of the room.
“We don't have a harp player here, since no one wanted to learn. It's one of those harder instruments in my opinion… It's too many strings for me. Could you play one of the songs you know by heart?” A female student asked and commented.
Kalithea was more nervous that she would miss a string, yet the understanding faces of the students promised her she wouldn't be judged.
Kalithea sat on the chair, fixing her finger against the strings, breathing in and breathing out the anxiety that left her person.
song: Isabella’s lullaby harp cover- Xing Xiao
The first strings were plucked, soft, and yet with feeling. She looked at each string, memorizing which one needed to be plucked. She was grateful that in all the lessons she received for the months, every song she had played was learned in a week. The meticulous string pulling caught the attention of the crowd before her.
Another string, and yet she closed her eyes, feeling all the composure and leaving her. That song enveloped her as she felt the vibrations tickle her heart. She smiled, thinking of every friend she had made, all the generosity, and everyone who she had known, had been this dedication to.
If she had the voice to sing, she would have done it, yet she let her expression do the talking. The students watched the woman with awe, and how she looked so beautiful playing a complicated instrument. It seemed that they weren't the only ones listening. Outside the door, Avdolia listened, His Majesty who had used his magic ability to arrive, leaned beside the door frame as he watched her play.
Like an angel from heaven, she strummed all strings for a desired effect. He looked at her expression, and she enjoyed herself.
“She has never played before,” Jotaro whispered, Avdolia hiding her laughter.
“In all her lessons towards the end of her basics, intermediate, and advanced, I often manifested the Harp for her to learn.
“Until now I have not seen her with any musical instrument.” He hasn’t heard her play in the palace music room, nor has she ever been seen with music other than dancing practice. It bothered him that she had not shared that with him.
“You have not seen that side of her Jotaro, you never asked her anything about it.” Avdolia smiled, as she heard the claps and final string of the harp being pulled.
“You’re so good at playing my lady!”
”Now I regret not learning to play the harp!”
”If you are a pupil here in the future, please teach me!”
The students' endless praises were interrupted by Avdolia and Jotaro entering the room, their shock at His Majesty’s presence before them was amazing. He looked at the students with a plain expression, the man looking at Kalithea who was talking to Ophelia. Until she stopped her conversation she greeted His Majesty with a deep curtsey. She kept her gaze low, her usual way that she had always done before.
“Greetings to the Sun of the Empire.”
“Greetings to the Sun of the Empire.”
”Greetings to the Sun of the Empire.”
Every student regarded the emperor's status with either a curtsy or a humble bow. Kalithea could tell they were quite tense in his presence, yet it diminished when they were dismissed by Avdolia’s gentle glance allowing them to leave.
“Thank you for showing her around my dear pupils. I have met with your teachers, you’ll get a small amount of extra credit on my end.” Avdolia told them with a smile, their frowny faces turning to joy as they cheered with each other as they left the music room. Avdolia chuckled a little as they turned a corner leaving Kalithea, herself, and His Majesty to themselves.
“I know you've only seen the music room, is there anywhere else you'd like to see?” Avdolia asked the young woman, the redhead pondering as she looked at His Majesty wondering why he was staring at her in some strange way. She pulled her pen and book from her pocket, writing again until the punctuation was complete.
“I have no other area where I should explore. If you could somehow show me some field of flowers on the cliffside of a sea I should be very happy. I’ve always dreamed of having a picnic in some location like that, even to glance at the ocean.” She humbly requested a simple task, the two reading it as Jotaro opened his lips to speak his mind.
“Have you never been to the seaside before? The Teahouse I recommended was not to your liking?” Jotaro asked with a rude tone, almost offended she would have wanted to see someplace else.
Kalithea blushed in embarrassment, quickly shaking her head as she wrote another quick explanation.
“Oh no, far from it Your Majesty. I loved it, and it was very beautiful… I just wished I could ever see a place like it. I apologize if I offended you.” Kalithea bit her lip, feeling upset with herself.
Jotaro was about to say something, yet the cold stare from Avdolia made him regret being harsh. The brunette summoned the door to close as the supposed portal to another place was apparent.
“Another time or day when we are free, I promise you that I will find the perfect place for a picnic. I'm sure Dame Adeline and Dame Erin would love to join us.” Her words alone seemed to bring up Kalithea’s low spirits. Jotaro inwardly looked at her smile, wondering if she could smile that way— facing him.
As they exited the room to His Majesty’s palace, Kalithea walked towards Avdolia as she smiled with excitement.
“Do you want to practice the harp again? I can ask Dame Adeline and Erin to accompany you to the music room.” She asked, Kalithea shook her head no as she replied to her question with another written card.
“No, Iggy is waiting for me to get back. I promised him I would give him another treat from Chef Joulie’s kitchen. Thank you again for today, I feel better! I’ll be in my room if you need me.” She wrote, the maiden curtseying to Jotaro as she left for her quarters. Her actions and behavior were aloof, and yet Jotaro found it odd.
“You need to fix your attitude Jotaro.” Avdolia corrected as she sighed while rolling her eyes in distaste. “Be grateful that your coming of age is within the next two days. If it wasn’t for that I would have hit you from behind your head.” Avdolia laughed, Jotaro cringing as he remembered his grandfather doing the same thing when he acted in a manner not befitting a prince.
“I believe it.” He stubbornly replied, walking towards the meeting room. In the other wing of the palace, Kalithea played with Iggy as she threw one of the toys she had purchased him to the other side of the room. Her maids in waiting, laughed at how the little dog zoomed to and fro with ease.
“My lady, do you know that His Majesty will become of age in two days?” Martha asked her while fixing one of her gowns. Kalithea’s shocked expression, and her covering her lips made her remember the gift she had purchased for him. She wrote quickly in her booklet, showing it to her other maids, who nodded approvingly.
“I already found him something for his coming of age. I very much doubt that his majesty will like such a thing. He’s so grand that I feel that my gift is minuscule compared to his splendor.” Kalithea confessed her worries, Martha motioning for her to sit so her hair may be done for the remainder of the night.
“It’s what comes from the heart that matters the most. You know, since you can't voice why you picked out that specific gift for him, why don't you write what you want to say?” Sam suggested with a tone fit for an older sister comforting a younger sibling. The redhead deducted this was indeed a good idea, but yet what to write?
“I think I will do just that. May I have my pen and paper?” She asked with her words already written. She received a few parchments to begin, looking at the blankness with wonder. It was embarrassing to write while people were around. Until Martha finished her hair in the signature sideway waves, only then did she have the ability to think what she wanted to say. The women looked at her and smiled to one another, watching as their lady began to write a letter for the Emperor’s birthday.
There was no other way to explain how she felt with the words she couldn’t express, yet as she unveiled the pendant brooch from the box, she stared at the colorful artifact. The flickering flame of her candle appeared in the reflection of her eyes, as she dipped her pen in the bottle of ink. By the swish of her hand, the letters bled through the parchment like water on a sponge.
That silly clock nearby continued to tick and continue for a while, the young maiden pouring out her heart's content the meaning of her words, and the importance of the gift. She placed the cap on the ink, and her pen down on the table, looking at herself in the mirror as a sigh of relief left her person. With an envelope, it was sealed with the wax stamp of her own approval. As the knock and the voice of Adolia summoned her, Kaithea placed her envelope over the box, placing it in the corner of her desk, until that day would arrive.
Notes:
More will come soon!!
Chapter 27: fate
Chapter Text
An early dinner was not something she anticipated, more so the uncomfortable silence between herself and the emperor no less. She had taken small bites, feeling the uneasiness in her chest as she contemplated why the man before her was so silent.
”Is the food to your liking? Chef Joulie prepared a smaller portion on your side until you are used to eating a regular meal.” Jotaro asked and explained, the redhead nodding as she sipped a portion of her refreshment. Her relaxed expression made his eyes look at her as he set his cutlery on the plate and he opened his lips to speak yet again. “You played the harp earlier. Besides the art of dancing, you have some improvement. What other songs can you play?”
Kalithea placed her booklet on the table, using her pen as she answered his question with a few simple sentences, enough for him to nod in approval.
“I am not very attentive to my practicing, yet my maids in waiting, Dame Adeline and Dame Erin have complimented my playing. It is very kind of them to do so. To answer your request, I can play any sheet music, Your Majesty. As long as the notes are not aligned closely together.” Kalithea mentions with a smile, the man before her nodding again. Their talk was quiet.
“Why can’t the notes be closer together?” He asks curiously, the woman smiling as she tries her best to explain. “I'm guessing that it’s too difficult to read when they are adjoined together, yes?” Guessing correctly, the woman nodded with utmost appreciation, sparing herself the process of writing.
Jotaro and Kalithea had already finished their dinner, the two standing up as Kalithea was prepared to leave back to her quarters.
“You—don't have to go back to your room.” He struggled to let out, the woman tilting her head to the side as if to say “Where should I go?” She walked towards him, as he motioned for the young maiden to follow him. “It's not healthy being cooped up in your room like a bird in a cage.” He further stated that Kalithea wrote in her booklet to answer him.
“That’s the place where I usually stay. I have no other things to do. Most of the time Iggy waits for me by the door, my maids in waiting prepare the bath and that is all.” She replies, showing him the booklet as she stops in place for him to read it. He hands it back to her, walking a little behind him to not be so close to him.
“On my coming of age, I will not hold a party or any of the like, yet the nation will be bound to celebrate it. The only thing I will ask of you is to demonstrate your musical talents in a small concert.” He chose his words wisely making it sound far from a command from himself, but more of a request.
Kalithea, who had paused in her steps, looked at him with such shock and happiness, that even she could not fathom the emotion that she felt.
“You’re going to need practice for the song I have in mind. My music room will be open to your needs, whenever and wherever you wish to practice. I'm only going to show you once where it is.” He replies, opening the door as they enter into the dimly lit throne room, an easy shortcut perhaps.
The excursion would have been an easy one if they weren’t cut short by the man of the hour, Casium, and the man Kalithea wished to avoid most of all, Astros.
“Your Majesty, what a surprise. I was just looking for you.” Casium smiled sickly as Jotaro did his best not to sneer at him with distaste. Astros looked at Jotaro with a look, knowing that their secret discussion was not known to either his master or to the woman beside him.
“You looked for me coincidentally in a place I hardly come by. I have already discussed the supposed trade deal with my council. Surely you may wait until tomorrow.” He narrowed his eyes, Kalithea managing her emotions as best as she could with Astros only 10 feet away from her. Her nerves made her shiver like she was in the cold, yet her fearful expression was not one she could hide to the best of her ability.
“On the contrary, they agreed to meet me here to discuss the trade with you accordingly,” Casium argued peacefully with resolve in his tone, the 4 council members in richly decked attire appearing as they bowed to His Majesty.
“We have come to discuss the spice trade, Your Majesty.” Lord Rendel smiled, knowing that if this deal would pass, their nation and others would become richer and richer beyond comparison.
“It is of the utmost importance. We have asked Prince Casium to meet us here.” Lord Tolomy agreed with a monotone voice, the four men looking at Kalithea with hatred and scorn unfathomably written on their faces, it was no secret the dislike they held for her person.
“It is in Your Majesty’s best interest and the capital of Ilicia.” Lord Akirus replied, as the last member stayed silent yet nodded in approval.
“I see that all of you think that the approval of yourselves and the crown prince of Prussina is much better than my own.” Jotaro coldly and ruthlessly replied as his eyes sent daggers toward his council. The men looked at His Majesty with wary expressions yet their confidence remained as still as a stone.
“Send this woman away, Your Majesty. This matter should be discussed by intelligent and well-spoken members of a noble court and lineage.” Lord Rendel struck his subtle insult to Kalithea’s humble birth, and her biggest insecurity— the lack of a voice.
“I think our beginning conversation starter would be perfect about your supposed guest Your Majesty.” Cassium smiled deviously, looking at the woman with hidden intent.
”I have no idea what you are talking about, Casium. What is your right judgment do you have to say about my guest?” Jotaro narrowed his eyes into thin slits, as Casium laughed evilly as the swish of his hand, that dangerous magic had sliced a deep gash on the very shoulder where Kalithea’s branding scar was.
The dark brown mark was visible to his eyes, as the blood poured down her arm, the woman doing her best to hide it.
“This witch is not one of noble birth, but you have appeared to have purchased a slave! A slave of course! The VERY man who abolished slavery in all the nations!!”
Astros, shocked by His Highness's violence towards the woman, saw how Kalithea stumbled, as she winced in dire pain. The gash was deep indeed, Jotaro reached out to her, yet she was held by an invisible barrier that had separated the crowd of people, including the incoming knights who banged on the closed doors of the throne room.
“Prince Casium, indeed you are mistaken!” Lord Rendel tried to correct, a weary look upon his face as he began to sweat nervously.
”I AM NOT A FOOL! I KNOW THIS WOMAN IS BENEATH A COMMONER AND A SLAVE OF ALL THINGS! HAHA!” Casium yelled, the air around them becoming icy and full of wrath. “YOU DO NOT SEEM SURPRISED AT THIS YOUR MAJESTY!?” Casium took a step forward, Jotaro keeping his Anger at ease.
“I am not surprised in the slightest.” Jotaro gripped his hand into a fist, glancing at Kalithea for a brief moment.
“I know and overheard this conversation and Astros has indeed admitted this himself! Now your Majesty, what shall you say to this?!” Casium regarded Astros as he grabbed his collar and pushed him forward.
“This is outrageous, your highness! What on earth are you speaking of!” Lord Akirus replied, looking quickly at His Majesty for confirmation,
“What is it that you gain from this knowledge, CASIUM?!” Jotaro those last syllables, Cassium laughing again as he wiped the tears of joy coming from his eyes.
“I gain everything, Your Majesty! I will propose a deal with you! You give me the crown, and I the nation in your stead. You will allow me to rule this empire with my dealings, and my form of trade, my currency!” Casium discussed his plan with confidence, Kalithea gripping onto her arm as she tried to stand upright. This pain was bearable, yet it still hurt. How crazy was this man before her? How did he know!?
”This is Madness!” Lord Huron yelled with worry. It was apparent that neither of them knew the extent of this conversation.
”Your Majesty!” Lord Tolomy did his best to cry out to Jotaro with the intent to run and save himself from what was to come. There was indeed much to worry about.
The realization of her and Astros’s conversation struck her soul with a heavy blow. If only she didn’t leave the gardens, then maybe everything would have been prohibited. His Majesty would not be in danger of losing his sovereign reign. How foolish of her!
”If I say no and disagree with your terms?” Jotaro asked, the council looking at him with shock. They worried about how this conversation would go, and now they were fearful of Casium.
”Then I simply will release this information to all the world. Your reputation and everything you love will be tarnished. So… Your Majesty… I ask you to choose wisely.” Astros did not have to wait long for a response, as Jotaro relaxed with his head held high. He had the upper hand here.
“I have already chosen wisely.” Jotaro replied coolly, taking a step toward Casium as the turbaned man raised his brow.
“Then, Your Majesty, you must know the correct response.” Casium replied with an angry tone, waiting for the crown to be handed to him on a silver platter. He could see it in the vision of his mind. That glorious crown of jewels and stone, the significance of the whole of the empire upon his shoulders. How glorious!
“The Black Market is all the hidden wealth you hold in your royal treasury. It was a shame that your father died before he could put a stop to it. The families that are tied to you and the purchases are more than what meets the eye. That Jewel on your Turban was a trading deal for a slave from the Count and Countess of Morlent, was it not?” Jotaro motioned to the emerald pendant, Casium instinctively reaching for it as he clenched it within his hands. “I am not the foolish person here. You set your cards here and so have I!” Jotaro yelled with righteous anger.
Kalithea concluded that Astros must have told him everything, yet how could that be when that very man was stuck to Casium’s side like glue? Only if… they had planned this outcome all along. It must be impossible! Kalithea covered her lips with trembling hands, Casium yelling loudly with unfathomable rage.
“You have no proof! This information is untrue! How dare you try to frame this on me!” Casium yelled, Astros clenching his fist as he turned to Casium.
“I have given His Majesty all the proof of all! You are the fool among all fools!” Astros yelled, turning his attention to Casium. “I pray the goddess may show you mercy on your soul! I have my fair share of things to make amends of, but my gravest sin was the branding of slaves, and this woman was one of them who I have never forgotten! Burn in hell!” Astros sneered as his lips trembled, the area silent as Astros turned his back from the prince. “Your Majesty, I pledge my allegiance to the crown, no longer am I to be under the reign of my master. I renounce His highness!” Astros completed his speech, the prince realizing his plan was crumbling down.
”ASTROS… YOU TRAITOR… YOU TRAITOR!!!” Casium yelled as the banging doors from the knights were nearly opened by their strength. “TONIGHT, YOU HAVE SEALED YOUR DOOM!” Casium proclaimed, the man formulating a dagger from his palm, as he threw it quickly and speedily into the heart of Astros.
Painfully sharp, and it hurt like hell. Astros removed the knife, clenching his heart as he fell into a kneeling position onto the flow. Crimson flowed from his chest like water, tainting the white garment he wore as it was painted like a canvas. His vision grew blurry, until the invisible shackles holding Kalithea were broken. He could see the faint vision of the woman running to him, with shock and fear apparent on her face.
He gasped for air, as Kalithea held her hands against the wound in dire attempts to keep the blood in his system. The redhead ripped a portion of her dress, to act as a bandage. Everything was her fault, she could feel the tears flowing now.
Casium laughed, and laughed like a maniac. He looked at the woman away from him as she tried to comfort Astros. The blonde-haired man could hear ringing in his ears, as he tried to place a hand on Kalithea's arm. The knights brough the large door tumbling down, as they tackled the prince, onto the floor, grabbing his arms as they apprehended him.
“KEEP HIM STILL!” Sir Jean commanded, Dame Adeline and Erin running to aid their lady as Kalithea begging them with her eyes to assist him. An urgent sound left her lips, similar to a quiet scream.
“Keep him awake as best as you can!” Jean pleaded with the women, quickly guarding Jotaro with his sword drawn.
”GET YOUR HANDS— GAH— RELEASE ME!” Casium yelled, looking at Astros and Kalithea with such hatred in his heart, his eyes glowing that golden color similar to the sun.
“There is no need to weep for me. I… am a dying man.” Astros weakly says, trying to calm Kalithea, as he winces in pain. Kalithea shook her head, refusing to believe that this was the end for a man she should hate, but yet pitied for the demise caused upon him.
“I have only ever wished for your forgiveness, but the price of my sin has been paid for in blood and my life. I only pray that you forgive me for the trauma, pain, and affliction I have caused on you. Will you grant me that request… Lady.. Kalithea..?” He coughed, pleading his case as Kalithea bit her lip.
Kalithea wished to write, but there was no time. She pressed on his wound again, nodding profusely. Astros painly smiled, knowing that somehow that his burden was already forgiven. His debt is finished.
Kalithea watched as his breath began to hitch in his throat, the man struggling to breathe as Kalithea lifted his head into her lap.
“Were going to help you just stay still!” Dame Adeline commanded, Astros was slowly losing feeling in all parts of his body.
“I am not able to be saved… but please.. tell my siblings I loved them… I hope they can forgive me for sending them away to that… silly…. Boarding—school..” A small smile appeared on his face, as Astros closed his eyes. The last breath of life had left his lungs, and his hand fell limp against his side.
Dame Erin, felt his pulse, her quiet face speaking volumes as she let his hand rest on his side. She sighed as Kalithea gripped onto her hand.
“My lady… I’m sorry. He is gone.” Dame Erin watched as Kallithea’s shocked face left tears to stream more than ever down her face. She rested her head against Dame Erin as she tried her best to comfort the lady as best as she could.
“YOU ARE A MONSTER!” Jotaro yelled, the man far away from the scene of the crime. He felt his heart ache for the redhead as she wept for the loss of a honest man who could have been saved.
“Me? A monster!? Any man.. can be replaced..” He struggled to remove his hands from the guards, yet he was able to only by the strength he held. “But you… YOU CANNOT BE!” He admitted those heinous words like poison dripping from his lips, the man laughing quietly.”
Kalithea felt something shift in her body. Something in her soul warned her that something was going to happen. She turned her eye to Casium seeing the faint shimmer of glittering gold and green coming from his fingers.
“DIE… JOTARO!!” Casium screamed, a golden arrow leaving his hand as it flew in the direction of Jotaro.
Kalithea moved her body from the floor at the speed of light, the shock of all in that room from her actions left their eyes wide as they watched the spectacle unfold. The redhead ran to Jotaro as fast as her legs could carry her, her breath leaving her legs little by little as she pushed Jean out of the way. Time began to move in slow motion as if things could be frozen at a moment's notice.
Jean fell to the floor, as the The zip of the arrow was quick, and not even the stopping of time could alter the very fate of what happened. Kalithea collided with Jotaros's chest, her hand against his beating heart. A sharp breath hitched in her throat, as the arrow had placed itself in her back.
“MY LADY!”
“YOUR MAJESTY!”
“CRAP!”
“LADY KALITHEA!”
Jotaros's eyes widened as he held his hand against her waist, unable to comprehend what happened. She breathed heavily, gripping Jotaro’s shirt, as the woman painfully looked into his aquamarine orbs. His eyes widened, as he knew how the excruciating pain remained where the arrow had laid itself. She coughed as the blood left her lips, as she felt herself falling, Jotaro trying to keep her up with his support.
“Hey..” Jotaro quivered his words, Looking into her eyes with worry, confusion, and was it anger? She placed a hand against her stomach, groaning as she could barely stand any longer. Her vision became blurry, the ringing loud in her ears, as she began to fall to the floor, crimson leaving her person like the rainfall of water. The sound of His Majesty screaming her name sounded like echoes in the mountains of a quiet valley.
Chapter 28: aftermath
Chapter Text
Kalithea felt limp, as Jotaro knelt on the floor and he caught her in his arms. The redhead could hardly keep her eyes open, as she tried to breathe but the air wouldn’t flow into her lungs. The arrow stung every time she moved, the impalement making tears come to her eyes as she gritted her teeth in quiet painful groans.
”Kalithea! Kalithea!” Jotaro screamed her name, gently shaking her awake to keep her conscious. “SHIT..! GET THE IMPERIAL DOCTOR NOW!” He commanded urgently to his closest knights. Jean nodded quickly, Dame Adeline and Dame Erin following him as they informed the maids to prepare blankets, towels, and bandages for their lady. The other guards were fierce in holding Cassium down, who, though tall, could not compete with the impending strength of the men.
“The prince has attacked His Majesty!” Lord Rendel was shocked at the outcome, although he was not remorseful that it had hit Kalithea.
“This is an offense beyond the Imperial line! This is deserving of death, Your Majesty!!” Lord Akirus looked at Casium with hatred, his upcoming words were cut short quickly as Jotaro held his hand up in silence.
“I believe.. it would be BEST if you four had left your estates.” He slowly started as he stared them down with such anger and frustration in his orbs.
”But your Majesty-“ Lord Tolomy tried persuasion but he was quickly silenced by only a quick look. There was nothing more than that one emotion. It was rage.
”YOU IMBECILES, I COMMAND IT!” He held Kalithea against him, one hand behind her back, the other under her legs to lift her body close to him. She opened her eyes just a little, smiling faintly as she reached out to touch his face. Jotaro gently held her hand, squeezing it in comfort.
“Y-yes of course… Your Majesty.” Lord Tolomy replied as they were escorted by the remaining guards who had done their best to protect the council.
“DAMMIT!?! HOW THE HELL DID SHE KNOW— GAH!” Casium yelled aloud, as he was forcefully allowed to stand. Angered and outraged by this unforeseen turn of events, he watched as Jotaro walked away, the man laughing as he worked something up his sleeve. “OYE.. THAT WRETCH SHOULD DIE, EVEN IF IT WAS MEANT FOR YOU!”
When those words left his lips, the world around him grew black and gray. He could easily sense that there was magic, strong magic about the room. Yet, where and who did it come from? There is no other magi user here, right? Though apprehended, the use of his hands was no use to him. This place, the chasm-desaturated hues, was outside of space and time.
“What?!?? What is happening!?!” He laughed nervously, seeing that it was only the emperor who appeared to look at him like the light at the end of the tunnel. “YOU CANNOT BE A MAGI… NO!” Casium outwardly denied this uncanny truth. Jotaro stood still, scarily enough that it appeared like a statue. His aquamarine orbs remained upon the prince with killing intent.
“Do you see your crime?” He asks the prince questionably, the man looks around the area as his eyes see every life that he has taken. The apparatus shook him to his core. His brothers, illegitimate children, women, servants, Astros, and his father. Cassium tried to back away from the sight, yet he moved around funnily.
“I HAVE DONE NO WRONG! I DID WHAT I HAVE TO DONE TO SURVIVE! FOR POWER! GLORY! HONOR!” Casium defended himself against the Emperor’s sovereign voice. Yet the crimson-stained palace floor consumed him. “R-RELEASE ME!” Casium commanded, the echoing voice returning sent the man into a spiral.
“Release you? As you wish” Casium felt his breathing stop, the man’s eyes bulging like he was drowning under the Prussian seas. His heart was racing faster in his chest while his legs kicked up and down, desperate for the air to flow through his lungs, just as Kalithea and Astro's would have been.
“No… I will not die like this…HOW.. DARE YOU….” He choked out. Jotaro watched him flail like a fish out of water, his eyes narrowed as a simple nudge of his chin sent Casium’s head slowly falling from his shoulders.
“May your ancestors, and father, thank me in the afterlife for sentencing your death quicker than I allow. Your sinful life has been dealt with.” His voice was full of anger, and time began to pick back up again as the guards held Casium’s lifeless body, checking the pulse.
“The prince… he is dead, Your Majesty.” One of the guards wearily commented. Jotaro commanded them quickly to take his body away from the throne room. He left quickly as Kalithea’s hand fell limp from his grasp.
“Shit! Keep holding onto me ok!” Jotaro exclaimed as he could feel her heartbeat slowing down with the blood she continued to lose. “Damn this place!” He cursed to himself, the man reaching his quarters as the Imperial Doctor arrived when he did.
“Your Majesty-“ The Doctor replied before Jotaro brushed past him, the man placing Kalithea on her side on his bed.
“Doctor, help her, do what you can!” Jotaro commanded the man with vigor. He quickly entered, dropping his back on the floor as he examined his patient. His hands were against her wrist, her pulse nearly minuscule now. The arrow was through her back, and yet he was partially grateful that it had missed her spine by an inch.
“I need this room cleared immediately! Send your best maids!” He asked the emperor, as he placed gloves on his hands from his bag. Jotaro left the room, but he was surprised that Dame Adeline and Erin returned with her maids in waiting who graciously brought the necessary items needed to aid their lady.
“Dame Erin, Dame Adeline. Guard outside of this door, let no one enter besides her maids in waiting, the doctor, or myself.” Jotaro commanded, the two women bowing respectfully as they hid their worry for their lady.
”Yes, Your Majesty.”
”Yes, Your Majesty.”
They responded together, standing outside of the room as the doors closed behind them, the maids talking amongst each other as their silent tears were wiped away. The imperial doctor grabbed his medical scissors and began to cut away at her dress backing, the man stopping as he pressed a gentle hand against Kalithea’s back.
”Your Majesty, her wound is not a pretty sight for any eye.” The doctor looked at the raven-haired male gravely, Jotaro running a hand through his hair as his expression appeared to look hopeless.
”I have created bloodshed, and I have seen it.” Jotaro replied bitterly, the man cutting away the dress as Martha was asked to lift Kalithea’s torso. “I will do it, I will not stand for my idleness any longer.” He spoke aloud, the doctor hesitant, yet the worried eyes of His Majesty prevented him from saying anything any longer.
“I need her against her back… I must slowly remove the arrow. It has penetrated her stomach, I must break the tip, and pull from the back..” The doctor explained Martha and the other maids watched quietly as they were dismissed to leave by the man. They took a quiet look at her ladyship and only hoped she would be well.
Until the door closed again. Jotaro held Kallitheas chest against his own, her head against the crook of his neck as he pressed his hand behind her head. He moved her hair to the side, as he saw the arrow up close. He could never understand the pain she was in, and if this was how she was to die, he would never forget it.
The doctor paused as he knew what he must do, the man used his prongs to break the arrow tip, and the wooden crunch made Jotaro flinch. It was a sickening sound, yet Kalithea still lay motionless against him. The silence was interrupted by the heavy pouring rain, and thunder in the sky as it rumbled like a lion. The man replaced his bloody gloves, as one of his aids entered with hot water and disinfectant from the doctor's lab.
“Thank you, Marisa. I will need your help pulling this arrow. It must be slow to not cause any further damage.” The doctor informed his aide. The woman prepared the antiseptic vial, placing it in a syringe. Jotaro watched with care as the aide placed it within Kalithea’s skin, the woman’s skin becoming slick with sweat.
“I need to pull as slowly as possible, Doctor Hasan,” Marisa informed the imperial Doctor, the woman turning to his Majesty. “In our hope to keep the lady alive, we may be here for a while, Your Majesty,” Marisa responded with a concentrated face, her gloves pressing one hand against her open wound as the other began to pull the embedded arrow slowly.
“Do what you must, I’ll be here as long as she needs,” Jotaro responded quietly, as Kalithea flinched in her embrace. She groaned in pain as Jotaro held onto her hand. She was barely conscious yet even then, the brain could never stop sending signals throughout the body.
The hot towels of antiseptic cleaned the coming crimson that fell, and yet Kalithea must have felt like her body was on fire. The night was long, and many bloody towels came and went. Finally, the arrow was taken out from her body, and the pressure against her wound helped partially to stop the heavy flow. Jotaro turned his gaze away as the maids dressed their lady’s body, as Doctor Hasan cleaned and finished bandaging her stomach and back.
”We have done all we can, Your Majesty. The lady must be kept on her back to keep the wound from festering.” Doctor Hasan replied warningly, as Jotaro looked at the woman who was still unconscious.
“When will she wake up, Doctor?” Jotaro asked, the man wiping his glasses as he would grimly reply. “It is a miracle in itself she flinched, that is the only good sign. Everything on her survival is up to the lady and the will of God.” Doctor Hasan stated with perpetual confidence. ”My aide and I will take our leave, her wounds need to be addressed every 5 hours, so we will be in reach if you need us and should any concern arrive.” He bowed to him, the man picking his bag from the table and leaving the room.
Jotaro waited for him to leave, and when he did, he pulled a chair from his desk. The man placed it against her bedside as he knew that her survival was dire. He only hoped, and prayed silently, that she would pull through. He looked at her, as he sighed loudly, seeing the bandage against her skin, slightly with the faint spot of crimson peeking through.
With the clock ticking to 12, the flickering candlelight on her bedside table illuminated her ghostly complexion, and her form appeared so lifeless. He stood up to check her pulse, his hands shaking as he reached to her wrist. He waited a few moments, and he returned to his isolated seat to let his nerves calm down. She was still alive, and had been still for more than 10 hours. Sometimes he hoped she would open her eyes again, even if it was slightly. Yet, until now, he wondered something.
Why was it that he so wished for her to smile at him, and how those gorgeous eyes of hers would shine under the light and in the happiest of circumstances. Yet as he heard a knock on the door, he stood up, wondering if the doctor had forgotten something.
“Enter.” He replied nonchalantly, seeing one of her maids in waiting enter with something in her hands.
“Your Majesty, my lady instructed this would be given to you the day before your coming of age. I know today may not be the best of times, considering my lady’s condition, but I hope it may bring you some form of joy.” Sam replied with red eyes, the woman looking at her lady with such sorrow.
“It.. is for me?” Jotaro asked with a brow raised, taking the envelope and box from Sam’s hands.
“Yes, it is Your Majesty.” Sam replied as she curtsied again to the taller gentleman.
”Has… your lady held this for a while? The wrapping looks detailed and the letter’s seal does not look brand new.” Jotaro asked, as Sam nodded quickly. “I see, you are free to leave.”
”Yes, of course Your Majesty.” Sam responded quietly, turning as she stopped with a question she would only hope that he could answer. “Will my lady survive?” Sam asked with tears, Jotaro pausing as he had no other words to convey. He stayed silent, Sam leaving as she withheld her sorrow until she left the room. He could hear her woes, adjoined with Dame Adeline and Erin’s sad voices.
Jotaro placed the items on the desk by the fireplace, the man turning to Kalithea as he found that whatever she held onto for him, was an unfortunate timing indeed.
“I don’t want to open it, yet I am forced to reckon with this.” Jotaro talked to himself aloud, as he sat in his chair. He opened the letter from the enclosed envelope, as he unraveled the ribbon from the box. He saw the pendant-like-brooch, that had matched the color of his eyes to the very shade. It was gorgeous, and yet, the letter beckoned him more than the item itself. The envelope held two long pages, the man touching the strokes of her letters as he began to read.
“Your Majesty, it is my dearest wish that you may have the coming of age day full of joy and peace. I know you are a man of fashion and distinction, so I feel that my words may not make much merit. There are many times where I wish I could speak, that I may have the words to say how I feel about Your Majesty. Yet, though my voice is unable to portray how I wish to explain myself, I hope that my words will suffice. Your Majesty, this letter I have dictated is my last hope to make myself an acquaintance to you. I know I am a woman of such a humble birth compared to you, and yet, I find myself drawn to you, Your Majesty.” Jotaro paused as he looked at Kalithea, his heart feeling a pang of guilt. Yet, he read on
“You have taken me in, a stranger, a former slave into the comfort of your palace. You have given me my very own name, one that no one had ever any thought to do for me. That moment when you asked me to dance with you, I wondered if it was because you pitied my situation, or If it was because you genuinely wished to. Would you ever tell me? Why did you dance with me? You saved me from an attack, and comforted me with kind words when I saw that man, Astros. Despite your cold and even cruel exterior, yeah, I see something else, Your Majesty.”
Jotaro’s brows furrowed when he read her lines. He was curious to what she had left to say, and yet he understood her gratitude. Was that great and noble sacrifice, that she had taken her own body as a human shield for gratitude?
“Your eyes like this brooch show that same color, the same hue, and the soft expression that you have given me on more than one occasion. I wish that I could tell you with my words how much I desire you to look at me that way, with some form of compassion, every time you have seen me. I know that I may be a nuisance to you, and I pray that I can one day become your friend. That was all I wished for. Even if I never receive it, your continuing to acknowledge me is more than enough. Your Majesty, I express nothing more than happiness that I can be by your side, even if it is by a distance. I am grateful to be alive and for my freedom that you have bestowed upon me. I hope one day I can do something for you, since I am greatly indebted to you for your kindness. This brooch may not be fancy like the others you have in your possession, yet should you ever wear it, I hope it brings you joy like how you have given me. Yours truly, Kalithea.”
The sound of someone standing from their chair echoed through the quiet room, and the door closing left the resting woman in its wake. The one thing that remained was the letter, read and wrinkled with the ink smudged by a singular droplet on the written page.
Chapter 29: confession of departure
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“It's been three days Doctor? Why hasn’t she woken up yet?” Jotaro asked with confusion, yet it hid the sorrowful and worried emotions he felt.
“Her pulse is still faint, and it seems that her body is healing, yet it is the lady who must decide for herself if she wishes to live.” Doctor Hasan modified the bandages, the crimson still leaving her body but not by as much as it had on the first night. “
Jotaro nodded as he felt his heart beat quickly in anticipation.
”Is there anything else that you or I can do for her?” Jotaro asked, Doctor Hasan sighing as he shook his head in dismay.
“The bleeding is nearly miniscule now. I think more rest would do, but it appears she is in a comatose state. You should rest as well, Your Majesty.” Doctor Hasan quietly packed the bandages and left the two of them alone again.
Word had gotten around that the lady was still unconscious, yet they were all grateful that the young woman had made it through the dangerous 24 hours. They grieved, trying to put on hopeful expressions, yet that shining light the girl possessed allowed the gloomy palace to feel joyful again.
Jotaro walked towards her, moving her hair away from her face. How beautiful she looked, even as she appeared sickly. He held her hand, sighing as he brought his chair closer to her.
“I asked you to play something for my coming of age, and yet here you are sleeping.” Jotaro whispered a little, trying to wake the woman up. “I have kept contemplating your letter, and the brooch you gave me. You have a way with words you understand.” He started again, hoping for some other form of life other than her steady breaths and pulse.
The rain continued outside, as the heavy putter patter sounded like pebbles dropping in a puddle. Splish splash they would go, against the rooftops, the grounds beneath them, scattering the area in its wake with droplets galore. Jotaro had written to Avdolia to return to the academy until the young woman was well enough to stand. He recalled that as much as she hesitated and was tempted to argue… she complied reluctantly.
Jotaro bit his lip, gazing again at the letter that lay upon the table top with the letter opener on its side. He read the contents again, pausing as he reflected upon those three things which she had so painfully written and expressed. He took a sip of his drink, holding the glass in his hand.
“Kalithea, shall I tell you why you are here in this palace?” Jotaro asked in a whisper, thinking about that night with incredible detail. He appeared to blush, yet it was the simple apparatus of the fireplace glow. With no response, he could feel his heart beating quicker with the confessions he would make to an unconscious woman. “I am ashamed to admit that I have kept you here out of spite for the councilmen that I despise. They look at you more so with contempt, perhaps envy even. Yet I never realised the backstabbing and cruel pride they hold in their hearts towards you Kalithea.” Jotaro paused, opening his lips to speak again on the subject
“I hope with your forgiving nature, you will pardon me with your kindness. Yet, I could feel the sudden shift in myself the longer you stayed in this place. The way that you appeared so… lovely, and affectionate to all you have met has allowed this place to become flowing with life.” He chose his words carefully, yet he felt there was no need to say anything but allow the outflowing of his heart to speak everything else and more.
“The moment I had found you had no name to attach yourself with, had filled me with anger towards those who have hurt you. I am not a fool to the times that I have seen you shed a tear over the scar on your shoulder, your loss of childhood innocence so early on in your life, and the desire for a companion. It still does when I think about it again and again. When you had looked at me with such joy on your face, when I had given you the very name to which I call you, I cannot lie that my heart had stopped in my chest. I felt pity for you, but I was overcome with the desire to protect you in some way, to which I have failed.” He saw her bandages, reminiscing that moment when she had shielded him from the attack with her body.
”That night at the ball when that student embarrassed you, I was enraged. It would have been a spectacle, and a scandal in the society columns and society itself. I knew I could prevent it, and I did. But, when you looked at the dancing crowd, your eyes did not lie that you were about to weep. You do not hide your emotions well… but it was never a bad thing.” He bitterly smiled. “You looked… beautiful standing there.” He paused, finding that the way he was presenting himself was foolish, yet he stopped his thinking.
“When Avdolia presented you, it reminded me of the very first time that I saw you. It was a memory I could never forget. You danced with passion, and when others had begun to dance at the winter event I contemplated asking you myself. I do not regret one moment asking you to dance, nor have I done it out of pity. My heart and mind were aligned to dance with you and only you for as long as I was there for. You belong to no one, and never shall you again, yet when others look at you… I could never fathom why I felt such anger. I still can’t.” He looked at the brooch, his thumb stroking the smooth surface of the metal and gem.
“You expressed your wish for me to be your friend, and I disregarded your want of companionship. I have something else to confess to you, and though you may be asleep, your heart can comprehend why I said no to you.” Jotaro reflected and stayed quiet for a moment, wondering if he should share that most intimate side of his life which had harbored pain. How could he ever reckoon with his feelings and understand hers unless he did?
”When I was in my younger years, 8 years soon, I was happy. In short, my father had died when I was born. My mother and grandfather raised me to the person I was then, to who I am now. I have lived an immense life of privilege and I was aware. I never spent more than what I was allowed, and my governess was not of use to me as my mother wished to care for me herself.” Jotaro paused, looking at Kalithea as he contemplated his very life.
“I had the best education, and those around me wished well for my health, my success, and my future as the heir of this nation. I had the perfect life but everything seemed to crumble before me when I least expected it…” He trailed off, staying silent as he felt the anger and sadness arise from his core.
”Since my father was a regular noble and not one of high lineage like my mother and grandfather, the upper class and nobles talked badly of my mother behind her back. She hardly cared for them, but I knew how much it hurt her. My grandfather, Joseph Nobelius Joestar, managed to stop their hateful words on account of treason, but the damage against my mothers reputation was ruined by gossip, and lies. To make it worse… she grew ill. The doctors did their very best to secure her health to allow her to live, but she was slowly dying before me. I was naive at the time, and I assumed naturally that under the best care, she would get better.” His eyes became glossy yet his expression remained unwavering.
“In the garden of Camellias, the one I charged you to take care of, I was cutting a flower for my mother to visit in her quarters. Yet when I arrived, my grandfather was there with a grave stricken face. He told me to visit her, and I listened. Yet my mother hardly looked well. I remember speaking to her a little, as she held my hand on her deathbed. She had looked me in my eyes, as she told me that she loved me and will miss me. I argued that she would stay around for a long time, yet I was afraid. She… kissed my head and told me to be good, and she believed in me for all that I would accomplish. Little did I know that those words would be her last.” Jotaro sniffled for a moment, remembering his mothers smile.
I remember screaming for my mother to wake up, and my grandfather holding me in his arms. He showed his emotion, yet I knew how hard it was for him too. After all he lost his wife, and now his only daughter. I was the only one that remained of his family. At her funeral I vowed to myself that I would never let another woman come close to me again.” Jotaro clenched his fist as he recalled the promise he made for himself.
“I hated women because of my mothers death, and anyone who would try to get close to me, I would forbid it. I grew that day from a tenderhearted boy to someone cold. My grandfather pitied me, and yet he understood me. Yet when he died two years ago I lost everything, and shut everyone out. I considered my companions closely, and I never considered you one, when you most of all others had shown me compassion when I least deserve it. My mother would have loved you if she were here.” Jotaro stood, as he held Kalithea’s hand, squeezing it.
“I realize that my anger towards the world has caused you so much pain. I-I could never be cruel to you, never again. You shielded me with your body in sacrifice, and your generosity in words and in actions haved moved me. You have never been a nuisance to me, though my coldness in attitude has said otherwise. You are my gem Kalithea, you are the very breath that flows through my body. How dare I make you anything else than what you are.” Jotaro felt his eyes grow glossy again as he kissed her hand and held it to his cheek.
“When I look in your eyes, I see everything and more.” Jotaro kept his quivering voice quiet. “I beg you, if you cannot find the words to say, allow me to say the words for you. If you cannot lift yourself from the ground, I will carry you. For any reason at all you should cry for such a great loss, let me wipe your tears… but for the love of all that reigns in the heavens.. live.. if you cannot live for yourself… Please Kalithea live for me.” He felt his heart yearn for her eyes to open, and yet as the silence stood still.
Jotaro looked at Kalithea, as he held her hands a little softer, hoping for anything to make her stir from her slumber. The rain outside began to thunder as if the fight for her soul took place in the dark grey clouds above him. The candlestick wax melted slowly, as it dripped onto the bronze holder beneath it. “I blame my folly for the way that you have become. You never should have spared me with how awfully I treat you. I am now indebted to you… yet the only thing I wish is for your smile to show on your face.” Jotaro whispered.
He paused his lips with what more that he wished to say, and he silently moved the bangs away from her face. He simply could not fathom how this girl before him would be the one who moved his affections entirely. He kissed her forehead with as much affection as one could muster, closing his eyes as if the kiss of life would allow her eyes to open.
“It's just you and me, no one else is here besides myself.” Jotaro’s voice quivered as Kalithea remained motionless. “I won’t leave you ever again, I'm going to be right here with you. I know you are still resting, your wound was tended to by the doctor. Bear it as you can for a little while. If I could take your pain I would do so in a heartbeat. You have done so great a cause for me that I cannot bear to see you suffer any longer.” Jotaro voiced the aching in his heart, the man standing as he placed her hand on her side, staring at her a final time before he would leave the room.
”Whatever you need, I will be there. You don’t have to hide your pain, your tears, anything that concerns your feelings. You do not have to bear it alone.” Jotaro blew out the candle, the continual rain pouring through the evening as it never ended. He opened the door, and closed it behind him. Knowing that the two knights that took turns to guard her resting place were none other than Dame Adeline, and Dame Erin. He saw their solemn faces, and only offered the consolidation that she would be alright. Dismissing them to rest, he to left to the his other quarters with sunken eyes full of grief, sadness, and anxiousness that surpassed his usual nature.
The thunder rumbled mightily as tears streamed down Kalithea’s face, her eyes slowly opening to the world around that seemed so full of grey. She weakly smiled, as she fell back to rest, with her heart beating full of life, gratitude, and the love that she had so much to offer to the world around her. Her will to live was matched with the emperor's desire to see her in a better state than what had been only three days before. Jotaro closed the door to his second room, plopping on the bed, closing his eyes as he only hoped that his words and message would be well received by the woman who had captured his mind so tenderly and quickly.
Notes:
hello everyone! pardon my lack of posting! I hope everyone enjoyed their christmas and the upcoming new year! enjoythis chapter as more will come soon!
Chapter 30: Awake
Chapter Text
A loud ruckus was about the halls, Jotaro waking up from his undeserving rest with aggravated eyes. He could not understand what was the cause of moving steps, and shouts that tried desperately to stay quiet. Fed up with the conceived notion that it would come to an end, he opened the door with a grumpy composure and opened his tired lips.
”What is going on with this noise?!” He asked aloud, the butlers and guards startled by his disheveled appearance and displeasure. They looked about one another as they were unsure how they should respond. ”Well?!” Jotaro asked, as one of the guards patrolling the area offered himself as the sacrifice to bear the interesting whims of His Majesty.
“The lady has woken up, Your Majesty.” He humbly bowed, averting his nervous expression away from His Majesty’s eyes. The man could not comprehend this for a moment, until reality hit him as an offended woman's fan. Without a word, he left the people behind him, walking quickly as he felt his heart pounding wildly in his chest. Others beheld the spectacle before them, the emperor in his unfavorable splendor, running to his original quarters with a look of anxiety on his face.
Jotaro did not know how he felt. Should he be worried? Happy? Sad or embarrassed? Not that any of that mattered in the slightest, yet he paused himself for a moment. Wondering what he should say or do once his eyes befall on her slim form. Would she look at him with fear, or shame expressed on her features? Would she be in pain for the wound that she had so graciously taken for him? Jotaro felt his hands shake as he turned a corner, the door to his room remained slightly open as he could hear the wary voices laced with incredible concern. He opened the door, seeing Kalithea trying to stand with the help of another maid she was not familiar with. He could tell Kalithea looked overwhelmed and greatly in pain as they tried to offer her a bath to cleanse herself.
”Kalithea!” Jotaro looked at her, the woman shocked that she should be seen in such a sorry state. So shaken by her surroundings, she nearly fell to the floor if it weren’t for Jotaro quickly running to her and catching her form before she collapsed. “Leave us at once! Fetch Doctor Hasan Immediately.” Jotaro looked at the maids with hidden anger, He lifted Kalithea in his arms, the woman wincing as her wound felt like she had fallen in millions of thorns. “Let me help you..” Jotaro whispered gently, as he held her tightly with such intensity, in fear that if he did not cling to her covered flesh, she would disappear.
Kalithea looked at him with shock, an embarrassed blush against her cheeks as she held her hand against his neck for further stability. The man took her to the bed, setting her down as she winced yet again, holding onto her stomach as Jotaro held her hands with his own. “I don’t want you to injure yourself further.” Jotaro stated, placing her head on the pillow as she looked at him with hope and a pained smile. “Does that feel better?” He asked quietly, pulling his chair near to her as she tried to get up to see his face again.
”No, no, just stay there.” Jotaro tried to persuade her, to which she reluctantly discarded her hopes to get up and walk about. With the man before her looking at her person with such unfathomable questions, she paused for a moment as she looked the other way. “What’s wrong?” He asked, Kalithea turning to him again as she motioned to her stomach and to him. “If you're asking if I saw your wound, then I will be honest and say that I saw plenty of crimson soaking through.” He answered honestly and without hesitance.
Kalithea smiled awkwardly yet she felt ashamed that she appeared before him so weak and fragile. Not that she could have done anything to help it, yet she wished she looked less sickly and in more happier spirits. Jotaro, able to read how she felt like an open book, gently grabbed her hand.
“Don’t think that I find you unsightly or disheveled. In all honesty, I think I am more. You’ve kept me up night and day waiting for your eyes to open.” Jotaro jokes, Kalithea frowning as she looks at the bed covers. “Kalithea.” Jotaro called her name with a gentle whisper, his tone soft and welcoming with overflowing warmth. “I’m grateful that you are alive. That is truly what matters to me.” His serious expression made the woman feel her heartbeat in her chest with more than just joy, perhaps anticipation? “Kalithea, please for the sake of your health and my sanity, please never do anything reckless like that ever again.” Jotaro begged, his voice firm, not with warning or anger, but of contempt for throwing away her life.
Kalithea nodded silently, silently begging for something to write on. Jotaro, unable to discard her request, grabbed a blank booklet with plenty of pages to keep her occupied. His pen was ready as she wrote slowly in order to communicate how she felt. In a few moments of her penmanship marking the pages, she showed it to him.
“Your Majesty, I just hope you feel better. You are not harmed are you? I apologize for doing something so recklessly but I felt my body move on its own.” Kalithea wrote, Jotaro reading her words as he sighed.
”The only thing that hurt me was seeing you on the brink of losing your life. You need not apologize for anything. I have more things that have happened in this place, and it was unfortunate that the nobility of another region would harm you this way.” Jotaro stated, clenching his fist as he recalled the deceased prince.
”I only did what I did because I felt in my heart that it was what I should have done. I may have carelessly thrown my life away in the eyes of others I am sure, yet I do not regret it in the slightest as I now feel a purpose to survive, your Majesty.” Kalithea wrote again, Jotaro nodding as he looked at her eyes. Her complexion pale as the moonlight with the faintest blush of red. Her eyes held the vibrancy of new life, despite the darkened hue underneath. Her hair framed her face lovingly, with all her messy curls.
Jotaro moved her hair away from her face, pressing his calloused hand against her cheek. Without thinking, she leaned to his touch, the man’s eyes wavering with an emotion he never felt before. “Stop all formalities with me. You and only you will never feel the need to address me as Your Majesty. It would be the greatest pleasure of the world, if you were just to call me by my name.” Kalithea held his hand against her cheek, as she enjoyed the feeling of stability, of comfort. The strong hands of the person who stood by her side with the ever watchful gaze. A protector who would care for her wellbeing, and be a companion for her lonely heart. In all mutual respect, it seems as if they were each grateful to each other.
A knock was heard at the door, Jotaro allowing the person to enter as he witnessed Doctor Hasan enter the room with his equipment. He held eye contact with Kalithea and His Majesty as he understood that all was well. The nurse who accompanied him, held a basket of bandages and balms, knowing that with this check up, the next few days would be one of rest and simplicity.
“I see that all is well! Your Majesty, I will need to address the bandage removal and rewrap with sterile cloth. It is not a good intention if the lady catches an infection.” Doctor Hasan smiled warmly, the Emperor nodding as he was about to stand to leave. Kalithea reached out to the hem of his shirt, the man's eyes widening in a confused way. Her eyes pleaded with him to stay.
“I will be right back. I told you I wouldn’t leave you alone again.” Jotaro’s lips slightly shifted upwards, Kalithea nodding as she witnessed him leave the room, closing the door behind him.
Jotaro looked at Dame Adeline and Erin, who had just turned a corner, their eyes widened and searching for answers on the supposed rumor that the lady was awake.
“Your Lady is alive and well.” Jotaro paused, the look on their faces appearing to tears of joy and gratitude that this was truly good news. “For now, I give you both a few days of rest. You cannot serve her at your very best if you do not take care of yourself. You have done well in protecting her thus far. This hiccup has passed, and I will continue to count on you both for her protection when I am not present by her side.” Jotaro finished, looking at them as they knelt before him in salute.
“Until our dying breath, our protection will remain with the lady, Sun of the Empire.” Dame Adeline smiled, Dame Erin opening her lips to speak as she would continue the words she wanted to say.
”We are glad she is alive, we will continue to serve the lady and this empire until we cannot any longer.” Dame Erin replied as Jotaro nodded.
“You may go, and you may relay the news to the others as they are all eager for hopeful news. Kalithea will need more time to return to her previous health. I will call your squadron when you are to return to your duty.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Dame Erin and Adeline replied as they left the barracks to bring the good tidings. Jotaro walked down the hall, seeing the butler talking with one of the knights as he was motioned over by him.
“How may I be of service, Your Majesty.” The butler asked, bowing a little as he awaited the man’s orders.
“Roland, Tell Chef Joulie to prepare something for lady Kalithea. From here on out until she is in better health, send her servants to care for their lady. Her knights, Avdolia, The royal seamstress, and myself will only be permitted to enter my quarters. Lastly, Prepare a bath, I wish to refresh myself.” Jotaro commanded quickly, Roland smiling as he understood everything.
“It will be done, your Majesty.”
In the other room, Kalithea held the hand of the nurse, as the bandages were being wrapped around her midsection. She flinched at the stinging sensation, yet to be fair this incident only occurred a few days ago. The nurse gave her a sympathetic look, before looking at the doctor. He monitored her wound, watching how the skin would later formulate a scar. Not that it would matter, but it was a rather unfortunate thing that after dealing with the torment of a previous master, now would live with another scar. Doctor Hasan cut the final bandage as he clipped the remaining strands against her.
“Now Lady Kalithea do not be alarmed, your wound will form a scar. It will slowly heal in the span of a month or so, but I can assure you with plenty of rest, healthy food, and very little standing then you will be fine.” Doctor Hasan smiled as he turned back to his bag of medical supplies. The nurse helped Kalithea fix her nightgown while she relaxed against the bed, wondering when his majesty would return. The two gave their goodbye to the lady as her silent nod thanked them with gratitude and helpfulness. As the door closed behind them, the silence around her made her uneasy, Yet, she was used to this for so long, and now the questions of her knights, maids, and her closest companions made her wonder.
How were they? Were they aware of what happened? Avdolia, Lanali, her maids and waiting, Iggy, what about them? Were they ignorant of her condition? Kalithea quickly rung the cord that hung beside his majesty’s bedside, knowing that would alert someone. Thankfully she did not have to wait long, as Martha came rushing in along with the others behind her.
“My lady! Are you quite alright! My word, we are so happy you are doing better.” Martha exasperated a heavy sigh full of her previous grief. The woman holding Kalithea’s hand.
“We were informed by Dame Adeline and Dame Erin what had happened and the news of your recovery, when we heard the bell we rushed over here.” Brigette’s eyes were full of tears, both mixed of joy and sadness, Kalithea smiling with happiness as she understood the love that poured from them.
“Is there anything you need my lady, please let us know.” Claudia motioned to her and her twin sister as they understood the predicament of recovery she was in.
“Would you like us to bring you something to fill yourself? Anything at all?” Sam asked, the room of women looking at their lady with the greatest of sympathies and expectancy. Kalithea quickly wrote, letting a few tears shed, hoping that her message may come across.
“I was worried for you all, that you were unaware of what had happened! I called to ask for you all so I can inform you of my condition, but I am overwhelmed with happiness of your kindness to me. You are like the sisters and friends I never had, and I am grateful for your servitude to me. I am very much indebted to your kindness, and I was looking forward to seeing you all again when I am better and can walk.” Kalithea explained as they read her words with compassion. Oh the lady they served was indeed a kind mistress. They paused as they all smiled, their chatter making her feel better as there indeed was a hidden promise of better days ahead.
END OF VOL 3.
Chapter 31: To new lands
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Jotaro signed the last of the documents, officially severing Prince Cassium’s ties to the black market and renouncing all his holdings in the imperial courts. He had been fortunate that Astros had provided him with all the necessary information before his death. With the black market now nearing its end, Jotaro knew that every decision he made moving forward had to be calculated and deliberate.
The fountain pen dropped from his hand, ink spilling onto the paper. For a moment, Jotaro allowed himself to feel something—relief that Cassium was dead, but also the overwhelming weight of the responsibilities now placed on him. The ships and the freed slaves had been sent on their way with the command that all those under slavery were to be freed, their masters executed under imperial law. As he gazed out the window, he saw the ships sailing farther and farther away from the docks, and people waving their goodbyes with handkerchiefs or hats in hand.
Inside Kalithea’s room, she sat by the window, silently reading her book. Martha, her maid, placed a small pot of herbal tea on the table, smiling warmly at Kalithea, who thanked her with a grateful nod.
“Chef Joulie and the rest of the staff have been talking about you nonstop, my lady,” Martha said. “Shall I tell them you’re recovering well?”
Kalithea’s smile brightened as she nodded, her soft hand quickly scribbling a response. Her fingers paused for a moment, as if to carefully choose the words.
”Everyone has taken such good care of me, I promise I’m doing much better than what I was before!! I will say that I want to do something outside the gardens, but I don’t want His Majesty to worry about me again, I’m sure I already caused him enough trouble and stress as is.”
Martha chuckled softly and opened the curtains to let the light spill into the room. Bridgette joined her, opening the windows to let the fresh air flow in, removing the stuffiness from the room. Kalithea’s red hair framed her face like a soft halo as she wrote, her words flowing with the same gentle grace she always exuded.
Suddenly, the door opened, and one of her maids-in-waiting stepped back with a respectful curtsy.
“Greetings to the Sun of the Empire.” Bridgette smiled and curtsied politely, the others doing so in a respected manner. The raven-haired male smiled slightly as Kalithea turned her attention towards him.
“No need to be so formal, remain as you were.” Jotaro casually remarked as he swiftly walked towards Kalithea. The woman tried to remove herself from her seated position, but was given a gentle glance.”I don’t want you to further injure or hinder your recovery. You are already doing much better, yes?” Kalithea nodded with a soft smile, her gratitude evident even without words.
Jotaro took the booklet from her, brushing a strand of her hair back as he did. His heart stirred as he looked at her, the quiet strength and vulnerability in her presence so stark against the walls of the palace.
“Your Majesty. I’m doing alright, I had wondered how the weather was outside. Now the snow and the chilly weather is finally gone, I miss the grass, the forest, and all the flowers. I can only think of the scenery in Renaldi, and the school. You must pardon my curiosity, I’ve never been anywhere past this region, or these palace walls in a long time. Please tell me I have not missed much?” Kalithea passed her booklet to him, the man smiling as he brushed her hair past her cheek.
“Kalithea, you have no need to address me as Your Majesty, call me plainly, and no, you have not missed much, hardly anything at all. Besides that point, I feel that I have been inconsiderate of you as of late, if not inconsiderate then neglectful.” Jotaro paused, Kalithea quickly shaking her head as she rushed to write a response.
“No, No not at all!! Jotaro, you have been attentive to me and so caring. How could you say you have been neglectful or absentminded of me?”
Her words were quick, heartfelt, and Jotaro couldn’t help but feel a warmth spread through him. Her appreciation was clear, but it was the way she addressed him—just his name—that caught him off guard. A subtle shift in him flickered, a sensation of connection growing deeper between them. He suddenly felt lighter, more open, but it was the quiet sense of responsibility he felt for her that truly stirred him.
“I only jest with you. The weather is nice this time of year, but the time of the socialite season is soon. The balls, dances, events, and plenty of other things give me a headache. There, I never enjoy myself, or anyone's company.”
He paused, the corners of his mouth tightening into a half-smile as he took a steadying breath. “Kalithea, how would you feel… or do I ask too much… about accompanying me to Renaldi for the next few months?”
Kalithea’s eyes widened slightly, a rush of emotion sweeping across her face. She looked at him, startled but not displeased, before quickly reaching for her booklet to write a response. Her words were clear, yet warm, revealing both her apprehension and gratitude.
“Jotaro, I would love to go with you. But I am not a noble, or anyone of high standing. I'm more afraid that if I attend such events, or meet with people, they will see through my fake facade. I try to manage it well, but I would not wish to dishonor your image. I don’t have many friends, besides the maids-in-waiting here. When would we leave?”
Jotaro studied her quietly, his gaze softening. His expression didn’t waver, but there was an unmistakable warmth in the way he regarded her. He reached over to gently still her thoughts with a glance.
“We would leave before the sun sets, and you need not worry about things like that. We will travel together, but I will have duties to attend once we arrive. Once nightfall approaches I will give you one of my manors in Renadli’s capital. It is better for you to be there than here, for both your sake and mine. After that accident where you now rest, your safety and wellbeing is my priority.”
Kalithea nodded, her eyes brightening at his words. Her fingers twitched slightly, tugging at the ends of her hair as she processed the offer.
“Are you in good health to travel?” Jotaro asked, his concern evident in the slight furrow of his brow. Kalithea stood slowly, her body still feeling the effects of her injury, but he was quick to step forward, his hand reaching out to steady her. She silently walked toward the window, motioning for her dresses to be brought out.
She quickly wrote something down for her maids.
“I’m ready, Jotaro,” she wrote, a soft, unspoken resolve behind her words. “I think with the garments you gave me, these are the right dresses for the season, I suppose.”
Martha, ever observant, immediately began directing the other maids. “Of course, my lady,” she said with a smile, gesturing to Claudia, Claudette, and Bridgette to help with the preparations.
Jotaro glanced at the clock, noting the approaching time for lunch. He turned to Martha, his usual stoic composure softened, yet still with an underlying command in his voice. “Martha, bring the outfits the royal seamstress made in a separate case. The others can stay here. As for jewelry and other accessories, choose what you feel suits Kalithea best. I trust your judgment.”
Martha, surprised by his relaxed demeanor, smiled warmly and nodded in understanding. “I’ll have everything packed by the end of the day, Your Majesty. We won’t close the cases until you approve her departure.”
Jotaro gave a small nod, satisfied with her response. Then, with a glance at Kalithea, he added, “And make sure the rest of Kalithea’s maids-in-waiting have their things packed as well. No one else but her closest aides and friends should be present at the manor.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Martha said with a grin, her tone warmer than usual. Kalithea smiled as she gently picked up Iggy, the dog offering Jotaro a defiant stare before returning to his position in her arms.
Jotaro met the dog’s gaze with a faint smile. “Your little companion seems to guard you well, doesn’t he? Iggy,” he said, his voice gentle yet affectionate. The dog gave a small huff, then turned back to Kalithea as if to reaffirm his loyalty.
Turning back to Kalithea, Jotaro continued, his voice composed. “I’ve arranged for Lanali, the seamstress, to accompany us. She’ll design a few new pieces for you for the season.”
Kalithea’s smile deepened, the trust and comfort she felt with Jotaro evident in her gaze. She nodded in acknowledgment before motioning for Iggy to settle into her lap. Jotaro’s expression softened even further as he observed her, the light in his eyes betraying his growing affection. “Have you eaten yet?” he asked, his voice carrying an undercurrent of concern. “You need to be healthier.”
Kalithea hesitated, then wrote in her booklet, her fingers steady as she conveyed her message.
“I have not eaten. Yet, the doctor made it very clear that I restrict myself to a liquid and soft food diet.. at least until my midsection feels better.” Kalithea responded, Jotaro’s eyes reading through as he nodded with understanding and respect.
Jotaro’s expression softened, a slight nod of acknowledgment before he spoke again, his voice more tender. “I understand.” He paused before adding, “In the meantime, would you join me for brunch?”
Kalithea’s gaze beemed as she reached for Jotaro’s hand. With practiced gentleness, his fingers closed around hers, warm and steady. Instead of letting go immediately, his grip remained firm, almost as he reassured himself that she was perfectly fine. Despite the lingering discomfort in her midsection, there was a warmth she felt from being in his presence— one that allowed her to push aside the ache and focus on him.
She gripped his hand a little tighter, a silent word of thanks passing between them. Her smile, though faint, was filled with gratitude. Jotaro nodded, his brow furrowing as he continued to help her along. He didn’t need her to say anything. Her body language, the quiet strength she had carried with her, said it all.
As they entered the dining room, the scent of warm, soft dishes filled the air. Broths, freshly baked bread, and delicate fruits, was a far cry from the usual lavish meals the emperor would enjoy. Yet, if she knew he had anticipated her joining him, she would have melted. The simplistic meal seemed fitting for the quiet peace that had begun to settle between them.
Jotaro guided her to her seat beside him, making sure she was comfortable before sitting down beside her. His gaze never left her as the servants gave her small servings of soft fruits and lightly seasoned vegetables.
“Kalithea, eat as much as you can,” he urged quietly, his tone laced with concern. Kalithea nodded as she took a small spoonful of the broth, savoring the warmth that spread through her body. It was so simple, and she knew it was only Chef Joulie that created such a masterpiece. Jotaro watched her intently, his usual royal composure softened by the quiet moment. The vulnerability in her gaze made him ache inside. He watched her every movement, and in the slight moments of discomfort.
Jotaro watched as Kalithea set her spoon down, her delicate fingers resting slightly against the edge of the bowl. Though she had eaten carefully, he could see the faint lingering exhaustion in her eyes. He wasted no time in rising to his feet, his movements fluid as he stepped beside her.
“Come,” he said gently, offering his hand to hair. She hesitated only a moment before slipping her hand into his. As he helped her to her feet, he remained attuned to her every shift, his other and instinctively moving to steady her by the waist. The contact was fleeting, but the warmth of his gloved palm against her side brought reassurance.
Outside, the palace grounds hummed with life, a symphony of sound that spoke of urgency and meticulous preparation. The air was tinged with the scent of fresh leather and the tang of iron as the knights formed their ranks, the rhythmic thudding of hooves echoing against the cobbled stones. Servants hurried, their voices blending with the sharper commands of the stewards as carriages were loaded—one carrying Kalithea’s belongings, another the provisions for the staff and knights.
Jotaro gave a curt nod, the weight of his responsibilities settling around him like a cloak. He glanced over the familiar faces of Sir Jean, Sir Amadeus, Dame Adeline, and Dame Erin—trusted figures who would ride alongside the carriage.
“Ensure the guards are positioned properly during my absence. I expect a full report of the palace’s security every day.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” The advisor turned, his movements swift, ready to carry out the orders. The stewards continued their work, tying the last of the essentials to the carriages. A particular steward approached Jotaro with a question.
“Your Majesty, yours and Lady Kalithea’s, belongings have been carefully packed. Is there anything further you require?” He asked with curiosity.
”See to it that anything she requires is sent ahead without delay,” he said smoothly. “Make sure she is not disturbed throughout this journey.”
”Understood, Your Majesty.”
But Kalithea hesitated before stepping inside the carriage, her gaze lingering on the flurry of activity around her, absorbing it all in quiet contemplation. Jotaro moved swiftly to her side, offering his hand to help her into the carriage. His touch was steady, a silent promise of support.
Once inside, the door shut with a soft thud, and the outside world faded into the muted whispers of the carriage’s interior. The soft creak of the wheels and the gentle sway beneath them became the only sounds, a peaceful contrast to the organized chaos outside.
Jotaro exhaled, his posture easing as he turned his full attention to the woman beside him. She shifted slightly, and before she could adjust further, he reached out, guiding her with gentle hands.
“It's going to be a long ride. We won't arrive till nightfall.” He murmured, as the carriage swayed gently beneath them. The redheaded young woman’s eyes looked out the carriage window, seeing the area that passed by leave in its wake. Her eyes looked at him, while raising her hands to open her book. She wrote quickly, yet her scribbling caused him to move himself from his thoughts.
”Jotaro, what’s the season like? I know Avdolia mentioned in my studies that the next few months are full of parties, gatherings, and where far too many people lose wealthy advantages.”
He exhaled slowly, considering his words. “It is… a spectacle,” he admitted, his tone measured. “Avdolia is right in that matter, that for the nobility, it is a chance to flaunt wealth, influence, and other things. Status seekers strive for opportunities to make connections that will serve them for years to come. For the working class, its more of a mess for them to deal with.” She pressed her lips together, hesitating before writing again.
”I am not wealthy, nor come from such backgrounds… if anything I’m so grateful you invited me to accompany you. What use will I be there for you? Other than my safety?”
Jotaro’s fingers tightened slightly where they rested against his knee. He expected this question, yet he found himself searching for the right words. “Many eyes will be on you.” He admitted, his voice quieter now. “Not as just a supposed socialite, but as my companion. There will be many who are curious about you… and others who will seek to use that curiosity for their own selfish advantage.” He expressed with a hidden anger.
Her fingers stilled against the page. He could see the shift in her expression, a flicker of concern passing through her lavender orbs. Before she could write a response, she lowered the book. With a sense of urgency, as though she could no longer hold the worry inside, she wrote quickly.
“It's a secret.. I am aware. But my past, this mark on my shoulder… someone will bound to talk”
His chest tightened. He knew how she felt, but it was almost heartbreaking how she voiced it so plainly. It stirred something inside of him. “Kalithea…” He trailed off for a moment, knowing how badly her past hated to be resurfaced. “I will make sure they do not,” he replied firmly and angrily, correcting himself as his voice softened. “No one knows or will dare use that against you while you are with me. You are free, as you should have been. I intend to protect that.”
Jotaro’s fingers tightened slightly where they rested against his knee. He had expected this question, yet he found himself searching for the right words. “You will be watched,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “Not just as a scholar, but as someone under my care. There will be those who are curious about you… and those who will seek to use that curiosity for their own gain.”
Her fingers stilled against the page. Slowly, deliberately, she began to write again, though her strokes were lighter now, more hesitant.
“What if I embarrass you?” Kalithea wrote, her head low and deep in shame.
Jotaro’s brows knit together, the words sinking into him like a weight. She turned the page before he could respond, her next words written with greater urgency.
“Jotaro…I do not belong in their world. They will see my brand. They will whisper about what I was,” Her fingers trembled slightly against the quill. “I will shame you.”
A dark flicker crossed Jotaro’s eyes as he read her words again. Before she could continue, he reached for the book, his fingers firm but careful as he held it between them.He looked at her, and saw that she had already turned away, her hands tightly clenched in her lap, her shoulders hunched. She was shrinking under an invisible weight, one far heavier than mere judgment. A faint, barely perceptible shake ran through her shoulders.
Jotaro froze.
Tears glistened at the edges of her lashes, unbidden and silent. She never cried, at least in front of him. When he had scorned her with words so sharp they could have drawn blood, or when he had forced her to relive the hell of her past, reminding her of her status even after the laws had set her free. Even when he had loathed her so thoroughly, casting judgment on her very presence in his world.
And even after she had been freed from that life, the cruelty didn’t end. The whispers of the councilmen, the sneers, the ridicule. They mocked her as though she were deaf, as though she didn’t understand the words they spat. But she had heard every one. Every cruel utterance, every sneer, every sneaky glance. They had treated her as an animal, as though she didn’t belong in the world she had been thrust into.
When she had thrown herself in front of Casium’s arrow meant for him, her body a shield against death’s cold embrace, it was that moment that still haunted him. Her standing between him and death as she clung to him in an act of desperate protection. She hadn’t cried then. She hadn’t screamed. She hadn’t begged. Her breath had come in shallow, rasping gasps, her body trembling with the shock of injury and the overwhelming pain. But her eyes—had been fixed on him. Why had she made herself a shield against death when all she had ever known was cruelty?
The sharpness of that moment cut into him anew, as if it were a wound that refused to heal. She had done it without hesitation. Without thought. She had thrown herself in front of him, the man who had at one point treated her like less than nothing, for a life that was never hers to protect. It haunted him, the thought of how she had willingly placed herself in harm’s way for him. He had caught her in his arms, his heart pounding in his chest, the warmth of her blood spilling between them like a cruel reminder of what she had given up.
Even as she healed and the wound slowly closed, she had never once asked for anything. Not once had she demanded his gratitude, nor had she asked for the kindness she had been denied her entire life. Not a single word of thanks had left her lips. She had never questioned why she had been worth saving. She had never asked why she had sacrificed everything without a second thought. Yet this—this is what broke her. The fear that she could bring shame to him. The belief that she, simply by existing at his side, could dishonor him.
The silence between them was suffocating, thick with unspoken words neither of them could bring themselves to say. Kalithea sat beside him, shoulders rigid, her entire form so still she might as well have been carved from stone. Jotaro could feel the sorrow radiating from her—an invisible force pressing against him.
He had seen her withstand cruelty with unwavering grace. Had watched her endure pain without shedding a tear. But now, as she sat beside him, her hands trembling ever so slightly in her lap, he realized the unbearable weight she had been carrying alone.
“Kalithea…” His voice was quiet, edged with something raw. “How could you ever think that way? How could you ever believe you could shame me?”
She lifted her head slowly, those beautiful eyes shimmering with unshed tears. When their gazes met, something inside him cracked. Silent but devastating, the pain in her expression cut deeper than any blade ever could.
Jotaro inhaled sharply. “You could never shame me, Kalithea,” he said, his voice low but firm, each word an unshakable truth. “After everything you’ve done—everything you’ve sacrificed—you could never shame me. You gave me your blood, your body, your life, and you did it without hesitation.” His grip on the booklet tightened, leather creaking beneath his fingers. “How could you ever think you are anything less than worthy?”
A single, shuddering breath escaped her lips. She didn’t answer, but she didn’t need to. He could see the war in her eyes—the years of silent endurance, of suffering swallowed whole.
Jotaro reached for her then, gloved fingers brushing away the tears streaking her cheek. He should have seen it sooner. The weight she bore. The way she still managed to smile—barely there, delicate as a whisper—even when her world was collapsing around her.
She leaned into his touch, and the realization struck him with the force of a blade. Even now, after everything, she was still offering him her trust.
“I’ve been a fool,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I belittled you when I should have seen your worth. I didn’t understand your strength, your sacrifice.” His thumb traced the dampness beneath her eye, a slow, deliberate motion. “But I see you now, Kalithea. I see you.”
Her body was still healing—her movements slow, careful, burdened by exhaustion—but she had never once asked for protection. Never once shown weakness, even when the world had given her every reason to break.
Jotaro’s jaw tightened. “No one will ever belittle you again,” he vowed, his voice quiet but unshakable. “You are the strongest person I know. I see the woman who protected me when she had no reason to. The woman who gave everything without expecting anything in return. And I will carry that with me—always.”
Kalithea hesitated. And then, slowly, her fingers curled around his. The smallest touch. But it was enough.
She was letting him in. Letting him protect her—not just from the world, but from the weight of everything she had carried alone.
Jotaro turned his hand over, enclosing hers within his grasp. His voice softened, filled with something that wasn’t quite vulnerability, but something close. “I will protect you,” he swore. “From everything. From anyone who dares to make you feel less than what you are. From the world…” His grip tightened, gentle but unyielding. “And from me.”
“I’ll carry you when you’re too weary to stand,” he went on, his voice steady, unwavering. “I’ll fight for you when you have nothing left to give. You’ve already given me more than I ever deserved.” His thumb brushed over the back of her hand, slow and deliberate.
And in that moment, Jotaro knew. Kalithea had already given him everything. Her strength. Her sacrifice. Herself.
And now, it was his turn.
She had carried so much alone, but now, for the first time, she could finally rest. Jotaro saw the quiet relief in her eyes as she leaned against him, the weight she had borne for so long slipping away. Her small, resilient body softened against his side, finally allowing herself to let go.
Her skin, still pale from the toll of the past weeks, contrasted beautifully with her fiery red hair, which framed her face like a soft halo. Her eyes, though tired, were no longer burdened by the constant need to stay strong. They were gentler now, even as a single tear slipped down her cheek—silent, but full of unspoken gratitude.
Jotaro gently pulled her closer, his arm wrapping tightly around her waist as if to shield her from the world. Her breath began to slow, her body relaxing against him as the rhythm of his heartbeat steadied her.
“Rest,” he whispered, his lips brushing against the crown of her head. “You’ve carried this weight long enough. Let me bear it for you, even if just for today.”
His words were simple, but they held the promise of something deeper—of a bond that had slowly but surely woven itself between them. And though he had always been the protector, the one to lead, in this moment, it was clear: he would do anything to carry the burden for her.
Jotaro’s hold remained steady and protective, his heartbeat a constant reminder that she didn’t have to face the weight of the world alone anymore. The journey ahead was long, and the path to Renadli’s capital uncertain, but for now, all that mattered was this quiet space between them, this fragile moment of peace.
As the carriage swayed gently with the rhythm of the road, Jotaro’s thoughts drifted, the landscape outside blurring in his peripheral vision. He wasn’t thinking about the burdens of his title or the political games awaiting him in the capital. His mind was solely on her—on Kalithea—and the undeniable truth that had become clear to him in the silence of the moment.
He wanted her by his side—not because of duty, not because of obligation, but because she had become essential to him in a way he could no longer ignore. The thought of a future without her, of a world where she wasn’t there to balance him, to soften the harsh edges of his existence, was something he couldn’t bear.
“I’ll make sure you’re safe,” he whispered, his voice soft but unwavering, as if sealing a vow that had long been in his heart. “But I won’t just protect you. I’ll make sure you’re happy, Kalithea. Whatever it takes.”
Her small hand tightened around his, the motion quiet but steady, a reassurance that spoke volumes without a word. Jotaro’s grip on her hand tightened slightly in return, the promise between them growing stronger with each passing moment.
“No harm will come to you, Kalithea,” he said, his voice firm, a quiet promise that no force in the world could break. “Not as long as I stand.”
They sat in silence for a while, the world outside carrying on without them, but for Jotaro, it felt as though time itself had slowed, allowing them this fleeting peace. The road ahead was uncertain, but for now, this was all he needed to know. She was with him, and he would never let her face the storm alone
Notes:
Hey, sorry for the delay! Things have been a bit crazy with school, and I really wanted to take my time to make the writing better. I hope it’s worth the wait! I’ve put a lot of effort into it, and I really hope you like how it turned out. Thanks so much for being patient with me! Can’t wait to hear what you think! Feel free to leave comments and kudos!!! MUAH!!
Chapter 32: Tea and Society
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The bright morning light seeped through the high windows of the eastern wing, brushing over the silken canopy that draped Kalithea’s bed in soft blue. This splendid manor near Renaldi’s capital was nestled within the hills and surrounded by mist-kissed evergreens. It was quieter than the imperial palace, but not lacking in grace—spacious corridors lined with warm-toned stone, polished floors of veined marble, and vast windows that opened toward private gardens and terraced balconies.
Yet, for Kalithea, what was most striking was the stillness. It was the first morning in weeks where she woke up without the smell of medicine close by and the round about of other maids.
Her amethyst orbs blinked open slowly, adjusting to the gentle light. She briefly remembered falling asleep in the carriage, lulled by the rhythmic sway, and her head resting lightly against Jotaro’s shoulder. Now instead of the grandiose place room, she lay in a bed of carved dark wood and green velvet drapes parted just enough to let a sliver of sunlight in. The quiet murmur of birds beyond the windows reminded her that this was not the palace, but somewhere new. A step lower in grandeur, perhaps—but still, unmistakably noble.
Iggy lay beside her, his small body nestled against her side, breathing deeply. His fur was warm, soft, and she couldn’t help but scratch behind his ears as he shifted, nuzzling her hand. The little dog had become a constant companion in the past few weeks, his loyalty matching that of the maids who tended to her every need.
Dame Adeline and Dame Erin chit chatted outside, hoping that their quiet banter wouldn’t wake their lady. But as Kalithea heard the door open, and saw her lovely maids-in-waiting curtsying a little. Martha, ever ready to serve their lady, quickly motioned for the others to begin their duties. Bridgette drew open the curtains quickly as Sam went into the room next door to prepare a bath.
The twins, Claudia and Claudette quickly brought in her herbal tea that Doctor Hasan recommended— only then did Kalithea partially smile at the Medicinal scent she thought she could escape from.
”Good morning, my lady.” Martha said with a gentle smile, as sunlight entered the room. Dame Adeline and Erin tried to persuade to let you sleep longer, but I’m positive that His Majesty will be wondering where you were at breakfast.”
Kalithea’s gaze fell to the booklet by her side, her fingers reaching for the pen. She had grown accustomed to communicating in this way—writing out her thoughts, her needs, her wishes. There were days when she longed to speak aloud, to be heard, but for now, this was her language. And it worked.
She wrote carefully, letting the familiar motion of the pen in her hand soothe her mind. As she glanced up, she saw Martha’s patient smile, and it filled her with warmth.
”I'm grateful you all stepped in, I’m more than ready to begin my day. I only hope that your travels were quite alright?” She wrote, Martha nodding as Kalithea tried to stand a little bit.
“It was perfectly alright, His Majesty made sure we all arrived ahead of time to help prepare before you arrived. But, for now, let's get you ready for the day. Bridgette is in the next room preparing your bath.”
Iggy, knowing that two hours of pampering, dresses, and perfumes awaited, sat put on the bed, yawning without a care in the world. Until he saw his friend appear from the separate room again, he knew what to do.
Kalithea, already seeing the little dog fall back asleep again, covered her lips as she chuckled with joy. She patted his head again, giving him a small kiss on his tuft of hair. Enjoying her affections as he always did, he decided to stay awake a little bit—just for her safety, of course.
Bridgette soon reappeared, followed closely by Claudia, Claudette, and Sam, each carrying scented oils, plush towels, and a delicate robe of cream silk. Martha helped her from the bed with practiced care, moving slowly, mindful of her healing body. The redhead gave her a smile of appreciation, Kalithea slowly moving towards the now steaming room.
She could smell the wonderful scent of floral and delicious scents, the woman turning to the water as it was slowly being filled. She smiled as Bridgette led her gently to the wooden screen. Behind it, Kalithea’s fingers moved slowly, undoing the laces of her nightgown. The fabric slipped from her shoulders, baring pale skin to the cool air. Her breath hitched as she unfastened the wrappings over her midsection that Doctor Hasan did the day prior.
Despite the many baths, the treatments, and bandaging, she hadn’t dared look at her abdomen. At least, not yet. Until she left behind the screen to her maids-in-waiting, she looked at tall mirror across the wall. She took a quick gaze, and there it was.
The scar traced across the curve of her stomach like a cruel, silvery vine. Pale, and uneven. Not grotesque… but permanent. Proof. A wound deep enough to silence her forever. Or nearly so. Her throat tightened, though no sound came. Her hands hovered near the mark, fingers almost touching before retreating.
In the bathing chamber, steam curled up from the surface of the wide stone tub. Flower petals floated lazily on the water—rose, chamomile, violet. Vials of sweet oils and perfumed soap lined the shelves, the air filled with warmth and softness.
Bridgette steadied Kalithea’s arm as she climbed in. The water embraced her body, and she released a breath she didn’t know she had been holding.
They washed her hair in silence—Claudia carefully massaging her scalp with jasmine oil, her fingers slow and methodical, while Sam followed with warm pitchers of water, pouring in gentle streams that cascaded down Kalithea’s shoulders. The bathwater lapped softly as Claudette folded a towel behind her neck, cushioning the porcelain edge of the tub. Each touch was respectful, practiced, always careful not to graze the healing scar that curved along her midsection.
The scent of the jasmine oil mingled with the rose petals and lavender already steeping in the bath, a subtle sweetness that clung to the air. Kalithea’s eyelids fluttered shut as another pitcher was emptied, the warm water trailing down her skin like a whispered lullaby. The ache in her body was ever-present, but here, in the silence of the chamber, she allowed herself a moment to breathe.
Bridgette reached for a small glass bottle and uncorked it with a soft pop. “Don’t mind the strong scent, this is Cypress and myrrh, my lady,” she replied, dabbing the oils delicately along Kalithea’s arms. “I Know Dr Hasan said to not put so much scents, but to ease soreness the palace apothecary swears by it.” She smiles as Kalithea thanked her with a nod.
“You’ll feel like yourself again soon, my lady,” Claudia added gently, offering a soft smile that pulled Kalithea from her thoughts. She blinked a few times, touched by the quiet warmth in her voice.
“You’re healing better than any of us dared hoped!” Sam said, dipping a soft cloth into a basin of scented water. She wrung it out before pressing it gently along Kalithea’s shoulders and down her arms, wiping away any lingering oils with care. “And your color is finally returning!”
Once her hair had been rinsed and the oils worked into her skin, Claudette produced a soft cotton robe and held it open. Kalithea rose from the bath slowly, careful not to strain her abdomen. Warm towels enveloped her immediately—Claudette patting her shoulders and back, while Martha dried her arms with practiced efficiency. Sam crouched near her legs, working downward in gentle strokes, careful to never make her flinch.
Placing the robe over her shoulders, they gently took Kalithea to the other room. The steam lingered in the air as the cool temperature made her feel more at ease.
Kalithea gathered her booklet and wrote quickly with her pen, the motion fluid and comforting.
“Im so grateful you all took such great care of me. I cannot say how much it means to me. After all, since the accident, I have not found the strength nor want to look at my scar. It’s horrid, bit it means I am alive”
Her maids read the words and smiled, touched by her gratitude. They clapped their hands softly, a silent acknowledgment of her strength and resilience.
A knock on the door interrupted the moment, and Kalithea quickly adjusted her robe. Despite the sudden motion, Claudette opened the door with a grin of excitement, looking over her shoulder at Kalithea.
Dame Adeline and Dame Erin talking were talking with her, the redhead motioning quickly for them both to enter— how could she exclude all she knew?
Dame Adeline and Dame Erin entered the room, the warmth of their presence filling the space as they stepped inside with gentle strides. Both women greeted Kalithea with smiles, their faces radiating a mixture of respect and affection for their lady. They exchanged quiet words with the maids, checking on her health before the day truly began.
“Good morning, my lady,” Dame Adeline greeted, her voice rich with both warmth and reverence. She paused by Kalithea’s side, her eyes checking the redhead over, noting how her skin seemed to have a bit more color since the last time they’d spoken. There was no mistaking the deep care that had come to define the bond between them.
“We’ve brought some fresh stockings and a few things for your wardrobe, my lady,” Dame Erin added with a warm smile, her eyes lighting up as she approached. Her voice was always gentle, carrying a tone of care and consideration.
Kalithea’s face brightened at the sight of them. She didn’t need to say anything—her outstretched hand was enough. It was second nature now, this silent communication with the women who had become a steady presence in her life. She reached for Dame Adeline first, pulling her into a gentle embrace, her fingers brushing over her friend’s sleeve as a silent thank you.
Dame Erin gave a soft chuckle and opened her arms in invitation, her hand gently patting Kalithea’s arm in return. It was these moments—quiet, simple—that meant so much.
“Lanali will be here soon,” Dame Adeline said, her voice low as she stepped back, her hands adjusting the armor she wore. “Lanali will be here soon. She insisted on delivering the dress herself.” Kalithea wrote quickly.
”It's so good to see you both, I know I have seen you around the palace but my recovery keeps me from saying hello to you. I hope you also had a good journey—though I know you rode alongside the carriage!”
Kalithea smiled, the women turning their gaze toward the door just as Lanali entered, carrying a large, delicate box. She moved with quiet elegance, her steps slow and deliberate as if the very act of presenting Kalithea with something meant more than just the material itself.
The door opened again—this time with a swish of heavier fabric—and Lanali entered. The royal seamstress carried a long, cream-colored box, its surface embossed with fine gold detailing. She moved with her usual precision, posture poised, each step deliberate. But when her eyes landed on Kalithea, a flicker of something—hesitation, concern—passed across her features.
“Good morning, my lady,” she said, her tone slightly softer than usual. She placed the box on the nearby table and straightened the delicate lace cuffs of her sleeves. Her gaze lingered on Kalithea a beat longer. “Forgive me for being forward, but… are you alright?” she asked quietly, her voice low enough not to interrupt the gentle sounds of the maids preparing the room. “I only just heard.”
Kalithea stilled for a moment, then gave a quiet nod. She reached for her booklet and wrote in quick, neat strokes: “I am healing quicker than I ought to be. Thank you, Lanali, you always mean well.”
The seamstress read the message and offered a single, small nod. “I’m relieved,” she said simply, then added with a wry breath, “I worried I might show up with the wrong color or an impractical cut after all that’s happened.”
Laughter filled the air as everyone smiled as the tensions and worries of the past eased.
Lanali untied the ribbon from the box and opened it carefully, folding back layers of fine tissue to reveal the dress nestled within. The fabric shimmered like morning frost, a pale blue base overlaid with panels of soft white silk. Silver embroidery curled delicately along the cuffs and hem, intricate and fine as snow-laced branches. A darker navy sash was wrapped with care across the middle, meant to be tied at the waist like a quiet signature. It was elegant, but unshowy—meant for a day out among people, not court display.
Bridgette and Claudette moved forward, quietly assisting Kalithea into her stockings and shoes while Claudia and Martha brought the pearl hairpins to the vanity. Iggy lay sprawled at Kalithea’s feet, tail thumping lazily. But as the room began to fill with the soft hum of movement, he stood and circled her once, bumping into Dame Erin’s leg with an audible huff.
”Dame Erin held in her laughter, coughing as he watched as the little dog practically begged for attention, when before he knew Kalithea was more distant than anything.
“I think someone’s growing impatient,” Claudia noted, nudging Iggy back gently with her boot.
“He’s been in a mood all morning,” Bridgette added with a smirk. “Snapped at Adeline’s cloak earlier like it had personally offended him.”
“He’s not annoyed with Lady Kalithea, though,” Sam said lightly from where she was brushing out Kalithea’s hair. “He just wants everyone else to disappear so he can have her all to himself.”
Kalithea gave a silent laugh, her shoulders bouncing as she crouched slightly to scratch under Iggy’s chin. He leaned into her hand and let out a quiet groan of satisfaction, eyes fluttering shut as if the world had finally returned to order.
Lanali, who had been setting the blue dress with meticulous care, stepped back to admire the final result. The silhouette was unmistakably daring—slim-fitted along Kalithea’s frame, accentuating her waist and arms, but with just enough volume in the skirt to create movement as she walked. Not poofy, but sculpted—structured with discreet inner pleats that allowed it to flare like a bell when she moved, without ever overwhelming her figure. It was an architectural statement—elegant and bold in a way that no other noblewoman dared to wear, especially in a court that praised excess and ornamental flair.
The bodice and sleeves were of pale blue silk, soft as water and luminous in the light, while the skirt deepened into layered shades of white and navy, flowing like ink into parchment. Silver threading danced through the embroidery along the cuffs and lower hem in patterns resembling climbing ivy and delicate vines, a design Lanali had sketched herself. There were no jewels, no gilded chains or brooches. Just the precision of craftsmanship and quiet confidence.
“I adjusted the hem slightly to accommodate boots, should you prefer them for walking through the city,” Lanali said, holding up the dress with reverence and care. “There’s a light coat in the box as well, should the wind off the mountains be stronger today.”
Kalithea blinked, her brows lifting slightly—not in disapproval, but in faint surprise. Her fingers brushed along the tailored hem as she stepped closer, lips parting with a small, silent breath. She looked up, her eyes meeting Lanali’s with a soft spark of gratitude—something quiet and sincere that needed no words. A slow nod followed, thoughtful and appreciative, as she turned to write her response: “It’s wonderful, I can believe how beautiful it is. Since the accident, I have been wearing more comfortable garments, but I feel like I can move freely and still feel wonderful.”
“Good,” Lanali murmured, brushing a faint crease from Kalithea’s sleeve. “You’ll need to.”
Martha and Claudette stepped in next, carefully guiding Kalithea into the slim-fitted dress. The bodice hugged Kalithea’s frame with elegant precision. Sam smoothed the folds along Kalithea’s hips while Bridgette adjusted the slight train at the back, letting it drape just enough to trail without dragging. Claudia appeared behind her with the matching corset, the soft blush-toned fabric already loosened and waiting.
“You’ve outdone yourself, Miss Lanali,” Dame Adeline spoke with approval, her arms crossed loosely as she watched the final adjustments.
Dame Erin, always less reserved with her words, let out a soft whistle. “You’re quite the genius. If other ladies see this, they’ll try their best to get their hands on something equally beautiful.”
Lanali gave a subtle, professional nod, through her eyes flickered to Kalithea with quiet pride. “They can try. But there’s only one she’s made for.”
As the corset was secured with the final tie, Kalithea exhaled slowly through her nose, adjusting to the firmness around her ribs. She raised her arms slightly and turned with grace to face the vanity again.
Martha approached next, a wide-toothed comb in hand. “Just need a few final touches, my lady,” she said gently. She began to brush Kalithea’s long hair from root to tip, slow and deliberate strokes catching the natural sheen and smoothing every strand. The rhythm of it was calming, as if Martha were coaxing away the last remnants of convalescence from Kalithea’s form
From a small velvet pouch, Claudia produced the earrings: thin, silver hooks with small teardrop-shaped pearls that swayed when touched by light. Martha leaned in to fasten one to each lobe with practiced care.
“No rouge or powder,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. Kalithea blinked once, her gaze fixed on her reflection. The slim silhouette of the emerald gown traced the length of her body with elegance, the pearl earrings catching the light against her bare neck.
Then, from the hallway just outside, the low, resonant sound of the breakfast bell rang through the air.
A beat passed.
Bridgette glanced toward the door and let out a low chuckle. “That’s most likely His Majesty walking in the dining room”
“I heard he asked the cook to prepare soft foods for you today,” Claudia responds sweetly. “He never requests anything specific unless it’s for you.”
“Except her,” Sam murmured with a smirk, causing the others to stifle their laughter behind their hands.
Kalithea felt a blush rise to her cheeks, covering her face with her hands as she averted her gaze. Martha coughed to signal them to stop, but Kalithea’s expression remained as red as her locks.
At her feet, Iggy stood abruptly, tail wagging as if he’d understood every word. He barked once—short and expectant—before trotting toward the doors like a herald announcing her arrival.
Dame Adeline stepped forward, offering her arm to Kalithea. “Let’s head down stairs, I can’t imagine what today holds for you.” The woman responds kindly, as Dame Erin moved beside her on the other side.
Kalithea was handed her booklet, placing it in her dress pocket as she felt her nerves rise slightly. With a final glance at her maids, who all stood with affectionate smiles, Kalithea nodded gratefully, her heart warmed by their quiet admiration.
The morning sun filtered through the tall, arched windows of the grand dining hall, casting soft beams of light across the polished wood floors. The air was thick with the scent of fresh bread, warm porridge, and the faint fragrance of rose petals from the courtyard. A quiet hum of activity filled the room as the servants prepared the meal, their movements graceful and practiced.
Kalithea entered the room, her knights by her side, her forest green dress flowing elegantly behind her. The soft sound of her footsteps was nearly drowned out by the hushed murmurs of the attendants, but her presence was undeniable. At the head of the long table, Jotaro stood, his sharp features illuminated by the soft light, his usual stoic composure giving way to something more tender today.
As she stepped closer, Jotaro’s gaze shifted to her, softening ever so slightly. A rare warmth flickered in his eyes, one that made her heart flutter, though she quickly masked it with a gentle smile. He moved forward, his voice low and steady. “Good morning,” he greeted, his words carrying an unexpected kindness.
Her knights beside her bowed, the woman curtsying wonderfully as she had always done before.
”Greetings to the Sun of the Empire”
”Greetings to the Sun of the Empire.”
Jotaro’s gaze lingered on Kalithea for a moment, the unspoken understanding between them thickening the air. Then, his eyes shifted to the servants still present, and without a flicker of hesitation, he spoke, his tone firm yet smooth, commanding without being harsh. “The rest of you are dismissed,” he said, his voice cutting through the quiet murmur of the room.
Jotaro stepped closer, his presence filling the space between them as he glanced down at Kalithea with something softer than his usual stoic gaze. There was an unspoken understanding in the way he watched her, as though ensuring her comfort without the need for words.
As the room emptied along with Dame Adeline and Erin, the silence seemed to settle, but Jotaro remained near Kalithea. He watched her carefully as she moved to take her seat, a subtle but protective hand brushing against her back, guiding her without hesitation.
Sitting beside her, Jotaro’s eyes flickered to the doorway as a couple of nearby servants whispered. A cold, imperceptible warning passed through his gaze, and the soft murmurings instantly stopped. He didn’t need to say anything. His presence alone silenced the room.
His focus returned to Kalithea. “Don’t mind them,” he said quietly, his voice tender, but the edge of authority remained. “I’ve already told you—you’re safe here.”
Kalithea smiled wonderfully, the woman taking soft strides beside him. Once she was settled, he took his own seat beside her, his movements as fluid and composed as ever. Kalithea began to eat, Jotaro turning to his own plate. Her every motion was quiet and deliberate, but from time to time, his eyes returned to her.
After a few minutes, Kalithea reached delicately for her small booklet, flipping to an empty page. Her fingers brushed over the parchment before she picked up her pen and began to write. When she was finished, she turned it toward him. “Jotaro, I am only curious about what the plans are for today. I fear that if we are staying within the manor, I may be overly attired. Will you tell me?”
Jotaro paused, then took the booklet. He read it quietly and looked at her—expression softening as he saw how her shoulders were just a bit more relaxed than usual. She looked a little less saddened and anxious today, and her beauty appeared like a fully blossomed camellia.
“We’re heading to the capital today,” Jotaro said, his voice smooth and low, commanding but tempered with something softer. His eyes flickered toward her plate as he saw her pause, her movements frozen in uncertainty. He didn’t rush, his tone deliberate, as though carefully considering each word before speaking. “The marketplace would be the best case, but more importantly, it is necessary to familiarize yourself with places like these sooner rather than later.”
Her heart began to race as the reality of his words sank in. The capital. The social season. She had not anticipated this shift so soon, and the thought of being thrust into a world where every eye was on her, judging, observing—made her stomach twist with nerves. Kalithea’s grip tightened around her fork, and she instinctively stopped eating, her eyes lowering to avoid meeting his. She felt the familiar anxiety creeping in, biting at her every thought.
Jotaro noticed it immediately, his gaze shifting to her as she froze. His sharp eyes saw the worry in her posture, the subtle tension in her hands, the way her shoulders tightened as if bracing for something she couldn’t control. The air between them seemed to shift, the warmth of his presence settling closer as he leaned slightly forward. His voice, when he spoke again, was quieter, almost comforting.
“No one will speak ill of you,” he said softly, his words steady but filled with the quiet promise of assurance. “Not in my presence. I will make sure of it.”
Kalithea blinked, her pen hovering over her booklet as she carefully considered his words. The people in the capital, the nobles—she had heard rumors and stories of their sharp tongues and disapproving stares. But she knew, deep down, that Jotaro would stand between her and anyone who dared to speak poorly. She wrote quickly, her pen steady as she filled the page with her thoughts.
“The public eye may not look at you, but they look at the person beside you,” she wrote, her expression caught somewhere between apprehension and determination. “They will see you and judge, but I… I will be seen.”
Jotaro looked at her, his gaze intense, the weight of his words settling into the space between them. He called her name softly, drawing her gaze back to him.
“Look at me then.” He said, his voice firm yet gentle. When her eyes met his, she saw the same unyielding confidence that had always been there, but now there was something else—something softer, more attuned to her worries. “Kalithea,” He paused as her eyes practically melted. “No one will look at you in any way, shape, or form that I do not allow. The area will be guarded. And if you tire, we will return here. You’re still recovering, and your well-being comes first.”
Her heart softened at his words. The certainty in his voice, the calm that always followed his promises, was like a balm to the raw anxiety she felt. She knew, in her heart, that he meant it.
“I know what you’ve said,” she wrote, her pen moving hesitantly across the paper. “And I trust you, Jotaro. I may still feel so uncertain, but I knew you would remind me, regardless. Thank you for your kindness.”
He nodded, as the raven-haired male rose from his seat, adjusting the collar of his cloak with a fluid motion. “The carriage is ready,” he said quietly. “The weather seems agreeable today. It’ll be a calm ride.”
Kalithea didn’t move at first. Her fingers lingered on the edge of her booklet, her eyes fixed on the quiet curve of the ink drying across the page. Then, wordlessly, she stood—her steps measured, soft against the polished floor. They left the room together, walking through the corridor without hurry, the silence between them gentle and composed.
Outside, the morning air held a faint chill, the kind that would warm by midday. The carriage stood waiting, its polished frame glinting faintly under the soft sky.
At the base of the steps, Dame Adeline was already mounted, reins in hand, her presence quiet. Erin followed a breath later, her horse falling into line beside her. Neither said anything as Kalithea descended the steps.
Sir Jean arrived next, his silver hair faintly tousled by the breeze. “Good morning, lady Kalithea,” he greeted, tone light and cheerful. Sir Amadeus came just behind, brushing a faint bit of dust from his sleeve. “Let us know if it grows too long. It’s better to enjoy a short outing than endure a long one.”
Kalithea reached for her booklet once more, the crisp sound of parchment turning breaking the morning stillness. Her writing was neat and elegant, a soft flourish to her strokes as she turned the page and wrote:
“Thank you both for your consideration. I only hope the city proves kinder than the thoughts I’ve built of it. I will try not to be too much trouble.”
Sir Jean and Sir Amadeus read it and gave a brief, approving nod. Jotaro gave a quick glance at the other knights, helping kalithea quietly as they sat within the carriage together. Once she was seated, Jotaro stepped in after her, the door closing with a soft thud behind them.
Outside, Sir Jean and Sir Amadeus mounted their horses, taking their places beside the carriage without a word. Their formation fell into place like clockwork—the quiet rhythm of routine that came from years of loyalty and practice. Erin gave the signal, and the carriage began to move forward, wheels creaking softly against the path.
Though they were silent, the streets of Elarion, the jewel of Renaldi, was not. It was a sight to behold—a city that sparkled with an almost magical intensity. The golden spires of the Imperial Tower rose high above the bustling market squares, their tips catching the light of the morning sun, making it look like the city was bathed in a golden halo. From the grand stone arches that framed the entrance to the city to the towering walls that gleamed like polished ivory, every inch of Elarion exuded opulence and power.
The emperor’s personal carriage rolled forward, its obsidian frame adorned with intricate gold filigree, glinting as if it had been made for royalty alone—because it had. The carriage’s sides gleamed with the emblem of Ilicia, the great region from which it hailed. It was a symbol of strength, of something more than a mere kingdom. It was a symbol of authority that rippled through the streets, commanding attention from every corner.
As it passed, the city seemed to pause for a breath. Eyes flicked toward the moving carriage. The royal banner fluttered in the wind, displaying the brilliant red camellia against a backdrop of white silk. The sight of it caused a ripple of excitement and awe. The wealthy, the merchants, even the commoners who populated the market streets seemed to hold their breath. It was as though time slowed for just a moment, to allow the city to acknowledge the presence of such power, such prestige.
The whispers began in hushed tones, rippling across groups of well-dressed noblewomen who turned their heads with curiosity, their fans fluttering quickly to their lips. “Could it be the king?” one woman asked, her voice barely above a breath, leaning toward her companion.
“No,” another replied, her gaze fixed on the carriage with a mix of disbelief and awe. “Im upmost positive it is not. But maybe the emperor— yes I am sure of it! But… Why would he venture into the marketplace? He never makes an appearance during the social season. It’s simply not his way. Perhaps it’s a sign of something… a shift in his usual distance?”
Their voices fell to whispers, the air thick with uncertainty. All knew very well that the emperor was never one for the frivolities of the season. He kept his distance, watching from the shadows, seldom venturing into public circles. To see him in the marketplace now was a rare sight.
A pair of young men, standing by the tailor’s shop, leaned toward each other, their eyes tracing the carriage as it passed. “It doesn’t make sense,” one muttered, his brow furrowed. “Why is he here today of all days? The emperor’s never come this close to the festivities. And… look.” He pointed subtly to the knights. “Do you see? Women among his guards… there’s no mistake. They’re real knights, part of his personal detail.”
“That’s… unheard of,” the other murmured in response, his voice low but filled with intrigue. “There were rumors, yes, but no one dared believe them. I’d heard he didn’t take any women into his service. A decision of principle, or so they said. What could it mean now?”
Across the street, a group of noblewomen, draped in silk and adorned in delicate jewels, exchanged glances, their words quick and hushed. “Do you see those knights?” one of them whispered, eyes wide. “It’s scandalous, surely. I’ve heard the stories—how the emperor’s court has never allowed a woman in such a position, dare I say any position. Why, then, would he do so now? What is the emperor’s reasoning behind this sudden shift?”
A nobleman standing beside a street vendor, his coat embroidered with intricate golden patterns, cast a curious glance toward the carriage. His voice dropped, but there was no hiding the astonishment. “I’ve never seen anything like it. The emperor’s rarely seen in public, especially at a time like this. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he has something to prove. This… this isn’t a visit for business, is it? Could it be that the emperor has decided to take a more—hands-on approach this season?”
One of his companions, standing nearby with an air of superiority, shook his head slowly. “I wouldn’t be so sure. He’s never been one to dabble in the trivial matters of nobility or the social season. It’s all rather strange.”
As the procession moved forward, another voice joined the fray—a merchant with his arms crossed, watching the spectacle from his cart. “It’s the emperor, I’m certain of it. But who could possibly be important enough for him to bring out on such a day? The social season is underway, yet he’s here, mixing with the people. I wonder… does this mean something?”
One of the women nearby, her face delicately painted with powder, turned to her companions. “The rumors are true, then. He’s never been seen with any woman in his court. No consort, no empress. But now—” She leaned forward, her voice low but filled with fascination, “—could this be his new… interest? Perhaps someone who’s caught his eye.”
The murmurs continued to swirl around the marketplace, gaining momentum with each passing moment. People stopped, mid-step, to stare at the imperial procession, their thoughts a chaotic blend of awe and confusion. Yet through it all, one thing remained certain: the emperor’s visit had left the capital buzzing with anticipation, speculation, and intrigue.
The Labelle stood hidden in plain sight—an opulent teahouse disguised as a garden, its glass-paneled walls nestled between aged stone and carved wood façades. From the street, it appeared as no more than an overgrown greenhouse, but those who knew of it understood it was a luxurious place where sunlight poured through golden glass and secrets were traded in the stillness between sips of rare tea.
Light filtered in from above, casting a soft luminescence on polished marble floors and the delicate foliage of hanging orchids and blooming lemon trees. Gold latticework framed the ceiling like fine jewelry. The air was fragrant—notes of steam, citrus blossoms, and spiced jasmine—and the low murmur of conversation was muted, as if the building itself whispered decorum into the ears of its guests.
Then came the sound of hooves. Not loud, but deliberate. The carriage didn’t just arrive—it halted. Suddenly, with unnerving speed, the royal guards swept into formation.
It wasn’t ceremonial, nor for show. There was a kind of tension in the air, something tight and alert. Four guards stepped down from their flanking horses, instantly forming a tight perimeter around the polished black carriage before the footman even reached the door. Their faces were unreadable, eyes scanning every face nearby.
Sir Jean and Dame Adeline stepped toward the glass doors of the teahouse itself, their voices low, firm. The host inside immediately moved aside without question.
It was unusual. More than unusual.
Carriages bearing royal crests came and went in the capital all the time, but this wasn’t the typical escort or indulgent outing of a noble’s cousin. This was something else. The way the guards moved—quick, quiet, and close—spoke of secrecy, of someone important being protected before anyone could see too clearly.
And still, they came too late to shield him from notice.
Heads turned. Conversations died mid-sentence. A few cups stilled mid-air. Someone near the entrance stepped back without realizing it, just to make space for whatever power was about to emerge. Then he stepped down.
The great Sun of the Empire, Jotaro Nobelius Kujo.There was no mistaking him now.
Gone was the glittering uniform of ceremony. Instead, he wore an ensemble of deep charcoal wool and layered black silk—precise cuts, matte finish, the lines severe and elegant. A high-collared tunic trimmed with midnight blue embroidery wrapped close to his frame, its fastenings subtle and deliberate. Over his shoulders, a long overcoat hung open like shadowed armor, the inside lined in a deep wine-red satin that flickered only when he moved. No ornamentation. No crest. Only authority that spoke for itself.
A ripple of silence spread like wildfire through the crowd as whispers began to surface, not daring to break the stillness yet filled with excitement. He was unmistakable— a very presence enough to halt the busiest of conversations and still the most frantic of movements.
“A moment,” one woman whispered, pressing her hand to her chest, her fan fluttering in the air like a signal of disbelief. “Is he… here?”
A merchant, hands full with trinkets, froze mid-sale. Eyes wide, he half-turned, as if unsure if he was dreaming or witnessing an impossible reality. A slight murmur spread across the stalls, reverberating among the onlookers, each one holding their breath in the face of his undeniable authority.
Kalithea ascended the oak staircase with the poise of someone born to be observed. Her every step was a careful, deliberate motion, as though the stairs themselves had been made to cradle her feet. The polished wood beneath her heels gleamed under the soft light from greenhouse-esque windows, casting faint reflections of her gown, which fluttered like a bird taking flight. Dame Adeline and Dame Erin followed, a silent barrier around her, ensuring that no eyes could reach her until she allowed them to.
As she reached the upper floor, the air seemed to grow thicker, a tension weaving its way through the room. The delicate fragrance of jasmine lingered on her, wrapping around her like a hidden secret. Her gown shimmered in the dappled sunlight, the silver threads of embroidery glinting as she ascended higher, towards the most exclusive level of Labelle.
The upper floor of the teahouse was a world apart from the lower levels—reserved for the nobility, the merchant lords’ daughters, and the wealthiest patrons of the Empire. Here, white latticework framed large windows, and the air was perfumed with the scent of lemon blossoms. Crystal chandeliers hung low, their candles flickering in the soft breeze, casting warm, golden light over the exquisite arrangements of tea sets and fine silk-draped alcoves.
It was in this rarified air that Kalithea was first truly seen by the patrons.
A woman in a pale lavender gown, her neckline adorned with strands of pearls, set down her teacup with a clink that seemed louder than it should have been. She didn’t just look at Kalithea—she scrutinized her, her gaze sharp and calculating. She flicked a glance at her companion, a man in dark velvet, his brow furrowing as his eyes followed the same path. Her fan fluttered in the air, not in the usual gentle sway of politeness, but in anxious little jerks, betraying her discomfort.
“Who is she?” The words slipped from her lips with an urgency that could not be concealed. “I’ve never seen her before. Not in the courts, not at any ball. And look at her.”
A young woman seated near the railing leaned forward, her finely embroidered gown of deep emerald green catching the light. Her lips parted in surprise, and she whispered to her companion, her fan twirling with rapid anxiety. “She’s not veiled. And her—look at the way she holds herself. The guards—they moved for her, like… like she’s royalty.”
Another woman, sitting beneath the latticework, her gown of pale rose shifting as she adjusted her delicate waist, gave a slow, almost imperceptible shake of her head. “Royalty?” She gave a soft laugh, though it was laced with the kind of envy only the privileged could afford. “She’s too young. I bet she’s a daughter of some powerful merchant. Or an ambassador’s niece. But no, she—” She paused, biting her lip, unsure of what else to say.
Behind her, a merchant’s daughter, dressed in a stunning sapphire blue gown with gold thread woven through the hem, leaned forward with a practiced delicacy. Her fingers gripped her fan tightly, her knuckles pale, betraying her calm expression. “I think…” She swallowed, her voice lowered, “She must be someone important. Look at the way she carries herself. She is royalty, or something far higher. I don’t care what anyone says—look at her eyes. She’s not just any noblewoman.”
But it wasn’t just the women who whispered. A young man, his dark blue coat embroidered with the crest of his family, leaned back in his seat with a raised brow. His lips were parted slightly, and his gaze followed Kalithea as she ascended, every detail of her appearance taking root in his mind. He couldn’t help but murmur, though the words barely escaped his lips. “She’s not like any merchant’s daughter I’ve ever seen.”
“No,” another man added, his voice hushed, but his words carrying weight. His robes were more somber, lined with fine black velvet, the mark of someone used to the privileged world of the Empire. “She moves with the grace of someone who’s seen the world, or perhaps rules a part of it.”
The light seemed to bend around her, as if the very space made room for her presence. As she settled into the chair, her gown rippled like liquid silver, the delicate embroidery catching the light in a dance of glimmering threads.
Dame Adeline and Erin gave her a wink of approval, Sir Jean pulling the chair beside her outward. It’s back carved with intricate designs, yet the move was so deliberate, so charged with purpose, that the entire room held its breath. Eyes darted between Kalithea and the chair. The room fell silent, an invisible tension rising in the air like static before a storm.
And then, the door creaked open.
A figure stepped inside, so commanding that the world itself seemed to part for him. His presence was an echo that traveled ahead of him, vibrating through the room.
The air itself shifted, colder, sharper. The few who dared to look directly at him quickly lowered their gaze, as if the very sight of him demanded submission.
No one moved, no one breathed. The knights who so accompanied them both left to guard them from a bit away. The very man who now stood at the threshold—looked over the room with a gaze that could shatter mountains.
The instant his eyes swept over Kalithea, the room exploded.
With a slow, deliberate motion, Jotaro sat down beside her, his presence filling the space around them. The chair seemed to shrink in comparison to him, yet he made it seem almost insignificant as he settled into the seat with an effortless grace. As if everything had led to this moment, the very air thickened with disbelief.
A porcelain tea set, balanced in the trembling hands of a servant, slipped from their grasp and crashed to the ground with a sound so deafening, it shook the very walls. The delicate teacups shattered in a burst of crystalline fragments, but no one even flinched. Not a single soul in the room seemed to care. Their attention was fixed solely on the figure now sitting beside Kalithea.
The Emperor had joined her.
The air in the teahouse seemed to tremble, as though the very walls themselves recoiled from what was unfolding. The arrival of the emperor—the emperor, that figure whose name could send tremors through even the noblest hearts—was no mere event. It was an upheaval. A storm. A thunderclap that tore through the fragile peace of the early afternoon, leaving nothing but stunned silence in its wake.
Eyes widened, mouths parted. Fans fluttered helplessly in the air, some dropping from hands suddenly too stiff to grasp them. Noblewomen, their faces frozen in expressions of disbelief, watched as their delicate, jeweled accessories fell forgotten to the floor, the sharp clink of falling porcelain too loud for their ears to ignore. One young lady, her hand trembling so violently she could not control it, spilled the last remnants of her tea, the amber liquid splashing across her white lace gloves, but she made no move to wipe it away, too stunned by the sight before her.
“This cannot be real,” a voice whispered, so faint it was nearly swallowed by the collective gasps around the room. The words hovered, heavy with confusion and awe. A young woman, dressed in lavender silk woven with golden threads, leaned forward, clutching her friend’s arm with a grip so tight that the bones beneath her skin seemed to protest.
“Is she…a secret lover? A mistress?” Her companion’s voice cracked, the question hanging in the air, too sharp and too raw. “But no, the emperor would never—” She trailed off, as though trying to grasp at the very meaning of what she was seeing.
The older noblewoman beside her, a vision of calm composure with lips painted a perfect rose-pink, gave a slow, almost imperceptible sigh. It was too controlled, too drawn out, as if her heart was trying to keep up with the thoughts racing through her mind. “It’s impossible,” she murmured, the soft words a veil for the sharpness that lurked beneath. Yet, even as she spoke, a subtle, bitter edge in her voice betrayed her composure. “She looks too… too comfortable with him. She looks as though she belongs there, beside him. That—” She paused, her voice faltering as her gaze turned once again to the emperor, seated with effortless ease beside her.
Her husband squinted through his monocle, his mustache brushed in a curled twist. “A close confidante perhaps?” He swallowed with question. “Or… maybe his Empress?” He asked her wife with a thick white brow raised. She gasped, her mind wondering how could this be so.
“No no, it is quite impossible—though I would have heard…” She trailed off, but the unspoken question lingered in the air, heavy and unanswered. “If that were true, the court would be in an uproar.”
A pair of sisters nearby could not contain their wonder. Their gowns of deep emerald green so perfectly coordinated they looked like two sides of the same coin. The older sister, hand pressed to her chest, let out a strangled sound, her breath caught in her throat. “What does this mean?” she whispered, her voice trembling with a dangerous cocktail of excitement and fear.
Her sister adjacent to her, simply shook her head from side to side, pausing as she sipped her tea inquisitively. Before setting it down her mind decided there was only one possible explanation. “It must—must be a political alliance, not a hidden affair.”
Another man alongside his wife were quiet, yet their expression stated a different form of thinking. The brunette covered her lips with her hand, her husbands ear attentive to her words. “My dear! She doesn’t look like a common courtesan. Look at how she carries herself,” she said, her voice tinged with awe. “She looks like someone of high rank. Someone noble. Perhaps… Perhaps she’s royalty? Maybe a foreign princess?”
Across the room, two older women, widows draped in layers of lace and velvet, exchanged a look that spoke volumes of their skepticism. The first woman, her sharp features softened only by years of experience, sighed deeply and set her teacup down with a sound that seemed far too loud in the charged atmosphere. “When I was her age,” she murmured, her voice brittle as if each word had been carefully chosen, “I would never have dared… dared to sit so casually with the emperor. No woman—no noblewoman—would ever be permitted such liberties without having earned her place over years of careful maneuvering.”
Her daughter, her sharp eyes hidden behind the veil of her pearl-studded lace, inhaled sharply, the subtle sound carrying across the table. “Indeed. But even so,” she said, her voice cutting like a thin blade, “do you believe she could be a political envoy, mother? One sent from another house, perhaps, to establish some secret alliance?” She narrowed her gaze, watching Kalithea and the emperor closely. “But no. She’s far too young to be one of those, isn’t she? A diplomat would be far older, more… experienced.”
Her older mother paused, her fingers tracing the rim of her teacup as she watched the pair at the center of the room. “I would say too young, yes,” she replied, her voice a mix of curiosity and doubt. “But still, there’s something unsettling about the way he sits with her so easily. Look at him—so at ease, as though this is not his first time with her.” She swallowed, clearly discomforted by the thought. “Perhaps… an ambassador of sorts, someone with a direct link to a foreign court?” She hesitated. “But the way he looks at her—there is more to this than mere diplomacy.”
At the far end of the room, a group of servants, their faces perfectly blank, hovered near the walls, their movements slow, almost deliberate, as they passed tea to patrons who barely seemed to notice. But even the most well-trained among them couldn’t help the flickering glances they exchanged—quick, furtive, laden with silent questions that no one dared ask aloud. One young servant, his fingers trembling ever so slightly as he carefully adjusted the teapot, found his eyes drawn—compelled, even—to the emperor and the woman at his side. He watched, wide-eyed, as though he were a boy caught in the most dazzling of mysteries, his gaze darting between them, as if he were trying to solve the riddle of their union before him. It wasn’t until the hostess, a woman of incomparable discretion, sharply nudged him that he blinked, returning to his task, but even then, his eyes lingered too long, his hands betraying a nervous tremble.
Elsewhere, near the latticework window, a merchant—his russet velvet coat a stark contrast to the delicate silk and satin of the surrounding nobles—leaned toward his son, his brow furrowed in perplexity and a tinge of alarm. “Do you know who that woman is?” His voice was a low murmur, almost drowned by the collective undercurrent of whispers, but it cut through the room with startling clarity.
His son, eyes wide with curiosity, shook his head quickly, the confusion written all over his face. “No, Father. She doesn’t look like a court lady. Not at all.”
The merchant’s eyes never left the pair at the center of the room. “No,” he replied slowly, his voice growing lower, almost conspiratorial. “No, she does not.” He paused, his gaze intense, trying to unearth the truth hidden beneath her quiet elegance.
And so, the whispers began—low, feverish, gathering speed like a storm sweeping across the room, pulling everyone into its swirling vortex. “She’s far too confident to be a mere courtesan,” one voice sliced through the growing murmur, thick with awe, disbelief, and a hint of fear.
“She could be from Renadli,” another voice suggested, barely able to contain the shiver of suspicion and intrigue that ran through the words. “I hear noblewomen there are trained in the darkest arts of diplomacy, power so potent it can bend even the emperor’s will.”
“What does it mean?” a third voice whispered, breathless with the weight of something unspeakable. “She’s too pure, too untouched, too… untarnished for someone like her to be a simple court lady. Look at her. She doesn’t belong in his inner circle.”
“No,” a fourth voice interrupted, her words laced with sharp urgency, cutting through the rising tension. “Did you see how he looks at her? Have you heard how they speak? They are at ease with each other. It’s as though they’ve known each other forever. This isn’t casual—this is deliberate. Could it be a secret meeting? A political maneuver? A plot we don’t understand?”
“But no,” another voice said with a dismissive scoff, its tone thick with both disdain and incredulity. “She’s no courtesan. Look at her. She stands there untouched, untainted, almost… otherworldly. If she were one of those women, the emperor would never have chosen to sit with her. He would never have lowered himself.”
A heavy silence settled for a heartbeat, before the murmurs exploded again, swirling faster, more fevered. The emperor chose her. His choice echoed like a thunderclap in the minds of all present, and no one could escape its reverberation. His decision had shaken the very foundations of everything they knew.
The emperor had chosen her.
The room around them hummed with a current of whispers, an undercurrent of curiosity and speculation that seemed to swirl in every direction. While the rest of the teahouse hummed with curiosity, Jotaro and Kalithea existed in a bubble of calm—a serene pocket untouched by the murmurs that spiraled just beyond their reach. The gentle clink of porcelain, the rustle of silken garments, and the faint hum of the surrounding whispers blended into a world all their own.
With a subtle wave of his hand, Jotaro called the servant’s attention, his gaze never leaving the table as if commanding not just the man, but the entire atmosphere. When the polished mahogany cigar box arrived, its surface gleaming under the low light of the teahouse, the scent of fine tobacco added another layer to the unfolding scene. His fingers, long and controlled, tapped the box open with effortless grace, and the soft rustle of the lid reverberated through the silence. The motion drew the eyes of a few curious patrons, but none dared linger long. His movements were fluid, as though the space around him bent to his will.
Kalithea’s lavender orbs were fixed on him, her attention unwavering as she grasped her booklet, lifting her pen with graceful precision. Jotaro, ever observant, noted her movements with ease, a quiet smile painting her expression. “Jotaro, I’ve never seen you smoke a cigar before.” she wrote, the words simple yet imbued with a warmth that matched her quiet grace.
Jotaro’s gaze flickered briefly to the booklet, and for the smallest moment, the tension in his posture softened. His eyes returned to Kalithea, meeting her smile with a rare flicker of warmth. His lips curved ever so slightly, the faintest hint of a smile, before his expression settled back into its usual composure.
“Does it bother you?” he asked, his face relaxed, yet his tone carrying the weight of his quiet curiosity. Kalithea quickly scribbled her response, the slight shock in her features betraying her surprise, as if the very thought of being disturbed by him was almost laughable.
“No no not at all! But, I suppose it is such a surprise for me. After all, you must grant me some credit for being so reserved most of the time.” She wrote again, her quill dancing over the page with fluid grace. Jotaro let out a soft huff of amusement, the corner of his mouth twitching with the barest hint of a smile.
“I have many habits, Kalithea. Some of them are just less… public,” he replied, his eyes now fixated on her, as if he were studying her every reaction. There was something in his gaze—quiet yet intense—that held her there in that moment. “I will only allow you to see this side of me,” he continued, his voice a low murmur, the words carrying an unspoken weight of intimacy.
Kalithea’s cheeks warmed ever so slightly, a soft tint spreading across her skin at the unexpected compliment. Jotaro noticed the shift immediately, his sharp gaze flickering to her flushed cheeks. For a brief moment, he froze. He had never seen her react like this before. A strange feeling flickered inside him—something unspoken, unfamiliar—and before he could fully process it, he quickly turned his eyes away, as though distancing himself from it.
Dame Adeline and Erin—stood sentinel just a few paces away, their presence unwavering. Erin’s sharp eyes swept across the room, missing nothing, while Dame Adeline subtly adjusted her stance, her hand never straying far from her sword. The stillness between the two women only heightened the subtle tension in the air, creating a protective cocoon around their lady.
Jotaro looked at Kalithea ever so slightly as he turned back to her, the warmth of her blush still lingering in his mind. Then, with deliberate calm, he turned to the servant nearby. His voice, low and authoritative, broke the silence. “Bring the finest tea you have for her,” he commanded, his tone smooth yet firm. There was no need for further elaboration. The servant understood at once, bowing deeply before hurrying off to fulfill the request.
The servant, recognizing the subtle authority in Jotaro’s tone, quickly bowed with deep respect, his voice steady but filled with deference, “At once, Your Majesty.” He turned on his heel, moving swiftly to carry out the request, his every motion reflecting the care with which he would fulfill such a command.
Kalithea’s eyes followed the servant for a moment, the hustle and bustle of the teahouse now distant to her senses. Her fingers hovered over the porcelain teacup, tracing the delicate rim with the gentlest of touches, grounding herself in the moment. She did not reach for the cup immediately, instead choosing to remain still, as though savoring the quiet connection that hummed between her and Jotaro. There was an unspoken understanding in the way they existed together, a calm that mirrored his stillness and her composed nature.
The servant soon returned, the gleaming silver tray cradled in his hands with practiced ease. With the precision of someone well-trained, he poured the tea into Kalithea’s cup, the steam rising in soft spirals, carrying the subtle fragrance of jasmine. The scent filled the air, delicate yet persistent, weaving through the warmth of the teahouse and into Kalithea’s senses. The moment stretched, suspended in time, as the warm liquid swirled in the cup. Each delicate rise of steam felt like a symbol of peace, a quiet moment amidst the noise of the outside world.
Kalithea’s fingers lingered on the rim of her teacup, tracing the delicate porcelain as if seeking comfort in its smooth surface. The warmth of the tea seeped into her hands, slowly working its way up her arms, but it was the quiet rhythm of the moment that settled over her most—a stillness that stood in stark contrast to the clamor of the teahouse. Her thoughts were a quiet hum, steady and grounded, but her gaze never left the gentle swirl of steam rising from her cup.
The raven haired male watched her in silence, his presence a constant weight beside her, yet somehow never oppressive. His cigar sat loosely between his fingers, the smoke curling around him like a gentle fog that seemed to part when it reached Kalithea.
Breaking the quiet, Jotaro’s voice was low, carrying a subtle warmth that seemed to soften the weight of the room. “How is your tea? Are you comfortable?” His words weren’t hurried, his tone measured and deliberate, as if choosing each syllable with care. She turned her eyes from the cup to his face, finding that his countenance and character was more than what he showed.
Breaking the quiet, Jotaro’s voice was low, carrying a subtle warmth that seemed to soften the weight of the room. “Are you comfortable, Kalithea?” His words weren’t hurried, his tone measured and deliberate, as if choosing each syllable with care. His gaze flickered to her cup, then back to her face, lingering just a moment longer than necessary.
Kalithea’s gaze briefly darted to the groups of noblewomen huddled together, whispering behind their fans, their eyes flicking toward her every now and then. Then, as if on cue, her shoulders relaxed, and she leaned slightly back in her chair, her fingers releasing the tight grip on her teacup. The faintest exhale escaped her lips as she refocused on him. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear—an unconscious, graceful motion that caught the light and revealed the curve of her cheek.
“The tea is delicious,” she wrote in her booklet, almost as if the thought had only just occurred to her. “I can’t fathom the richness of the flavor. Yet… since we are in another region than Ilicia, I wonder if it’s a different blend.” Her voice lingered on the thought before growing more hushed. “Nevertheless… despite the stares I may receive, or the whispers of gossip, I am comfortable with your presence beside me… that is the only reason I feel less afraid.”
She glanced up at him again, catching his gaze for a brief, meaningful moment before her eyes dropped once more to the edge of her teacup. His fingers, resting on the edge of the table, moved slightly, almost as if he meant to reach for her hand but thought better of it.
Jotaro’s gaze didn’t waver. “Even then Kalithea, Despite everything,” he said, his voice steady—unshaken, without hesitation, “you handle it well. And I’m not surprised in the slightest.”
Kalithea blinked, her heart skipping a beat. She looked up at him, taken off guard by the certainty in his words. His gaze held hers with such depth that it felt like he could see straight through her, into the very heart of her. She exhaled slowly, a soft breath escaping her lips as she met his eyes, feeling an unfamiliar warmth rush through her chest.
“I very much try..” she wrote softly, her fingers lingering over the page, her words coming with care, “I try to be the perfect lady—the kind no one can fault. At least… in your presence.”
His eyes lingered on her, fierce and honest, like he meant every word—like he could see beyond the mask she wore for the world. “You already are,” he responded quickly, and without hesitation.
Kalithea’s breath left her in a sharp, quiet gasp, her lungs suddenly hollowed as if the air itself had been stolen from her. Her pulse quickened, each beat thundering in her chest as she stared at him, her heart caught between disbelief and something softer, something deeper. She hadn’t expected him to say that—not like this, not with such quiet, unwavering conviction.
The sunlight streamed through the wide, latticed window beside them, warm and golden, spilling over her face like liquid light. It brushed against her cheek, kissed the curve of her jaw, and danced through the fiery red strands of her hair, setting them ablaze in a soft, ethereal glow. Her hair shimmered like the flicker of flames in the dark, each strand catching the light as if they were alive. Jotaro’s eyes followed the trail of light, his gaze softening as it lingered on the way it kissed her skin, tracing the delicate outline of her features.
Her lips parted, and slowly, a smile blossomed on her face. It was hesitant at first, but then it grew into something more—gentle, unguarded, utterly real. It was a smile meant just for him, something she had never shared before, and it took him by surprise. The room seemed to hold its breath. Her beauty, bathed in the light, was so enchanting that it left him speechless. She had always been beautiful, but this? This was something more. Something that reached beyond mere appearance.
Jotaro stared at her, his heart unexpectedly seized. The way the sunlight made her hair glow, the way her smile lit up the room—it made everything around him fade into the background. She was the center of his world in that moment, and he didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to breathe, as though he was caught in something he couldn’t escape.
He drew in a breath. It wasn’t loud, but it was sharp—almost as though he had forgotten how to breathe, how to think. He drew in a breath. It wasn’t loud, but it was sharp—almost as though he had forgotten how to breathe, how to think.
He leaned forward just slightly, his gaze steady but softer now. “What would you like to do, Kalithea?” His voice was calm, but the words felt weighty, like he was offering her something precious. “Where would you like to go? What would make you happy, in this moment?”
She looked down at her booklet, her fingers tracing the edge, and then began writing slowly, the elegant strokes of ink forming words she had carefully thought out, words that carried her own quiet yearning. “I long for a place where silence lingers. A garden, perhaps, or somewhere by the sea, where the grass grows soft beneath the sun’s warm touch. A space where no one else is, where I can simply breathe and exist without being seen.”
Jotaro’s gaze lingered on the words, the quiet longing in her writing tugging at something deep within him. Her wish wasn’t just for solitude, but for peace—a place where the world could fade away, and perhaps, just for a moment, so could they.
Jotaro read her words, the simplicity of her request striking him in a way he hadn’t expected. It was raw and sincere—something only she could ask for, with no pretense. He exhaled slowly, his chest tightening slightly. It was as if her words had pierced through the veil of the world around them, leaving only truth.
He met her eyes, his voice steady, but softer than usual. “That’s what we’ll do,” he said. His tone was filled with certainty, as if he had made a promise, a vow in that one sentence.
Without another word, Jotaro doused the cigar in the ashtray with a quiet flick, the red ember fading into darkness. He stood, his movements deliberate and composed, as he placed a small stack of gold coins on the table—more than enough to cover their drinks. His eyes swept across the room, scanning for the lingering gazes of others, the subtle weight of their attention never far from his mind.
Then, with a quiet yet unmistakable gesture, he extended his arm toward her. It wasn’t just a mere offering; it was a silent invitation, an undeniable claim. His posture was perfect, strong and sure, his elbow bent just enough to give her the space to make the decision herself. There was something deliberate in his every movement—a quiet confidence that she would, without a doubt, accept
The room seemed to hold its breath, as if the atmosphere had shifted. His action was a subtle, yet undeniable declaration. He wasn’t simply a man of stature—he was a man of intention, and she, the one he was choosing to walk with.
Jotaro’s gaze never wavered. His eyes, steady and certain, locked with hers as she placed her arm through his. There was no rush, no force. He didn’t need to pull her closer; she moved toward him on her own, as if drawn by an invisible thread that had always existed between them. The moment their arms entwined, the world around them seemed to soften. The sounds of the room dimmed, the whispers grew quieter, and the air thickened with the unspoken connection they now shared.
He helped her rise from her seat, his hand gently guiding her, his fingers steady around her wrist. There was no pressure, only support—a careful, deliberate gesture that held her close without holding her too tight. The intimacy of the movement spoke volumes, a quiet promise in the way his hand lingered on her, grounding her in that moment before they stepped forward.
Together, they moved toward the door. The shift in the room was palpable, the nobles’ gazes following them as they passed, but the two of them were beyond the whispers now. In that shared silence, the attention of the others felt distant, unimportant. It was just them—side by side, with an unspoken understanding that this moment, this connection, was theirs alone.
They walked in step, as if they had always moved like this, side by side, their bond unspoken but undeniable. The whispers of the room followed them, but they were nothing more than a distant hum compared to the steady rhythm of their footsteps.
Jotaro’s eyes remained locked on Kalithea, the weight of his gaze speaking volumes—calm, steady, protective. As they walked through the threshold, the world outside seemed to open up for them, offering a new path, one that only they would walk together. In the quiet between them, there was a sense of something solid forming—something unshakable, and only they could see it.
Notes:
As I have said, in some comments, maybe, I am writing these chapters in advance! More will come soon, drama, tea, and more romance for all of your readers! Please feel free to leave comments or kudos whenever you feel the need! Author out— Mitsukisenpai3
Chapter 33: Socialite
Chapter Text
The garden lay hidden in the folds of the estate like a precious secret—a sanctuary quietly cradled between stone walls and timeworn marble. Though it was not as vast as the imperial grounds, it possessed a charm the larger gardens could never claim. Here, there was no grand fountain roaring into basins of crystal or statuary parading in regal symmetry. Instead, the quiet hush of rustling ivy and the tender breath of blooming roses gave the space a softer heartbeat. This was a place for whispers, not declarations.
A single stone path, aged and speckled with moss, curved through the garden like a ribbon of memory. The light of the afternoon sun streamed gently through layers of flowering branches, casting warm golds and dappled shadows across the ground. At intervals, miniature marble statues stood—some caught mid-dance, others cloaked in mystery, worn by rain and reverence. One statue near the garden’s edge bore the likeness of a woman with her face tilted to the sky, arms stretched heavenward, vines tangled delicately around her limbs like lace.
A small fountain murmured at the center, its basin carved from pale stone and filled with lily pads, their green leaves trembling under the occasional splash of a dragonfly. The trickle of water echoed gently beneath the shade of a weeping willow, whose silvered branches draped across one edge of the garden like a veil. Along the garden walls, ivy crept in tangled vines, mingling with soft pink wisteria and bursts of clematis, painting the stone in layers of wild, deliberate beauty. Beyond the foliage, a single Romanesque arch stood tall and silent, its weathered pillars half-swallowed by blooms—majestic, yet forgotten, like the ghost of a vanished civilization.
Kalithea moved through the garden as though she had stepped from one of its paintings. Her gown, though modest by courtly standards, was unmistakably noble—light pink silk trailing like quiet light across the moss-laced stones, each fold kissed with crimson and ivory embroidery at the sleeves and collar. The sunlight brushed her as though it knew her name, glinting against the shimmer of threadwork that rippled softly with her every step.
Her hair, pinned in loose, romantic waves, was gathered half-up with a pearl comb tucked behind her ear—delicate and demure. Soft strands framed her face like tendrils of rose gold spun with light. She did not wear a crown of metal, only a thin braid woven across her crown like a circlet made of memory. Her slippers, pale ivory, barely made a sound as she stepped around a patch of violets, as if even the flowers were worthy of reverence.
Dame Erin crouched nearby, arms full of flowers, as Kalithea leaned toward a cluster of soft cream roses. She didn’t prune them. She only observed—eyes moving slowly, reverently, as if reading a forgotten verse written in each petal. Her fingers hovered, then brushed a single browning edge free, letting it fall like the sigh of a sleeping memory. Her lashes lowered as she drew close to another blossom, inhaling the faint sweetness that rose like perfume from an old dream. Then, with quiet precision, she plucked a healthy bloom from the shade—its stem straight, its color delicate as fresh cream—and laid it gently with the others resting beside her.
With hands as deft as a seamstress weaving moonlight into silk, she worked the stems into a soft circle, green threads curling between the petals. The crown took shape in her lap—humble, but glowing with something unspoken. It wasn’t made for display. It was made for the kind of beauty that needed no audience.
”Dame Adeline, Dame Erin?” Kalithea wrote softly in her notebook, handwriting fluid as thoughts. “What do you think of this? The shaded ones are sweeter than they appear. I’ve noticed, like the camellia’s, that they bloom slowly, but they don’t burn under the scorching sun”
”I think they're lovely. Back at the place, I would think they act the same like this? Yet I believe they waited.” She replied with a smile, continuing. “Quiet things, wait to be seen.”
Kalithea smiled at her response, pleased that her work wasn’t in vain. She simply bowed her head again, choosing a new cluster of soft lavender roses, each one curled like folded silk. She threaded them with the same graceful rhythm, letting the silence shape her reply.
Erin looked at it, nodding in approval as she crouched to pick up a stray petal Iggy had trampled. Her fingers brushing the rim of Kalithea’s basket, while opening her lips to speak. “You know,” she mused, inspecting the delicate craftsmanship of the flower crowns, “if I’d tried this, I would’ve crushed half the roses just by breathing near them.”
Kalithea glanced up,quietly setting Iggy’s discarded rose crown back into the basket with care, then scribbled a response and tilted the page toward Erin.
“That’s because you’re strong, and after all, there’s nothing wrong with not knowing how to do something.”
Kalithea’s smile widened just a little, eyes crinkling at the corners as she reached up to tug a blossom into place beside another crown. The breeze lifted strands of her hair, red and soft as evening light. She didn’t write again, but the silence that followed didn’t ask her to.
Suddenly, a blur of black and white darted through the rosebushes like a bolt of chaos.
Iggy launched himself into the garden with all the subtlety of a cannonball, scattering petals in his wake, ears flopping, tail wagging like a banner of war. A single rose petal clung stubbornly to the top of his head like a crown he hadn’t earned, but wore anyway. He bounded toward Kalithea with scrappy determination, paws dirt-smudged, eyes sharp with impatience.
Kalithea didn’t flinch. She extended a hand calmly, already expecting him. Iggy paused at the edge of her skirt, snorted, and regarded her palm with narrowed eyes—as if weighing her worth. Then, with a huff of mock reluctance, he allowed her fingers to stroke beneath his chin, nose lifting like royalty tolerating affection.
The redhead gathered him into her arms, silk sleeves brushing his ears. He stiffened briefly—tail twitching, eyes darting—before grudgingly settling against her chest with a sigh that sounded entirely too dramatic for a creature his size. She buried her nose in his fur, laughing silently as she quickly scribbled in her book and held it up.
“I suppose, he’s decided the garden belongs to him.” She smiled as he let out a satisfied huff. “I’m simply just a guest.”
Dame Adeline looked at Iggy, who had now stationed himself beside the basket like a scrappy bodyguard, tail curled, eyes half-lidded but watchful. “Well,” she said dryly, “he does look like he runs the place. I’m not about to argue.”
Iggy gave an immediate bark of protest. Then, with great theatrical effort, he turned his back on them all, tail flicking once with indignation, and sat in a perfect sulk.
“Well, my apologies, Your Majesty. Next time, dare I say, I’ll bring you a throne.” Erin intoned with a mock bow.
Iggy’s ears pricked up. A sharp bark burst from him—clear, commanding, unprovoked. He stood at once, tail stiff, eyes locked on the ivy-laced archway, as if he’d sensed something the others hadn’t. Erin froze, pruning shears mid-air. Adeline straightened slightly, her brows drawing together. Kalithea turned her head, her hand suspended above a half-finished rose crown.
There was no sound at first—no trumpets, no boots, no fanfare. But at the edge of the path, her knights were already bowing their heads.Then, without hurry or grand announcement, he stepped into view.
With a white shirt, the collar loose at the throat, sleeves rolled to the forearms, and dark trousers tailored close. The breeze caught the soft folds of linen, sunlight tracing the lines of movement. He looked—strikingly unguarded.Not unkempt. Never. But pared down. The man beneath the empire, walking quietly into the garden.
Iggy’s tail swept once. Then he circled Kalithea’s skirts and settled beside her, alert and still.
Kalithea didn’t rise.
She stayed seated, her presence a quiet command in the afternoon warmth. The marble beneath her was smooth and sun-warmed, the sun’s heat pressing gently against her skin, as though the garden itself had decided to cradle her. A scattering of flower crowns lay in her lap—some half-finished, others starting to lose their shape in the heat.
When she dipped her head in greeting, it wasn’t with the hollow formality that had become second nature to the court. It was deeper—something untouched by the world around her. Grace, unforced, effortless. The stillness of her figure was the kind that invited reverence, not because it was demanded but because it simply was.
“I thought I’d find you here,” he said, his voice a smooth thing that filled the air between them. It wasn’t loud, but it had weight—deep, comforting, like a secret shared only with the wind. There was a softness in it, something worn by time, something that made the moment feel more real than any crown ever could.
Kalithea’s fingers brushed the pages of her small booklet. They moved with a familiarity that suggested she’d written many things here—thoughts, reflections, even the words that were too difficult to speak aloud. The quiet of her writing was the loudest thing in the space.
“I’m not surprised, yet I am only partially. In this quiet corner of the world, I like it here. The roses don’t whisper, and the wind doesn’t judge.”
He reached behind him, slow and deliberate, and pulled out a letter. The seal had already been broken, the edges slightly crinkled as if it had been read more than once—perhaps in the silence of his own thoughts. He extended it toward her, the paper light in the sun, as though offering her the words inside it, giving her the choice to receive them as her own.
“I received this today,” he said, his voice even, though the weight of it was inescapable.
Kalithea took the letter from him with a quiet reverence. The invitation shone in her hands, the silver foil catching the light and throwing it back at her. It was rich with the kind of elegance only old money and power could afford, the kind that held secrets between its folds and judgments in its ink. The House of Belvarez, a name whispered with admiration and fear. The invitation was a proclamation, a demand wrapped in pleasantries. A list of noble names, each one more elaborate than the last, but there, at the bottom, was the line she knew would be there, the one that made her feel as though she weren’t even part of the equation.
We humbly await the presence of The Sun of the Empire, His Majesty the Emperor of Algeria.
Her eyes flickered over it, but there was no anger or sadness in her gaze. Just a quiet acknowledgment. She lifted her pen, the movement deliberate, almost final. Her fingers paused over the page, and then she wrote—each word etched with the weight of truth. “Jotaro, they have invited you—not the girl who picks dead roses.”
“Yes, they may have invited me,” he said, his voice steady, unwavering. “But I won’t be going alone.”
Kalithea’s fingers paused. Her hand didn’t tremble, but something fragile passed through her anyway—a quiet war between disbelief and something dangerously close to hope. “Jotaro…You want me to attend with you? To a place like this—I think this is a much more important event than the winter ball.”
“Why wouldn’t I bring you with me?” He replied quickly, yet his certainty enveloped her shoulders with a warming sensation.
Her gaze drifted toward the ivy-laced archway where Adeline and Erin still stood, silent and watchful, as if even they didn’t want to interrupt the stillness. She wrote again, slower now.
“They’ll remember the tea house. I’m sure someone will already recognize me from that day.”
“They’ll talk. I’m sure they already have.” He said calmly, as if that truth held no weight against his decision. “ But now his voice had an edge of something else—steel beneath silk. “But most of them won’t believe it. Not truly. People only believe what they can prove… or ruin.”
Her gaze dropped to the invitation again, the silver ink glinting like a blade in the sun. But now, she didn’t look at it with hesitation. She looked at it with something quieter—still, but rising. If they were going to look at her, then let them see her for who she really was—not just the girl with the roses, but the one they couldn’t dismiss.
She lifted her pen again, slower this time, as though the moment required more than mere ink. The air between them had shifted—not thick, not heavy, but steeped in something quieter. Expectant.
“When will we leave for this event today?
The question lingered in the space like perfume—delicate, but impossible to ignore.
Jotaro didn’t pause. His reply was certain, deliberate. “The council members have already arrived in Renaldi,” he said, and there was a kind of practiced ease in his voice, the tone of a man who had grown used to naming powerful people like they were pieces on a board. “They’ve been meeting for days. Heads of state. Royal advisors. The king’s wishes for the season. The foreign ministers who pretend to speak softly so they can listen harder.”
He didn’t look at her as he spoke—his eyes drifted past her shoulder, as if the weight of what awaited him was already sitting in the distance. “All of them are there to position themselves before the season begins. They come dressed in silk and civility, but every conversation is a transaction. Proposals for trade routes disguised as congratulations. Suggestions for marriage spun like compliments. Political alliances presented with honeyed voices and rehearsed glances. And the scandals they don’t want to speak of…” His jaw tightened faintly as he stuck his hand in his pocket. “Those are the ones that cost the most to silence.”
Kalithea’s pen touched the paper again, her fingers moving with more precision now—calmer, surer.
“Affairs of state” she wrote. “These matters are dressed in velvet and are supposedly sweet like sugared fruit.”
The hint of a near smile tugged at the corners of his mouth like he wasn’t used to doing it, not often, but found it fitting now. “Exactly.” With the quiet momentum of someone who moved only when it mattered. He came close enough that she could feel the steadiness of him—his presence not pressing against her, but holding the space like a promise.
“I will be joining you later that evening,” he said quickly, through her eyes betrayed how she truly felt. She trusted him fully, yet her heart was filled with unspoken questions. “You’ll go first,” he said not long after, pausing to showcase his goals.
“The event begins long before my duties will release me. I’ll be with the council from dawn until dusk.” He looked back to her then, the smallest flicker of something wry in his expression—as if he found the whole ordeal slightly ridiculous, but was too used to it to laugh. “Despite all of this, I will not let you arrive alone and on your own accord. Sir Jean, Sir Amadeus, and your personal knights you are familiar with will remain by your side.
“I understand, and I am grateful.” She replied in her written words.“But… what of you? How will you endure such a day and then step into an evening wrapped in even more pleasantries? I very doubt my presence will bring you any peace… beyond the silence I offer.” Her eyes averted from his as if her concern might break the balance of the air.
I’ll move through it as I always do. One matter at a time. One voice, then the next.” He looked toward the far edge of the garden, where sunlight had begun to fall like gold across the old stone. “And when the hour comes to leave it behind—I’ll be glad for what follows.”
A smile touched her lips then—slow and delicate, like moonlight slipping across still water. It wasn’t broad, nor meant for anyone else to see. The raven haired male moved again, almost absentmindedly, as though compelled by instinct rather than thought. His hand lifted, reaching for something near her—maybe the loose thread at the edge of her shawl, or perhaps the chain of her writing pendant that had gone crooked. But he never reached it.
“Your Majesty,” came a voice from beyond the hedgerow, respectful and low. One of his other knights, stepping just into view. “The carriage is ready, we leave when you are ready.”
The man paused, his fingers still suspended in the space between intention and touch. Slowly, he drew them back, letting the unfinished gesture fall away like breath against glass. The day had begun moving again, and duty would not wait.
“I’ll see you this evening,” he said at last, his voice quieter now, shaped by something warmer than formality. “You’ll already be there, but I’ll find you.”
The weight of his gaze lingered a heartbeat too long—enough to leave its mark in the air between them. Then he turned, the folds of his shirt stirring gently at his heels as he walked toward the path where his carriage waited with the quiet confidence of a man who knew precisely where he was going—and who would be waiting for him when the evening drew close.
Kalithea stood still for a moment more, as if she, too, remained caught in the warmth of something unspoken. Then, with her chin lifted just slightly and her expression composed, she turned toward the garden archway where her ladies-in-waiting already stood.
Onwards to the quiet coronation of presence. And behind her, the golden hush of the garden stirred once more, folding itself into the afternoon like a secret well kept.
Jotaro allowed one final glance over his shoulder—the breeze still stirring the leaves where Kalithea had sat only moments ago. Her scent lingered faintly in the air: jasmine, parchment, and warmth. He stepped into the corridor, the hush of the palace wrapping around him like a cloak.
By the time he reached the outer court, the carriage was waiting— His guards bowed as he approached, silent and practiced, the door held open with reverence and precision. Despite the unprecedented event ahead, over a little while Renaldi began to unfurl—stone bridges arching over calm canals, towers tapering into the sky like the tips of candle flames. The deeper they went, the more the city shimmered: flower stalls trimmed with ribbons, market canopies dancing in the breeze. Nothing had changed in the slightest from the tea house event, maybe it has, but he did not care enough to venture into it further.
He arrived at the palace gates just as the sky began to warm with the colors of late afternoon. Guards in cream and silver opened the wrought iron gates with measured grandeur, their armor catching the light like mirrors. The main palace—Renaldi’s crown jewel—stood at the center of the court like a monument to time. Polished stone, gilded glass, and an unspoken challenge of elegance.
Jotaro stepped down from the carriage, nearly feeling the headache come on to him. The hush followed him into the grand entry hall, where a steward bowed low and gestured toward the corridor ahead. “Greetings to the Sun of the Empire.” The man proclaimed. “Your Majesty King Rist and the others await you, sire.”
The man gave a faint nod to his message, the man walking a long deliberate pathway. Columns of pale marble framed the passageway, the floor beneath his boots a cool stretch of patterned onyx and cream. Candlelight flickered from high chandeliers, casting shadows that seemed to bow as he passed.
The diplomatic chamber stretched long and bright, its vaulted ceiling glittering with chandeliers shaped like constellations arrested mid-dance. The scent in the air—polished wood and citrus oil—spoke of formality dressed in finery, a kingdom’s bid for elegance. Yet the moment Emperor Jotaro stepped through the arched entryway, that hush of cultivated decorum fractured ever so slightly at its seams. Not because of him—but because King Rist Renaldi could not stay still.
He rose with a flourish far too grand for the hour, nearly tangling his sash as he strode forward, arms wide, his grin unfiltered and boyish. The kind of smile that knew no rejection, no subtlety. His crown was slightly askew, as if it had been donned in haste or distraction, and his gait, while well-practiced, bore none of the gravity that might’ve come with wisdom or age.
“Your Majesty!” he boomed, arms opening wide in welcome. “I was beginning to think the empire was keeping you all to themselves.”
Jotaro, measured as a winter tide, did not rush to meet the greeting. His reply came with composed poise, voice low and smooth as parchment. “Renaldi has its own draw,” he said. “Though I hear your messengers have grown… determined.”
Rist laughed—a hearty, unashamed burst of sound that broke across the marble floor like a stone tossed in water. “They practically threw the gates open this time!” he confessed, leaning in as if to share a mischief, though the entire room could hear. “Queen Cassandra, my wife as you know, suggested I try subtlety for once. But—well—” He gave a little shrug, a grin quirking at his lips. “Subtlety isn’t really my strength.”
“I’ve noticed,” Jotaro said, voice even, unreadable.
They turned as a pair—Rist, however, surged forward again, nearly forgetting the weight of the assembly behind him. The long walk toward the crescent-shaped table felt ceremonial, yet laced with something more immediate—a political theatre already ablaze.
Each seat bore a gilded crest, provincial sigils etched in miniature—a sunfish for the southern coast, the mountain stag of Far Dorel, the triple oars of Myrose. Envoys from the south stood as the emperor passed, their robes catching the light with fine embroidery, veils angled in practiced reverence. Two northern lords, less refined in manner, lingered a breath too long before scrambling to their feet, red-faced and fumbling at the belts of their tunics.
The hush returned. Not fearful. But attentive. The air shifted as the emperor approached—less ceremony, more gravity. Jotaro took his seat without flourish. No need to assert what was already understood. His hands folded in his lap, posture still and unwavering. Every eye in the room adjusted around him.
King Rist, by contrast, seemed allergic to stillness. He lingered awkwardly above his seat, glanced down at it as though it might bite him, then smoothed his tunic, tugged at the edge of his sleeve, and sat halfway—only to stand again to adjust his sash once more. Finally, with a faint huff of his own breath, he lowered himself, though even seated he shifted restlessly.
“Lord Carran of Myrose, you have the floor,” announced one of the chamber stewards, gesturing toward a portly man whose rings clinked softly as he rose.
The insignia of the Myrosen port gleamed at his collar—three silver oars over a navy crest.
“Myrose humbly requests additional grain shipments before the close of season,” Carran began, his voice thick with formality, though his fingers drummed nervously against the wood. “We’ve yet to recover from last spring’s flooding. The eastern silos remain under reconstruction.”
There was a pause. Not immediate. Deliberate.
Jotaro didn’t lift his head, only spoke with the kind of cold steadiness that could crack granite. He looked at the papers without much thought, opening his lips to speak. “Have you diverted any of your merchant ships from the wine routes to aid with food transport?”
Carran hesitated. “We… had not. The vineyards bring in too much revenue to risk interruption—”
“Then the Empire will match your request with a reduced allotment,” Jotaro said, lifting his gaze slowly. “Contingent upon your own fleets contributing to recovery efforts. If not, the deficit falls on your own leadership.”
Carran opened his mouth—perhaps to protest, perhaps to plead—but Jotaro had already moved on. The mercy had been given, in as much measure as it had been earned.
“Lord Elian of Duskwreath.”
“A tall man rose—his frame weathered by wind and sea, his leathers inked with the curling symbols of his coastal province. “Duskwreath submits a revised clause for the naval trade amendment,” he said. “Our waters have seen increased piracy—three attacks this month alone. We propose joint patrols with Empire ships along the western bay.”
At that, Rist straightened, raising his goblet like a toast. “Now that I like! Picture it—Renaldi banners and Imperial sails cutting across the horizon together! Like brothers of the sea!”
Jotaro didn’t blink. “Joint patrols require shared jurisdiction. Would Renaldi relinquish maritime sovereignty during these operations?”
Rist froze, mid-swirl of his goblet. “Well… perhaps not relinquish exactly—more like… lend. Casually.”
“Any agreement lacking clarity will result in border tension,” Jotaro said, voice low and inexorable. “I’ll approve the joint patrols with limited jurisdiction—contingent upon bi-weekly reports submitted to both courts.” Only then did his gaze slide to Elian, a glint of warning behind his eyes. “And if I find the reports fabricated, I’ll end the agreement myself.” Paper rustled faintly. One lord scribbled a note, his ink shaky.
“And—ah, yes,” Rist interjected brightly, ever desperate to mend the tone. “What about the suggestion from Baron Malyk? Something about using drake oil to warm the northern barracks?”
“Drake oil is volatile and restricted under Article IX of the Eldross Accord,” Jotaro said, the answer already poised like an unsheathed blade. “And Malyk is currently under investigation for tampering with imperial seals. I suggest we discuss something grounded in reality.”
A muffled cough echoed from one of the western seats—an ill-contained laugh, swallowed in the sleeve of protocol.
“Alright, alright,” Rist chuckled, holding up his hands. “I concede, I concede! Just trying to keep the mood light.”
The steward cleared his throat gently. “The next item of business—Sir Arvain of Hollowgrove wishes to address cross-border taxation.”
A lean man in forest green robes stood, his shoulders stiff with contained quiet indignation. “Several of our merchants are being double-taxed while passing through East Wyne. I sent a formal grievance to their counsel three weeks ago and have received no reply.”
Jotaro met his gaze directly. “You’ll have your reply by week’s end. If not, I’ll dispatch an audit team myself. The Empire does not tolerate interference with merchant rights.” Silence fell like a pin dropped in snow.
Rist took another sip of wine, then leaned Jotaro’s way with a boyish grin. “Remind me never to try smuggling anything past you.”
But the moment lingered only a beat. The steward stepped forward once more, parchment in hand, the chamber already bracing for the next thread of concern, the next knot to be unraveled.
And through it all, Jotaro remained as he always did—steady, sharp, unmoved by flattery, unmoved by weakness. He rewarded clarity. He dismantled excuses. And still, beneath the chilled poise of command, there were brief flashes of grace—small mercies offered when accountability earned them. Because justice, to him, was never emotion. It was discipline. Balance. Precision. And that alone was power.
The hours unfurled like parchment, endless and dry, inked with names he no longer cared to remember. By the time the light from the upper gallery windows had begun to lean long across the chamber floor, the gilded luster of diplomacy had dulled into repetition. Petitioners had come and gone—each bearing promises gilded with half-truths, grievances varnished to resemble righteousness, or treaties weighed with cautious flattery. And still, Jotaro remained, spine unmoving against the curve of the high-backed seat, his expression steady as if carved from obsidian.
Some matters were worthy of his attention. A water-sharing agreement ratified between two feuding provinces. A tariff reduced on grain traveling south. He made space for what deserved to remain. But by the time the final scroll had been unfurled, even the air had begun to tire of diplomacy.
At last, the steward stepped forward with finality. “That concludes today’s petitions,” he announced, voice thinning from the weight of the day. “This session is adjourned.”
Chairs scraped gently against marble. Robes shifted. The court, like breath held too long, exhaled and began to rise. Murmurs bloomed again, fainter now, as the room’s collective tension unspooled. But Jotaro did not rise immediately. He remained seated a moment longer, gaze distant, fingers still wrapped calmly together—until even that pause felt too generous.
He stood with deliberate slowness, gathering no documents, issuing no goodbyes. The long table behind him still echoed with the traces of voices—proposals, denials, minor victories—but he left them all where they belonged: behind.
And of course—Rist rose with him, already angling toward his path like a shadow that refused to be outpaced. His smile widened with a hopeful mischief, eyes glinting like a boy catching the tail end of a game. He clapped once, quick and bright, and gestured toward the wine cart now waiting in the southern alcove, where golden fruit and crystal decanters caught the last of the dying light.
“Surely you won’t leave just yet,” he said, tone all charm and ease. “A single drink, perhaps? The black cherry vintage—it came from Cassandra’s own cellar. Reserved for dignitaries and men of impossible standards.” He laughed at that, clapping a hand lightly to Jotaro’s shoulder, as if levity were a currency they might share.
Jotaro’s pace did not shift. His gaze slid toward the cart, then back to the hallway that beckoned beyond the chamber doors. “I have somewhere to be,” he said, voice clipped only by purpose, not impatience.
“Come now,” Rist tried again, falling into step beside him, tone coaxing. “You ought to let yourself breathe, at least once in a while. There’s more to kingship than court and strategy—you do remember that, don’t you?”
“I’d rather not,” Jotaro said simply. Rist watched him go, the smile faltering slightly at its edges. “Always so serious,” he muttered under his breath, more to the empty goblet than to the man already vanishing down the corridor. He reached for the bottle himself and poured, alone.
The manor greeted him not with grandeur, but with quiet. The kind cultivated by years of discipline and design—curated silences, polished marble, the hush of candlelight long past sunset. As he stepped inside, the heavy doors eased closed behind him with the softened groan of aged hinges, sealing him from the world outside.
He passed through the main hall without escort, his footfalls muffled by the thick wool runners underfoot. A valet appeared at the turn to his chambers—no words spoken, only a bow and a glance exchanged—then disappeared as swiftly as he came. The air smelled faintly of bergamot and polished cedar. Familiar. Immaculate. Hollow.
His dressing chamber awaited: all warm lamplight and tall mirrors, pale cream walls trimmed with gold, a fire murmuring in the hearth though the night held no chill. The attendants were already in place, arrayed like silent sentinels. Four of them—seasoned, efficient, and reverent in their movements.
First came the black waistcoat—structured, layered, stitched with the kind of precision only wealth and power could afford. It clung to him like command itself, every button a quiet testament to restraint. Over it was draped a long coat of deep sable, cut sharp as a blade but lined with rust-gold trim that caught the light in subtle flashes—never gaudy, but impossible to ignore. It fell just past his knees, the kind of garment designed not merely to clothe, but to announce.
A valet stepped forward with the crimson cravat, its silk as fine as wine poured at midnight, pre-folded into a loose knot that spoke of rank without boast. He looped it around Jotaro’s collar with deft hands, the garnet hue blooming against the black like a rose at dusk. A jeweled medallion—imperial in make, intricate in metal—was fastened at the throat. It gleamed like something ancient and owed.
And then came the mantle. Ivory and wine-red, lined with a whisper of fur at the inner edge, it was draped over one shoulder with reverence. It fell in precise folds down his back, its weight just enough to pull him into the space he was meant to fill. When the fabric brushed his wrist, it left a hush in the air, as though even the room had gone still to observe its final placement.
An older attendant passed a brush over the shoulders of the coat, smoothing invisible threads into obedience. Another combed Jotaro’s hair with even, sweeping strokes, careful not to disturb the fall of curls already shaped by a wind no one else had felt.
Not a single adornment had been chosen for fashion’s sake. Everything served a language unspoken—presence, restraint, dominion. And when they were done, the attendants stepped back as one, like the drawing of a curtain before a grand debut.
Jotaro regarded his reflection only briefly. The collar sat clean. The lines were crisp. The coat curved over his frame like memory molded in cloth. And the eyes—his own, caught in candlelight—held no question. He did not dress for approval.Every line was deliberate. Precision, as always, had been achieved. Only then did he reach for his gloves.
They waited on the corner of the table, bone-white and freshly pressed. He picked them up one at a time, sliding them on with the same quiet exactness he brought to every task. The leather folded smoothly over his fingers, supple and cool. Not ceremonial—practical. A barrier, perhap, the one more subtle division between him and the world.
Outside, the light had gone entirely. Evening had taken full hold—rich, velvet blue stretched across the sky, the last gold of the day long since faded from the windowpanes. He stepped into the corridor, boots brushing the marble in even measure, the air meeting him with its usual hush. And yet—something had shifted.
The halls of the manor greeted him not with silence, but with absence. The lamps had been lit; the sconces flickered gently along the walls. Floors were polished to a gleam. Music drifted faintly from the distant terrace—low, elegant, meant to coax cheer into the bones of the arriving guests. But the sound echoed strangely, like the memory of a song rather than its present joy.
It wasn’t that the manor lacked life. It brimmed with it, technically—attendants moving with purpose, guards stationed at their posts, the dull rhythm of duty unfolding as it always did. But beneath that routine—beneath the polish and protocol—it lacked something else entirely.
It lacked her.
He walked slowly, each step absorbed into the softness of rugs that no longer felt rich, only dulled. The manor was as it had always been—grand, refined, a portrait of power arranged with exquisite symmetry. But lately, that symmetry stirred nothing in him. Not without the gleam of her presence gliding through it.
He thought of the way her smile—never rehearsed, never deliberate—threaded a kind of light into places where it had no business blooming. Of how she never tried to command a room, but still, every space adjusted to her. She’d pass by, and the air itself would seem to hold its breath—not in reverence, but in response. As if she’d shifted some unseen axis.
Now… nothing moved.
No flash of red hair sweeping just beyond his periphery. No faint trace of that warm, spiced scent she carried—so elusive, it only lingered when she stood just a fraction too close. No glance cast from across the corridor that felt incidental… but never quite was.
He’d never thought himself a man who needed warmth. Joy, even less. But since she had begun to linger near—sharing silences—both had become harder to dismiss in moments where she was not present. He had grown used to that spark she brought with her, without ever realizing he’d come to expect it.
Now that it was missing only in this moment, to him it seemed that the rest of the world dulled.
——-
The manor gardens of House Belvarez were a rumor of wealth turned tangible—land that didn’t belong to any true residence, only to the idea of power sustained by old money and curated reputation. It wasn’t a home. It was a statement. A greenhouse palace carved from glass and gilded bone, sprawling with high-arched ceilings laced in gold-veined ivy, chandeliers fashioned from blown crystal, and marble fountains pouring into mirrored lily ponds. Peacocks preened near trellised walkways. Uniformed staff glided between guests like well-trained shadows.
Inside, laughter threaded between harp notes, carrying from one manicured alcove to the next. Everywhere, ladies sipped and speculated behind jeweled fans. Men laughed too loudly in clusters. The air was perfumed with citrus blossoms, privilege, and the perfume of scandal just waiting to bloom.
A set of hooves clicked against the path, elegant and disciplined. Four horses came into view—two white, two black—each one brushed to a polish and guided by riders with the ease of knights used to combat, not court.
Kalithea dismounted first as the footman opened the door for her. She thanked him with a smile, her eyes set on the colossal manor before her.
She wore a dress the color of sky after a rainstorm: soft powder blue silk that shimmered like pearl at the hem. The sleeves fell delicately off her shoulders, laced with translucent gauze and trimmed in silver beadwork that caught the light without trying. The bodice hugged her with quiet structure, the skirt flowing behind like a painting that had learned to move. Her red hair had let loosely curled as the strands traversed down her back with loose tendrils left to kiss her cheekbones with elegance that didn’t ask for permission.
Around her, the world softened.
“She’s not listed,” whispered one woman near the jasmine hedge, adjusting the angle of her hat as if that would help her see clearer.
“That dress,” murmured one of the noblewomen near the atrium, narrowing her eyes behind a jeweled lorgnette, “that’s Varsen embroidery. From the atelier that only accepts private clients. It’s not bought—it’s commissioned.”
She lowered her jeweled lorgnette, fingers fluttering briefly over the pearls at her throat as she leaned in toward her companion. The lace at her cuffs trembled, not from nerves, but from restraint.“Then… who is she?” the second woman asked, barely above a whisper. Her words were cautious—half reverence, half threat—as though speaking too boldly might draw the girl’s attention and unravel something better left unknown.
Across the room, another figure in rose gold silk leaned ever so slightly forward on the velvet banquette, eyes narrowed beneath delicately pinned curls. “She’s not from any of the court houses,” she said, her voice honeyed but edged. “That posture—that gown—that face… someone has been hiding her.”
Her attention remained on the light before her, which caught on the glass arches and gilded trim with painterly grace. Her footsteps were slow but never uncertain, heels soft over the mosaic floor in tones of ivory and seafoam. The greenhouse manor towered around her, glass vaults catching the filtered afternoon light and scattering it into fragments—little pieces of gold breaking across her skin and dress. Petals drifted from charmed vines above, caught in gliding currents of floral-scented breeze.
And still, she walked—quiet and composed. Not unreachable, but unbothered.
Behind her, the footsteps of her knights fell in time with the breath of the room. Dame Erin dismounted first, following Dame Adeline’s boots striking the polished terrace with crisp certainty. Her coat adjusted with a sweep of her palm, eyes already scanning the atrium’s elevated windows.
”To me it seems that these nobles are all glamour and rumors. Are you sure you will be alright my lady?” Dame Adeline asked with a curious lilt in her voice.
Sir Amadeus and Sir Jean, equally gave a astounded whistle, one that nearly made Kalithea laugh, yet her composure could not be broken. They awaited their lady’s reply, the women writing down her message with eloquence and grace.
“I'm quite nervous, I only hope it does not show. I can’t imagine being in this place if it were just myself— yet for now I pray I may pass this simple test.”
Sir Amadeus nodded quickly, the four of them feeling almost relieved that she had the confidence required. He opened his lips to speak, the four of them helping her get to those almost forbearing doors. “We will be around, even when you don’t think. His Majesty made that very clear, my lady.”
Sir Jean, held his hand against his sword, his silver hair shining in the light like a polished blade and his chin lifted. “He’s right. We’ll be within reach,” he said simply. No fanfare. No promise. Just fact.
The four of them gathered in step with her again, forming a soft diamond of motion as they approached the grand terrace. Light spilled through the trellised lattice above the entry, dappling the white marble steps with shifting vines of gold and green. Kalithea walked at the center. Her shoulders were relaxed, her hands composed at her sides. But each step felt quietly measured. The hem of her gown skimmed the stone without a wrinkle, her silken sash fluttering behind her in time with the wind’s breath.
Sir Jean remained just behind her shoulder, ever attentive, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword—not threatening, but present. The silver of his hair glinted beneath the arbor overhead, reflecting like polished steel.
They climbed the final step. And then, with one unspoken agreement, her knights peeled away.
Adeline vanished toward the upper east veranda beneath the veil of blooming wisteria. Amadeus turned for the marble-latticed gallery that wrapped around the koi pond, his eyes scanning more than he let on. Jean slipped through the shadow of a marble statue into the sun-dappled arcade, his form half-swallowed by the sculpture’s reach. Erin lingered for only a breath longer than the others, gaze sweeping over the nearest nobles before she turned and moved to her post near the floral alcove where the musicians had begun tuning a harp and stringed quartet.
Kalithea walked alone now—but every step was still flanked by quiet guardianship.
Inside the greenhouse, the air shimmered—thick with perfume and tempered light. Crushed lavender drifted beneath the breath of citrus blossoms, tangled with the cold gleam of polished silver and trailing vines. It smelled like old money trying not to look too rehearsed. Music fluttered faintly from a string quartet tucked behind a trellis of moonflowers, the sound slow and aching, like something spun from silk.
Waitstaff moved like shadows along the inlaid paths, trays balanced with precision—crystal goblets of pale wine, nectar-jellied fruits glittering with frost, sugared petals frozen in place like jewels. Overhead, sunlight filtered through enchanted glass in soft cathedral angles, casting kaleidoscopic patterns over tea tables and lace-draped lounges. Colors bled across cream parasols and silk gloves, as if the whole room had been washed in watercolors.
People noticed, But they did not stare—not directly, at least.
They adjusted their fans, tilted their heads. Whispered into champagne flutes instead of mouths. Conversations didn’t cease, but they changed. Their cadence stuttering, their tones shifting. The air thickened not with scandal, but with curiosity—the expensive kind, the kind that only came alive when someone couldn’t be placed.
She moved with that rare, tethered elegance—the kind not taught but lived into. The kind that settled in the spine and fingertips, trained more by solitude than salons. She didn’t fidget nor search for conversation, yet simply walked—like someone who belonged, though no one quite knew why.
Violinists played somewhere just out of sight, their notes stitched like silk threads through the air—not loud, not demanding, but ever-present. Silver trays floated past on the arms of liveried staff, each lined with sugared plum tarts and pale nectars that shimmered like moonlight in glass. The chatter, once loud, shifted as she passed full of curious and watchful eyes.
“She doesn’t speak much,” someone murmured near the champagne tower, their tone half-suspicion, half-awe.
“Even if she doesn’t, or possibly refused to,” came the reply. “She appears to be the same sort of girl who could quiet a ballroom with a raised brow—yet I feel there is much more than what we can see on the surface.”
Kalithea heard none of it. Or rather, she chose not to. She drifted from the heart of the garden hall, each step wrapped in composure. There were jewels in every direction—dripping from wrists and ears, sewn into gloves, braided into hair. Perfume clung to every breath.
Near a ring of marble urns, three young noblewomen no older than seventeen stood too close to one another, eyes narrowed. Their dresses were delicate things—cream and lilac and gold, stitched with glassy pearls. But beside Kalithea’s gown—structured, fluid, unornamented—they looked overwrought. Like they had tried too hard, and knew it.
“She did not curtsy when she passed the Chancellor’s daughter,” one of the girls said with an affected lilt, her tone lilting between outrage and theatrical dismay as she twirled her ivory fan far too quickly. “She walked past her as though the girl were a servant arranging trays—not the firstborn of House Viremont.”
The taller one beside her gave a light, too-casual shrug, her eyes still fixed on Kalithea’s figure as it moved beyond the garden stair. “That’s because the Chancellor’s daughter curtsied first. I saw it with my own eyes. It was shallow, but still—a curtsy.”
A long pause passed between them, silken and poisonous.
“No, That cannot be accurate,” the third girl said at last, tightening the velvet ribbon at her throat. Her voice held the tight cadence of someone desperate to believe they had been misinformed. “She has no crest. No known lineage. There’s no name inscribed on the registry—at least not one with any pedigree.”
“She could be a fraud,” she added, louder this time, as though boldness might make the idea feel more true. “Some ambitious little pretender come to play at court with borrowed jewels and borrowed favor. If we informed the hosts discreetly, they would be obligated to remove her. For the dignity of the event, of course.”
But even as she spoke, her voice trembled at the edges—just faintly. Because no one had moved to stop Kalithea. No steward had questioned her. No noble had dared demand her title aloud. That—more than any gown, any knight, any whisper—spoke volumes.
A fourth girl, seated on the bench beside them with her gloves neatly folded over her lap, glanced down at her champagne glass, then up again with a single arched brow. “Darling, if you think the hosts are going to drag out a young woman escorted by imperial knights, I do hope someone’s already arranged your farewell bouquet.”
That shut them up. But they weren’t the only ones watching.
Near the curved northern staircase, an older gentleman—likely a retired minister, judging by the tarnished gilt pin still fastened to his collar—tugged at his cravat and leaned slightly toward his wife. “She entered without a herald. No name announced. No court affiliation given. And no deference paid to rank. It’s… irregular, at best.”
Across the eastern veranda, where sunlight cascaded through gilded arches and caught on tiers of sugared fruit, a cluster of young noblemen loitered beneath the enchanted orchids, their crystal glasses barely touched, their conversation stilled not by wine, but by the quiet arrest of something far rarer.
“She’s rather… singular,” Lord Theren murmured, the son of a disgraced duke who still clung to his title like perfume to faded lace. He tilted his head slightly, as though attempting to decipher a portrait painted in strokes too fine for the untrained eye. “Not in the usual sense, mind you. Not painted, not powdered. But poised—like a stillness the court hasn’t earned the right to disturb.”
“A curious presence,” drawled Lord Emeran, swirling his cordial with the distracted grace of someone used to being looked at and rarely outshone. “She walks as though she’s been sculpted for a higher room.”
Beyond the ivy-framed terrace, just within earshot but draped in practiced disinterest, three young ladies stood like porcelain statuettes on display. Their gowns, all in shades of ivory and rose, whispered stiffly when they turned, every movement exact, deliberate—too perfectly arranged to be natural. They had been raised for these settings: trained in the art of refined conversation and effortless charm. But now their poise trembled at the edges.
“I daresay,” said the first, her voice sugared but laced with vinegar, “one can command a room more easily when she’s not had to earn its etiquette. It’s always the quiet ones who benefit from novelty.”
The second did not speak at once. She reached for a sugared grape from the silver pedestal beside her, bit into it with more force than elegance, then let the rest fall uneaten onto her porcelain dish. Her gaze was narrowed, unblinking. “It’s the way she moves,” she said at last, her tone slow and measured. “As though adoration is her right, not her ambition. That is what makes her dangerous.”
Their eyes shifted—just briefly—toward the young men who had been theirs only moments ago. Lord Theren had yet to glance their way, his focus fixed entirely on Kalithea’s measured steps. Lord Emeran had taken to readjusting his cuffs, though his gaze lingered in the direction she had gone, caught in a silence far too spellbound to be polite.
She stood near a table of crystalline decanters, her hand gently curved around the stem of a champagne glass. The drink inside shimmered a gentle pink—some delicate nectar of pear and lychee, chilled just enough to cloud the glass in dew. She took a small sip, eyes unfocused, lashes low against her cheekbones. Her posture—relaxed, but composed—spoke nothing of nerves. And yet, beneath the still waters of her expression, a single question rippled like wind across a mirror
She had not seen Jotaro since the morning light broke across the inner gardens. And while she knew his duties likely held him in the velvet chokehold of diplomacy, her mind drifted to him all the same. With every face she passed, every stare she ignored, his absence announced itself louder. Not disruptive. Just… present. Like a missing scent in a familiar room.
She tilted the glass again. And that was when she heard the voice. Soft. Clear. Sweet as spun sugar.
“Forgive me,” came a voice beside her, light but deliberate, a gentle lilt wrapped in velvety poise, “but I simply had to say—I’ve been admiring your hair since you’ve arrived.”
Kalithea turned slightly. The voice belonged to a young woman not much older than herself, perhaps a year at most, with a presence both serene and striking.
She wore a gown of soft sage green, embroidered subtly with leafwork and pearl threads—a dress that looked like it belonged in a conservatory more than a ballroom. Her dark brown hair was pinned in soft waves at her nape, crowned with a comb of preserved wildflowers that matched the gentle curve of her smile. There was no sharpness in her eyes, only quiet warmth and curiosity.
The young woman stepped forward from the crowd with practiced elegance—her posture refined, her presence composed—but there was something earnest in her approach that softened the edges of it. She stopped at a respectful distance and offered a formal curtsy: not too deep, but perfectly executed, the kind of curtsy that suggested noble breeding without haughty performance.
Kalithea offered a curtsy in return—slower, more deliberate. Her fingers gathered the hem of her gown with practiced ease, lifting it just enough to reveal the glint of her slipper. One foot slipped behind the other, heel tucked neatly, and she dipped low, spine straight, head gently inclined
The young woman smiled as she straightened. She extended a gloved hand, her voice lightly teasing but genuinely warm. “Edwina Ferndale. My father manages part of the royal court’s treasury, but I promise I’m less boring than that sounds.”
Kalithea’s smile deepened—gentle, but luminous enough to soften the edges of the moment. It wasn’t coy, nor timid, but something steadier. Warmth layered in poise. She lifted one hand delicately, gloved fingers brushing lightly along the hollow of her throat in graceful indication.
Edwina’s eyes widened just a little in understanding, but not with pity—only attentiveness. Kalithea reached for the small booklet at her side, her hand as fluid as breath. With a few practiced strokes of her pen, she wrote with elegant precision, the lettering curved and thoughtful.
Then, with a flick of her wrist, she turned the page and held it toward Elowen.
“You must pardon my quietness— I am unable to speak. Yet, I am more grateful and honored that your outward countenance and easy manner is different from the judgmental eyes that surround this place.”
Edwina’s read it once, then again more slowly, and her expression shifted—softening at the edges, lips parting with something like wonder. “My stars,” she murmured. “You write with more grace than most of them speak with their entire upbringing.”
And then, her smile brightened. “I’ve half a mind to never return to the idle chatter if I can steal a bit of your company instead.”
Kalithea’s smile lingered—soft, rueful, touched by the quiet edges of uncertainty. She lowered her gaze for only a moment, gathering her thoughts, then turned the page and began writing again. Her pen glided across the paper with careful rhythm, each stroke deliberate, refined, as though she weighed each word not only for its meaning, but for its impression.
“My name is Kalithea, yet as for who I am… That is not so easily answered. My upbringing was humble. Yet my place in Society now— is more complicated than it appears. I suppose I stand somewhere between curiosity and exception. However, I am grateful to be here, even if I am still learning what it means.” She paused, then added beneath it in smaller script: “This is my first season.”
She tilted the page once more, her eyes lifting to meet Edwina’s with a quiet kind of honesty that was rare in rooms like these.
Edwina read the words in silence, her expression shifting—less surprise this time, more recognition. She looked around them, at the polished glass, the climbing roses, the silken gowns rustling like restless birds.
Then she sighed, a theatrical, exaggerated thing. “Well,” she said, tilting her head dramatically, “you wear your mystery better than half the court wears its titles. And for what it’s worth, I’d rather stand beside someone sincere than someone born into all this with no idea what to do with it.”
She leaned a little closer, lowering her voice into a stage whisper. “Personally, I’ve been ready to go home since the string quartet played their third gavotte. And that was an hour ago.”
Kalithea laughed—but silently. Her shoulders lifted with a graceful breath, and her eyes gleamed with a private, shared amusement. Then, gently, she wrote, “I had hoped the night would pass by quickly. But I’ve had no choice but to linger. Though I’d rather be anywhere else with fewer people and perhaps much better company—forgive me for saying so.”
Edwina smiled, the corners of her mouth curving with a softness that made her feel older than her years, yet no less radiant. “Then I suppose it’s rather fortunate we’ve found each other, isn’t it?” She lifted her crystal glass in a gentle, playful toast, her voice lilting just above a whisper. “To first seasons, lovely company, and enduring the evening with at least one friend worth remembering.”
Kalithea smiled faintly behind the rim of her glass, the soft clink of crystal echoing like a secret between them. Around her, the music swelled with gentle strings, the air perfumed with rosewater and anticipation. Yet even as laughter spilled like wine through the corridors of glass and gold, she felt it—that subtle shift, like a breeze before thunder. A presence approaching. Unseen, but not unfelt.
Chapter 34: Something different
Chapter Text
Edwina lifted her glass delicately—its rim kissed with condensation, a pale elderflower cordial resting inside. Across from her, Kalithea mirrored the movement with practiced ease, her fingers graceful against the stem of her own drink, its golden surface catching the filtered light like a promise unspoken.
For a moment, it was quiet between them. Not empty, just soft—two girls poised on the edge of something unknown. They sipped like the noblewomen they had been dressed to become, though only one of them truly knew what that meant.
Then came the shift.
Not a sound, not at first. But stillness—The kind that clings to the breath just before a page turns.
The breeze through the glass rafters paused, as if holding its lungs. The perfume of sugarfruit and lavender thickened in the air. Light pooled more richly along the polished marble. And the notes of the harpists, mid-melody, seemed to curve upward, stretched to some unseen cue.
Kalithea looked toward the entryway, heart skipping. For the briefest, traitorous second—she thought it might be him. However to her utter dismay, a different name rang out, clear and opulent, through the hush: “Announcing Her Royal Highness, Crown Princess Marina Aurelia of Renaldi.”
It was not thunderous. There was no eruption of applause. But the shift was felt—in the angle of heads, in the sudden polish of posture, in the gentle lift of fans like a dozen petals turned to follow the sun. Women didn’t rise, but they did lean. Men didn’t bow, but they did notice. And all across the greenhouse, the subtle mechanics of courtly admiration turned quietly in Marina’s favor.
The princess entered with a grace that had been rehearsed until it seemed effortless. Her gown—deep red silk and cream taffeta stitched with lace, layered like sugared velvet—rustled in soft thunder against the polished floor. Ribbons the color of crushed wine accented each fluttering edge.
“She’s exquisite,” murmured a countess from her perch beside the rose-gilded tea alcove, her fingers adorned with heirloom rings, one of which tapped gently against the rim of her porcelain saucer. “Truly—every inch her mother reborn. The same bone structure. The same precision in posture. That is breeding, my dear. Not charm.”
“That hue,” added another dowager, draped in a gown of sea-glass brocade that rustled every time she shifted her pearls, “it is daring, yes—but she makes it look deliberate. As though the gown bowed to her, not the other way around.”
“I was told it was tailored in Bellamy, but the dye—well, that was Astrellé. Orchid-rose steeped in claret silk, done only by hand. Only one atelier still offers the service, and only to two clients per season.” This, from a woman in her forties, who wore the information like a badge.
“She is the season,” came the reverent murmur of a younger girl, barely seventeen, whose own gown—cream chiffon with tasteful embroidery—suddenly felt woefully unimportant. “The designers follow her, not the other way around.”
A subtle shift occurred. Several noble daughters, coiffed within an inch of artistic collapse, drifted subtly nearer—each movement practiced for months. They did not dare rush. They fluttered like butterflies finding a particularly luminous bloom, arranging themselves just outside Marina’s direct path—close enough to be seen, but not so close as to offend.
A series of shallow curtsies unfolded like falling dominoes, each one more fragile and coquettish than the last.
“Your Highness,” one said with a honeyed accent and fingers clasped like she’d practiced the gesture before a dozen gilded mirrors, “the sleeves are simply ethereal. No one could have carried them as you do.”
“The embroidery at the hem—it must be bespoke,” another added, eyes wide with well-trained wonder. “I imagine you’ll set the entire season’s tone before sunset.”
Marina turned to them, her smile blooming like a porcelain blossom warmed by spring. “Lady Corentine,” she said, her voice smooth as cream steeped in honey. “What a delight. How is your elder brother adjusting to his post in the eastern provinces? You must write me if the harvest ball is confirmed—I’d so love to hear of it firsthand.”
The girl nearly curtsied again, cheeks flushed with stunned pleasure.
“And Lady Amira,” Marina continued, turning to the second, who now looked as if she’d swallowed sunlight. “I heard your sister’s portrait was unveiled last week—how divine. I must send my regards to your mother; her taste in artists has always been peerless.”
The young noblewoman all but curtsied twice.
Marina moved gracefully between them, her train sweeping like spilled wine over the polished floor, her expression a careful mask of sweetness dipped in regal distance. She didn’t pause too long on any one face, yet gave each the illusion of being seen. Heard. Elevated—just briefly—by proximity.
And still, her gaze flicked.With delicate precision, she noted the things others missed: the insecure flutter of a fan. The girl with the embroidered sash a beat too similar to her own. The young lady who dipped too deeply, trying to be noticed. The cousin of a rival who hadn’t spoken a word—merely stared. Her attention, like her presence, was a weapon cloaked in grace.
As Marina passed beneath the glass archway veiled in golden wisteria, her figure alight with rose and crystal, the greenhouse’s west parlor unfolded before her like a private stage. And there, poised like ornamental lilies cultivated under her personal sun, stood her inner circle.
They clustered in flawless formation beside a marble colonnade, beneath the filtered sheen of a chandelier adorned with floating sapphire baubles—each girl an extension of Marina’s image, but never its equal. They wore gowns in variations of blush, antique gold, and misted cream—shades chosen not only to flatter themselves but, more importantly, not to compete with her. Their silks caught the light in polished folds, embroidered with whispers of floral lace, their gloves as pale as frosting, fingers clasped just so. Jewels shimmered subtly at their ears and throats, arranged to suggest refinement rather than opulence—though the suggestion was a studied art in itself.
Each had a different gift: one spoke in layered riddles, another painted flattery into her every breath. A third had the dangerous gift of remembering everything and repeating it only to Marina.
They bowed their heads in perfect synchrony as she approached.
“Your Highness,” they said, a chorus of honeyed reverence, their voices soft but threaded with urgency—like flowers straining toward sun.
Marina smiled—not the warm, public smile reserved for harmless admirers, but a quieter, cleverer expression, lips tilted just enough to imply that secrets had already been exchanged.
These were not friends. They were handpicked instruments of favor and control. The ones who whispered to the ears that mattered. The ones who gathered gossip like perfumed dust and delivered it beneath veils of lace. “Tell me,” Marina drawled, voice low and gleaming. “How many tales bloomed in this garden before I deigned to water it?”
Lady Vessina stepped forward, her bronze curls caught in the setting sun like spun gilt. “Baroness Relland brought a violinist from Astrienne,” she murmured. “The man plays like a siren—but someone claimed he’s also her fifth cousin. Or her fourth husband’s third. Depending on the wine.”
Laughter flitted between them, light as chiffon. Another girl leaned in, her gown a shade too pale to be accidental. “Lord Creston nearly slipped into the koi pond again. His valet insisted it was a trick of the wind.”
Marina’s gaze gleamed with delighted disdain. “A shame he didn’t fall. It would have done his tailoring some good.”
A ripple of snickering passed through the group, gloved hands raising to mouths in choreographed modesty. The music changed softly in the background—harps layered beneath flute—and Marina lowered her voice a touch more.
“And the Chancellor’s daughter?” she asked, idly adjusting the fall of her sleeve. “She curtsied deeper this year. I’m guessing ambition has eaten her subtlety.”
“She’s been clinging to one of the Westhall twins,” murmured the quietest among them, her fan snapping once, sharply. “The dull one. He’s inherited a house but not a single thought.”
Marina exhaled—not a laugh, but something silkier. “Well. Desperation makes even the clumsiest girls.” They lingered, radiant and ruthless, spinning threads of rumor beneath light that made their jewels glint like morning frost. But gradually, something shifted.
The music still played. The wine still flowed. But the room’s gaze… had softened around them. A group of gentlemen across the promenade had begun glancing elsewhere. One murmured something behind his hand; another nodded, distracted. Among the lower terrace steps, three young ladies whispered together, not with envy toward Marina—but with confusion. With reorientation.
Marina sensed it like a ripple beneath silk. It wasn’t overt. It wasn’t rude.But it was a fracture. A hairline crack in the attention she’d always owned. She tilted her chin, eyes sweeping the perimeter, her inner circle still laughing softly behind their gloves.
And across the garden, laughter stirred elsewhere. Not the shrill, performative kind. But something quieter—genuine. The kind that passed between girls who didn’t yet need to weaponize their smiles.
Edwina had leaned in slightly, her elbow resting on the edge of a gilded bench, her fingers still curled around her drink. Her expression, easy and fond, turned toward Kalithea with the warmth of someone who had already decided she liked her—and would not be swayed otherwise.
She leaned in just a little, her tone softening into something conspiratorial, almost fond. “Come with me, won’t you? There’s a quieter corner, where the girls aren’t trying so hard to impress anyone. I think you might like them.”
Edwina led her gently, not like an escort but like a girl guiding a favored guest through a secret garden. They wove through a lattice of suspended wisteria and amber-tinted sunlight, their path curving away from the main promenade, yet not so far as to be hidden. Just near enough to remain visible beneath the flowering arches where many of the court’s senior nobles gathered to stroll, sip, and observe.
The air in the alcove was cooler, steeped in the perfume of charmed lilac. Here, the crowd thinned just enough to breathe, yet the hush of nobility remained—a quiet, curated pocket of the Belvarez manor where only the well-favored ever lingered long.
Kalithea followed as Edwina slowed, the hem of her dress brushing over pale stone, a soft murmur of tulle and satin behind each step.
The girls who waited were not mere debutantes. They carried themselves with the particular refinement of those born not just into privilege—but into rhythm. Into the exact tempo of courtly life. They sat like porcelain kept in sunlit cabinets: warm when touched, but too finely made to be handled carelessly.
“Edwina,” said the tallest, her smile curving with practiced ease. Her hair was the color of pale ash-gold, pinned in coils that gleamed beneath a pearled comb. Her dress was a confection of pale lavender organza and cream satin, belted in mauve. “Who have you stolen from the crowd?”
“She’s lovely,” murmured the second—a petite girl in primrose yellow, her posture composed with such delicate precision she might have been sketched into the curve of the bench. “I noticed her from the first archway. That gown—the sleeves especially. So… impeccably restrained.”
Edwina stepped forward, her tone light as silk ribbon. “Everyone,” she said, a smile curving just at the corners of her lips, “this is Kalithea. She’s rather more intriguing than the rest of us, and—I suspect—infinitely more enchanting.”
Kalithea answered with a curtsy—not quick, nor demure, but deliberate. It was the kind of curtsy that belonged to a time before rooms became stages—silent, slow, and impossibly poised. Her gown swept like breath over marble. And when she rose, her gaze met theirs with a quiet composure that felt older than her years—unassuming, but utterly unshakable.
A pause followed—not empty, but steeped in something quietly unanimous.
“Well,” said the tall one with the violet brooch, a slow smile lifting her voice. “We approve.”
“You must sit,” Edwina said with warm insistence, patting the space beside her on the ivory bench. “We were just lamenting how no one at this gathering is remotely interesting enough to discuss.”
“Besides Lord Theren’s shoes,” offered the girl in coral, her voice drier than wine. “They’ve seen at least three seasons. Possibly four.”
“And that dreadful incident with the poodle,” added the third, eyes flicking toward the refreshment tables. “It sneezed on a diplomat’s scone. Utter chaos.”
Soft laughter stirred around them like wind in lace. Not forced, not sharp—just the laughter of girls who knew how to speak in smiles and speak volumes. She lowered herself beside Edwina, her hands folding gently in her lap as the conversation resumed around her, blooming like roses in the shade.
The girl in primrose was the first to speak again, her voice delicate, like bellflower honey. “I suppose I should be polite and begin—Lady Mirielle Evandrel of House Evandrel, of the Lilac Coast.” She dipped her head in a gesture that was more refined than formal, her gold-touched curls glinting in the filtered sunlight. “My elder brother is terribly boring and wants me married by autumn, so I make a habit of enjoying spring while I still can.”
“Lady Anise Wynthorne,” offered the girl in coral next, with a subtle flourish of her lace shawl. “From the western high courts, though you wouldn’t know it from how little they let us visit the capital. My sisters are always too occupied with their embroidery to notice I’ve stolen their invitations.”
“Cecily Duvan,” said the third, sweet-voiced and crowned in rosewater chiffon. “My mother insists on the ‘Lady’ bit, but I think it’s entirely too fussy. We’re from the Viremont province, near the old citadel vineyards. I mostly came for the music and the sweets, in that order.”
Kalithea’s lips curled into a small, warm smile, and she reached for the little leather-bound notebook nestled at her side. With graceful ease, she wrote, her script looping like ribbon across the page. She turned it with practiced gentleness so that all three could see.
“It is truly a pleasure to meet you. I confess that I struggle with the fanciful introductions and such titles to present myself to others. However, as I explained to Lady Edwina, my upbringing was modest, and now I sit before you unsure of my place in society—though I’m grateful your company allows me to feel less uneasy, and your kindness warms my temperament.”
Lady Mirielle tilted her head as though studying a fine detail in a portrait. Her gaze lingered over Kalithea’s script a moment longer before she spoke, her voice hushed and reverent. “You write like someone who listens before they speak,” she said. “There’s weight in that. Not just beauty.”
Across from her, Lady Anise let out a low breath, the corner of her lip curling with mischief. “It’s unsettling, in the best way,” she murmured, resting her chin in her palm. “Like hearing verse in a room that’s only ever echoed names and lineage.”
“Goodness, I can’t recall the last time someone introduced themselves without reciting half a family tree,” Cecily added, her expression thoughtful rather than teasing. “It’s… refreshing, and like a breath of air.”
Kalithea lowered her gaze for a moment, modest but unflinching, as she wrote once more—soft strokes, measured, like one accustomed to being careful where she left her words. ”Thank you, your welcome is more than I expected, and much lovelier than the gowns and false facades.”
Lady Mirielle gave a quiet breath of amusement, fingers tracing the rim of her glass. “You’re terribly dangerous,” she said lightly. “And I mean that as a compliment. To speak so prettily and yet cut to the truth… half the court could take lessons.”
“That’s if they can read,” Anise murmured behind her hand, her smile coy.
Edwina reached for a small bowl of sugared cherries from the middle of the table, offering it wordlessly toward Kalithea, who accepted one with a small nod of thanks. There was an ease now—an unspoken rhythm that had begun to settle into their small circle, the kind that didn’t need announcing to be understood. The kind that belonged only to girls who had decided, without ceremony, to like one another.
The moment the fruit touched her tongue, something softened behind her eyes. A flicker of delight, small but unmistakable, curved through her expression. It wasn’t theatrical. It was simply genuine—startlingly so, like a songbird’s note breaking a room’s stillness.
“Your eyes lit up like a flame of life. You must like it.” Cecily said, her voice laced with pleasant surprise.
Kalithea nodded, cheeks faintly touched with warmth as she reached for her notebook again, her fingers still lightly dusted with sugar. “Where I am from, I have never tasted something as wonderful as this. Of course the fruits I’ve had were delicious, yet I’m afraid that if I overindulge my face will turn as red as my hair.” She jokingly wrote, and turned the page toward them with a smile that curled softly at the corners of her lips.
There was a pause—delicate and golden—before Edwina laughed gently, delighted. “Then we must request a full basket before the night ends. If the food is to be insufferably delicate, we might as well be indecently overindulgent.”
“That’s the only sensible response to this party,” Anise murmured with mock seriousness, reaching for another petal-wrapped pastry. “And honestly, if we’re to be judged, let it be for sweets and not husbands.”
“I’m terribly partial to those cinnamon-dusted lilac buns,” added Mirielle, brushing a glossy curl over her shoulder. “Though I’ve heard they’re last season’s trend. But who cares? I’ve had three.”
“Everything tastes better when one is seated somewhere enviable,” Cecily remarked, taking another cherry and popping it delicately between her teeth.
Kalithea smiled again, her eyes brightening—no longer just with amusement, but with something quieter. Something like peace. She hadn’t expected to find this here—warmth without calculation, laughter without judgment—but here it was, wrapped in sunlight and silk.
“My older sister is convinced I’m here to find a husband,” Edwina said lightly, stretching her gloved hand toward a glass of cordial. “I keep insisting I came for the dresses. And now, evidently, I believe the sweets call me.”
“And the scandal,” Anise chimed in.
“Don’t forget the cherries—that is if I don’t take them all.” Kalithea wrote again with a playful flourish. They laughed, all of them, and it wasn’t careful or rehearsed—it was genuine. A sound that laced through the greenhouse like ribbons on the wind.
The music from the string quartet shifted into something softer still, almost romantic, though none of them moved to rise. Their little alcove had become its own world, scented with candied fruit and faint citrus, a space of girlhood’s gentler edges—where secrets could be shared and silence was never heavy.
“I do hope you’ll stay,” Mirielle said, settling back with a look of pleased contentment. “You bring a kind of presence, Kalithea. Not loud, not flashy. But quite impossible to look away from.”
Kalithea’s pen moved with quiet ease, the strokes fluid and precise despite the soft rush of warmth rising in her chest. When she turned the notebook, her response gleamed with sincerity, laced in gentle formality. “I would be more than happy to remain. However I cannot imagine how full your days must be, with invitations and engagements now in full bloom for the season.
The delicate weight of her words lingered in the air a beat longer than expected. Even the soft rustle of rose-petaled wind seemed to pause, drawn in by the stillness.
Anise gave a breezy laugh, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. “Oh, they certainly bloom—but we don’t attend all. We choose the ones worth remembering.”
“And even those rarely live up to the embroidery on the invitation,” Mirielle added, fingers tracing idle crescents on the glass stem of her cordial. Her pearl drop earring shimmered as she tilted her head. “We much prefer the smaller ones. Salons where the music doesn’t stab the ears. Opera nights where no one expects us to endure past the second act.”
Cecily leaned in, her shoulder grazing Edwina’s. “And garden teas, when the company is just right.”
Edwina turned toward Kalithea, curiosity brightening her features. “Have you received many invitations yet? From hosts or… perhaps suitors?”
Kalithea smiled softly, quickly shaking her head as she wrote another reply. “I have received neither invitations from courtly ladies, nor from any gentlemen for that matter. Since I have arrived here in Renaldi, my days have been quiet and tending to much quieter places and ideas. In my eyes, I never expected to be noticed at all.”
There was a pause. Not the awkward kind, nor disbelief born of disdain—but the kind of stunned silence that came when something impossibly elegant revealed itself to be impossibly human.
Lady Mirielle’s eyes widened, her back straightening ever so slightly. “You’re teasing,” she said, almost breathlessly. “You must be.”
“Not a single invitation?” Anise gasped, her hands—gripping the edge of her fan. “You’ve caused more conversation today than three baronesses combined, and you mean to tell us you’ve been overlooked?”
Cecily’s brow furrowed, her voice quiet with growing indignation. “That can’t be right. Not even a letter from House Trévenne? They send out invitations like flower petals.”
“Even my younger cousin received one from Lady Pelham,” Edwina murmured, brows knitting. “And she once spilled a cordial on a duchess.”
“Well,” said Mirielle, recovering with regal composure, “clearly the court is blind. Or dull. Likely both.”
“We’ll fix it immediately,” Anise declared, reaching into the ribboned clutch at her side. “Give us your address. You’ll be swimming in invitations before the week is out.”
“To our salons,” Cecily added, eyes gleaming, “and to Edwina’s moonlit teas. To my uncle’s opera box if you can bear the third act—and perhaps even to the gallery debut next month. You simply must come.”
“Honestly, at this point,” Edwina added with a wink, “you’ll need a secretary.”
The laughter curled gently between them like trailing ribbon—light, glimmering, and sweet with promise. Kalithea tilted her head slightly, the soft red of her hair bringing out the rosiness of her cheeks.
A lull bloomed through the lilac-scented air—quiet, not abrupt, but as if something immense had shifted just beneath the surface. It was not silence, not truly. The harpists still played, laughter still rose like glass chiming, but everything within the garden felt… poised. Expectant. A murmur passed like a change in weather—soft, rippling, as heads tilted, shoulders straightened, and conversation trailed into unfinished thoughts. Even Edwina, mid-sentence, paused with her cup halfway to her lips, her gaze caught on the distant arch of the entrance.
Then—like a key turning in the great lock of the afternoon—a steward stepped forward in full ceremonial garb, his voice ringing clear through the domed hall with crystalline precision:
“Welcoming the Sun of the Algerian Empire- His Majesty Jotaro Nobelius Kujo.”
The silence after his name hadn’t even fully dissolved before the air began to glitter with speculation.
Noblewomen straightened like roses catching the sun. Fans lowered, only to flutter again—this time not from heat, but from nerves. An entire line of girls—debutantes in lavender, pearl, and dusky rose—turned toward the arched doors in a ripple of brocade and diamond-pinned curls.
And then—he entered. Jotaro Kujo did not need the unecessary heraldry. He carried it in the cut of his coat.
“That coat,” murmured a marquess’s wife, voice hushed as her rings clinked against her glass. “It’s not local tailoring. That’s Astrellé silk—draped, not structured. The Algerians always were more romantic with their lines.”
“And the brooch,” someone added from behind a lattice curtain, “that isn’t worn unless the wearer is acting in full imperial capacity.”
“He’s taller than I imagined,” another noblewoman breathed, tilting her head to better catch the line of his silhouette. “And that face—no court painter could capture it properly.”
A younger girl—barely sixteen and already flushed—clutched her fan to her chest. “He’s… he’s so serious.”
“That’s not seriousness, darling,” her older cousin replied, her voice low with veiled admiration. “That’s restraint. You’re looking at a man who can end wars with a look and cause scandal by not dancing.”
Several ladies, many already betrothed, blushed behind their gloves. The ones who didn’t simply stared, shameless in their assessment. One woman, draped in sapphire silk and pearls, leaned closer to her companion and murmured, “I would give my entire estate to know what it feels like to be looked at by him for just three seconds.”
Jotaro walked with that strange contradiction only he could possess: regal and reluctant. As though he’d been born to this power, but had grown tired of the way it bent the world around him. His expression, sharp in profile, betrayed no interest in the praise, no satisfaction in the stir. His gloved fingers remained relaxed at his side; his jaw remained locked, the edge of weariness barely hidden beneath the sharpness of his gaze.
And yet, the nobles watched.
They watched the way his dark hair fell just slightly into his eyes, tousled by the journey and not yet smoothed. They watched the quiet grace in the way his coat shifted over his shoulders when he slowed. They watched, because they had no choice. The Sun of the Algerian Empire had entered the room.
And though he had not yet stopped to speak to anyone—had not bowed, had not smiled, had not even lingered—the party had already changed. Nobles rearranged their posture. Court officials drifted closer. Diplomats abandoned their conversations mid-sentence. A few ministers stepped forward with the intent to intercept—but not immediately. No one wished to appear overeager. Not with Jotaro.
“Good heavens,” someone murmured behind a pillar of trailing roses. “He actually deigned to come.”
“He hasn’t shown his face at a single social affair in five years,” came the breathless reply. “Not since the council disputes with Astrellé.”
“Do you suppose the Belvarez family coaxed him with promises of court leverage?”
“The emperor? Needing leverage among the court? Nonsense,” replied an older duchess crisply. “You do not just summon His Majesty of a simple affair, one look from Him can end a war. The man arrives when it suits him—and heaven help those caught unprepared.”
At last, the hosts emerged—House Belvarez in full regalia. The sons were stately in muted brocade, their cravats tied with diplomatic precision. The matriarch, in iridescent midnight lace, swept forward with her husband—Lord Belvarez himself, tall, composed, and visibly delighted.
“Your Majesty,” he intoned with gravitas, offering a deferential bow. “We are deeply honoured by your presence. Renaldi has awaited your attendance with no small anticipation.”
Jotaro inclined his head with the slightest nod—no smile, but the gesture was gracious nonetheless. “Your hospitality is acknowledged. I thank you.”
The lady of the house stepped forth, her voice lacquered with practiced warmth. “We have arranged a place of comfort for Your Majesty near the west veranda. Discreet. Temperate. Should you wish respite from the press.”
“It is noted,” Jotaro replied, his tone low and immaculately neutral. Lord Belvarez’s smile widened, though carefully. “Might we trouble Your Majesty for a few select introductions before your retreat? The foreign legates are in quiet awe of your arrival. And our court’s finest scions—many of them raised on stories of your campaigns—would be most honoured to bask in your regard.”
Jotaro’s gaze did not flicker. But after a breath, he said simply, “Only briefly.”
And with that, the hosts began to maneuver him with all the delicacy of a jeweler handling rare crystal—guiding him into a curated arrangement of ministers, visiting dignitaries, and select heirs and heiresses chosen for both their discretion and their ambition.
As he was guided through the terrace, Jotaro offered the requisite nods and brief pleasantries with the precision of a man born to command but bred for politics. He was polite, perfectly so. But his poise carried the weight of a lion in a ballroom—too graceful to be faulted, too visibly not at ease.
He did not smile. He did not linger. But neither did he offend. His civility was impeccable and entirely absent of interest. The first to approach was a viscount’s daughter, statuesque in pearl-draped chiffon, her fan artfully poised just below her chin—half veil, half bait.
“Your Majesty,” she purred, curtsying just shy of reverence. “I confess I hardly believed the whispers of your attendance. Renaldi must be far more… alluring than we were told.”
He inclined his head, his tone smooth but distant. “The invitation was graciously received.”
Before her silk had even settled, a merchant baron’s son stepped forward—his voice just a shade too eager, his ambitions sharpened by a glass too many. “Your Majesty, may I convey House Enveren’s admiration? My father often recounts your southern campaign as a masterwork of ruthless elegance.”
Jotaro’s expression did not shift. “Flattering,” he said, his gaze already moving—beyond them. Beyond the columns and the conversations. Beyond the floral-draped formality.
As he was guided through the terrace, Jotaro offered the requisite nods and brief pleasantries with the precision of a man born to command but bred for politics. He was polite, perfectly so. But his poise carried the weight of a lion in a ballroom—too grateful to be faulted, too visibly not at ease.
He did not smile. He did not linger, but neither did he offend. His civility was impeccable and entirely absent of interest.
“Your Majesty,” came the practiced timbre of a minor countess, the hem of her frost-toned gown catching light like a blade of moonlight. “If I might request a brief word on behalf of the Southbridge Trade Alliance, we would be most honored to—”
Jotaro glanced at her. Not cruelly. Not unkindly. Just enough for her voice to die mid-syllable. It wasn’t rude—it was disinterest made elegant. “Another time,” he said, quiet and irrevocable.
And with those words, the matter ended. She curtsied low, as if her fan might hide her embarrassment. She stepped back into the periphery where all unheeded voices went.
The harpists, as if summoned by something divine and unseen, shifted seamlessly into a new melody—a waltz of slow strings and minor chords that wove through the air like ribbons caught in wind. The scent of lemon blossom and pressed rose thickened in the air. Even the light seemed to melt into warmer hues, caught between crystal chandeliers and the pale arches above. And from across the glass-swept expanse, beneath a dome of flowering trellises, Marina saw him.
The court moved around her like water, men drawn like moths, girls giggling behind manicured hands. But she was already turning away from them. Toward him.
The garden court had not gathered around her—they had arranged themselves. Like a carefully composed painting, she was the focal point. A rose in bloom while all others fluttered as decoration. Young lords gathered like petals near her feet, whispering pleasantries in voices steeped with admiration. Noble daughters clustered around her, laughing a beat too quickly, angling their shoulders to be caught in the same light that adored her. Every glance that touched her left with something etched—envy, reverence, or aspiration.
Across the manor, past the gathering of polished boots and foreign coats, past the trail of murmured greetings and half-curtsies, Jotaro Kujo moved like a shadow made flesh. There was no urgency in his step. Only quiet dominion. And she saw it—the ripple that followed him. The way voices dropped half a note lower. The way even older nobles tilted their heads to watch him pass. Her hand tightened faintly on the stem of her crystal glass.
He looked—unbothered. Broad-shouldered, sharply tailored in that ink-black coat with storm-silver detail. His collar was open at the throat, an effortless rebellion against the afternoon’s stiffness. His gloves remained in his hand, still creased from disuse, and his dark hair, ruffled just slightly from the breeze, fell into his eyes like a secret he refused to share.
“Do you think he’ll approach?” Lady Arden asked, leaning in with a sugar-sweet smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Marina didn’t look at her. “He always does.”
She shifted her weight, just slightly, to catch the light in the jeweled combs laced through her coiffed hair. The rubies glimmered like wine caught in firelight. Her posture eased—softened—every inch deliberate. She looked like ease incarnate. Like someone who had already won the attention she hadn’t yet received.
“But he hasn’t even glanced this way,” another lady murmured, almost nervously.
“He’s not the type to look openly,” she said. “And he never lingers where eyes expect him to. But he’ll seek out intelligence. Power. Advantage. And what greater advantage could he ask for than me?” Her voice was low, almost honeyed. “How could His Majesty not align himself with his future empress…”
Her ladies tittered, and one of the younger ones whispered behind her hand, “You’d suit one another. Look at the two of you. Like a myth written in marble.”
Marina’s lashes dipped as she stole another glance toward Jotaro, who was just finishing a short exchange with one of the Belvarez cousins. Her breath caught—not visibly, not sharply—but with the faintest ripple beneath her ribs.
Men flattered him. Women flamed and fell. And she had waited. For this moment. For this exact opening.
Her lips parted ever so slightly, like a flower poised to speak. Every thread of her gown was positioned, every shimmer intentional. She was a vision rendered in velvet and calculation. And all she waited for now… was his approach.
Because if Jotaro Nobelius Kujo was the Sun of the Empire, then she was the jeweled mirror meant to catch his light—and claim it.
Kalithea’s hands were folded in a subtle pose, the woman remaining still. But her thoughts were not. They fluttered behind her gaze like pages caught in a quiet wind. The sweetness of cherries still lingered on her tongue, and the laughter of Edwina’s circle had not yet faded entirely from the air. And yet… her heart had begun to drift elsewhere.
“He’s truly arrived,” Anise murmured, her gloved hand brushing absently against her pearl-drop earring, voice lowered as if she feared speaking too loud might break the spell. “His Majesty… here, at a seasonal gathering. I daresay the very marble is shocked.”
Mirielle nodded faintly, her gaze fixed on the commotion beyond the arch. “I was told he hadn’t graced a single salon or court banquet in a long time.
“Indeed,” Edwina replied, her voice more measured, though still tinged with quiet wonder. “But such appearances are never without intent. If he is here, then someone—or something—warranted it.”
Cecily, ever composed, leaned slightly into the railing. “Regardless of the cause, the court will not recover easily from it. There is no presence quite like his.”
The words settled like dew. Then, after a beat, Edwina turned slightly, her gaze drifting to Kalithea as she stood with them in their conversation.
Mirielle tilted her head, her voice soft as she called gently over her shoulder, “Will you remain much longer, Kalithea? Now that His Majesty has arrived, I fear the party has only just begun.” There was no bitterness in her tone—just the idle knowledge of how these affairs worked. The season now stirred in earnest, and the rest of the day would surely ripple outward, tethered to the orbit of a single man.
Kalithea looked up at them, her lashes low, smile faint but genuine. “Just a little longer,” she replied in her booklet, her fingers writing another response. “Even though we are still in this manor, it is pleasant here only with all of your company.”
What she didn’t write, what she couldn’t say aloud—not here, not yet—lingered in the quiet fold of her breath. She only hoped he hadn’t forgotten. And even if he had—if this was all for ceremony, for duty, for some political necessity, it would still be alright.
Not all at once But the music, once playful and decorative, again took on a deeper timbre—strings melting into silk, every note slower, more deliberate. Laughter quieted into murmurs. The air shifted in texture, as though every sound were filtered through velvet.
The diplomats who lingered near him faded into shadow. One attempted a final question—something about tariffs and trade councils—but his voice dwindled as Jotaro’s gaze did not move. The emperor’s reply was quiet, polite, but carved in steel. “Another time.” And the man bowed himself backward, suddenly unsure if he had ever belonged near the sun.
Because Jotaro had already found what he came for.
She stood half-turned in profile, lit by the fractured light of the glass dome above. The glow touched her like reverence—gathering in the soft fall of her gown, that pale blue silk that clung and floated like early morning fog over quiet hills. Her gorgeous red loosely coiled as it shimmered in waves down her back.The lines of her shoulders, her jaw—elegant without trying—seemed carved not by intention, but by kindness. Her eyes, wide and thoughtful as she listened to the other girls around her, held no trace of fear. No stiffness. No guarded watchfulness like when he had first found her seated across from him in a teahouse that felt like the edge of the world.
She was laughing softly at something Cecily had said, her expression touched by a kind of gentleness that didn’t glitter—it glowed. The girls around her smiled easily, as though peace had bloomed from her presence and made the air easier to breathe. There was no pretending in the way she tilted her head, no performance in the way her gloved hand tucked neatly at her side. And it struck him—deeply, unrelentingly—that she belonged here. Not as a curiosity. Not as someone placed among pearls and privilege like a relic to be examined. But as someone who softened the space around her until it felt like home.
It was the way she looked at others without pretense. The way she folded her hands. The way she made silence feel like peace and not punishment. She was light where so many others glittered. And he—so long surrounded by luster without warmth—felt something impossible beginning to burn in him.
He’d told himself this wasn’t the time. That duty should come first. That proximity was enough. That seeing her from a distance should suffice. But it didn’t.
Because even now—even across a ballroom lit by chandeliers and watched by a hundred noble eyes—he felt closer to her than to anyone else in the world. He was falling for her. Not quietly nor carefully—but wholly, and without defense.
She didn’t know that her voice, though silent, was the one he heard most often when the halls went quiet. She didn’t know that her laugh rewrote the shape of his thoughts. That the memory of her smile made council meetings blur. That in this moment—here, now—she mattered more to him than she could ever be allowed to realize.
But she was becoming his—not a passing fondness, but the beginning of everything.
Kalithea said nothing at first. Her posture remained untouched—serene, composed, as though sculpted from a moment between breaths. Her hands were folded delicately before her, her smile still faintly blooming from some gentle remark whispered by Cecily. On the surface, she was unchanged. But something subtle had begun to ripple beneath the satin hush of the garden air—an almost imperceptible shift, like wind brushing across still water before a single petal dares to fall.
Mirielle was the first to notice. Her smile, delicate and perfectly practiced, faltered—not with fear, but with a sliver of something she could not name. Her fan dipped slightly, no longer used for elegance but for anchoring. She blinked, head tilting just enough to signal something had changed. “Kalithea,” she murmured, her voice velvet-laced and edged with curiosity. “That man. He’s looking this way.”
Cecily turned, her expression still light, still painted in soft courtesies—until her brow faintly creased, and the breath she took seemed to catch against the edge of her corset. “I… I believe that’s the Emperor.”
Anise gave a breath of laughter, uncertain and half-formed, like a note struck wrong on a familiar piano. “The Emperor? Looking here? Surely not at—at all of us?” Her tone thinned into something more uncertain, trailing off like a ribbon pulled too far from its spool.
But Edwina, ever the most composed, did not speak at first. She merely shifted her gaze, slow and precise, the way a scholar might approach an unwritten truth. And then, after a pause too long to be polite, she inhaled. “No,” she said, barely above a whisper. “He’s not looking at us.” The words dropped like water into the center of their small circle. Delicate, weightless. And yet, they seemed to echo.
Three sets of eyes pivoted toward Kalithea. For a moment, silence settled over them like a silken veil. Fragile. Absolute. And then Mirielle spoke again—softly, reverently. “Kalithea…” Her voice held no accusation. Only wonder. “He’s looking at you.”
Kalithea didn’t flinch. She hadn’t flinched all evening, no matter how sharp the stares, how cold the speculation. But now, something within her stirred—deep and slow and undeniable. A hush bloomed behind her ribs. Not of fear, nor confusion, but something quieter, more fragile. Hope, she realized. Or perhaps memory.
She turned.
Not quickly. Not with the theatrical sharpness of the court’s restless daughters. But slowly. As though she were turning pages in a book she had once known by heart. Her chin lifted. Her gaze, poised and unhurried, followed as though drawn by an invisible thread.
He was already looking, and not with court-trained politeness. He was watching her with the solemnity of a man who had spent hours enduring everything he did not want, just to arrive at the one thing he did.
Kalithea’s lashes lifted, and a flush crept up the curve of her cheekbones—not from embarrassment, but from something quieter. Recognition. She knew that look. Not the admiration in his eyes, but the quiet behind it. The steadiness. The searching. And the strange, aching peace of finally finding what you were searching for.
She did not move, but she did not retreat. Her expression held, quiet but open. And as they looked at one another, the distance between them no longer mattered.
It was only then that the world began to notice. Whispers rustled through silk gloves and glittering brocades.
”Who is she?”
“She arrived with the Ferndale girl, did she not? Barely uttered a syllable all evening. An awfully quiet little thing.”
“I noted her earlier—red hair, uncommon in its hue. You don’t forget a shade like that, not in this light.”
“That hair…” a baroness murmured behind her lace fan, voice laced with velvet speculation. “Could it be? Do you recall the gossip in the capital? The tea house. The Emperor. He was seen sitting beside a young woman. Red-haired. Unnamed.”
A viscount’s daughter arched a sculpted brow. “Surely not this girl. No pedigree. No escort of note. Not a single crest on her bodice.”
“But he’s watching her,” the Marchioness’s niece said faintly, fingers tightening around her pearl-tied reticule. “Not as one surveys a crowd… but as if he already knows her. As if—”
“As if she’s the reason he came.”
Across the garden, Marina’s smile faltered. Just slightly—but enough. The tilt of her crystal glass wavered by no more than a breath, yet the weight of the moment pressed into her collarbone like a jewel worn too long. No wine spilled. She would never allow it. But the angle of her shoulders shifted—graceful still, but no longer effortless. There was tension in the way her posture sharpened, as though an invisible thread had been pulled too tightly between her spine and her pride.
“No,” she murmured under her breath, not loud enough to be questioned, not quiet enough to hide. “He wouldn’t.”
But her ladies had already turned. The shine in their eyes was no longer admiration—it was hunger. Curiosity laced with disbelief, and something darker. One of them, the soft-voiced Lady Arienne, leaned ever so slightly forward behind her fan. “He hasn’t looked at us all evening,” she whispered, eyes narrowing. “But her… he looked at her as though—”
“As though they already belonged to each other,” finished another, the words caught between awe and disdain.
“She’s not even listed,” said one of the Marchioness’s protégées, frowning as her gloved fingers traced the rim of her wineglass. “There’s no seal. No registered title.”
“She’s a guest of the Ferndale girl,” another noted. “That’s all we know. But, perhaps it was arranged. The company she’s keeping—those girls are high-ranked. It wouldn’t be a stretch…”
Her eyes—those rich, deceptively warm eyes—locked onto Kalithea with a sharpness that could slice silk. She observed her not like one admired, but like a threat marked for eradication. Her gaze swept downward, not quickly, but with the practiced elegance of a jeweler inspecting a counterfeit gem. From the loose fall of Kalithea’s red-gold hair—a shade too rare to be fashionable and too luminous to be dismissed—to the silhouette of her gown, a pale, smoky blue that hovered somewhere between innocence and winter rain.
It was not court fashion. Not yet. The hem wasn’t stiff with goldwork, nor did the sleeves drape like stage curtains as Marina’s own did. But the fabric moved like it had memory. Like it knew the shape of the girl who wore it and had no intention of adorning anyone else. The sleeves brushed her wrists with quiet precision, delicate as thought. And the neckline—subtle, high, edged with embroidered thread so faint it shimmered only in full light—whispered of design not yet released to the ateliers.
It was next season’s silhouette on a girl who did not ask to be noticed. And that, Marina realized with a flare of unease, made her unforgettable. Too plain to be court-bred. Too striking to be ignored.
And that, too, was infuriating. There was no rouge on her cheeks. No shimmer glossed along her lips. Her face was bare—or if painted, done with the restraint of someone who had never needed it. She did not seek the light. It followed her. Even her posture—unassuming, still, perfectly poised—gave no indication that she intended to command the space. And yet she did.
Marina hated how the color suited her. Hated that the gown clung without asking permission. That the girl had the gall to stand in the center of the garden like it had been grown for her. That her smile—modest, guileless, maddeningly sincere—was the one the Emperor had chosen to stare at as though he’d been parched in a desert of coronets and courtly rehearsals. Kalithea’s ability to be just… content. As if she belonged in this world of jeweled sleeves and powdered scorn, even though not a single soul could name her family crest.
She cannot be… some foreign princess, can she?” Marina asked, softly enough for her words to sound idle, carelessly curious, but her grip on the fan told another story. “Someone cloaked in titles, kept from view until now?”
The possibility tasted like vinegar on her tongue.
Because if such a girl existed—if a royal-blooded creature with eyes like that and silence like a song had truly arrived at court—and Marina had not known… it meant something had moved in the world without her knowledge.
Jotaro—he of marble stillness and storm-born blood—was not a man to be taken in by softness. Not a man to dote over lace or laughter. He was deliberate. Methodical. Power aligned with precision. And he was staring at this girl with reverence. With recognition. As though her existence unraveled something tightly wound inside him.
“She’s no one,” Marina said, too quickly.
But not one of her ladies repeated it. Their silence answered for them—a fragile, glimmering betrayal. Because they saw it too. The truth of it. The way the Emperor’s gaze—so famously cold, so legendarily indifferent—had not shifted since the moment it landed on the girl in the blue gown.
And now, he was walking Not urgently or dramatically. But with a precision that drew every breath from the manor. Each step was silent thunder. Each stride a refusal of distraction. He did not glance at the ministers who bowed as he passed, nor did he offer a flicker of acknowledgement to the noble sons who stumbled backward to make space. The path cleared, as though the very air parted for him.
Marina’s eyes lifted, just slightly. Widened. It was not fear. Not surprise. But recognition. And that was what made the world hush. Because even she—composed, radiant, untouched by spectacle—had not expected this.
Every step he took was purposeful, weighted with a resolve that swept through the greenhouse like thunder muffled in velvet. His coat moved with him, dusk-dark and sharp-lined, the embroidery catching gold light with every shift of air. The glass panels above glowed faintly as he passed, throwing pale halos across his shoulders, as if the heavens themselves were following his gait.
But as he drew closer—step by step, echoing louder in her ribs than on the marble floor—the smallest motion betrayed her: the faint upward curve of her lips. Not coy. Not rehearsed. But real. The kind of smile that forms when something has just become true.
She bowed her head slightly, lashes lowering—not out of modesty, but from instinct, from memory. Then, as the hush around her deepened, she moved. She dipped into a curtsy—elegant, restrained. The kind of movement born not from title, but from truth. A gesture shaped by sincerity, not spectacle. Like a flame bowing to its reflection on water.
And when she rose— he was already there.
Jotaro reached for her hand without hesitation. His fingers, warm and gloved in silk-lined leather, brushed hers—firm, but gentle. As though he were not holding a hand, but asking permission to hold something far more fragile. He lifted it before the eyes of a more than a hundred watching courtiers—he bowed deeply.
Not to the lords, dignitaries, or a crown, but to her. He brought her hand to his lips with deliberate care, and kissed it—not showily, but reverently. A whisper of contact, like silk on skin.
And then he spoke—his voice low, quiet, exquisitely private, as if the moment belonged only to them. “It is good to see you.” The words fell between them like a vow.
And Kalithea’s breath—held tight in her chest—finally escaped her in a hush. It wasn’t just what he said. As though the manor, the party, the court, the empire—all of it had unraveled for this moment. Like she was the only person left in the world
Even after Jotaro stepped back—his hand releasing hers with the quiet reverence of a man not merely greeting, but remembering—no one truly moved. The greenhouse, despite its chandeliers and softened harp strings, remained suspended in a breath that hadn’t quite been let go.
Kalithea did not look away. Her fingers, still tingling where his lips had touched, but her heart, however, was another matter entirely.
Jotaro lingered only a moment longer, his eyes scanning her face as if he were committing it to memory in light. Then, with the same unhurried grace that had carried him across the room, he leaned in—only just. Close enough for the scent of citrus and smoke to reach her, close enough that no one else could hear what followed.
“Meet me at the west balcony, When the music changes.” The words were not urgent. But they were weighted. Steady. A thread of gold slipped into her palm and left there—his only request.
She nodded. Just once. Soft. Steady. He turned without flourish. Without haste. His path curved back into the garden’s promenade, where Lord Belvarez and two foreign ministers had reassembled with the tenacity of men clinging to protocol in the wake of legend.
There was no fanfare when Jotaro turned away. No grand gesture, no retreating bow. Just the soft hush of his coat sweeping past a pedestal of blown-glass orchids and the faint click of his polished boots against inlaid stone. And yet, his departure was more thunderous than his arrival had been. As if the room had been holding its breath—through roses and revelations—and now, uncertain of what to do with the silence, it simply tried to pretend.
A servant poured a glass of sparkling cordial into a waiting goblet, and the clink of crystal seemed louder than it should have been. A diplomat chuckled at a jest he hadn’t heard, nodding along to a conversation he wasn’t following. Two ladies near the fountain resumed their talk of hats and hem lengths, their laughter just a shade too high-pitched, too desperate in its normalcy. Everywhere, nobles lifted their glasses, took polite sips, and glanced away, as though looking too long would unravel something far more dangerous than curiosity.
Near the stairwell, a pair of young lords exchanged a series of discreet glances. One mouthed something to the other—something too shocked to be spoken aloud—and received a breathless nod in return. They both turned toward the wisteria arch, where Kalithea still stood. But she was no longer just the girl beside the ladies who she befriended.
Her hand had not moved from where it had been kissed, as though her body was still trying to process what had occurred. Her friends were close—closer than ever—but they, too, seemed caught in a moment that hadn’t ended. Mirielle blinked three times, slowly, as though trying to wake from a dream. Cecily mouthed her name once and didn’t finish the sentence. Anise simply held her breath.
And Mirelle—poised, and practiced Edwina—tilted her head in awe and whispered instinctively together, “You… you must tell us everything. Later..”
Across the garden, Marina hadn’t moved. Her glass remained tilted at the exact same angle, but her grip had tightened just slightly, enough to blanch her knuckles beneath lace. Her eyes remembering Kalithea’s face, yet turned to her inner circle furiously inattentive.
It was Edwina who stepped forward first, offering Kalithea her arm. “The air is better above,” she said gently. “Come. Let us be still for a while, somewhere less watched.” Kalithea nodded once, her smile small but warm, and allowed herself to be led.
They ascended the side staircase at the edge of the garden, where polished stone gave way to sweeping views and a lattice of flowering trellises bathed in the golden haze of the descending sun. The second floor terrace—cooler, quieter—unfolded like a private cove of air and perfume, overlooking the glittering party now trying desperately to compose itself below.
They settled there, her friends arranging themselves in a half-circle around her like petals falling into place. The scent of rosewater and almond blossom hung heavy in the breeze. She sat between Edwina and Mirielle, her hands still delicately folded in her lap, her smile unreadable, her breath—slow.
It was Cecily who broke the hush first, her voice hushed but bright, as though she were still catching her breath. “I feel as though we were just written into a painting,” she said slowly. “One they’ll hang in the northern gallery for generations—framed in gold and disbelief.”
Anise gave a short, breathless laugh. “No. They’ll call it fiction. A romantic folktale—because no one will believe he actually crossed the entire promenade.”
Mirielle leaned in slightly, her curls brushing the lilac-framed banister, her expression vivid with marvel. “Kalithea,” she said gently. “You must tell us. Who is he to you?”
Kalithea did not rush to answer. The weight of the moment still settled along her spine. “We’ve, met before, countless of occasions. Im unsure how to explain—pardon my lack of words.”
There was a pause—elegant, respectful. The kind that can only exist between girls who understood, implicitly, that a shared moment was not always a shared story.
Edwina lifted one brow, but her smile never faded. “You do have a gift for mystery,” she murmured, brushing a gloved hand against her cheek. “I’m not sure whether I should press further or let you stay wrapped in silk and secrets.”
Cecily leaned back a little, resting her gloved hand upon the white stone railing. “He didn’t look at you like it was just curiosity,” she said softly. “There was nothing passive about it.”
“No,” Edwina added, her voice dreamy now, distant with wonder. “He looked at you as if he’d come all this way—for you, and only you.”
“And you looked back,” Mirielle said, her voice quiet but edged with conviction, “as if you knew.”
Kalithea didn’t reply to that—not with pen, nor smile. But her silence held an answer of its own. A stillness too eloquent to name.
The soft trill of the harp returned to the air, and the garden below resumed its gentle rhythm—conversation swelling, laughter rising again like the tide returning to shore. Guests took to the paths once more, wine was poured, and the murmurs shifted. The moment, to the rest of the court, was already fading. But not here. Not for them.
The girls did not stir from the lilac-draped terrace. They simply remained. With her.
It was Anise who broke the quiet this time. She glanced back toward Kalithea, her tone warm but carefully measured. “Forgive me if this is too forward… but how long have you known him?”
Kalithea blinked once, slowly, and her smile returned—small, composed, but touched with sincerity. She reached for her booklet, the little bound journal that had become an extension of her breath. And as she wrote, the pen seemed to glide
“I must confess,” she wrote, and turned the page toward them with care, “It has been so long that I cannot count the days or weeks we have seen one another.”
They leaned in—just enough to read, just enough to breathe.
“For the start of the season, we went to the tea house together, setting a place for us to enjoy a quiet moment, despite the whispers and glances I had heard and felt.”
“Merciful heavens,” murmured Cecily, her fan resting against her shoulder, eyes wide but glowing. “And here I believed the stories were stitched from moonlight.”
“But they were true,” said Anise softly, her voice laced with something between awe and delight. “The tale of the tea house—the Emperor himself in the capital, seated beside a girl no one recognized… I dismissed it entirely. As did my aunt.”
The redhead picked up her pen again, writing more eloquent words for her new found friends to see, and with her hands, demonstrated what had happened. “We’ve shared quiet dinners, small conversations where he will talk more than I ever can, with careful and kind words. Even solitary moments once or twice. I’ve grown used to his presence—but in the best way possible, and in confidence. Despite it all— I hope he understands how grateful I am that he asked me to accompany him this season as his companion—and in short with joy, accepted graciously”
Edwina moved closer first, a gloved hand brushing the pale silk at Kalithea’s sleeve with quiet reverence, as if confirming the moment was real. Her eyes—usually playful, sharply attuned to irony—were softened now, gentled by something far deeper. “To be asked by His Majesty,” she said slowly, like the phrase deserved to be unwrapped with care, “not merely permitted, but invited to accompany him… goodness, that is not favor. That is distinction. And you”—her voice dropped, touched with sisterly delight—“you accepted with grace so unshaken, I may never recover.”
Cecily let out a breath, one hand pressed lightly to her collarbone as if steadying her pulse. “Truly, I must commend your composure. Had it been me, I’d have fainted, revived myself, and then fainted again for ceremony.”
“Anise’s fan trembled slightly in her fingers, though her smile never wavered. “And the way you wrote it. Every word so carefully chosen, as if you were painting in ink. Not a trace of boast. Only clarity. It was beautiful.”
Mirielle, silent until then, tilted her head and regarded Kalithea with the kind of expression one might reserve for a rare gem discovered in an unmarked box. “You’ve dined with him. Spoken at length. Shared… solitude.” Her words, though quietly said, held weight. “That is intimacy by another name. And if he speaks more with you than he does with most of the court, then I believe we are no longer speaking of mere proximity, but preference.”
Kalithea’s fingers brushed over the notebook’s spine. She gave a demure tilt of her head, lips parting in a smile and a blush ever so gracious towards her new inner circle.
“I cannot fathom how the rest of the court might envy you,” Edwina mused aloud, eyes flicking briefly toward the direction of the promenade. “And yet, I cannot imagine anyone more deserving.”
“She does not steal a scene,” Cecily said dreamily. “She simply becomes it.”
Anise pressed her gloved fingers together, her voice featherlight. “I shall have to write to my aunt. She’ll scarcely believe I stood in the presence of the young lady the Emperor sought—steadfastly, sincerely—all evening.”
It made the circle laugh—not with derision, but with real, glittering warmth. The kind that wrapped gently around the edges of friendship, blooming without spectacle. There were no questions that came with edge, no praise laced in envy. Just admiration. Just wonder.
A shift in the music rippled through the air like silk brushing over marble. The harpists’ fingers had not stopped, but their melody now carried something new—no longer idle, but quietly ceremonial, touched with the gravity of a whispered promise. The notes rose and curved in the golden hush like the garden itself had exhaled in anticipation.
Mirielle was the first to speak, her voice soft as spun sugar, tinged with delicate awe. “The melody has changed.” Her head tilted ever so slightly, and her earrings—glistened with her movement. “It sounds like the start of something important. Something written in lace and breath.”
Anise, with feathered laughter, glanced toward Kalithea with eyes bright as they were disbelieving. “If I had ever been summoned—summoned!—by His Imperial Majesty himself, I do believe I would make the court wait an hour simply to adjust my gloves.”
“An hour?” Cecily mused, adjusting the edge of her ivory shawl with courtly precision. “I would delay the whole evening, and pretend it was a test of patience. Alas, I do not think I would be invited a second time.”
Edwina leaned in—not to command the circle, but to anchor it, her presence as steady as ever, like the eldest sister in a fairytale who always knew the way home. “Go to him, Kalithea,” she said, her tone hushed with a wonder that sparkled beneath its polish. “You cannot keep a man like that waiting. Not when his gaze has not left you since the moment he stepped across the marble.”
Her words sent a ripple through the group—not of jealousy, but of wide-eyed reverence.
“You must promise to tell us everything,” Mirielle declared, her eyes bright, her curls bouncing as she shifted in excitement. She waved her hand with playful authority, the glint of her bracelets catching the twilight. “In full, unabridged account. I will accept nothing less than a tale worthy of embroidery.”
“And spare none of the delicate bits,” Anise added with a grin, her fan fluttering against her cheek like a butterfly with secrets. “Did he touch your hand just so? Was his voice softer when he spoke only to you?”
“I should have brought a journal,” Cecily whispered. “To chronicle this evening properly. We’re living in a novel and none of us were prepared.”
The laughter that followed was warm, full of breath and breathlessness, of youth tempered by silks and slippers and a shared wonder that they, too, had become part of something whispered and beautiful.
Kalithea’s smile deepened—rare, but unmistakable. Not the smile of mere courtesy, but one touched with reverence. It was the smile of a girl discovering that kindness, when offered freely, did not dissolve under scrutiny.
She looked at each of them in turn, her gaze resting gently, meaningfully, before she rose—poised, ethereal. They all knew she would return, sharing secrets with women she could trust. She moved with subtle and delicate composure, her steps carrying her with purpose, and something too deep to name.
Kalithea began her descent.
The marble steps curved beneath her like the neck of a swan, each one veiled in shadows cast by overhead blooms—lilac, honeysuckle, and trailing moonvine that caught the gold of the garden lights in strands of dew. She moved with grace, her posture straight, her hands folded lightly before her. Though the hush of harp strings still lingered in the air, the atmosphere shifted as she passed. Not violently. But deliberately.
Eyes turned but not all at once. In quiet pairs, a few nobles deep in their cups, barely stirred. But others—those seated near the floral trellises or standing in galleryed alcoves—straightened as she passed. They noticed her step. The rhythm of her movement. The way she seemed to slip from the garden party without effort, like a petal pulled on a breeze no one else could feel.
Dame Adeline stood just beyond the arched stairwell, her presence as quiet as it was undeniable. She did not call out. She didn’t need to. Her expression held the reverence of a knight addressing her familiar friend.
“This way, my lady,” she said, her tone low, textured like velvet pulled across the rim of crystal. Her gloved hand barely moved as she gestured.
Kalithea’s gaze softened as she inclined her head in silent acknowledgment. But before her reply could leave her lips, Dame Erin appeared to her right—steadfast, silent, her expression unreadable save for the calm steel of reassurance in her eyes. “My lady, you’ve done so well to navigate the party. I never doubted you for a second.” She quickly replied, her lips closing once again.
A breath later, Sir Amadeus emerged farther down the path, walking just behind a hedgerow that split the promenade from the lower terrace. He smiled warmly, his curled mustache lifting as he did so.
And then—Sir Jean. The gentle knight opened the door before her with a quiet smile, his hand curled around the handle as though it had been carved for this moment alone. Ivy curled along the gate’s edge, and a stray blossom fell between them, catching on her hem.
“It’s a quiet path,” he murmured. “But well guarded. You need not worry.” He gave a brotherly wink, Kalithea silently laughing as she acknowledged him and continued forward.
Somewhere behind her, the murmurs of the party softened—but did not vanish. Because not all eyes had turned away. By the crystal fountain, a countess stilled mid-sentence. Her hand remained lifted near her glass, but the words did not finish.
Two daughters of the Eastern Trade Circle, garbed in citrus chiffon, faltered in their laughter. Their fans—ornamental more than functional—drifted lower in their hands.
And a young nobleman, his jacket too crisply tailored for his years, leaned toward his father with a look of dawning comprehension.
“She’s being escorted,” someone whispered. “Dare I say—with reverence.”
“But those are imperial knights,” another replied, voice laced with awe. “They answer to no one but—”
“His Majesty,” a third finished, almost breathlessly.
“She isn’t simply wandering,” said a lady of the Southros line, eyes narrowing. “She’s been summoned.”And with that word, summoned, something settled in the space between curiosity and confirmation.
The doors closed behind her with the hush of velvet pulled over glass, sealing the rest of the court away with a finality that felt almost holy. Cool air greeted her first—soft and fragrant with jasmine and the distant bloom of night-breathing roses. The world inside was glitter and applause. But here, the quiet reigned.
Jotaro stood at the edge of the terrace, where the stone met trailing ivy and the sky spilled itself over the railing in shades of amethyst and pale silver. He had discarded his gloves, one tucked beneath his palm, the other set neatly on the balustrade. His posture was deceptively still, yet it held the weight of something barely tethered—like a storm awaiting permission to speak.
For the rhythm of her approach, the quiet steps of her heeled shoes had found him, quiet but certain. He steadily turned, seeing her face.
And the peace he had told himself would come—after diplomacy, after duty—collapsed beneath the sight of her. Her hair, loosened slightly from the evening air, framed her face with unstudied grace. Her lips parted—just faintly—as if his presence had been a question she had waited too long to answer.
With that same quiet grace she gave to everything, Like a page turning itself out of habit, she lifted her dress as she felt herself curtsey toward him. He reached for her gently, his fingertips brushing a single lock of her hair from her cheek. The motion was tender, almost reverent. His knuckles grazed her skin with the kind of delicacy that did not belong to emperors, only to men undone.
“Don’t,” he said softly.
His voice was the sound of quiet thunder—low, certain, but intimate. It didn’t echo. It curled between them like a secret.
“Not with me.”
Her breath caught in the intimacy of their quiet. Her eyes lifted slowly, meeting him with something quiet but unguarded. In her lavender orb he saw the happiness that exuded from her, and the joy that he had sought for her will for all things. Though she could say nothing aloud, her heart had leaned toward this moment like a flower turning to warmth.
Kalithea leaned into the touch with a grace so natural it felt inevitable. Her heart beat against her ribs with the trembling ache of recognition, and for a moment, she forgot that the world existed beyond the archway.
“I apologize for arriving so late,” Jotaro said, voice low and even—but gentler than the dusk. “The meeting stretched longer than what I have anticipated—I did not make you wait long?”
He looked at her as though the rest of the world had never mattered—never existed. His eyes, dark as storm-soaked parchment and rimmed in something too tender to name, took her in slowly. As if afraid the vision might dissolve should he blink too quickly.
Kalithea, steady as moonlight, tilted her chin in response. She had not written a word. Not yet. She hadn’t needed to. Because her eyes—wide, luminous, filled with that strange aching joy that bloomed in her whenever he was near—had already answered everything.
She shook her head silently, his eyes seeing that she wore her heart to him in plain sight.
The sky behind her matched the color of her gown that the seamstress had so carefully to achieve. However, the luminous light from the immense a mount of stars The descending light touched her face like a benediction, catching in the curve of her cheek, the faint sheen on her lower lip, the subtle shimmer in her eyes that had nothing to do with jewels.
And he—usually so careful, so measured—broke the silence again. Not because he had to. But because the words pressed too heavily against the walls of his chest to remain there.
“You look beautiful.” It was simple. Unadorned. But something in the way he said it made it feel impossibly real. As if he wasn’t just speaking of her gown, or her hair in the evening breeze—but of her. The way she carried silence. The way she met the world without apology.
Then she looked up—just once—and in that glance was everything. Trust. Affection. The fragile, blooming echo of something neither of them had yet dared to name. Her fingers brushed gently his golden crest, the young woman’s face turning into a blush that was so faint, yet carried the smile she felt no need to hide.
His gaze drifted out toward the sky, then slowly back to her. “How has the party been for you?” he asked, his voice low again. “I saw you speaking with a few other ladies. You seemed relaxed.” His tone softened, and for the first time in hours, something close to ease touched his features.
Kalithea blinked once—just once—and her smile rose again, shaped not by obligation, but by memory. She reached for the small leather notebook at her side and wrote with a graceful hand, each letter unfolding like the petals of a bloom. “You noticed? I did not think it was obvious, but meeting them was better than what I had ever imagined. The courts, nobility, the wealthy hold more scandal and judgement than they did. Edwina had found me—and then introduced me to her inner circle. They spoke to me kindly, not by duty, but out of joy.”
She paused, then turned the page so he could read the rest, her eyes shimmering with quiet joy.
”We laughed, shared sweets— that I perhaps indulged in too much of. I forgot what it felt like to not be nervous and put on an act..I just enjoyed it, and they let me.”
Jotaro’s eyes moved slowly across the page, each word pulling at something soft inside him—something he rarely let surface. There was a gentleness in her phrasing, the kind that made it feel like a secret offered instead of a report. His lips curved, just faintly—not into one of those clipped, diplomatic smiles on the court.
“I am pleased they made space for you.” His gaze lingered on her a moment longer, then tilted. “What kind of sweet caused you to indulge too much?” he asked momentarily.
She glanced up once, uncertain, as though measuring whether he truly wanted to know. Then, slowly, delicately, she began to write.
“They were sugared cherries. I told myself I’d only try one. But I ended up eating… six.” Then beneath that, in smaller script: “They were the first sweet I’ve tasted here that made me forget I was pretending.”
Jotaro read it, his eyes scanning each line with the same quiet patience he gave to state reports—only now, it was tinged with something far gentler.
He gave a single nod, as their prescence by each other was meaningful. Kalithea smiled—small, warm, and completely unguarded—before her gaze shifted upward, drawn by something quiet and faraway. The sky above the terrace was scattered in stars, strewn like scattered silver across velvet. They shimmered gently in the dome of night, some blurred by passing clouds, others burning clear throughout the cool spring dark.
The wind tousled through her hair, as she looked at the brightest one in the sky, sparkling like light does on a rare gem. In that moment she lifted her pen again, slower this time. Her posture eased, her breath steady. Then, as if pulling the thought from somewhere deep inside, she wrote.
“The stars are so beautiful tonight. Even in Ilicia… I don’t remember or recall either of them shining ever so brightly like this.” Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she added—almost reluctantly hoping he might overlook it. “I hope you do not think I jest with you, but as dark as the sky is, and the adjoining companions it holds—they remind me of your eyes. ”
She kept her gaze low as she handed it to him, not out of shame—but out quiet vulnerability and trust. The kind that bloomed not from declarations, but from stillness.
Jotaro read her words once, then again slowly. He glanced at her fully as though he was seeing her all over again, and realizing how rare she truly was.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low—measured, but no less sincere for its restraint. “I do not believe you jest,” he said, and the words, though simple, carried weight. “You have a way of seeing things that most people overlook.”
Another breeze drifted through the terrace, chillier than the last. It slipped between the carved arches and stirred the edges of Kalithea’s gown, the fabric fluttering like whispers. She hadn’t realized how cold she’d become until a small shiver touched the curve of her collarbones, and her hands folded more tightly in front of her.
Jotaro noticed it at once. Without a word, he slipped the wine-red and ivory mantle from his shoulder—an imperial drape marked by weight and formality—and, with a motion so natural it startled her, he draped it gently around her shoulders. The fabric was still warm from where it had rested against his body, the scent of him—citrus, smoke, and something unmistakably him—clinging softly to the folds.
His hands lingered a moment too long at her shoulders, his fingers brushing the curve where her collar met her neck. Not intentionally—but he didn’t pull away either. He took in the way she tucked into the coat instinctively, her posture easing with the new warmth. He let the silence stretch a moment longer before speaking.
“You should’ve written something,” he said quietly. “I can tell when you’re cold.”
She wrote again carefully, each stroke gentle and precise beneath the moonlight. “But, won’t you be cold? I don’t wish for you to fall ill simply because I could not withstand a simple breeze.”
He glanced down, and for the briefest moment, something flickered in his eyes—warm, quiet, and almost amused.
“I’ll be fine.” He replied quickly and warmly. “You have been out in the night air in a dress. On the other hand, I wear three layers and a cravat. You need it more than I do.”
She couldn’t help the small laugh that left her—soundless, but visible in the way her shoulders shook, the corners of her lips lifting. “I don't think I could ever argue with your observations,” she wrote, her smile lingering. “You’re incredibly observant, much better than me—but I believe that is to be expected.”
His tone was light—measured—but not without meaning. “I notice what matters.” There was a hush to her expression, the kind that came before asking something quietly important. Then, delicately, her pen moved again. Just once.
“May I ask you, without reason, what does matter to you, Jotaro? I don’t mean for diplomacy, nor duty. Just… for you.”
Jotaro looked at her, his face remaining composed, jaw set with the quiet dignity he wore like a second skin. But his eyes—met those pools of lavender with something else.
Truth.
His voice was steady and resolute, as if anything less would have been dishonest. “I see someone I want to keep in my sight. For a while.”
The weight of his words sank in like dusk settling over the sea. And she felt it—not in her chest, but somewhere deeper, where certainty lives. Something warm and trembling bloomed inside her, slow as spring, certain as moonrise.
Slowly turning before him again with a softness that felt almost shy—her hand rose with a softness that felt almost shy. She let her fingertips graze along the line of his cheek, down to the edge of his jaw—tracing it with a gentleness that could undo empires.
Like a leaf floating down to water she leaned closer with a quiet, inevitable grace. She lightly rested her head against the embroidered edge of his lapel—just above his chest, where the steady rhythm of his heartbeat lived beneath fine layers of silk and warmth. Her hands settled against him as if remembering the shape of something not yet named.
Then, after a breath’s pause, he moved—but not with command or calculation. His hand lifted, slow and unhurried, and came to rest just above the curve of her waist. Not to hold. Not to lead. Just to be there. His fingers spread lightly, the warmth of his palm seeping through the mantle he’d draped over her shoulders. His thumb brushed the edge of her arm, subtle as breath. A gesture not meant to stir, but to settle.
Around them, the night deepened. The stars above glimmered like secrets strewn across black velvet, the air perfumed with the ghost of lilac and citrus. Distant laughter curled through the garden paths, too far to break the spell. A hush lived there now—one born not of hesitation, but of understanding. Beneath the softness of light from the manor and the hush of night wind—their affections had turned. The stars themselves had realigned, and neither of them could go back to the way things had been before.
Chapter 35: Silence and Requests
Chapter Text
The letters arrived before dawn.
Monogrammed. Wax-sealed. Slipped beneath velvet-trimmed doors by servants who knew better than to ask questions. Some bore the discreet crest of House Belvarez; others came unsigned, folded with perfume and implication. But all of them whispered the same thing—something had changed at the garden party. Not politically. Not formally. But something far more dangerous.
Socially.
“It’s confirmed,” Lady Halberta drawled over her lace-draped breakfast tray, slicing into a honeyed pear with unsettling precision. “His majesty the Emperor had spoken to her! It was not a passing word nor pleasantry! He lingered.”
“In front of the entire court?” her niece gasped, lips parting as if the scandal itself might kiss her. “That’s quite nearly impossible, she’s—she’s no one! I’ve never seen a face like hers anywhere around this part of the social season.” She replied snobbishly tugging her hair in anger.
“Precisely,” Halberta murmured, lifting her teacup. “And yet… everyone looked.”
In the salons and drawing rooms of Renaldi, the party had already become legend. Overnight. Not for its décor, though the trellised chandeliers had shimmered like suspended constellations, nor for the rare wines or imported orchids—but for something far less tangible, and therefore far more irresistible: mystery. Specifically, the kind that carried a scent of affection dressed in imperial silk.
Candlelit letters flurried like spring moths, delicate and flammable, passed from gloved hand to perfumed with murmurs and narrowed eyes. By breakfast, every noble house had heard at least three versions of what had—or had not—transpired on the west balcony of the glass manor. And by luncheon, there were more. None of them polite.
“They say she touched him,” one viscountess remarked behind a lace veil, her tone sharpened with disbelief. “With her hand. On his person.”
“On the lapel,” corrected her sister, a pale girl who rarely spoke unless correcting. “It was the lapel of his coat. Which, I might add, he let her wear.”
“Well,” added a countess’s niece, her voice lilting with staged innocence, “if she wore it, then surely there was something to cover, was there not?” A collective flutter of fans followed. Like birds startled from an orchard.
“Perhaps he merely escorted her to the balcony,” offered a diplomat’s daughter, whose family had once served Ilician courts. “As a gesture of courtesy. It must have been cold.”
“Darling,” murmured a baroness, reclining languidly against a velvet chaise, “I’ve never seen a man escort a woman with that expression on his face. I watched him when she entered. If that was diplomacy, I’ll eat my dowry.”
“It’s entirely possible she fainted,” one noblewoman proposed, adjusting her bracelets so they chimed against her wrist. “You know the Ilician constitution—fragile things. All those soft pastries and unread poetry.”
“She didn’t faint,” snapped another. “She lingered. There’s a difference. Fainting is done by accident. Lingering is… strategic.”
~~
In private parlors, silk rustled like secrets. Porcelain clinked more delicately. Fans moved with slower, more deliberate grace—as if the very rhythm of high society had tilted by a single, imperceptible degree. Mothers of eligible daughters sent discreet inquiries to House Ferndale, where the girl had supposedly stayed, hoping to divine some fragment of origin that might explain the ripple she’d left behind.
“She’s shifted the tone,” Lady Alvestra said, her voice drifting through lavender chiffon and the hush of cooled afternoon tea. “Not loudly. Just enough to make the rest of us… notice.”
The silence that followed was not disagreement—it was recognition. She hadn’t meant it as praise, but neither was it criticism. Her tone carried the weight of someone who had attended a thousand balls, worn a hundred gowns, and could still admit—grudgingly, gracefully—when someone else had arrived and rearranged the air.
Meanwhile, the girls of Kalithea’s own table—the ones who had laughed beside her over sugared cherries and velvet cushions—had become suddenly, accidentally… radiant with delight.
“She was lovely,” Cecily said with a soft, fond smile, the kind that made everyone else at the table smile too. “But none of us knew. Truly. Edwina introduced her—and after that, it just felt right.”
“I truly do believe her hair was natural,” Anise sighed dreamily, braiding a ribbon into her hair beside a gilt mirror. “Not dyed. Not curled as those other jealous ladies proclaim. It just… falls like that. Like a poem.”
Mirielle, still half-curled on the chaise, hummed as she re-read the invitation in her lap. “Lady Pellane sent word this morning. She wants Kalithea to attend her salon. Said her guest list ‘requires a more tempered elegance.’”
“Meaning,” Edwina murmured, plucking a sugared petal from the edge of her saucer, “Kalithea’s silence made everyone else’s daughters sound like songbirds without a melody.”
They laughed—but this time, not to mock. It was the kind of laughter that filled a room with affection. It lingered like perfume in the cushions and drifted gently between sips of tea. They were not amused by Kalithea. They were taken by her. Softly. Quietly. Entirely.
She had fit beside them like the final piece of a beloved puzzle. As if she’d always belonged, and they’d only just noticed the shape of the space where she’d been missing. A pitcher of rose syrup was cooling on the tray. Their slippers lay forgotten near the hearth. And still, the topic remained her.
“Do you think she’ll come?” Anise asked, leaning forward with a hopeful sort of worry. “She seems like the kind who might drift off into the woods forever and write poetry instead.”
“Are we sure it’s the right address?” Anise asked, delicately lifting the envelope again between two gloved fingers. “It looks far too lovely to be real. Look—she looped the ‘K’ like it belonged on a crest.”
“She wrote it herself, and gave it to us after the party.” Edwina replied, her voice a little sharper—but not unkind. “If that is not intention, I don’t know what is.”
Cecily leaned forward, a curl slipping from her ribboned chignon. “She wouldn’t lie. You saw her face. She meant it—every bit of it.”
“Still,” Anise mused, her tone caught somewhere between a sigh and a sonnet, “she seems like the sort of girl who might vanish into a library tower or a grove of silver trees. The kind who replies by candlelight, with pressed petals in the margins.”
“She’s not kind who would answer, if the letter was worth answering.” That made the others pause. Not because it was rude—but because it was, unfortunately, true
“Well then, who’s going to write it?” Cecily asked, chin resting on her lace-gloved knuckles as she peered over the edge of her teacup. “Mirielle has the prettiest hand.”
“I do not,” Mirielle said without looking up, though her lips curled at the compliment. “Edwina’s is straighter. Mine loops like ivy on a garden wall.”
“Ivy is poetic,” Anise replied, folding a ribbon through her braid. “Besides, Kalithea would like something a little soft around the edges. You saw the way she looked at the orchids.”
“Fine,” Mirielle sighed—though not unhappily. “But if I’m writing it, I’m sealing it too.”
“Of course,” Edwina agreed. “You’ll use the violet stamp. And press one of the rose petals from last night’s centerpiece.”
“And she’ll reply,” Cecily added with certainty, brushing imaginary dust from the silk of her skirt. “She’ll reply because she meant it—when she gave us that address. You saw the way she wrote it. As if the act alone was sacred.”
“It was,” Anise whispered, almost reverently. So Mirielle wrote.
Dearest Kalithea,
We hope this finds you well—and if not well, then at least warm, wrapped in something soft, with something sweet nearby to keep you company. Yes, the court is already awash in theories and sighs. But this letter isn’t about them. It’s about you. You were lovely—not in the way gowns or jewels are lovely, but in the way silence becomes music when the right company is near. You made us feel—genuinely—like ourselves. And that is rarer than pearls in this world. You didn’t ask to be admired. You didn’t need to. The moment you smiled, we remembered what grace feels like when it isn’t worn like armor. Lady Pellane has inquired after you. So has the Duchess of Marrowhill, though she disguised her interest behind a rather theatrical remark about “Ilician cheek tones being seasonally appropriate.” None of it matters. We would simply love to see you again. Perhaps a garden sitting, sometime this week. Tea, music, and perhaps a cherry or six—provided Anise doesn’t sneak them all first.
With affection,Mirielle (and Edwina, Anise, and Cecily—though yes, they did make me write it)
~~
It was nearly midday when Headmistress Avdolia stepped through the east courtyard arch of the Magi Academy, her long, deep blue robes sweeping across the pale stone in silent command. The early sun gilded the braids that crowned her head, each one wound tight with threads of copper and ink-black silk. Her presence was not loud, but it was noticed—like the shift in pressure before a storm.
The students who had once scampered at the sound of a bell now straightened, whispering behind sleeves and textbooks, all heads turning as if by instinct. She moved through them like a comet might drift through stars—gravitational.
“Good morning, Headmistress,” a girl murmured, bowing just slightly from behind an open grimoire. Another boy, barely older than fifteen, tripped over his satchel in his haste to bow. Avdolia acknowledged them all with a small nod, her pace steady.
But as she neared the west cloisters, the usual murmurs of arithmetic enchantments and elemental lectures gave way to something else.
“Someone said she rested her head against his chest.”
“But no one saw that, did they? It was on the west balcony—closed doors.”
“Oh, please. Half the court had to have been watching the balcony from the terrace. They all turned when he walked her out there.”
The voices were hushed, woven with a strange blend of reverence and disbelief. Not cruel. Not mocking. But the way girls speak when they’ve seen something too delicate to name, and can’t help but hold it to the light.
“She looked beautiful, they said. Like a storybook painting.”
“Do you think she cast something on him?” one girl asked softly, not accusingly, but with wide, wondering eyes. “Like a spell of stillness? Of quiet?”
“No,” the boy beside her said, adjusting the cuff of his uniform jacket with careful dignity. “I think she just… was. That’s enough for some people. That’s enough for him.”
Avdolia’s steps slowed. She did not stop—never that—but her shoulders shifted ever so slightly beneath her ceremonial robes, the tilt of her head angled just enough to catch the voices wafting through the arch of the west study corridor. The tone was not cruel. Nor crass. It was the tone of astonished aristocratic youth still trying to make sense of a narrative that had arrived faster than fact.
“I always thought she was… gentle,” another girl murmured.
“She’s the kind of girl someone remembers,” added another. “Even in silence— after all I remember her!”
“You’re all very invested in state accessories this morning,” she said without raising her voice. A hush fell immediately.
The cluster of students near the balustrade stiffened, their postures snapping straight like reeds kissed by frost. A boy dropped his hand from where he had been mid-gesture. A girl with ribboned braids clutched her book tighter, as if shielding herself from judgment.
“Headmistress,” one of them gasped—soft, sheepish. “We didn’t mean to be overheard.”
“Then you must learn to whisper more discreetly,” Avdolia replied with a small smile and yet arching a brow. “What is this talk of mantles and stares?” Avdolia’s expression did not falter. But something beneath it shifted—like a chord pulled taut in a symphony.
“Headmistress,” she said with a quick curtsy, “we were only speaking of Lady Kalithea.”
“As if I hadn’t gathered.” Avdolia folded her hands before her, tone unreadable but not cold. “And what is it you all seem to believe happened?”
“She was at the greenhouse party,” said a boy, emboldened now. “With His Majesty.”
Avdolia’s gaze did not shift, but the soft breath she took was quiet acknowledgment. Avdolia nodded once, and thoughtfully. “That will do,” she said gently. “Lady Kalithea is no stranger to this Academy—or to me.”
She offered them a faint, mysterious smile. Not indulgent, but approving. As if she, too, had known all along that Kalithea was something rare. And then she turned. Her robes whispered softly as she walked down the corridor, her steps swift now, purposeful. She didn’t rush—but there was something just beneath her composure, some surge of quiet relief barely held in check.
Avdolia’s thoughts folded inwards, layer upon layer. She kept her face serene, her chin lifted, but her mind moved like clockwork—fast, intricate, deliberate. Avdolia did not believe in dramatic assumptions. But she believed in Jotaro’s precision. Something had shifted. And it wasn’t politics.
Back in her private chambers, the light filtered through mullioned glass—soft and gold and late. She stood for a moment by the window, watching students crossing the lower courtyards, robes and satchels trailing behind them like spilled ink on parchment. The world moved on, unaware.
“How are you managing it all Kalithea? The nobles. The season. The weight of everyone’s eyes?” She asked herself aloud, the woman moved to her desk with the quiet resolve of someone who had done this before. A practiced hand reached for parchment. A softer hand charmed the paper with a spell of warmth and direction.
My dearest Kalithea,
It has taken me far too long to write—and for that, I hope you’ll forgive me. Since the day word of your accident reached me—through His Majesty, of all people—I’ve carried a weight in my chest that I’ve not dared name aloud. I didn’t show it, of course. You know how I am. But it was there. It still is. And I regret—truly—that I couldn’t come to see you in those first quiet days after. The Magi Council has had me tied up in scrolls and meetings and more ceremonial nonsense than even I can gracefully endure. But enough of that. Are you well, my dear? Not just in your body, but in that secret, quiet place behind your eyes where your hopes live? Where your fears go to curl up and pretend they don’t matter?
I wonder about that place often. I imagine you now in Renaldi, wrapped in too much silk, surrounded by too many eyes that know nothing of who you truly are. I know the season must be in full bloom, and you with it—but does it feel like spring to you? Or are you still waiting for the warmth to reach your roots? I should scold His Majesty properly next time I see him. One letter—that was all I received. One clipped note telling me you were “recovering” and “under protection.” Typical of him. Jotaro has always believed that truth doesn’t need to be spoken aloud—but honestly, the man forgets that those who care for you need to hear it anyway. Still… I hope he’s looking after you the way you deserve. And if he’s not, well—I will cast his pen to ink-free for a week.
I’ll be coming to see you soon. There’s no spell for missing someone properly—believe me, I’ve tried them all. So I’ll travel the old-fashioned way, with my boots and cloak and an unnecessarily large bag. I want to see the girl I taught to walk with grace before she ever believed she belonged in a ballroom. Write to me, if you can. I’ve charmed this parchment as always—it’ll find me no matter where I’m hiding. Though, if you do happen to speak to His Majesty before I arrive, remind him gently that a certain headmistress is still waiting on a second letter—and that if he continues to forget, I’ll make sure his gloves vanish one by one in public. With all my affection—and the soft, steady pride of someone who’s always believed in you, —Avdolia
She read the letter through once more—then twice, smoothing the parchment with her palm. Satisfied, she reached for a camellia resting in a small bowl of water on her desk—deep pink, full bloom, not a single petal bruised. With her free hand, she murmured a small enchantment, fingers brushing the underside of the stem. A subtle shimmer passed over it, barely visible—like the glint of moonlight on still water.
The camellia would never wilt now. It would remain just as it was—soft, whole, and blooming. A charm of preservation, and of care. She pressed her seal—an intricate sun-and-feather crest—into the wax, and whispered one final spell under her breath. The scroll gave off a faint golden glow, then vanished in a soft scatter of silvery light—no burst, no noise of stars curling inward.
Avdolia exhaled softly, her fingers brushing the edge of her desk as she sat down, the chair creaking with familiar ease. Her gaze drifted to a second stack of documents—the ones she’d been ignoring all morning. She tapped the corner of the top page once. Then again. Her lips quirked.
“What are you up to now, Jotaro?” she murmured aloud, eyes narrowing just slightly in amused suspicion.
There was no true bite in the question. Just the gentle, long-suffering fondness of someone who had known him far too long to be surprised anymore—but still couldn’t help wondering. Still, the corner of her mouth lifted as she added, to no one at all— “I suppose I’ll find out soon enough.”
~~~
In the east wing of the palace, the light did not simply fall—it was arranged. Dappled sun filtered through latticed glass onto floors of polished white marble, where the scent of jasmine oil and lavender sachets hung in the air like well-placed compliments. Every surface shimmered, but never glared. Even the hush had texture—threaded with anticipation, and trimmed in silk.
Princess Marina sat in the center of the room’s composition, where the brocade chaise had been angled just so to catch the light upon her profile. She did not recline; she posed, one wrist delicately draped over the gilded armrest, the other trailing gloved fingers over the spine of a book she had no intention of following along.
Her gown today was something of a poem—mist-rose silk layered beneath panels of petal-gold lace, cut in deliberate tiers that rippled when she turned. The sleeves, loose at the cuff, were caught just at the wrist with golden ribbons. Tiny rubies winked at her ears. A small diamond clip—an heirloom from her grandmother’s trousseau—held a curl in place behind one ear, more strategic than sentimental.
Around her, her ladies had arranged themselves like curated brushstrokes—intentional, cohesive, never competing. Vessina, ever the sharpest, wore ivory charmeuse trimmed in ochre, her bronze curls piled high and offset by a single black feather.
Lady Selienne, pale and powdered to perfection, reclined with languid ease in a gown of layered tulle, her gloves translucent and stitched with silk embroidery of cranes and vines. Near the mirrored alcove, Lady Anthemina sat poised as a portrait, her gaze downcast, the better to conceal the exact sharpness of her listening.
Their laughter came in tones—glasslike, feathered, finely timed. When they spoke, it was like water over polished stones: effortless, deliberate, hiding depth beneath sheen.
“My cousin in Marrowhill wrote this morning,” Vessina began, fanning herself with a lace-edged vellum note. “She asked if Marina had commissioned the greenhouse décor herself, or if it had simply risen in adoration around her.”
“Astounding,” murmured Selienne, adjusting the fall of her skirts. “A room designed by reputation alone. What must that feel like, Your Highness?”
Marina did not lift her gaze from the book, but her lips curved—not in amusement, but in acknowledgment. “It feels inevitable.”
The others tittered—not too loudly, not too long. Performance required restraint. But the shift in tone was palpable—Marina was warming. Her eyes flicked upward, just once, catching the play of reflections in the beveled mirror across the room.
“Still,” Anthemina said, as if musing aloud, “one wonders whether inevitable should have come with more invitations this week. My mother mentioned a drop in correspondence from the Bellamy houses.”
There it was. The drop in letters. The subtle delay in floral deliveries. The silence from the couture ateliers who once sent swatches without request.
“Fashionable silence,” Marina said airily, recovering her rhythm. “The new aesthetic, perhaps. Leave them wondering, and they will come faster.”
“Indeed,” Selienne said. “And still, they whisper.”
“About the greenhouse?” Vessina asked, leaning in. Her fan lifted—not to cool, but to veil a smile. “They’re calling her a companion now. Not out loud, of course. But the tone has shifted.”
Marina closed her book—not abruptly, but with the quiet finality of someone who had already finished the chapter and simply hadn’t told anyone yet. Her fingers lingered over the gilded spine before she set it aside on the nearest lacquered table, where rose petals had been arranged in a spiral that was now slightly off-center.
“Have you found anything?” Marina asked, her voice like satin pulled taut. She did not lift her gaze from the crystal goblet she held—tilted at a perfect angle to catch the midday sun—but the shift in the room was immediate. “About the girl,” she added. “A surname. A title. Even a whisper of lineage? I assume one of you has managed to trace her origin. Since she appears to have… emerged from mist.”
Anthemina, the eldest among them by half a season and twice the ambition, cleared her throat delicately and brushed a phantom fleck from her sleeve. “Nothing official, Your Highness. No heraldry. No seal. Not a mention in any debut registry I’ve accessed. I sent a courier to my aunt in the consular archives. She responded by sending me a blank parchment. A rather elegant insult.”
“No records either in the archives of the Ilician branch,” Vessina added, her fan open and half-lifted, concealing the gleam of satisfaction in her eyes. “We searched the ledgers from the tea house, and alas found nothing in particular. They had not announced her name either, she simply waltzed in and His Majesty sat by her.”
“Simply that,” Selienne murmured, her voice embroidered with mock-pity. “No surname. No crest. As if she were spun from moonlight and mischief. A creature of mist, with just enough shape to cause trouble.”
“A storybook child,” Marina echoed, her voice light but blade-sharp. She set down her glass, the crystal’s chime like a note struck in a cathedral. “Or a stageborn one. Are we cultivating a noble, my loves—or entertaining a novelty?”
Anthemina’s eyes glittered. “She speaks to no one. She writes. Always in that little leather-bound book. Her penmanship is immaculate—too immaculate for village schooling. It’s the kind of handwriting taught by governesses who carry scandal in their pockets and poems in their teeth.”
Marina set her teacup down. Her expression was calm—composed, even—but her voice tightened by a hair’s breadth. “And what of His Majesty?” The question floated through the parlor like steam rising from sugared wine.
“Chose her,” Vessina replied, with that gleam of certainty reserved for girls who traded rumors like currency. “First at the winter ball, second at the tea house, and again, at the party. Three times is not a mistake.”
A hush passed—not from outrage, but from precision. These women were not shocked by scandal. They were trained to measure it. And what they measured now… was change. Marina’s teacup did not clink. Her hands did not tremble. But the bow at her throat fluttered gently from the breath she released. Not a sigh. An exhale. Composed. Careful. Controlled.
“The winter ball?” she repeated. Her tone was neither high nor low—but it dropped, subtly, into something dangerous. “There was no mention of her in any report I received.
“You were in Redgate,” Vessina offered gently, her fan sweeping the air like forgiveness. “The treaty renewal talks delayed you. And by the time you returned…” she smiled, prettily. “…the whispers had already faded. As they often do in your presence.”
Marina’s jaw didn’t shift. But her reflection, caught faintly in the mirror’s gilded rim, seemed to sharpen. “And what precisely did I miss?” she asked.
Selienne leaned in as if offering condolence, but her smile was saccharine. “It wasn’t listed on the program. The music shifted midsupper. Then he crossed the floor and extended his hand. No prior announcement. No protocol. Just… her.”
“Not a courtesy turn,” Anthemina added, her tone feathered with disdain. “A full piece. Both hands. Entirely public. Entirely deliberate.”
“And she did not falter,” Selienne murmured. “As if it had been practiced.”
“As if they knew each other,” Vessina concluded, voice quiet and cruel.
Marina did not blink. But her posture shifted. Subtle, exact. Less like a woman seated for tea, more like a swan pausing mid-glide—aware the ice beneath had thinned. She spoke only after a pause. “He has not danced publicly at the winter ball since the mourning years. It was meant to be ceremonial. Unremarkable.”
“So we thought,” Vessina replied, dabbing delicately at the corner of her mouth with a linen napkin. “Until she arrived on the arm of the Headmistress herself.”
That drew the smallest flicker from Marina. The kind of movement that suggested gravity had just shifted in her spine. “Avdolia?” she asked. The name landed not with surprise, but with scrutiny. “That woman hasn’t left the Magi Academy in a decade.”
“And yet she stood with the girl for half the evening,” Anthemina confirmed. “She escorted her from the arrival hall through the second waltz. They say she watched the entire dance.”
“And did nothing to interrupt it,” Selienne said, as if noting a breach in decorum.
Marina exhaled slowly. “If that level of beauty is being spent on something vulgar,” she said, letting her nail skim the rim of her teacup, “then someone ought to be reprimanded for waste. Mystery is tolerable—if curated. But filth?” She let the word pool, viscous and golden. “Must never stain court silk.”
“Not in court,” Selienne whispered, adjusting her bracelets.
“Not in the season,” Anthemina agreed, her fan moving lazily.
“And certainly not beside the Emperor,” Vessina added, her spoon tapping softly against porcelain.
Marina’s hand fell away from her cup. “No surname,” she murmured. “No crest. No estate. No dowry. No patronage. She does not speak, only writes—in script polished like lacquer. And yet? Nothing in the archives. No girl by that name ever registered.”
“The dress was custom,” Selienne said. “We checked. Three ateliers denied it. The silk was dusken thread, and dyed in that evening blue— not for common use.”
“The embroidery was hand-threaded,” Anthemina said. “But by whom? Not a single crest stitched within the bodice. The hem was unsigned.”
Marina’s expression did not crack. But her voice grew colder. “So she arrives, and appears to be cloaked in state silk, crowned in imperial stones, escorted by the Headmistress of the Magi Academy—and none of you thought to ask for what purpose she was being arranged?”
The girls straightened.
“She doesn’t live at any estate we recognize,” Anthemina said, almost sheepishly now. “There’s no coach bearing her seal. No letters inbound. No invitations outbound. She simply… appears. At Jotaro’s side.”
“And all those layers,” Vessina said, her fan fluttering. “You would think she’s hiding something. Some claim she’s simply too full. Others say disfigured. But either way… she isn’t plain.”
“Her face is… absolutely unnerving,” Anthemina said. “Delicate, but strange. Those violet eyes. Not soft. Not warm. They look like they were made to be seen, not to see.”
“A decorative creature,” Selienne concluded. “A pet, perhaps. Meant to stand by his side and never cast a shadow.”
“And yet,” Marina said, her gaze fixed beyond the walls, as if she could already see the season unfolding like a deck of cards. “He danced with her. He seeks her. He allows her silence. No name. No title. And yet she moves through court like it was built to receive her.”
Her ladies watched—rapt, breathless.
“That sort of attention…” she continued, voice low, “doesn’t bloom from nothing. It is planted. Watered. Tended. Or worse—chosen.” There was a pause, measured as a heartbeat before a guillotine’s drop.
“I want her watched,” Marina said softly, turning to face them. “Every entrance. Every sleeve. Every hesitation she doesn’t write down.” Her eyes glittered like frost across glass. “If she has no past, then we will find the shape of it by her present. The scent of her is enough to stain marble—let’s see who else smells it.”
Selienne dipped her chin. “And if she’s being kept? Quietly? Protected?”
“Then she’s more fragile than they think.” Marina’s smile was a masterpiece of patience sharpened to a point. “And I’ve always had a talent for unwrapping fragile things.”
Vessina’s fan snapped shut. “Should we send her something?”
“Yes,” Marina replied, already turning toward the window. “But nothing so obvious as a threat.” Her lips curved. “Send her flowers. Pale ones. A bouquet that bruises.”
“And the note?” Selienne asked, tilting her head.
Marina’s gaze slid sideways, sharp as a silk blade. “No note. Let her wonder who admires her. Let her wonder if it’s admiration at all.”
Anthemina, ever poised, gave a slow smile. “A whisper wrapped in petals.”
~~~
The midday light unfurled across the conservatory floor like brushed gold, gliding through gauze-draped windows in delicate shafts. Above, sunlight filtered through high glass panes veiled with trailing vines and soft-blooming clematis, dappling the tiles with shifting patterns of light and shadow. The air inside carried the scent of steeped fruit, fresh parchment, and faint, familiar smoke—like memory, half-stirred.
Kalithea sat alone—or had been, until now—nestled on a velvet settee of embroidered caramel brown, its curved back fashioned in the old continental style. The silk of her rose-pink gown pooled around her like watercolor spilled across parchment, catching the light in shades that shifted from blush to petal to faint coral as she moved. Her bodice, modest and edged in ivory lace, rested softly against her frame, framed by sheer sleeves that fell to her elbows like mist. A mother-of-pearl brooch gleamed quietly at her chest, a secret nestled in plain sight.
Before her, the low table had been laid with grace: sugared almonds in a crystal bowl, thin-sliced tea cakes dusted in lemon. Her porcelain teacup steamed faintly, forgotten on its saucer. And beyond the glass doors, stationed at polite distance, her knights stood guard: silhouettes of steel and loyalty shadowed among the colonnades, keeping watch—but never intruding.
The hush of the conservatory was broken not by voice, but by the near-silent cadence of boots on mosaic tile. Kalithea turned, startled only slightly, to find Jotaro approaching.
He entered quietly—not like a man claiming the space, but as if he’d been drawn to it. The hush of the conservatory softened around his presence, as though the very air recognized him. There was no herald, no rustle of attendants. Only the sound of his boots against the tile, measured and completely deliberate.
Kalithea glanced up, and for a moment, the light caught her just so.Her hair had been swept to one side, falling in long curls over her shoulder like red silk spun from a firelight.
He inclined his head, gaze steady. “Am I interrupting your solitary reverie?” he asked gently, his voice low, tempered by some warmth settling into his tone. His coat had already been removed—folded over one arm with habitual care—and he wore a high-collared shirt of cream brushed silk, a dark waistcoat embroidered faintly in ash-gold thread, and boots polished to a muted sheen. A single ring glinted at his hand, the imperial crest worn not for decoration, but identity.
Kalithea blinked—once, twice—then shook her head with an ease that melted every formal boundary between them. She motioned wordlessly toward the seat beside her—simply offering.
He moved, surrendering the moment to her without another word. With one arm, he folded his navy coat and laid it neatly over the side of the chair. The other hand carried a leather-bound book, worn at the edges. He lowered himself into the velvet armchair across from her with a grace that made it look inevitable—like he hadn’t come to read, or to rest, but simply to be beside her.
A valet arrived moments later, setting a small dish beside him—a lit cigar resting in the groove of a porcelain holder, thin ribbons of smoke already curling upward like silk. He accepted it with a quiet murmur of thanks, his fingers steady, movements exact. The scent that followed was warm—cedarwood, citrus rind, and something richer beneath it. The same scent that had lingered faintly on the collar of the mantle he’d once draped over her shoulders.
He didn’t speak again. But his eyes, when they lifted briefly from the cigar’s spiral of smoke, lingered. Just a moment. Just enough to look at her. By the way the sunlight had pooled against her cheekbone, making her skin seem carved from spring.
She smiled—not at the words, but at the warmth beneath them. At ease. At how he managed to offer companionship without disruption. Steady. Unspoken. Comfort carved into the shape of a man.
Kalithea’s fingers drifted to her notebook resting on the table, left untouched and without a page opened. Choosing her pen, the tip moved with grace—light but deliberate—as she wrote a brief line on the page of her notebook, then turned it toward him, angled slightly so the words met his eye.
“Jotaro, have you eaten? You were not at breakfast this morning. I thought perhaps you were detained, or had something else to complete.”
A small, knowing smirk softened into something gentler by the way she looked at him. He didn’t answer immediately, instead taking a draw from the cigar, letting the smoke rise between them like a veil. Then, voice low, rich with that dry warmth he reserved only for moments like these, he replied, “I ate what could be called a diplomatic meal, if one counts coffee and council reports served on a silver platter. More ceremonial than satisfying—void of your company.”
He took a slow draw from his cigar, then tilted his head slightly toward her, his next words gentler still. “But, do you feel well enough to be here? You’ve looked quieter lately. Tired.”
Kalithea’s expression softened, touched by the rare directness in his voice. She dipped her pen once more, carefully shaping her reply like a ribbon curled beneath a tea saucer.
”For truth, The night of the party left a headache lingering like a stubborn thorn at my side—I only hope it's due to the sugar I took in. Though I am happier that it has kept a suitable distance— and your company makes my day feel less pale.”
Jotaro studied her note for a moment, then let his gaze rest on her rather than the page. His expression remained composed, but something in the set of his shoulders eased—like a string quietly loosened.
“You blame the sugar,” he murmured, lips barely moving. “I’d wager it was the chatter, perfume, the noise, all crowding you at once.” He let the words rest for a beat. Then turned his head fully to her, the quiet in his gaze softening into something nearly fond.“I’ll make certain next time you’re seated near open air,” he said. “Or—if you wish it—I’ll find the earliest excuse to leave with you altogether.”
Kalithea’s lashes lifted—just slightly, but the flicker of surprise was unmistakable. Not at the words themselves, but at the way he had offered them. As though the shape of her well-being had already become part of his daily considerations, folded into his thoughts like one folds a letter of importance.
She did not blush with theatricality. It was softer than that—a warmth blooming at the hollow of her throat, rising faintly to her cheeks like rose-petal steam in a porcelain cup. Her fingers curled once against the fabric of her gown to anchor the flowers blooming inside her heart.
She lowered her gaze for a moment, unsure whether it was the warmth of his words or the way he had said them—without flourish, without expectation—that had caused her cheeks to bloom with color. Her pen moved slowly this time. Not with practiced eloquence, but with something gentler.
“You speak so kindly that more often than not. I... do not always know how to reply when you give me such words so freely. It is not because I lack words to say what I wish, but that your words feel like something to be held to heart, not replied to..”
“Then I will remain that way,” he murmured, his voice low and rich, barely rising above the sound of the breeze against the conservatory glass.
When the steward returned, he carried more than the quiet hush of footfalls and trained discretion. The silver tray he bore gleamed in the conservatory light, polished to a mirror sheen, and upon it lay not one or two—no less than 12 letters.
Wax seals gleamed in plum, ivory, emerald, and coral. One was pressed in brocade, the envelope itself lined with sheer silk. Another had a border of painted flowers, hand-brushed in violet ink.
And still—there were the flowers. Tucked at the side of her tray in a tall, narrow vase of crystal, the bouquet sat like a whisper waiting to be heard. White camellias, their petals almost too perfect to be real. Cream roses, soft and full, the kind that unfurled secrets when bruised. And snowdrops—bending delicately under their own weight, tinged faintly lavender at the tips. Tired and tender, like affection just beginning to decay.
Jotaro’s gaze flicked toward them. Not once and neither passingly. But with the precision of a man who noticed everything worth noticing. He didn’t frown, but the shift in him was unmistakable.
The easy drape of his arm changed, more composed now. Still. His fingers no longer cradled the cigar with idle elegance, but held it as if anchoring thought. The line of his jaw had changed, just barely, tightened, drawn in. Beneath the fabric of his waistcoat, his shoulders stilled with that unmistakable tension known only to men trained to measure power in silence.
His eyes landed on them the moment they arrived. Not like a man admiring beauty. But like one decoding the message folded into it.The faded lilac ribbon. The lack of a seal. The calculated delicacy of each bloom, not chosen for vibrance, but for vulnerability.
His breath eased out through the curl of cigar smoke between them, but something in him had already shifted—quietly, irrevocably. Because flowers in court were never just flowers. They were declarations. And disguises—subtle weapons sharpened with perfume.
He had not opened his book again. He had not looked at the other letters—though his own tray, much fuller, had gone untouched. He wondered slowly, dangerously, who had dared send something so pointed without a name. Without permission. Without fear.
And it struck him—not with anger, but with something older. Sharper. He wanted, quietly, irrevocably, for no one else to dare imagine they could stand where he already did. Jotaro—who had never needed to compete for anything in his life—now found himself, with imperial certainty, ready to erase the idea that anyone else had dared to try.
Kalithea did not look at the bouquet. She felt the shift in the room before her eyes could catch it—subtle as the hush that follows a turned page, as the tremble in the air before rain touches glass. The moment slowed. Stilled. And though no one spoke, the atmosphere around them had changed.
Instead, she reached for her letters. Her fingers hovered above them like a pianist over ivory keys—deliberate, silent, unsure where to begin. They were stacked with almost ceremonial care. She selected one, with soft blue and lavender—her touch trailing over the script like a sigh waiting to be released
But even as her thumb brushed the edge of the envelope, her eyes drifted back to him. Not toward the tray of letters he’d been brought or to his book, which lay forgotten on his knee. He sat as if carved from dusk and composure—still, straight-backed, his gaze locked not on her, but on the blooms nestled at the edge of the tray.
And her heart—soft and watchful—tightened. She could not ask him what troubled him. Could not name the pulse she saw rising beneath his collar, nor the tension that ran like drawn thread through his shoulders.
The folds of her rose-pink gown spilled around her as she stood, a whisper of silk and spring, each step unfolding like the turn of a page written in longing. Light gathered at her ankles and followed her like a silent procession as she crossed the sunlit space between them. Her slippers made no sound. Only the rustle of her skirt spoke for her—like wind through petals, like breath on glass.
So gently, with the same grace that had once carved letters from silence, she reached forward. Her fingers, bare save for a single pale ring, ghosted through the dark sweep of his hair. From temple to crown, only once and reverently.
He turned to her, as though the gesture required reverence more than haste. And when he did, the full weight of his gaze met hers. In his eyes there was a quiet, burning gravity. With his free hand he took her fingers, not as a man takes what he believes is owed, but as one receiving a gift he dares not name.
And then, as though the air between them had always known this moment would come, he bowed his head—just slightly—and pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. And when he let her hand go, it was with reluctance braided into grace.
She returned to her seat with the same composure with which she had risen—measured, serene, like the unfurling of a silken scroll. Her gown whispered as it sank into the cushions, rose-pink folds folding around her like the petals of a blushing peony drawn into rest. And her hand—the one he had kissed—remained suspended for just a breath too long above her lap, as if reluctant to rejoin the stillness, as if marked.
The tray before her sat undisturbed. Letters glowed in the afternoon light like a fan of hidden fortunes. One envelope shimmered with hand-painted violets. Another was wrapped in brocade. And nestled near them, tied in a ribbon the color of faded lilac, was a letter with no sender. Only her name—Kalithea—written in ink that bloomed across the page like a lover’s sigh.
She reached for the familiar one first. Edwina’s. A seal in soft lavender and pale blue, touched at the corner with a flourish she recognized from girlhood dreams. Her fingers moved with reverence, tracing the edge like a brush before it kissed the canvas. She had not yet opened it,because her gaze had already shifted to him.
Jotaro had not moved, at least, not truly. But everything about him had changed. One leg stilled crossed over the other, book resting in hand, the cigar now smoldering faintly in its dish. But the stillness in him had changed—less guarded, more focused. He was not watching the flowers anymore.
He was watching her, but with the quiet precision of a man who had measured the entire world in strategies and stakes—and suddenly found one piece he did not wish to place on the board. He didn’t speak right away, and when he did—it wasn’t as an emperor. Nor a diplomat. Not even as the man who had kissed her hand in quiet reverence only moments before.
“If there’s anything interesting,” he murmured, voice low and velveted with a kind of tender possession, “I trust you’ll share it.” The words weren’t sharp. Nor demanding.But they lingered. Gentle, heavy, like rain pressing against silk. And she heard in them what the court would never be allowed to see: the man who would protect her from every whisper. The sovereign who had no intention of being second to anyone.
Kalithea’s fingers unfolded the letter with reverence, the violet seal breaking clean beneath her thumb. The parchment was thick, soft-edged, perfumed faintly with lavender and citrus blossom. As the script unfolded before her eyes, the lines of her posture began to soften—like warmth drawn through cold porcelain.
“We hope this finds you well—and if not well, then at least warm, wrapped in something soft, with something sweet nearby to keep you company.” Her lips curved faintly. The tea beside her had grown tepid, but the letter warmed her more deeply than heat ever could.
“Yes, the court is already awash in theories and sighs. But this letter isn’t about them. It’s about you.” Her breath caught slightly—just there.
“You were lovely—not in the way gowns or jewels are lovely, but in the way silence becomes music when the right company is near. You made us feel—genuinely—like ourselves. And that is rarer than pearls in this world.” Her fingers paused over that line, a soft exhale escaping like the final note of a lullaby. Her thumb brushed the words once more, as if committing them to memory.
“You didn’t ask to be admired. You didn’t need to. The moment you smiled, we remembered what grace feels like when it isn’t worn like armor.” She felt the truth of it—not in her pride, but in the vulnerable way it tucked beneath her ribs. “Lady Pellane has inquired after you. So has the Duchess of Marrowhill, though she disguised her interest behind a rather theatrical remark about “Ilician cheek tones being seasonally appropriate.”
Kalithea bit back a laugh, shoulders lifting in a soft, delighted breath.
“None of it matters. We would simply love to see you again. Perhaps a garden sitting, sometime this week. Tea, music, and perhaps a cherry or six—provided Anise doesn’t sneak them all first. With affection, Mirielle (and Edwina, Anise, and Cecily—though yes, they did make me write it)”
She read it once more, slower this time, then held the letter gently to her chest, her eyes fluttering closed. The smile she wore now was different than before—one not for him, nor for the room, but for herself.
Across from her, Jotaro had just set aside a thick envelope sealed in the navy blue wax of the high admiralty—its contents important, no doubt, but quickly forgotten. His gaze lifted—not sharply, but as if pulled upward by something softer than thought. And when his eyes found her, something in him stilled.
She sat with her hands gently cupped around a letter, pressed to her heart like a sacred thing. The sunlight had shifted, catching the glint of her brooch and the gleam of soft silk at her collar, but what caught him most—what made him pause—was her expression.
Kalithea looked like spring held in breath. Like joy that had bloomed in secret. Her eyes, half-lowered, were rimmed in the kind of light only happiness could summon. Then, with a voice gentled to match the moment, he asked, “Who was it from?”
Kalithea lifted her eyes. She could not answer in speech. But her reply was eloquent nonetheless. She turned the envelope outward, allowing him to see the delicate seal pressed in lavender and pale blue—the mark of House Delacroix. He recognized it instantly, but he nodded once, the way a man might nod to a truth he already suspected.
Kalithea lowered the letter again, but did not return it to the table. Instead, her fingers moved to retrieve her ink pen, the one she preferred for private correspondence—its nib silver, slender as a whisper. She turned a fresh sheet of ivory paper toward herself and dipped the tip with care. She began, not hastily, but with the same grace she brought to all things. Her hand curved slowly over the page, the ink pooling into loops and flourishes as her words unfolded like petals after frost:
To my dearest Mirielle,
Your letter arrived like sunlight through gauze—soft, golden, and unexpectedly tender. You have made the day feel warm again. Not with heat, but with that particular kind of warmth only affection brings—the kind that settles in the quiet corners of the heart and stays there, unbidden, like the scent of violets long after they’ve been pressed in a book.
I read your words slowly, as one reads something too precious to finish quickly. And for a moment—just a moment—I forgot the weight of watching eyes, the hush of court air, and remembered instead the soft laughter of girls seated beside each other without pretense, speaking plainly, sweetly, like we did that night.
Yes, I would be honored to join you all again. To sit among friends. To let music hum softly in the background while the tea grows cold beside stories too lovely to interrupt. I accept your invitation with quiet joy. And I do hope—truly—that Anise leaves at least one cherry for me.
With affection that grows softer with each letter,
Kalithea
A smile curved her lips again—small, but private—and she paused to blot the ink gently, her sleeve brushing the edge of her hand. Across from her, Jotaro watched the angle of her wrist, the soft dip of her head, the careful curve of her smile as she wrote. He had seen a thousand correspondences written in this very room. He had dictated proclamations, dismissed lords, and redrafted treaties.
He shifted in his chair—not much, just enough to turn slightly toward her, as if proximity might offer some tether to what he couldn’t quite name. His fingers reached again for the tray beside him, selecting a scroll sealed in green lacquer, pressed with the mark of House Anveris. He did not sigh, but the air that left him was the kind worn smooth by long years of statecraft.
Without ceremony, he reached for his cigar again, the item had grown cold in the dish—half-burnt and stilled. Kalithea reached for another letter, but something in her gaze lifted just in time to see his next motion. Jotaro turned his palm toward the unlit end. Just a flick—two fingers raised, deliberate. And from that stillness, a thread of heat caught like breath upon flint.
The cigar flared back to life with no match. No flame. Just will. A single spell, precise and unannounced—delivered with the quiet mastery of someone for whom magic was as natural as breath.
But Kalithea stilled all the same, her eyes wide—not startled, but quieted by revelation. For all the time they had spent together—for every shared moment and glance and wordless exchange—he had never once shown her this part of him. Never once reached into that deeper current, never once made it visible.
The glow at the tip of the cigar faded to a soft ember. He brought it to his lips once, exhaled slow smoke, and opened the scroll with his free hand—just as if nothing had happened.
She picked up her pen again, though not immediately. For a heartbeat, she simply stared at the parchment before her—then dipped the nib in ink, and began to write with slow, thoughtful strokes. “Avdolia once taught me in my earlier studies me that the Imperial Magic does not flare, nor flicker. It simply is— where such magic is often mistaken for grace.”
She paused. Then added, “I think I mistook you for composure.” Her lips curved—barely—and she slid the booklet across the table, her gaze lifting toward him as she did.
When he looked up again, something about his gaze had gentled—but not dimmed. “Avdolia taught you well,” he said quietly. “And yet I suspect she didn’t teach you that only a handful in the empire can read magic when they see it.”
She picked up her teacup and sipped once, then wrote in reply, her handwriting more fluid now, as if the warmth between them had loosened something in her chest. “She said only those with stillness in them can recognize stillness in others.”
He smiled, just faintly, and the corners of his mouth tilted in a way she had only seen when he wasn’t trying to be an emperor. When he simply allowed himself to be a man.
The scent of smoke lingered faintly between them again, warm and wood-toned, curling like an unspoken thought. She turned her gaze to him. Not directly. Just a glance—measured, thoughtful, full of quiet awareness.
And then, with the gentlest curve of her wrist, she wrote on the small slip of parchment beside her teacup and slid it toward him, the corner kissed with her inked script. “Jotaro, though my letters may be simple,yours seem more pressing than the last. Are you quite alright? I ask only because in such serious matters, you require the relighting of your cigar.”
He looked down at the note once, then back at her—slowly, as though reading her question again in the tilt of her chin, the quiet way she held her teacup like it was part of her breath. Then he spoke, tapping the scroll against the armrest once before unrolling it. “A plea,” he said, his voice even, without haste. “The heir of Oressa claims his cousin is moving militia toward the river border. He wants my intervention. Or my recognition. Likely both.”
Kalithea’s pen moved, gentle and steady, carving meaning with the kind of ease that felt more like memory than calculation. She did not rush. Her words unfolded in a soft ribbon of ink—measured, graceful, like the way petals open to morning.
“If this relative is moving troops, I can imagine he must already feel the wind at his back. That sort of wind is brought in through mystery, not born out of nothing. The coins tend to follow rounds that curve easily like a windy path, not the names carried on older breath.”
Jotaro nodded—once. A slow, deliberate motion that didn’t carry praise so much as it carried acknowledgment. A sovereign’s kind of nod, rarely given. Yet there it was, offered without hesitation. He leaned back slightly, fingers curling around the base of the cigar. The raven haired male took another slow draw, the ember pulsing softly at the tip, then let the smoke slip past his lips in a single exhale—measured, like everything about him.
But when he looked at her again—just briefly, from beneath the quiet fan of his lashes—there was something in it. A stillness that felt deeper than silence. As though she had just revealed a hidden blade beneath silk—and he, rather than flinch, had only smiled inwardly. And now that she had begun to see it for herself… he would let the rest of the court catch up in their own time.
Kalithea returned her gaze to the envelope in her lap—the one marked with the crest she did not recognize. She turned it gently between her fingers, still thoughtful, still listening to the echo of his voice in her chest. The coral-pink seal glinted faintly in the sunlight, pressed against parchment of costly weave. A new name, and yet one that already smelled of ambition.
She remembered the name—but faintly. House Orenwyth. A newly seated family in the northern provinces. Not yet high-born—but clever, aspirational, and social climbers. Her fingers hesitated over the seal—Because Avdolia had made her memorize every house, every minor crest, every marriage tie in the outer provinces. And this… this wasn’t one of them.
She turned the envelope slowly in her hands, studying the ink, the press of the seal, the shape of the emblem—three twisted stems wrapped around a branch of starlight. It was neither common, or local—but completely foreign. Jotaro’s eyes flicked toward her again, not missing the hesitation.
“Something unusual?” he asked, tone still low. She nodded slowly, then began to write.
“This house isn’t one from the Ilician court. I believe it’s from the borderlands—near Evreux, or beyond. One of the old minor branches that fell dormant after the Marrowhill accords. But this crest… it isn’t dormant. It’s new, or in the very least, reawakened.”
He leaned forward, slowly, elbows resting on his knees now, posture composed but no longer distant. The space between them seemed to hush again—drawn in, listening. “There are houses that don’t want to be known yet,” he said softly. “Not until the moment they’ve already secured their position. When you see a crest resurface like this—new parchment, old name—it means someone’s been waiting. Watching. Gathering.”
He reached for the cigar once more, but didn’t light it. Only turned it between his fingers like a thought he hadn’t spoken aloud. “It also means,” he added, voice lower, darker beneath the velvet, “that whoever wrote to you didn’t want it sent through official channels. They chose you. Not the court. Not your house. You.”
He looked at her then—fully. And in the weight of that glance, she felt it. Not the cool scrutiny of a ruler assessing risk, nor the clipped reserve of politics worn like armor.
“If you choose to open it,” he said, voice low as velvet pressed over steel, “do it with your chin lifted. Read it as you would a riddle, not a request. And if it asks something of you—anything at all—bring it to me.” fully. And in the weight of that glance, she felt it.
But the way he looked at her then—still, unwavering—was not the glance of a ruler issuing orders, nor a man burdened by strategy. It was the raw, protective certainty of someone who had memorized every rule the court could weild like a blade—and who had already decided he would burn the entire gameboard before letting them lay a single hand on her.
Something moved in her then, unspoken but understood, like the soft shift of a candle drawing breath near the end of its wick—she did not open the letter.
Jotaro said nothing. He had returned to his chair like someone lowering into thought, cigar still cradled in the dish beside him. And for a moment—just a moment—the weight of diplomacy, of suspicion, of all the court’s shifting shadows seemed to recede.
Not out of fear. Nor hesitation. But because, in the wake of his words, it no longer felt urgent. She turned it gently in her fingers once more, then set it down beside the rest—not as dismissal, but as postponement.
And then, above them—without sound, without flare—a shimmer appeared. It began as a glint, no brighter than a dust mote catching light. But then the shimmer unfurled like silk, descending slowly from nowhere—just a trailing curl of silver magic. A scroll, pale as ivory, glowed with faint gold at the edges, its wax seal catching the light in the shape of a sun cradled in a feathered wing.
Jotaro had already turned toward it, one brow raised, his expression unreadable—but not surprised. He leaned back, arms folding loosely as he exhaled, the faintest curl of smoke slipping past his lip.
“She never misses,” he said dryly, but there was affection in it. “Avdolia has a particular sense of timing. And, unfortunately for me, a better sense of where I’ve failed to send a second letter.”
Kalithea’s breath caught. Her hands moved before her thoughts could. She drew the scroll close, brushing her thumb over the seal—its charm still warm to the touch. Her lips parted, and for a moment she sat very still, as though even moving might blur the emotion that had risen so swiftly within her.
She opened it slowly, reverently. And as her eyes traced the familiar script, a soft pink began to bloom in her cheeks—not from embarrassment, but from comfort. The way one blushes not at praise, but at being remembered by someone who matters.
Her shoulders eased. Her eyes danced gently from line to line, pausing every now and then as if to absorb the warmth Avdolia had woven into the ink.
Jotaro, for his part, said nothing. He watched her read—watched the soft lift in her expression, the tender weight of nostalgia brushing over her like the first scent of spring on cold air. He could not see the letter’s contents. But he didn’t need to.
He could see it in her eyes.
When she reached the final line, Kalithea held the scroll to her chest—not clutched, but embraced, as though it were the only proof she needed that someone else, somewhere, had remembered who she had been long before she’d ever stepped into this garden. A girl once taught to walk with grace, before she ever believed she belonged in a ballroom.
Her gaze flicked up, toward him. And though she couldn’t speak the way others could, He saw it in the way she smiled at him now—soft, radiant, steady. A girl simply returning to herself.
Before she began her reply to Avdolia, Kalithea reached for her booklet yet again. She dipped her quill in ink, pausing only a breath before her hand began to move in long, graceful strokes—each line curling like smoke over still water.
“She’ll scold you, you know. Avdolia said that she only received one letter from you—and called it clipped. I will offer your defense, yet I am afraid that even I may not even save you from it.”
She set the booklet beside Jotaro’s stack of unopened correspondence, letting the edge of her knuckles graze his wrist in a motion so gentle it might’ve been mistaken for accident. But the faint grimace that followed needed no interpretation. It wasn’t the guilt of a man who had forgotten something mundane—it was the recognition that he’d forgotten something rare. And he, of all people, knew how seldom one was forgiven for failing to write to someone like Avdolia.
He exhaled once through his nose—silent, composed—and looked away. And then, without warning, the camellia arrived.
It shimmered into being in the still space beside the letter tray, suspended in the air for the span of a single heartbeat—light catching along the edge of its petals like moonlight across porcelain. Then it settled, silently, into the small crystal bowl Kalithea had placed earlier, its bloom untouched. Full, deep crimson, edged in silken dusk. Preserved by an enchantment so subtle it left no trail.
Not a petal drooped. Not a stem trembled. It was, simply, perfect. And so she began her letter in full.
Dearest Avdolia,
Your letter arrived with a shimmer, like all your magic does—so carefully timed, I half believe you knew what I needed before I did. Your words made the room feel warmer, as if your voice had slipped through the sunlight and settled beside me for tea.
Yes, I am well—at least in body. And better, now, in spirit. The court is… a garden of many petals and more thorns. But I remember what you taught me.
Jotaro grimaced when I told him you plan to scold him for forgetting the second letter. I think he’s already begun preparing his defense—though I suspect it won’t help him.
I miss you more than I have words for. And yes, I will write again. Often. You’ll receive more than ink—you’ll receive every quiet thought you once coaxed from me beneath a sky of rain. With the fondness of someone who still walks straighter when she thinks of you, Kalithea
She paused once, eyes drifting to the margins of the parchment, before blotting the ink with a slow, practiced grace. Her sleeve brushed the edge as she moved, fine netting catching the light with each motion—like frost lace caught in sunlight.
The woman reached out and lifted the camellia with care, fingers skimming the petal’s curve. There was no spell in her—she was no magi—but the flower responded to her touch all the same. As if it knew it had been chosen. Kalithea placed it gently beside the letter, lips parting just slightly in reverence as she pressed the wax seal onto the parchment.
No sooner had the wax cooled than the letter gave a faint shimmer, as though light had settled over it like silk. And then—without sound, without gesture—it vanished. The camellia disappeared with it, leaving behind nothing but a soft scatter of silver light that curled into the air like the last breath of a dream.
And then—above the dome of glass, high against the pale sky—a falcon’s cry tore through the silence—sharp, sudden, imperial.
Jotaro’s eyes rose, following the hawk’s shadow as it circled the sun-drenched air. He did not move, but the shift in him was unmistakable—the stillness of someone born into duty and threaded through with ritual, who had grown up reading the sky for signs he could never name aloud.
Kalithea stood slowly, her gown unfolding around her like a bloom stirred by breeze. She stretched—not for effect, but with the quiet fluidity of someone returning to herself. Arms raised, fingers laced briefly above her head, before falling again to her sides. She stepped near him—just enough for her presence to be felt.
And then, wordlessly, she picked up her small booklet and turned a fresh page. She did not ask aloud what troubled him. She had no voice to offer him sound. Her pen danced over the page in soft, ribboned strokes. A single line. A question written like a note tucked into the collar of a cloak. “You look at the sky as if it holds your burdens. Tell me—does it?”
Jotaro’s voice, when it came, was lower now. A little quieter. Threaded with something more honest than ceremony allowed. “The royal hunting games,” he said, still watching the falcons. “Two days from now. They’ll send carriages before dawn. Ceremony at sunrise. Too many horns. Too much silver and not enough purpose.”
Then turned to face her fully.
“It isn’t about the hunt,” he said, eyes steady on hers. “It’s about who steps forward when the horns sound. Whose names are called. Which hands are kissed at the end.”
“You’ll be expected. But I’d rather you go because you want to—not because they do.” Kalithea looked up at him, her expression unreadable at first. But her eyes—those quiet, violet depths—were brighter now. A shade more awake.
But before she turned the booklet, Kalithea stood still for a moment longer, the weight of his words settling like a petal on still water. Her gaze dropped, thoughtful, quiet—then returned to the page with fingers that moved more slowly now, as if her heart were carving each word into silk.
“I’ve never seen a hunt before. I’ve heard the horns, distant—in stories, in dreams. And I imagined it cruel. Wild. A ceremony of power dressed in feathers and blood. Would it be wrong, then…for me to go only to watch you?”
Jotaro read the words. That moment, he simply stared—at the page, at her, at the hand that had written it. Then, without a word, he stood. The shift was unhurried. His coat gathered sunlight across the shoulders like dusk catching fire, and as he moved, the floor beneath slightly cracked.
And then, without a word, he leaned in and pressed his lips—softly, firmly—to her forehead. With a tenderness so steady, so carefully given, it felt like a promise made in silence. A vow sealed in breath. She stilled—completely. Her hands remained folded, her head tilted slightly forward. But her cheeks bloomed deeper. Her lashes fluttered like they might shield her, and she turned her face gently away.
He only followed. Fingers tracing the edge of her jaw, tilting her face toward him once more—not forcefully. Not even fully. Then, at last, he spoke. “No,” he said, voice low and husky—not from strain, but from all the things he refused to say aloud. “I want you to watch me.”
And in the soft golden light that pooled through the conservatory glass, a hush settled between them. Not the kind born of uncertainty—but of something understood too deeply to be spoken. Jotaro did not move at first, but the stillness in him had shifted. The kind of stillness that came when a man made a choice within himself and knew he would not take it back.
And on his face—just faintly—there was something warmer than the sun. A hint of color rising along the edges of his cheekbones. Not enough to break his composure. But enough to betray him. A flush from restraint held too tightly, for too long. It belonged to the man who had just, in silence and in stillness, admitted a truth too soft for court and too real for anything else. He wanted her gaze on him, because hers was the only gaze that will ever matter.
“They say the winning rider returns with a token,” he said, tone almost idle. “From the one they ride for.” His gaze found her again—not the court that would no doubt await them both in two days.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a ribbon…” he said, his words unhurried—drawn not from doubt, but from something deeper. “…would you?” His eyes stayed on her. Not insistent. Not demanding. Just steady—like someone who had already made his choice, and simply waited to see if she would make hers.
“If you’ll be with your companions that morning,” he said, his voice lower now, measured, “I’ll have a carriage sent for you—an hour before the procession. No rush. No noise. Let the day begin the way it should.”
Then he paused—not uncertainly, but with purpose. His next words carried something quieter. Something he rarely gave voice to. “And something red,” he murmured. “Subtle. Yours. But let it be for me.”
His gaze lingered then—not to ask, but to remember. The way sunlight caught her hair. The gentleness in the slope of her shoulders. The way she looked when she thought no one was watching—though he always was. “If you wear anything that day…” he said, low and steady, “let it be white.”
He turned fully then, his silhouette framed by light and shadow in equal measure. But even as he disappeared through the doors, it wasn’t the sound of his departure she heard—but the promise he left behind. The first request he had ever made of her, and the only one she already knew she would grant.
Chapter 36: Hunting Procession
Chapter Text
The morning arrived in soft procession—like lace unrolling across a ballroom floor. In Lady Edwina’s east-facing salon, the first light of day had spilled through the tall mullioned windows in pale ribbons, gilding everything it touched with the golden hush of something sacred. It glowed along the polished parquet, kissed the fine brocade of the drapes, and made a mosaic of warmth along the velvet cushions where the young noblewomen sat, cloaked in silk and anticipation.
The salon was dressed in taste rather than excess. Its walls were paneled in pale rosewood and lined with shelves of rare volumes—ornamental bindings, pressed violets tucked in pages, the scent of parchment and peach blossom tea mingling faintly in the air. A curved ivory settee hugged one side of the hearth, and in its center, a low carved table bore a spread fit for quiet delight: candied fruits resting on crystal dishes, sugar-dusted tea cakes shaped like leaves, and a gilded pot of steaming tea with its rose-colored sheen catching the morning sun.
“She’s taking her time,” Lady Anise murmured with a trace of amusement, her gloved finger circling the rim of her porcelain teacup. “Which means, of course, she’s either dreadfully nervous… or she looks unspeakably divine.”
“I suspect a delicate combination of both,” Lady Edwina replied, placing her cup down with a grace that matched the refined, pearl-threaded vinework on her lilac sleeves. Her dark hair, soft and glossy, was swept into a crown of careful twists, the pale comb at her temple gleaming faintly as she spoke. “We sent the carriage nearly an hour ago, and I’m grateful Dame Adeline and Dame Erin corresponded with us, they never linger once she’s en route.”
“She must,” Cecily answered, fingers folded with studied composure atop her pale skirts—silk the color of first blossom, embroidered at the hem in tiny, glimmering petals. “His Majesty requested it. And if I know Kalithea, she would never deny him something so deliberate. Especially not now.”
Anise interjected, flicking her gold fan open in a measured arc, “Don’t you remember? He asked for something red. Just a detail. For him?”
“Subtle,” Mirielle mused, her voice low as her eyes drifted toward the open window where a breeze toyed with the end of her sash. “But not invisible. That’s how you know it carries weight.”
Cecily set her book aside with care, smoothing the soft fall of her ivory-blush skirts as she leaned forward, the tiny bells in her hair chiming softly. “Are we all pretending not to notice that half the court will be watching them more closely than the riders?”
“No one dares say it aloud,” Edwina replied, brushing a dark curl back into place with gloved fingers. “But every girl knows. When the Emperor rides—publicly, deliberately—in a spectacle made for courtly eyes… it is never just sport.”
“Especially not when the girl he rides for wears red at his request,” Anise added, her voice like honey drawn over ice. “That color does not fade quietly.”
Mirielle’s smile curved, languid and sly. “Then let them watch.”
Their laughter—poised, ribbon-smooth, never unkind—floated through the sunlit study like perfume. It was the sort of laughter that belonged in diaries, remembered fondly, and never loud enough to wrinkle silk.
“Do you suppose,” Cecily ventured, her posture as demure as the blossoms on her skirt, “that she’ll give him a ribbon?”
“A token?” Mirielle mused, fingers twining in the long lace at her cuff. “The court would swoon.”
“I hope she does,” Edwina said softly, her tone warm with conviction. “Because if she doesn’t… I rather think someone else will try to.”
A moment’s hush—gentle, not sharp—passed among them, weighted with shared secrets.
“I still have her letter,” Anise said at last, eyes bright with remembrance. “I’ve read it three times. The way she described him… not as an emperor, but as a man who listens. Who waits. Who notices her even when the whole court is trying to distract him.”
“She said she didn’t understand how to explain it,” Cecily murmured, “but that he’s always quiet near her. And yet never absent. Like gravity. Like breath.”
“She didn’t need to explain it,” Mirielle said gently. “She wrote it like poetry. And that’s how I knew it was real.”
Edwina reached for the silver bell near the tea service but did not ring it—her attention on the shifting light beyond the hall, where anticipation hovered in golden hush.
Cecily reached delicately for another candied violet, her fingers nimble and deliberate. “Do you recall the hunt last spring?” she asked, letting the sugar melt against her tongue like a secret. “One of the king’s cousins—Lord Halveth, I think—rode in with his sash caught in the saddle strap and nearly dragged half his cloak behind him like a wounded flag.”
Anise let out a breath of laughter, careful not to spill the tea she was pouring. “And still his family insisted it was part of some ancient tradition,” she said. “Dignity, apparently, is hereditary.”
“That same cousin,” murmured Mirielle, folding her hands beneath her chin, “nearly proposed to Lady Felisse that evening. He had a ring hidden in the cuff of his glove—dropped it in the fountain mid-toast. They had to drain the entire basin.”
Edwina shook her head, the pearl comb in her hair catching the morning light. “At least he tried. Lady Felisse ended up marrying some baron with three sons and a gout-ridden father. The match was less about affection and more about estates in harvest.”
“There’s always one dramatic union after the games,” Anise sighed, fanning herself lightly. “And at least three ruined reputations.”
“Do you think…” Cecily’s voice softened, trailing into the hush between their laughter, “that this year’s pairing might be Kalithea’s?”
The question hovered. Not heavy. Not presumptuous. But threaded with something fragile—hope, perhaps, or wonder.
Mirielle’s smile lingered at the corners of her lips, but her eyes were thoughtful. “If he were any other man, I would say no,” she said quietly. “But he is not. And she—she’s not what the court expected either. She was never meant to be background.”
“No,” Edwina agreed, reaching again for her cup. “She was meant to be the stillness everyone notices when the room grows too loud.”
“And he sees that,” Anise added, her fan stilling in her lap. “I believe he always has.”
Cecily nodded slowly. “So if the Emperor does choose someone at the hunt, and he makes it clear… I hope the court is prepared. Because it won’t be an alliance. It’ll be a declaration.”
“A declaration of affection,” Mirielle said.
“A declaration of defiance,” Edwina corrected gently. “He will be choosing with his heart. And not one of them—noble, royal, or otherwise—will be able to pretend it’s anything else.”
Anise leaned forward, her voice dropping into a whisper like the edge of silk across skin. “Do you think he’ll kiss her?”
Mirielle laughed—soft, scandalous, delighted. “At the hunt? Where half the nobility is watching?”
“And if he does?” Edwina smiled now, eyes warm. “Then every girl in that crowd will know exactly where they stand.”
The room, for a moment, brimmed with something golden and breathless. Not envy. Not fear. But awe—for a friend walking into history, one tender choice at a time.
Then—like the final note of a long-held chord—the soft tread of boots sounded just beyond the threshold.
All four girls straightened, their spines lifting like drawn ribbon, the hush in the room blooming into anticipation. A knock—soft, practiced.
“Come in, darling!” Edwina called, voice warm and lilting as a bell. She rose just slightly from her settee, adjusting the fold of her gown with practiced grace.
The door opened not all at once, but with that subtle rhythm known only to servants who had long mastered the art of disappearing upon arrival.
Dame Adeline stood at the door in gleaming pale steel, the sun kissing the edge of her pauldrons, her braid coiled neatly beneath her helm. “Good morning, my ladies,” she said, her voice respectfully warm. “We trust we aren’t intruding?”
“Not in the slightest,” Anise offered, already sitting straighter. “You may enter as you please. We’re only drowning in scandal and speculation.”
At that, Dame Erin stepped in behind her, lips lifting into a rare, quiet smile. “Then we shall tread gently—lest we disturb the currents.”A breath of laughter stirred through the room like perfumed air. And then—between them, behind them—came the figure the girls had all been waiting for.
Kalithea.
She stepped into the doorway not like a guest, but like the breeze after a long-held breath. The corridor’s shadows slipped away from her shoulders as she crossed the threshold, and the room—the gowns, the morning, the very air—seemed to shift around her in quiet reverence. She wore ivory.
Not the loud kind, not ostentatious—but the kind spun from moonlight and reverie. The gown was high-waisted and softly cinched with a crimson silk ribbon that wove like a secret through the bodice’s lace, as though her heartbeat had threaded itself into the gown. The skirt billowed with layers of gossamer silk and organza, falling like petals in motion—each step a page turned without sound.
The neckline—refined, gently curved—drew attention to a single, breathtaking brooch: a ruby the size of a teardrop, set in a gold sunburst and fastened just over her heart. Ruby earrings, small but luminous, winked softly beneath the fall of her hair.
And her hair—long, cascading in deep rose-colored waves—had been swept to one side and bound loosely at the nape with a golden comb shaped like a trailing lily. The effect was romantic, dignified, and utterly unrepeatable. On her fingers: slim rings of garnet, soft as secrets. She wore no gloves. No cape. No sash of court allegiance. She needed none.
In her hand, she carried no fan. No book. Just a quiet, steady poise that made even the pearls at her wrist feel like afterthoughts.
Then Cecily stood, her voice as light as gossamer lace. “There she is,” she murmured, her smile blooming like a garden secret. “The day’s true procession.”
“Kalithea,” Mirielle said softly, rising as though greeting royalty. “You look…”
“Like the reason no one else will be remembered by dusk,” Anise finished, her tone bright with admiration. “That’s what she looks like.”
Kalithea paused just within the threshold, the sunlight catching in the rich cascade of her hair, her cheeks dusted with warmth—but her bearing was serene. With a graceful dip of her head.
She turned—just once—toward Dame Adeline and Dame Erin, and as they bowed their heads to take their leave, Kalithea reached to touch their hands in quiet parting. A light graze. A wordless thank-you. The kind of gesture that spoke not of status, but of sincerity.It did not go unnoticed.
“She thanks everyone with the same grace,” Cecily whispered behind her fan. “It’s…
“Even the court will struggle not to admire that,” Mirielle said gently, lowering her gaze.
“Or to mimic it,” Edwina added with a knowing look. “Which they will—badly, of course.”
Kalithea crossed the room with the kind of poise born not of rehearsal, but of inner stillness. Her gown moved like a sigh—ivory and light, threaded with whispers of crimson ribbon that caught in the morning glow like hints of flame. She sat beside Edwina as summoned, her hands folding in her lap, eyes steady.
“We were just discussing stags, scandals, and sovereigns,” Edwina said lightly, pouring a fresh cup of tea and placing it in Kalithea’s hands as though it were a crown. “And whether the court is prepared for the kind of story you may turn this hunt into.”
“Or the kind of silence,” Mirielle added with a smile. “I find those far more dangerous.”
“To think,” Anise mused, settling beside her with a laugh like fine crystal, “there are nobles who still believe it’s their horses that will win today’s attention.”
Cecily tilted her head, her earrings swaying. “They haven’t seen you in ivory yet.”
Mirielle leaned in, brushing a curl behind her ear. “We’ve been quite dull in your absence, naturally,” she said. “Though Anise has been terrorizing tailors for a new hunting gown, and Cecily’s mother has already sent her three different ribbons to offer suitors.”
“Three,” Cecily said mournfully. “All embroidered with our house crest, and all completely hideous. One of them has tassels.”
Anise laughed, high and musical. “I nearly wept when I saw it.”
“And what of you, Kalithea?” Edwina asked, her tone laced with warmth and true interest. “Have the past days been gentle with you? Has he?” Her voice dipped just so, not with intrusion, but reverence.
Kalithea’s smile deepened—subtle, but warm, like a rose blooming in hush rather than spectacle. She dipped her pen again and wrote with deliberate care, her script as fluid as ribboned silk, each stroke soft as breath.
“I am well beyond what I thought well could be. These past days have not simply been kind—they have been charmed. His Majesty has shown me such grace, such quiet attentiveness, that I find myself in a happiness too tender to name. I cannot say what it is I feel… only that it blooms in silence and leaves my heart full.” She turned the page gently, offering it across the table. The room hushed in that instinctive, reverent way—like reading something sacred.
Cecily sighed dreamily, leaning back. “That letter you sent us—I still reread the part about how he speaks to you like the world stops listening. That wasn’t a line. That was a spell.”
Anise giggled. “Well, I for one am most eager to see who falls off their horse this year. It always happens. Last year it was Lord Valric, and he broke his pride more than his collarbone.”
Mirielle added, “And didn’t Lady Ariste lace her boots so tight she had to be carried off halfway through the course?”
Edwina grinned. “She blamed the heat. But we all knew it was the nerves.”
Kalithea laughed silently, her shoulders trembling with joy. Her pen moved again. “My dear friends, will you be offering a ribbon to a suitor, or to a knight this year?
“Of course,” Anise said, fluffing her skirts. “I shall offer mine to the only eligible bachelor who manages not to embarrass himself within the first hour.”
“I’m giving mine to my cousin,” Mirielle said, laughing. “He asked. Very earnestly. And I adore him too much to refuse.”
Cecily sighed, gazing out the window. “I’ll likely offer it to no one. I want to keep mine this year. Just because I can.”
Mirielle smiled. “Then let it be your own—an emblem of choice. There’s power in not offering, too.”
Anise turned, narrowing her eyes with playful mischief. “Kalithea,” she said slowly, her voice wrapped in gentle curiosity, “surely you have a ribbon.” All eyes turned to her then—not pressing, but expectant. The kind of attention only true friends gave, patient and quiet, as if holding the edge of a secret with reverence rather than glee.
Kalithea reached beside her, to the small velvet pouch tucked within the folds of her gown. Her hands moved with care—like one revealing something sacred, not precious for its cost, but for the intention stitched into every thread.
From within, she drew a ribbon.
Crimson silk, edged in hand-rolled seams, its texture matte and whisper-soft. On one side, near the end, a single embroidery curved in quiet bloom: two camellia stems, their leaves unfurling in silver thread, delicate and deliberate.
She laid it gently on the table between them, her fingers resting lightly over it for a breath—then retreating, as if allowing it to speak for itself.
Cecily’s breath caught. “That’s… lovely. Like something given at the end of a story. Not the beginning.”
Anise was already reaching to touch it—lightly, reverently. “You did this yourself?”
Kalithea hesitated, her lashes lowering slightly as she reached for her booklet. A soft flick of her wrist, and her words began to unfold—graceful, ribboned, as though written in a sigh rather than ink.
“I embroidered it last night. I couldn’t sleep, yet for His Majesty The Camellias are the only thing I could think of. It is made from the same cloth as the crimson detailing on my dress. It isn’t jeweled, nor fine. Just a simple length of silk, meant only for him. But I do worry… it is not enough.”
The ribbon lay between them in silence. Crimson silk, soft and hand stitched, the ends embroidered with a pair of camellia stems—unfurling in silver thread like something meant to be remembered. It bore no crest, no sigil. And yet, the symbol was unmistakable.
Then Cecily exhaled, voice touched with a fond smile. “Not enough?” she repeated, her tone equal parts disbelief and affection. “Darling, do you know how many noblewomen spent the last week commissioning lace so stiff with jewels it can’t even fold properly?”
Anise let out a delicate snort and waved her fan lazily, though her eyes sparkled. “And here you are with something you bled sleep into, with your own hands. If he has the sense of a stone, it will mean more to him than all of their gold-threaded nonsense combined.”
“It’s red,” Edwina said softly, “and it’s yours. He’ll wear it like armor. Because you didn’t just give him color. You gave him recognition—in a way only you could.”
Kalithea’s gaze lowered, the warmth of her friends’ words slowly blooming beneath her skin like sun through sheer silk. She smiled—modestly, but more fully now, offering them a quiet thanks.
Mirielle reached delicately for a sugared cherry, her smile curling at the edge like the lace of her sleeve. “Well, if the rest of the court isn’t already scandalized by your ribbon, they will be the moment he ties it to his sleeve.”
“And that’s assuming someone else doesn’t faint from envy,” Cecily added, lifting her teacup with all the theatrical poise of a stage actress. “Lady Virelle has already prepared three ribbons—one for her chosen knight, one for the painter who follows him, and one in case she changes her mind mid-procession.”
Anise gave a delicate scoff. “That poor knight. I hope he knows he’s being used as a mannequin for her next portrait series.”
Edwina leaned back slightly, resting her hands atop her folded skirts, her expression unreadable but not unkind. “Do you think the Princess will offer her ribbon again this year?”
The question stirred the air—soft, but not without weight.
There was a moment where no one quite answered. Not with words. Mirielle sipped her tea a touch too slowly. Cecily adjusted the pleats in her gown. Even Anise’s fans were still in mid-motion.
Kalithea glanced between them, a quiet curiosity blooming behind her lashes. But rather than press, she moved with her usual quiet grace. Her hand—gentle and fluid, as though drawn from the petals of the camellias she so loved—reached for her booklet. The tip of her pen touched parchment like it was something sacred. Words unfurled like silk under moonlight.“Is something the matter?”
Cecily glanced up with a smile—polished but touched with something fonder. “Not at all, dearest. Only… you have a way of walking straight into things the rest of us are too careful to name.”
“She’s right,” said Edwina softly. “There are truths the court wears like perfume. Subtle. Lingering. And meant only for those who already know the scent.”
“I know of her,” Kalithea wrote, her script looping gently across the page. “Princess Marina. The crown’s only daughter. The nobles speak of her with admiration. They say she’s regal. Respected. Poised. She is very beautiful, I’m sure she is kind.”
Lady Mirielle’s brows arched with quiet restraint, though her smile retained its softness. “Indeed,” she said, setting down her teacup with care, “Her Highness is quite beautiful—in the particular, curated manner that court society adores. Pale cheeks, polished diction, gowns stitched to suggest refinement rather than invite conversation.”
“She possesses grace,” Lady Anise allowed delicately, “but her kindness is best appreciated at a distance—and only, I believe, when it suits her image.”
Cecily spoke more slowly, brushing invisible dust from the cuff of her sleeve. “One could say she’s very accomplished at being admired. But I’ve rarely seen her remember the names of those she does not find useful.”
“She is regal,” Edwina murmured, her tone poised as ever. “That much is true. But there is a difference between being revered… and being truly beloved.”
Kalithea was quiet then—gracefully so. She dipped her head in thought, reaching for her pen with fingers that moved as softly as moonlight on water. Her response came not in haste, but in elegant deliberation. “Perhaps I am naïve. But I do hope there is a sense of goodness in those we are taught to fear. Even if it is only a small ember, tucked beneath too much ceremony.”
Then Mirielle, ever the one to speak gently where truths could bruise, placed her teacup down with a quiet clink. “Your heart, Kalithea, is terribly lovely. But don’t waste even the smallest kindness on a flame that has long since burned for its own reflection.”
Anise, reclining back with the casual precision of someone who had mastered the art of lounging without losing poise, raised a brow. “She’s harbored affections for His Majesty ever since childhood. Everyone knows it. She’s had a dozen chances to win his eye, and a dozen more to lose it.”
Cecily folded her hands with ladylike precision, her voice a glimmering thread of restraint and sweetness. “Oh, she’s never gauche about it. That would ruin the allure. No—Princess Marina is far too practiced. Her gestures are composed like chamber music. Soft, refined, and always in tune with the room she inhabits. She moves as if every corridor might someday be hers.”
“She doesn’t chase,” murmured Mirielle, smoothing a hand down the pleats of her skirt. “She invites. She drapes herself in mystery, waits for silence to gather, then fills it with something honeyed. A glance. A laugh. A question that sounds like a secret.” She tilted her head, her expression unreadable. “It’s well executed. But never quite enough.”
“Because she doesn’t reach him,” Edwina said, her tone like silk drawn across glass. “Not truly. Not where it matters.”
A pause bloomed between them—not cruel, not mocking, but quiet with the weight of understanding.
“She’s not the one he asked for,” Anise added after a moment, voice low, almost fond. “Not now. Not ever. He’s made that clear in ways no court herald ever could.”
“And when an emperor makes a request…” Cecily’s smile was gentle, but her words carried a quiet certainty. “You answer it. Especially when the request is a color of a gown, and a ribbon.”
Mirielle lifted her teacup once more, her eyes fixed on Kalithea with the kind of elegant softness that rarely survived in court. “So let her linger where she may. His eyes are not wandering.”
The soft chime of the ormolu clock near the hearth struck a gentle hour—no bell, just the elegant whisper of time passing in gilt precision. The girls stirred, instinctively, like petals turning toward light.
“It’s time,” Edwina said softly, setting her teacup aside with the kind of care that came not from nerves, but from ceremony. “Im sure Dame Adeline and Dame Erin are waiting by His Majesty’s carriage by now.”
“The one he sent an hour early,” Mirielle added with a smile curving faintly at her lips. Mirielle smoothed the edge of Kalithea’s sleeve with a sisterly touch, her voice low but warm. “You are not just attending the hunt today. You are being awaited.”
Kalithea’s gaze flicked down modestly, though the smile that touched her lips could not be hidden—nor the hush of anticipation behind her eyes. With care, she tucked her ribbon safely back into its pouch and smoothed the folds of her gown, the crimson accents at her sleeves and hem catching the morning light like quiet promises.
The girls followed suit—draping stoles over shoulders, checking pearl pins, adjusting silk gloves. Their chatter returned, lighter now, brighter, like the music of fine glass clinking in the distance.
Outside, the crunch of carriage wheels on gravel echoed in rhythm—the first sign of the procession that would follow. Edwina glanced out the window and smiled. “Our carriages are being drawn up now. The household steward is just confirming the order.”
“One by one,” Anise said, stepping toward the door with an excited gleam in her eye. “Like queens going to war. Or at the very least, to charm.” Dame Erin and Dame Adeline were already mounted, eyes scanning the grounds with the kind of silent assurance that always made Kalithea feel steadier.
“I suppose we follow,” Cecily said, looping her arm through Mirielle’s. “After all, we can’t let the court arrive before the true scene begins.”
Mirielle smiled. “Indeed not. And I want a good seat for when His Majesty sees her in that dress.”
Anise winked. “Let the games begin.”
And together, with the soft rustle of silk and a breeze scented faintly of plum blossoms, the ladies of the morning stepped into sunlight—one carriage behind the next—on their way to the hunting grounds, where spectacle waited, and something far more intimate would soon unfold.
The ride was brief, but unhurried—made slower not by distance, but by intention. Kalithea sat within the imperial carriage in near silence, save for the soft clatter of polished wheels on gravel and the muted sound of birds overhead. The curtains were parted just enough for sunlight to bathe her hands, resting delicately in her lap like folded parchment. Her thoughts moved slowly, rhythmically, like the trees passing by.
About an hour had passed when the clearing unfolded before her like a story that had been waiting to be read.
Veredian’s ancient woodlands framed the grounds in a cathedral of green, their towering trees crowned with glimmering mist. Sunlight pierced the canopies in sharp, golden slants, dusting everything in sacred light. Underfoot, the moss was soft and cool, broken by veins of marbled stone and ancient root. Yet here in the glade, court had arrived in full—and nothing about it was quiet.
The air rang with the practiced thrum of arrows loosed from finely carved bows—thwip—followed by the satisfying thunk of target meets wood. Near the forest’s edge, squires barked commands to nervous horses while lords adjusted saddlecloths embossed with family sigils. In the far eastern quarter, a pair of knights sparred in a clearing marked by fluttering pennants, the chime of blade on blade striking like bell tolls through the haze.
Above them, falcons circled the sky—silent, perfect arcs of silver and shadow. The handlers below stood with their arms gloved and raised, murmuring to the air as the birds shrieked overhead. Near the perimeter, fluttering house flags rippled against the breeze, each banner kissed with the colors of legacy.
And at the center of it all—woven through tents stitched in velvets and linen, the court moved like a cascade of silk: nobles gliding between one another, fans lifted like masks, voices like ripples on still water.
Kalithea moved with that same serenity.
She stepped forward, her gown brushing the grass with each measured pace, the ivory of it untouched by dust or dew. The crimson threading shimmered like fire caught in fine embroidery, subtle and precise. Every motion she made was deliberate—not stiff, but controlled, like a note held through the rise of wind. The breeze caught the length of her hair, gathered to one side, and stirred it like silk ribbon over porcelain.
Behind her, Dame Adeline and Dame Erin slowed, stepping back with silent precision. It was not an exit, but a retreat into vigilance—stationed on either side of the noble lanes, their expressions unreadable, their presence unmistakable. Kalithea turned her head just slightly, her gaze brushing over them with the hush of affection. A soft squeeze of Adeline’s hand—then Erin’s—communicated everything: trust, gratitude, and the knowledge that they would not stray far. Her knights bowed their heads in return, wordless, but utterly watchful.
The moment breathed.
Then came the sound of hooves—a slow, even gallop across tamped grass. A horse approached, its coat as dark as ink and armor glinting at the bridle. Atop it sat Sir Jean, imperial in posture but not in presence. He rode not with pomp, but with purpose.
He dismounted in one fluid motion as he reached her, his boots touching the earth with the soundless assurance of someone who had walked beside power without ever needing to claim it. The wind stirred the edge of his dark cloak, but his posture remained unmoved—like a pillar carved of loyalty and time.
“My lady,” he said, bowing with a reverence just deeper than form required. “You honor the court with your presence this morning.”
Kalithea stepped forward, her gown whispering against the grass, and offered a graceful nod.
He straightened, his expression composed, though something gentler stirred behind his eyes. “His Majesty has asked that you remain visible today—unguarded, in the eyes of the court. But we will remain near. I’ll keep the western edge, should the processions shift.”
From behind him, Dame Erin approached, her braid neatly coiled beneath her riding helm. She offered Kalithea a formal nod, followed by a knowing smile. “And should anyone forget who rides for you today, my lady… we’ll remind them.”
Kalithea’s lips parted in a faint laugh, silent but bright. Her cheeks flushed as she modestly shook her head in silliness.
“Hope,” Dame Adeline called lightly from her post by the marble archway, “has little to do with it. You are prepared. Let them notice.”
Sir Jean stepped back with a final incline of his head. “Then we take our positions. Until you call.”
With a shared glance—unspoken, but sure—her knights returned to the borders of the clearing, and Kalithea, lifted by their care, stepped forward into the heart of the morning.
The wheels of the following carriages slowed to a graceful halt, their polished exteriors catching the morning light like lacquered fruit. Gilded doors opened in sequence, and slippered feet touched down upon the crushed pearl path one after another—petal-slow, practiced, and perfectly placed.
Lady Mirielle was the first to descend. Shee paused at the base of the steps with a languid sweep of her gaze. “The archers have stationed themselves nearer this year,” she noted, eyeing the distant row of targets. “Though judging by the aim I just witnessed, we may still be in danger.”
Lady Anise followed, her coral shawl trailing behind her like a banner caught in a favorable wind. “Only if you stand between Lord Halveth and his pride,” she quipped, fanning herself with a flick of her wrist. “He nearly skewered the refreshment tent last year.”
Cecily, always the picture of composed mirth, stepped down last. She took in the scene with a hum. “They’ve draped the archways in imperial crimson this year,” she said, pointing toward the stone pillars ahead. “A deliberate choice, wouldn’t you say?”
From the final carriage, Lady Edwina emerged with practiced elegance. She adjusted her gloves with an idle grace and glanced toward the horizon. “They’ve made a theater of the field this time,” she said, her voice quiet but amused. “One could mistake this for a coronation if the stags weren’t waiting in the trees.”
The girls clustered together then—four poised silhouettes in bloom-toned silks, stepping lightly over the crushed pearl gravel. Their laughter, refined and ribboned, fluttered into the air like spun glass. As they moved, nobles turned to glance. Not at their rank—but at their radiance. At the ease between them. At the scent of closeness in a court built on calculation.
“There she is,” Mirielle whispered, her voice delicate as lace, yet laced with wonder—the smile on her lips the kind one wears when watching poetry step off the page. “Our Lady of the Hour.”
Kalithea stood just ahead, ivory and crimson trailing like breath across the grass. She had not moved far since her knights had stepped back—but the hush around her presence said everything. She did not need to advance for the court to follow.
Anise lifted a brow, twirling her fan idly. “I passed a pair of duchesses whispering about her sleeves. Apparently, simplicity is only fashionable once it’s worn by the right person.”
Anise lifted a brow, her fan catching sunlight like a silken blade. “I passed two duchesses whispering about her sleeves. Apparently, simplicity is only fashionable once it’s worn by the right person.”
With the faintest curve of a smile, Kalithea extended her hand as they joined her. No greetings were needed. They had risen from the same morning warmth, the same laughter-laced salon—but now, stepping together into the arena of courtly eyes, something in the air crystallized. Soft became sharp. Familiarity became mythic.
They moved as one
Five silhouettes in bloom-toned silk: lilac, coral, dusk mauve, rose—and Kalithea, the pale stillness of ivory threaded in red. They crossed the field not with ceremony, but with quiet certainty, and the nobles parted without command, as if instinctively making way for something inevitable.
As they crossed toward the grand pavilions—where noble houses reclined beneath silk banners and velvet awnings—eyes followed them like the hush before a fan is opened. The path was not cleared by command, but parted all the same, as though the air itself had decided to give them space. Their conversation floated between them, low and warm, untouched by the murmurings that curled around their steps like smoke trailing a flame.
Lady Anise tilted her fan toward the eastern lane, where strings began to tune. “If the first string dares play the stag waltz again, I may offer my ribbon to the violin out of pity.”
“Don’t be cruel,” Cecily replied gently, her rose-silk skirts whispering against the gravel. “They’re all trying to impress someone.”
“Unfortunately,” Edwina said, smooth as silk wrapped over steel, “none of them will succeed. Not while we are walking the field.”
Kalithea’s presence, however, was a different thing altogether. If her friends drew gazes, she commanded reverence. A silhouette that moved with both restraint and boldness: fine lace at the sleeves, soft organza swaying at her waist, and that carefully placed ruby brooch at her shoulder—a detail so precise, it left onlookers wondering whether the court followed her fashion… or merely waited for it.
The gentlemen noticed first. Of course they did.
Knights paused mid-laughter, straightening like schoolboys caught out of turn. A baron tipped too far forward on his heels, visibly recalculating whether to bow or simply fall. One foreign noble murmured something sharp and reverent in his native tongue—his gaze not on her face, but on the crimson detailing of her gown.
Does she carry it already?
Will she offer it?
To whom?
Their companions elbowed them in return—softly, subtly—reminding them of decorum. But their eyes lingered. Hoping, perhaps, that one glance might land on them. That a smile, a glance, a ribbon might tilt the whole world.
None came.
Kalithea’s gaze never wandered.
Nor did Mirielle’s, whose celadon skirts glowed like forest light. Nor Cecily’s, whose gloved fingers brushed a bloom from Kalithea’s shoulder without ceremony. Nor Anise, whose fan continued its artful rhythm. Nor Edwina, walking just slightly ahead, her mauve gown stirring as if it moved to music the court could not hear.
“Did you see the royal steward bow when she passed?” Anise asked, eyes bright with amusement.
“I saw five men do so,” Mirielle murmured, “but only one recovered quickly.”
“And none earned a glance,” Cecily added, smiling behind the rim of her lace glove. “I rather think they’re hoping the hunt goes poorly—so she might console them.”
Edwina let out the softest sigh. “Poor souls. They’ll learn soon enough.”
Together, they approached the heart of the field—past the archery lanes where fletched arrows clattered softly into straw, the balconies draped in royal blue, and the line of steeds whose manes were braided with jeweled cords and house colors. The sunlight had grown fuller now, gilding everything in a soft, flattering gold, as if the day itself had been curated for court spectacle.
The glade opened before them in velvet symmetry. Oval in shape, framed by groves of silver birch and towering ash, its center was lined with grand pavilions in imperial navy and wine-dark velvet. Gold fringe trembled at every edge. Marble columns held high the crests of the old houses, each painted with lacquer and lined in fresh silk. Nobles milled beneath awnings embroidered with constellation thread. Trays passed by—glinting with silver spoons and sugared fruits. Lords stood in brocade like statues, their laughter carefully timed.
At the far dais, the imperial herald raised a scroll of golden ink. “The ribbon-giving shall now commence.” The words hung in the air like incense. Ceremony stirred into movement. Edwina was the first to move, guiding the girls with a diplomat’s poise toward the shaded terrace at the western edge of the field—separate from the central enclosures, yet placed with unmistakable intent. Their station did not say exclusion. It said refinement.
The terrace, arranged with low couches of dove velvet and linen cushions stitched with silver leaves, was soaked in filtered sunlight. Gold-dappled shadows swayed gently across its polished stone floor. The scent of orange blossom drifted in from somewhere unseen.
“Charming,” Anise murmured, her fan trailing behind her like a comet’s tail. “I do love when they remember that nobility includes comfort.”
They settled with the ease of those born to such stages—but none reclined fully. Their eyes, alert beneath their elegance, surveyed the court with discreet awareness.
Kalithea’s gaze drifted across the glade, momentarily catching on a pavilion where Princess Marina stood, resplendent in crimson. Her gown, the red of lacquered lacquer and garnet glass, swept the floor like a bloodstained vow. Sleeves fluttered like shrine phoenix wings, and her bodice was cinched in embroidered fire-gold. Her hair, styled into a regal updo, was adorned with delicate chains of rubies and rose-cut diamonds. Behind her, her ladies—four of them, adorned in colors no brighter than blush—stood like a mirrored gallery of lesser stars.
It was Cecily who noticed first, her lashes lowering as she tipped her head subtly to Kalithea’s shoulder. “She’s rather forward today,” Cecily murmured, too gently to be overheard, her tone so polite it could slice ribbon. “I do believe her gown is shouting.”
“Out of envy,” Anise added, without turning. “That shade of crimson never flatters unless the court flatters first.”
Edwina, ever graceful, adjusted the drape of her sash and repositioned herself—just slightly—in front of Kalithea’s chair. Her movement was barely a breath, but its intention was crystalline. To shield. Without being seen.
Marina’s gaze did not shift. But it narrowed.
Kalithea felt it—not sharp, but cold. Not fury, but frost. The kind of scrutiny that did not seek understanding, only possession. The kind of stare that believed beauty should be a currency held by one hand only. There are things one does not name. Not before the sun reaches its highest arc.
She could feel it—the weight of the gaze from across the glade, heavy not with hatred but with something colder, stranger. As if a throne had grown roots in her shadow and someone else had mistaken it for stolen soil.
She did not flinch. But something in her—deep and quiet, like the place where memories go when they have no one to tell them—curled inward. The air around her did not tremble. But her breath felt different. Softer. As though it had to pass through something first—like velvet, or a bruise.
She reached for her booklet, her fingers gliding across the cover like she was smoothing a secret. The spine creaked softly, a sound too small for the world to hear, but loud enough for her to feel it. She wrote—not as a lady dispatches a note, but as a girl confesses something only the page will keep safe.
And then, with the poise of someone accustomed to speaking without sound, she passed it to her friends. “There is a strange cruelty in being noticed by those who once thrived on being seen. I feel her eyes not like daggers—but like frost upon petals: slow, quiet, inevitable. I do not wish to fight her. I do not wish to be looked at like this. I only wanted to breathe where the air was kind.”
Anise took the booklet first, her gloved fingertips brushing the edge like one would lift a veil from a portrait too precious to touch outright. “Oh, let her look,” she said with a silken, defiant smile. “Even the frost envies the bloom it cannot undo.”
Cecily leaned forward next, her eyes shimmering—not with tears, but with something far steadier. Devotion. “If she looks,” she said quietly, “let her. If she burns, let it be in silence. You do not owe the sun an apology for blooming in shade.”
“She is accustomed to being the crescendo,” Mirielle added, her voice low and musical, “but you are the pause that makes music holy. It unsettles her, this quiet way you take up space—not by storm, but by stillness.”
Edwina said nothing at first. She simply reached across the space between them and pressed her hand, firm and elegant, to Kalithea’s wrist. A gesture not meant to be seen. Only felt. When she spoke, her tone was velvet-bound steel.
“She watches because she cannot follow. And you—Kalithea—you are not here to war with her. You are here because he chose you.” Before another word could fall, a hush descended. Not the hush of tension—but of arrival.
Before another word could fall, a hush descended—not the hush of discomfort, but the hush of arrival. The kind that makes even the light hold its breath. A hush passed through the glade like a sweeping tide of silk. The court did not yet know what had arrived. But had begun to feel it.
The procession had begun.
Not in the thunder of fanfare, nor with horns announcing rank. No—this entrance unfolded like myth made visible, a slow unraveling of presence rather than performance.
From the pavilion-shaded edge of the hunting glade, noblemen stepped forth one by one, their silhouettes emerging through gauze-draped archways like figures drawn from water. Their pace was unhurried, ceremonial without being forced. Velvet coats fell in tailored lines; gloves bore the sheen of new leather; and the sun struck polished buttons and silver buckles until they gleamed like starlight on snow.
Each man wore the colors of his house—smoke-gray and pine, russet and sapphire, ash-blue and storm-white—yet they were unified by the same unmistakable energy: they knew they were being watched.
The watching came not just from noble seats, but from the women rising in soft waves across the green. Girls stepped forward, one after another, bearing ribbon tokens embroidered with initials or house crests—gifts folded in ceremony and ambition alike. Their skirts stirred like unfurling scrolls. Lace gloved fingers curled around lengths of silk dyed in spring tones—rose, lilac, dandelion, and dove.
Some girls placed their ribbons shyly, cheeks flushed beneath veils. Others offered them boldly, standing taller than their shadows. One curtsied with such precision that the bells in her hair chimed like a blessing. Another tied her token to her chosen knight’s arm with trembling hands, her voice too soft to be heard but clear in its meaning.
But amidst this soft thunder of tradition—Kalithea’s moment had not yet come. Because his had.
The silence that followed was not declared, but felt—like the hush before a curtain lifts, or the stillness between lightning and its thunder. It rippled through velvet awnings and drifting perfume, threaded between nobles mid-laugh, and landed in the heart of the glade like a breath caught in the throat.
One by one, heads turned. Fans stilled. A ribbon slipped soundlessly from a lady’s gloved fingers. Even the wind, which had carried warmth and murmurs all morning, paused as if to witness what would come next.
From the far edge of the field, beyond the carved pillars and silken banners, the imperial tent stirred—its crimson flaps parting not with fanfare, but with the quiet gravity of something inevitable. And Jotaro rode through atop a black stallion as though every pace had been chosen to echo, not in sound, but in memory.
He was dressed in deep crimson, a shade that could bleed if touched. The cut of his doublet was sharp, refined, built like command stitched into cloth. Across one shoulder, a mantle of black velvet fell like a wing in dusklight, the hem edged in shadow-thread embroidery—its shape suggesting feathers, or perhaps fire. Over it, a single black sash cut cleanly across his frame, pinned at the heart with a silver sunburst that gleamed like prophecy. The gold cord at his waist shimmered as he moved, each step drawing light to its quiet precision.
His hair, raven-black and slightly windblown, framed the hard lines of his face in defiant contrast to the sun-blond heirs and honey-brown courtiers who lined the green. Beneath it, his eyes did not search—they cut through the air, unmoved, unapologetic, as though they already knew where to land.
Behind him, his knights emerged with silent coordination. Sir Jean adjusted his bracers with soldier’s ease. Dame Erin guided the black-stallioned mounts forward, her gloved hand steady on the reins. Dame Adeline, already mounted, surveyed the field with cool precision. Sir Amadeus, gazing around like a predator to a prey. They did not speak. Their presence moved in rhythm behind his, like constellations pulled in orbit.
But no one looked at them. The court had fixed its gaze on the sun—but the kind that scorched only when sought too long. “There,” murmured one of the daughters of House Valenne, barely breathing. “There he is.”
And waiting just ahead of his path—bathed in intention—stood Princess Marina who sparkled like captured fire. And in her hand—delicate, gloved in lace—she held a ribbon. A gorgeous, ceremonial length of crimson satin, hand-embroidered in golden thread with the initials M.A. Its edges were scalloped with pearl-sewn trim, and near the end, a single stitched sunburst
Her smile was radiant. Elegant. Perfectly practiced.
The kind of smile that had been rehearsed before mirrors and maids, polished over a hundred past courtships and sharpened for this one moment. She stood in full view of the path. Positioned deliberately. Timed flawlessly. For Jotaro. She waited, poised to offer the ribbon as though it were not just a token—but a future.
“He hasn’t looked at anyone,” said a third, her ribbon trembling slightly in her hands. “Not yet.”
Mirielle was the first to glance at Kalithea—quietly, reverently, as though witnessing a flower caught in the exact second it began to bloom. “Stand with us, my dear,” she said, her voice softer than silk drawn through fingers. “The court may be watching him… but he will be looking for you.”
Edwina stepped closer next, her touch as precise as it was gentle. She adjusted the fall of Kalithea’s sleeve, smoothing the edge as though preparing royalty. “Go,” she whispered. “Or you’ll miss the moment that’s already unfolding in your name.”
And then—The sun touched her. Not all at once. But slowly. Tenderly.
A shaft of morning gold broke through the pavilion’s silken awning and found her first—her shoulder, her hair, the hem of her gown—like light remembering what it was made for. It gathered at her waist like a secret—his secret—and wound upward like a ribboned heartbeat.
The golden lily comb caught flame in the light, glinting like a crown she had never asked for, but wore all the same. And over her heart, the ruby brooch—sunburst-framed and solemn—flared once, as if in reply. One perfect gleam of red.
Across the clearing, astride his black stallion whose hooves whispered against the grass like a secret being kept, Jotaro saw her. And the world—ceased.
Not from sound, nor ceremony. But from sight. It collapsed inward, folding the banners, the chatter, the velvet-fringed audience into a backdrop of nothingness. Even the sky seemed to dim around her. The light had found a new center. In her hand, a ribbon trembled. Crimson, delicate, glinting with the faint shimmer of silver thread at its seam.
And it was his.
His breath left him not with force, but reverence. As though he had just witnessed something sacred. Something that had no name until now. His hand tightened briefly around the reins—not out of command, but to ground himself. Because every instinct within him had already begun to move. She had worn his color.
The one he had asked for only once in neither demand—but hoped for. And in return, she had become it. The sun crowned her, the ruby at her heart flashing like a signal meant for no one else. Her eyes had not sought him. Her stance did not call. But everything she said, came to find him .
The reins slackened in his grasp. With a subtle pull, he turned the stallion’s path—not toward the lanes, nor the waiting daughters, nor the velvet rows of watchers still whispering behind their fans. Toward her. Straight across the court’s attention. Gasps rose like silk drawn taut. One girl’s ribbon fluttered from her fingers, forgotten mid-breath. Even the herald, preparing to call the next name, faltered.
Because the Emperor—was not waiting.
He rode not as a sovereign demanding tribute, but as a man who had made a promise in silence and now came to claim its answer. The black stallion’s gait was smooth, powerful, almost reverent—as though it too understood the weight of what was unfolding. His knights remained behind, their roles stilled in deference. Because this was no longer the Emperor’s procession.
It was his heart’s pursuit.
The stallion’s hooves—black against the pearl-strewn grass—sounded not like thunder, but like a heartbeat slowed. One. Then another. Each step a declaration the court could not translate. But Kalithea felt every echo inside her bones.
She could not breathe—not fully. Not with him coming toward her like that. Like the world had narrowed and she was its still point. Each stride he took set something fluttering up her spine—not fear, but the ache of something impossible that dared become real. The silk ribbon in her hand trembled with her pulse. A vow she had stitched in silence. A confession she had never said aloud.
She had imagined this moment—foolishly, secretly—in the quiet of her room. But no imagining had ever moved like this. No fantasy had ever walked like vow-bound fire, wrapped in crimson and looking only at her.
Across the glade, the black stallion came to a graceful halt. Mist curled from its nostrils like incense rising from an altar. Jotaro sat cloaked in crimson and dusk, his mantle edged in shadow-threaded embroidery that whispered war. But there was no storm in his gaze. Only stillness.
He looked down at her, and for a heartbeat, did nothing. Just gazed—not as a ruler. Not as a man who had ridden through glory, but as someone who had just found the only moment he had waited for.
“You wore it,” he said, voice low and warm—shaped more by awe than surprise. The words did not ask. They honored. She saw the shift of his shoulders, the flick of his fingers releasing the reins, the mantle catching a breeze as his boots touched the earth. The moment stretched—quiet and slow—as though every step forward was a line being crossed with care.
Kalithea stood frozen. Not from fear. But from reverence. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, steady and electric, louder than the court’s hush. Her breath caught in her throat as he came closer, and closer still, until there was nothing between them but the space of a breath.
The ribbon lay in her hand like a living thing. Crimson silk, glinting softly in the sunlight, embroidered with a camellia motif so delicate it seemed to bloom only in stillness. Her fingers trembled, just enough to betray her calm. And when she offered it, her gaze lifted slowly—like one unclasping a secret.
He reached for it gently, and when his hand brushed hers, it was warm, grounding—far too real for someone the world called divine. For a moment, their hands held the ribbon together, as though neither was quite ready to let it go.
And without a word, he turned—and tied it around the hilt of his blade. Not on his chest. Not on his saddle. On his weapon, where blood was risked and promises tested.
He stepped closer again. His hand rose—slow, deliberate—fingertips brushing a loose strand from her cheek, then trailing gently down the line of her jaw. The back of his knuckles grazed her skin, light as breath. Then, with a touch that asked no permission because it had already been granted, he tilted her chin upward.
The moment stretched—not like silence, but like a vow being drawn across the strings of the soul. Kalithea’s gaze lifted to his—not trembling, not unsure, but open. Raw. The way only someone who had never expected to be chosen might look when they are, in fact, chosen.
The air tightened. The moment stilled. Fans hovered like wings mid-beat. A thousand stares locked, breathless, suspended between silence and history. The kind of silence that does not ask for understanding. Only witness.
The moment stretched. Her gaze lifted to his—not trembling, not unsure, but full of something tender and unguarded. His lips pressed to her brow in a kiss so quiet it felt like the world should bow to it.
He kissed her like something sacred. Like she was not his companion, but his choice. She could feel it—heat pressed to skin, not possessive, but reverent. As though he bowed to her in that single gesture, even as the world bowed to him.
Kalithea could not breathe—not fully. The air in her chest quivered, light and taut, like the moment before a string snaps. She did not move. Could not. Her body felt carved from the stillness he left in his wake. When he pulled back, his hand lingered near her cheek. His fingers brushed a single strand from her temple, then fell slowly—as if reluctant to part. The space he left behind throbbed with warmth.
Then—before the world could remember itself—The horn. Sharp. Sonorous. Like a blade drawn through velvet. It did not begin the hunt.It shattered the spell. Kalithea flinched—just slightly—shoulders curling in, her breath catching as though the air had been pierced. The hush that had crowned the moment collapsed into sound: fans snapped open, silks rustled, voices returned with startled breath.
He stepped back with the measured precision of dusk unfurling, his mantle sweeping behind him like a broken shadow returning to its source. One movement—fluid, certain—and he mounted the black stallion once more. The saddle groaned. The beast stirred, hooves stamping the earth as if summoned to war, its breath rising in silver clouds.
He stepped back with the measured precision of dusk unfurling, his mantle sweeping behind him like a broken shadow returning to its source. One movement—fluid, certain—and he mounted the black stallion once more. The saddle groaned. The beast stirred, hooves stamping the earth as if summoned to war, its breath rising in silver clouds.
The court did not stir. Yet,before he moved, he turned—and looked at her. Not as a sovereign acknowledging a subject nor as a man bidding farewell. But as someone returning in advance to the only place he would ever belong.
His gaze found her like dusk finds the edge of water—slow, inevitable, shivering with light. That single moment stretched and shimmered as though time itself refused to break it. Her form—still, sunlit, ribbonless now—was a vision carved into morning, and he drank it in like memory made real.
Then—quiet as the flick of a page—he shifted in the saddle. The reins slackened beneath his fingers. His mantle caught the wind. And with the creak of fine leather, a shadowed shape dropped from above—graceful and fierce.
The falcon landed. Graceful. Unforgiving. A sovereign in feathers. It touched down upon his gloved arm with an ease that belied its power—its wings folding in rusted fire. Its plumage was burnished with the hues of twilight: russet, bronze, and gold, as if autumn had bled itself into its every feather. A flare of ivory crested its chest like a heraldic emblem. And its eyes—coal-bright, ancient—searched the horizon with the calm calculation of choosing where to strike.
For a breath, it held still, then it screamed. A cry that carved through the air like a sword drawn clean—sharp, primal, final. The falcon flung itself into the sky with a burst of wingbeats so fierce, his cloak rippled from the force. The heavens opened to receive it, and it climbed, higher and higher—an arc of flame against blue. Its wings sliced through the air, a spiral of dominance tracing over silk banners and trembling spectators
Jotaro’s posture did not shift—but his presence deepened, like a storm building at the edges of a horizon. His voice rang out, clear and commanding to carry like thunder just before it breaks.
“I’ll bring the victory,” he said—not to her alone, but to every gathered soul who dared question why he had ridden toward her. “And tie it beside your ribbon.”
It was not merely silence that followed. It was suspended. The air held its breath. Fans paused mid-wave, the flutter of silk stopped in midair, and somewhere in the distance, even a bird seemed to halt its call.
The second horn ruptured. A sound older than crowns, sharper than steel. It tore through the hush like a blade through brocade, and the world around them snapped back into motion.
His heel shifted, no more than the twitch of a thought—and the stallion surged forward with a power that rippled through the earth. His cloak unfurled behind him like a war banner shaken free of hesitation. Crimson and black, silver-threaded, it caught the wind like prophecy. His form blurred into motion—not a man in flight, but a storm released.
Behind him, the knights followed. Sir Jean galloped like thunder unspooling, his blade glinting in a diagonal arc across his side, cutting through the air like lightning captured in steel. Sir Amadeus, gripping the reins tightly as his armour gleamed in the light like a dagger. Dame Adeline leaned into the speed, her spear angled with the precision of a huntress whose aim had never once faltered. Dame Erin kept lower in the saddle, eyes already narrowed toward the mist beyond the glade—reading wind, shadow, and silence the way others read maps.
With her ribbon tied at his hip and her presence in his chest like a second heartbeat, he charged toward the tree line—not seeking the hunt, but claiming it. Above him, the falcon screamed again. Its wings slashed the sky in a wide arc, eyes sharp, talons poised, already circling over the woodlands as if to mark the path of conquest before him.
The world moved around her—swirling in silks and scandal, in whispers sewn through lace gloves, in names uttered like spells—but none of it touched her. Behind her, fans snapped open with shaky grace. Beside her, noblemen leaned toward one another in stunned murmur. Marina’s posture faltered, her ribbon still unoffered, her smile fixed and fracturing at the edges.
And for a breath, the court held still—suspended in the space between spectacle and consequence. A breath drawn. A spine straightened. A smile—sharp and lacquered—returning to its practiced curve.Princess Marina stepped back from the shadows of her pavilion with the slow elegance of someone preparing not to retreat, but to strike with civility. The next act had not yet begun. But its leading lady had just taken her first step toward the stage.
Chapter 37: Promise Kept
Chapter Text
Kalithea remained still, her gaze fixed on the place where he had last been—where the grass still bore the ghost of hoofprints, pressed deep as a vow into earth. The wind had not yet remembered how to move. And in the hollow space he left behind, the air brimmed with something so full, so luminous, it ached.
The kiss lingered—not just upon her skin, but in her bones, like warmth left in a room after fire. For a moment too long, she did not stir.
Then, slowly, as if her limbs had been folded in reverence, her hands rose to her cheeks. Not in shock. But in something quieter. Something wholly, wholly hers. A blush bloomed beneath her fingertips like light unfurling through stained glass—fragile, full, and entirely beyond concealment. He had kissed her before—once. But not like that. Not where the court would see. Not where the world would hold its breath.
She turned, shyly. Delicately. As though afraid the moment might still be clinging to her skin and would slip away if disturbed. But behind her, like spring after frost, her friends had already bloomed into motion.
Silks rustled. Fans quivered midair. And their eyes—oh, their eyes—shone like stars in daylight. “Oh, heavens,” Anise breathed, her voice feathered with disbelief, her fan pressed to her chest like scripture. “Did anyone else forget to breathe, or am I to be the only one resurrected?”
“I assure you,” Cecily replied, gloved fingers brushing the edge of her cheek with elegant grace, “we are all quite recently returned to life. I believe the entire court perished for a moment. And I, for one, found it exquisite.”
“It felt,” murmured Mirielle, still gazing toward the path where hoofbeats had faded, “like the final page of a fable no one dared to finish. A fairytale’s end, yes… but also the first breath of a storm. Do you suppose he has always looked at her so?”
“Always,” Edwina said, not blinking. “But never where the world could see. Until now.”
Kalithea stood in the hush, still as breath. The ribbon no longer lay in her hand—yet her fingers remained gently curled, as though it still lived there, warm with memory, fragrant with silk and vow.
The glade stirred, but had not yet truly resumed its rhythm. Courtly chatter flickered back to life like candles after eclipse, but the hush around Kalithea remained intact—untouched. Birds sang in silver ribbons high above. Banners snapped with lazy elegance. The air smelled faintly of woodsmoke, violet water, and something sharper—iron and honor and the trace of a sovereign’s promise.
Cecily stepped closer and laid her hand gently upon Kalithea’s wrist. “You must sit, dearest,” she said, her voice gentled with fondness, “before someone decides to sculpt you in marble. Blushing as you are now—half myth, half maiden.”
Kalithea laughed softly, almost soundless, and brought her hand to her cheek—still aglow. It was a smile tucked behind her palm, private and moonlit.
Anise, ever dramatic, sighed as she sank into the velvet cushion nearest her. Her coral skirts unfurled like petals in bloom. “And here I was,” she said with a flutter of her lashes, “convinced this morning would be tragically uneventful.”
Edwina gave a faint smile—refined, composed, but touched with mischief. She smoothed her sash with languid grace. “Darling,” she said, “nothing is ever dull when declarations are made with falcons and foreheads.”
Kalithea joined them at last, her gown folding like silk snowfall around her. It felt less like sitting and more like returning from a place just above the world. Her hand brushed the fabric of her lap, slow and absent, as though even her body was unsure whether it had yet returned.
Then, after a breath, she reached for her booklet. The spine gave a soft creak—like a hush taking form. Ink kissed the page as her hand moved, her script more graceful than usual, as though even her pen had not escaped the spell. “He has kissed my brow before. Once. In the quiet corner of the world. Where the trees said nothing, and even time stood still. But that was when no one watched. When no name clung to me. When I was simply a girl, and he was simply kind. I never thought he would do it again, not with the world holding its breath. But he did. And in that moment— I understood what it meant to be seen, Not as someone passing through his life, But as someone he’d already chosen. I feel like wind-tossed silk. I feel like light that has not yet landed.I feel… undone. And I think I will carry the shape of his voice in me for the rest of my days.”
The pen stilled. And the booklet was taken—not grabbed, but lifted. Reverently. As though it were the final petal of a sacred bloom.
Anise had taken it first. Her fingers trembled just slightly, and her voice, when it came, was breathless velvet. “Oh!” she said, pressing the booklet to her chest. “Oh, you’re a poem, Kalithea. A living, blushing poem!.”
Cecily leaned in, her expression bright with awe. “He kissed you before?” she whispered, voice dipped in starlight. “Truly? And you never told us? You tucked it away like a pressed bloom—something too precious for daylight.”
“I think I would have written sonnets,” said Mirielle, in her faraway voice. “Then burned them all, for fear they weren’t worthy of the truth.”
Edwina’s laughter was low and lilting, her gaze still resting on Kalithea with something quiet and protective. “Do you hear yourselves?” she mused. “You sound like priestesses who’ve just read a prophecy and cannot decide whether to weep or believe it.”
Kalithea blushed again, her fingers brushing the edge of the booklet as Anise returned it to her lap like a relic. “You’ve ruined us,” Anise declared, fanning herself with delight. “Absolutely ruined. No one will ever do. Not now. Not after that.”
“I never imagined a love that could speak with such dignity,” Cecily said softly, her voice touched with something wistful. “A kiss like that… before the court? That was not a flirtation.”
Only the murmur of the court rustled beyond the veil of their tent—faint, subdued, still attempting to compose itself after the Emperor had cleaved the air with words meant for no one but the girl beside them.
A ripple began near the eastern edge of the pavilion—faint at first, like a bow brushing a single string in warning. It passed not as sound, but as a shift in weight, a tilt of attention. Fans slowed in mid-air. Laughter dimmed. Every glance seemed to tilt toward the source—as though the very rhythm of the garden had adjusted to her orbit.
Princess Marina’ gown flowed behind her like a silken tide, embroidered with fine golden thread that shimmered like the heat rising from coals. Together, they moved with the precision of a stage set. Heads tilted just so. Expressions arranged like pressed flowers. Even their silence seemed rehearsed.
“Is that…?” Cecily murmured, her fan lifted just enough to veil her lips, though the glint in her eyes betrayed her curiosity.
“Marina,” Edwina replied, each syllable laid like velvet. Her spine remained straight, but her gaze narrowed, cool and assessing. “And she’s heading toward us.”
“Hmm,” Anise hummed lightly, tapping her fan once against her chin. “She only walks with that posture when she’s about to say something she’s practiced twice.”
From where they sat, Kalithea could see the subtle perfection of Marina’s approach. Every step a deliberate ripple through grass and silk, every glance a stroke from a painter’s brush. She paused halfway, and her court of ladies leaned in like courtiers to a queen. One whispered. Marina listened. Her lashes dipped, slow as moonlight.
“She’s calibrating,” Mirielle whispered, her voice low, melodic. “That smile is five degrees warmer than usual. She’s preparing a charm. Strategically.”
Marina resumed her approach. She crossed the lawn with the ease of someone born to cross thresholds. Not too fast. Not too slow. Enough to allow the court to see. To notice. To wonder. When she reached the shaded edge of their pavilion, she stopped—exactly one step shy of familiarity. Her smile unfolded. Not dazzling. No, that would be too obvious. It was warm in temperature only, not in depth.
“Ladies,” Marina said at last, her tone like aged wine poured into crystal. “What a morning we are given. I do trust I’m not disturbing the sanctity of your sanctuary?”
She paused at the edge of the pavilion, framed by the morning light like a portrait come to life. Her every syllable lingered like a perfume chosen for seduction, then measured for diplomacy. Her eyes—dark and deliberate—swept across the gathering, and then settled with effortless calculation.
Upon Kalithea. “You looked radiant,” she said, soft as crushed silk. “Truly. A vision sculpted in reverie. The court shall whisper about you for weeks, I’m certain… though few will do your loveliness justice.” There was a silence—brief, balanced like a drawn breath before the plunge of music. Not cold. But charged.
Edwina rose with a calm that had been honed by pedigree and polished by practice. Her gown unfolded like a tapestry unrolling across marble. “Princess Marina,” she greeted, with a curtsy that did not dip, but flowed—smooth, assured. “Such exquisite timing. You are always so attuned to moments of significance.”
Marina’s lips curved like a scabbard. “One must never allow brilliance to pass unacknowledged,” she replied, her voice the auditory twin of lace—lovely in texture, unforgiving in tension. “I felt… compelled to offer my compliments before the next spectacle claims our attention. After all…” Her gaze flicked once more to Kalithea—precise, poised, and impossibly polite. “Such moments deserve to be marked.”
Kalithea rose. Neither quickly nor grandly—but as though the very air recognized her name and lifted her in quiet devotion. Her movements were slow, composed—a lullaby folded into motion. The silk of her gown shifted like a sigh, trailing over the grass in a whisper so fine it might have been prayer.
And then—she curtsied. Lower than tradition required. Lower than even royalty might expect, but it was not subservience. It was reverence—flawless and solemn, drawn not from duty, but from dignity.
Her spine bowed with grace taught by only the best governess or tutor. Her arms folded like petals at rest, and her head dipped—not in retreat, but in quiet command of humility. Her skirt fanned around her in perfect stillness, a pool of ivory and red that caught the light like lacquered silk. As she descended, the soft weight of her hair slipped forward, spilling like a waterfall over her shoulder—burnished rose catching the sun, curling gently near her cheek.
Marina had seen a thousand curtseys in her lifetime. Perfect, rehearsed ones. Performed with jeweled hems and powdered wrists. She had received them all. But this—this was different. Kalithea’s curtsey did not plead, nor flatter. It humbled without lowering, and offered without surrender. A bow not of submission—but of sacred, still defiance.
And for one flickering second, just beneath the veneer of courtly warmth, something inside Princess Marina stilled—cracked. Her smile did not falter. But her hand—resting ever so elegantly against the fan at her waist—tightened slightly. Just enough for her closest lady to glance sideways, eyes narrowing in quiet knowing. A flicker of irritation beneath the practiced perfection
She reached for her booklet with quiet grace, her fingers light as petals. The page turned. A pen moved, and then, in her own hand—poised and blooming—she offered it forward.Your Highness, your beauty stands in crimson resplendence, and I fear I do not hold the words fine enough to mirror it. But if silence could sing, if modesty could write, I hope this small page might carry the warmth of my reverence. I am still learning how to be seen without retreating. But your radiance teaches me much.
Her lips remained parted just slightly—fixed in the perfect expression of courtly delight. But her eyes did not smile. Not fully. Because beneath those soft words—those humble lines penned in rosewater ink—there was authenticity.
“A delicate hand,” Marina said softly, her voice blooming like satin through silk gauze, “and such… rare phrasing.” She returned the booklet with fingertips that brushed the edge as if unwilling to hold it for too long. “One might almost think you’ve trained in poetry.” Her tone wrapped itself in velvet—but velvet conceals the blade if the hand beneath is steady enough.
Selienne’s fan lifted slowly, its edge curving like a crescent moon. “Or perhaps she has simply lived more interesting verses than most of us are permitted to recite.”
Anthemina’s smile slanted, feline and faint. “Mm. Quite so. What use has a muse for tutors, when she has the Emperor’s gaze to illuminate her stanzas?” A ripple passed through Marina’s ladies—not laughter, precisely, but a shimmer of mirth finely tuned. Light as chiffon. Threaded with barbs.
Cecily’s smile, by contrast, was tranquil. “How curious,” she said, her gloved hands folded with polished elegance. “I had always assumed the Emperor’s favor was drawn by substance, not spectacle.”
Edwina tilted her head, gaze calm and aristocratic. “And I had assumed,” she added, each syllable wrapped in crystal, “that those who inherit every advantage might offer grace to those who’ve had to earn their place. But I suppose some heirlooms are too heavy to lift.”
Vessina arched a brow—not in outrage, but in the refined theatre of amusement. “How nobly said. And how refreshing—to see such tender loyalty, even if it leans… aspirational.”
Mirielle, beside Kalithea, adjusted a fold of ivory silk. “It’s not loyalty,” she said gently, her tone dipped in honeyed steel. “It’s admirable. Though I suppose to those who demand attention, freely-given affection might appear foreign.”
Anise leaned forward, the plume of her fan brushing her cheek like a whisper. “We are all dazzled,” she said with artful softness, “some by beauty, some by kindness. And some, perhaps, by the shock of not being the most dazzling thing in the garden.”
Marina’s smile didn’t fade—but it calcified. A single line too firm at the corners. Her fingers, resting lightly on her fan, tightened just enough for Vessina’s lashes to flick—barely a glance, but enough to mark the tremor beneath the silk. Still, Marina turned her gaze back to Kalithea, her voice smooth as candlelight. “You are a quiet thing,” she said. “But the quietest fires do seem to leave the longest warmth.”
Kalithea met her gaze only briefly, then inclined her head—not in retreat, but in grace. With measured movement, she reached again for her booklet. Her fingers glided over the spine as though smoothing thoughts into silk. The page turned. Her pen moved. was not meant to dazzle, Your Highness. Only to endure. But if my quiet can light even a little warmth, Then I do not regret being seen. It is kindness that moves me.Not conquest. And if my name is small, I still offer it sincerely.
The wind caught the hem of Kalithea’s gown then, lifting it just slightly—like a sigh too shy to speak. Above them, the silk banners rustled. The sky was still blue, but the air had shifted—somewhere between tension and tribute. Marina accepted the booklet back with one gloved hand, but her eyes remained upon the page even after she’d closed it. She held it for a heartbeat too long. Then, her voice dropped to that crystalline register nobles used when they intended every word to gleam:
“How fortunate indeed,” Marina murmured, her smile poised like a jewel in candlelight, “that His Majesty seems inclined toward sincerity this season. I daresay it suits the moment—something sweet… ephemeral… modest. A sprig of wildflowers, perhaps. Or a ribbon tied ‘round the hilt of a blade—something charming enough to be cherished, without being too heavy to carry.”
She tilted her head, lashes lowered just enough to be coy, but not so much as to hide the glint behind her gaze. “One only hopes,” she added, voice slow as silk drawn through a ring, “that the more formidable triumphs—the grander prizes—are reserved for those better acquainted with the weight of glory.”
Kalithea’s pen moved like breath over still water—measured, serene, without haste. And when she lifted the page, it was with both hands, the gesture as fluid as a bow made of paper and silence. The ink shimmered, as though even the words had chosen to kneel
Your Highness, The weight of glory does not daunt me— Not because I have known it, But because I have learned to walk with empty hands. I do not fear what is vast, Only the silence of never being chosen. If His Majesty grants me something small, I shall treasure it with both palms. I f he grants me more— I shall strive to be worthy, Not because I was born prepared, But because I have not stopped becoming.
She stood still as a statue crowned in rubies, her expression the very image of courtly serenity. But her gaze—oh, her gaze—moved like the edge of a jeweled knife through candlelight. Her fingers, gloved in pearl-laced netting, received the booklet not with curiosity, but with the same delicate disdain one might use to accept an offering of garden roses—beautiful, yes, but laced with thorns.
She read. Each line. Each breath of ink. And somewhere in the tilt of her mouth, in the flex of her jaw beneath the veil of charm, something elegant… soured.
When she lifted her eyes again, it was not Kalithea she addressed—it was the room. The court beyond the veil. The season. The story. And every watchful ear that dared listen through lace. Her voice was velvet. Spun-sugar sweet. But the sweetness was lacquered. Hard and gleaming beneath the gloss.
“Beautifully written,” Marina murmured, her voice as refined as spun crystal. Each syllable fell like petals upon polished marble—lovely, but never soft. “There is something so… moving about innocence. The kind that believes worth must be proven rather than inherited.” She tilted her head slightly, just enough for the rubies pinned in her hair to catch the light like blood beneath glass. The motion was deliberate—an echo of choreography rehearsed before mirror and maid.
“Of course, His Majesty’s generosity is… well-documented,” she continued, her tone silk-wrapped, the edges invisible but unmistakably sharp. “He has always possessed a fondness for treasures the rest of us might overlook. Curiosities. Keepsakes. Small, delicate things one wishes to protect.”
Her eyes did not move from Kalithea’s. They lingered. Evaluating. “Still,” she added, her smile blooming like frost along a windowsill, “one must wonder what he will return with. A falcon’s kill is never a promise. Sometimes, it is the rarest stag. And sometimes… it is only a feather. Lovely, but light.” The air around them stilled—utterly. Not empty, but saturated. As though even the breeze had quieted to listen.
Somewhere, far off in the woods, a bird called—its note faint, solitary. The scent of crushed grass mingled with distant smoke, while silk fluttered gently in the breeze like the breath of old secrets. A flag stirred high above, gold-threaded edges snapping once—then fell still again.
And Kalithea, serene as a statue carved by reverence itself, simply inclined her head. A single, perfect gesture. So small. So complete. It said nothing—and everything. Marina’s gloved hand, pale against the leather binding, returned the booklet with care so gentle it rang false. Her touch was light—too light. Like frost kissing the rim of a chalice.
She turned. Her gown swept behind her like a curtain drawn to obscure a painting no longer in favor—scarlet silk edged in gold, the hue of wine that stains and lingers. Her ladies moved in unison, a living fresco of pearls and perfume, trailing whispers behind them like perfumed threads.
Vessina’s eyes lingered a moment too long. Selienne smiled, but the smile had splinters. Anthemina cast one last glance over her shoulder—not watchful, but wary. Like a falcon who knew the prey had wings of her own. Their perfume hung in the air even after they passed—peony, amber, and something sharper, like crushed violets pressed beneath a jeweled boot.
And far from the glade—beyond silks and scorn and sharpened praise—another scent curled through the trees. The second stag lay stretched across the moss-strewn clearing, breath fled, limbs quiet beneath the weight of death. Its fall had been clean—too clean. No panic, no thrashing. Only the faint imprint of a final exhale through velvet grass. The bolt sat precisely behind the foreleg, buried deep through lung and heart, as if the forest itself had paused to guide his hand.
Jotaro dismounted in a slow, unbroken motion. The saddle creaked softly beneath the redistribution of his weight, leather groaning like bark shifting under stormlight. The forest did not flinch at his descent. It absorbed him—his presence folding into the silence like ink into still water.
He crossed the glade with that measured elegance known only to those who carried command not as armor, but as blood. Each step pressed into rain-dark earth, scattering the scent of pine and distant petrichor. When he reached the stag, he knelt—not for sentiment, but for recognition. His gloved hand touched the coarse, cooling fur once. “Two,” he said, his voice barely louder than thought. “And neither was the one that was promised.”
A rustle behind, caught their attention, controlled and fast. A younger rider crested the ridge on a lean gray courser, bearing Renaldi’s crest stamped in silver at his shoulder. The youth’s boots were muddied to the knee, his gloves scuffed at the seams, but his posture remained upright. His eyes—alert, unshaken. The squire dismounted at once. He dropped into a bow with one hand pressed firm across his chest. “Your Majesty.”
Jotaro acknowledged him with a nod—clean, sharp, approving. “Tag the kill. Deliver it to the glade before the third horn.”
The boy straightened, already pulling a linen strip from his satchel. “Shall I display it beneath the west banner, sire?”
“Yes,” Jotaro said, his gaze cutting briefly back to the fallen stag. “And tell the master of tally—it is not the final.”
The squire’s nod was crisp. Already, the linen threaded through the antlers—white against the bone, a mark of claim. He worked with practiced hands, despite his youth, then reached for the silver whistle at his belt. The sharp note that followed pierced the stillness like a drawn arrow. Far off along the southern path, the faint rumble of hooves stirred in answer—the transport team, summoned to bear the body back to the court.
From her place atop her black steed, Dame Adeline watched in silence. The light caught on the tip of her spear, sending a glint into the dark canopy. Her expression was unreadable, carved in stillness. “They’ll whisper of it, regardless.”
“They always whisper,” came Sir Jean’s voice, emerging from the left ridge in a quiet rhythm of hooves and breath. He had already cleaned his blade—now sheathed again with a smooth, unfussed motion—and cast a glance toward the squire with half-detachment. “Let them tally what they like. This wasn’t meant to impress.” His eyes narrowed, sharp beneath the steel brim of his helm, yet a small smirk rested on his face. “Let them think it was the prize.”
Jotaro said nothing at first. His eyes had turned skyward. Above them the falcon wheeled in a wide arc, completely untouched by the movement below. “The falcon hasn’t called, Your Majesty,” she said, gaze lifting to the tree line. “She circles above the east and returns—never west. She knows what we’ve yet to find.”
The folds of his mantle whispered around him in dusk-threaded crimson, the crossbow still warm at his side, humming with spent intent. He turned toward the line of trees—their trunks tall and shadowed, stretched like pillars in a forgotten temple. “Then the real quarry moves still.” The forest seemed to echo the words back—soundless, breathless.
Hoofbeats sounded in measured rhythm behind him—Dame Erin returned from the left ridge, her cloak catching the last gleam of sun through the canopy. She reined in beside him with precision, her mare slick with speed but silent in arrival. Her voice, raised just enough to carry, fell into the hush with clean cadence. “ The Southeastern trail has been cleared, Your Majesty. Sir Amadeus confirms the smaller stags broke north by the hollow stone—none bear the markings you seek.”
She dismounted as she spoke, her gauntlet already at her belt, retrieving a spare bolt with methodical ease. Her armor caught a shimmer of fractured light between branches, polished but worn at the edges from fieldwork rather than ornament. Her tone was clipped, unwavering—as if reciting the passage of a map from memory.
“No sign of competitors in this quarter,” she added. “Yet.”
Dame Adeline reined her mount beside them. Her spear was raised—not in alarm, but in readiness. “We are thirty minutes to sun’s midpeak. If the others sight it first…”
“They won’t,” Jotaro said. It wasn’t arrogance, but a formal command wrapped in steel certainty. He glanced up—just once. Above them, the falcon wheeled low again, wings carving across the shaft of sun like a crescent blade. It banked—tight, exact—then straightened into a controlled descent.
Jotaro’s eyes flicked toward the descending falcon—its wings pulled tight in concentration, not pursuit. Still no cry. Not yet. But its arc was focused. Purposeful. He shifted his stance, eyes narrowing. “Dame Adeline,” he said without turning. “Join Sir Amadeus. Sweep the ridge above the hollow stone. Drive anything that stirs toward the basin.”
Adeline straightened in her saddle, eyes already narrowing in calculation. “Understood, Your Majesty.” Her spear shifted to her outer flank with one hand, and in the next beat, she wheeled her horse. “I’ll run the high line and press the crest toward your descent path.”
Without flourish or hesitation, she vanished into the trees—her silhouette flashing crimson once between the boughs before it melted entirely. Not a leaf cracked beneath her horse’s hooves. The forest seemed to recognize her absence only after she’d gone.
Then there were three. His Majesty Jotaro, Dame Erin, Sir Jean..
The trees closed in, their limbs arching overhead like cathedral ribs, thick with age and silence. The air grew denser, rich with bark, wet moss, and the metallic hush of sap bleeding under pressure. Narrow shafts of gold sliced down through the gloom, striking Jotaro’s mantle in gleams that flared and vanished as he rode through them, like blade-light breaking against armor.
Their pace slowed, deliberate but certain. The Emperor’s stallion moved with the weight of purpose, each hoofstep pressing into the velvet moss like a decree. To either side, Dame Erin and Sir Jean mirrored his rhythm, as tactitions. The canopy overhead pressed low—ash and elder, root-wound and towering. Sunlight fell in slanted columns, catching in the silver trim of their armor like blade-light drawn through fog. The wind did not stir, but leaves trembled faintly, as if the trees remembered battle.
Dame Erin’s voice broke the stillness. “Elevation increases to the left—three spans. Rocks carry fresh groove lines. Rutting paths. If the herd moved there, they weren’t fleeing. They chose it.”
Jotaro gave a single nod. Sir Jean scanned the right incline. His gloved fingers hovered near the hilt of his sword, but he did not draw. “Gully to the south breaks smooth. River-shale. Recent passage—at least three deer. None bearing weight heavy enough for a white-streaked male.
To the left, a shallow rise ribboned in stone. To the right, a dark gorge overgrown with bramble and silent as memory. And in between—nothing but pause. Even the birds had stilled their flapping and voiceful calls. The raven-haired male’s voice came cold, iron-set. “We’re closing.”
Dame Erin adjusted her reins with a flick so precise it might have been rehearsed. Her posture shifted as the slope ahead narrowed—spine straight, helm catching light through the leaves, eyes sharp as cut glass beneath the silver rim.
“It funnels here,” she murmured, voice low but firm. “North leads to the lower field—soft soil, sparse coverage. East collapses into the gorge. Thorn-dense. Jagged shale. If they’re flushed from behind, they’ll break for open terrain. Fast.”
Sir Jean’s brow drew beneath the shadow of his helm. His gaze swept the incline with the precision of a swordsman memorizing the rhythm of a duel. “Or into the hands of another party,” he muttered. “If another rider has scouted the descent…”
“They’ll press for the basin,” Jotaro finished. The crossbow clicked softly in its sling at his side. His stallion shifted beneath him, hooves crunching once in moss and leaf, sensing the change in breath. The saddle creaked with his shift of weight—leather groaning like bark under frost.He adjusted the reins. The knights fanned into calculated positions—silent, exact, like war generals on consecrated land. Jotaro’s eyes never left the forked trail ahead. The hush had deepened—so full it threatened to split.
“We hold this line,” he said, low and level. “Let them move first. If they breach the fork—then we collapse. Fast and full.”
Dame Erin’s bow remained cradled across her lap, fingers curled with reverent tension. She studied the tree line the way commanders once read the bones of fallen kings. Every shadow a hypothesis. Every silence a held breath.
The forest gave way with the hesitation of something old and unwilling—into a shallow clearing where the light broke freer through the high branches. A basin carved by time and rainfall, ringed in ancient trunks that leaned in as if to watch. Moss blanketed the earth—lush, thick, absorbing sound like velvet.
Jotaro’s stallion slowed on its own accord, hooves sinking slightly into the damp earth. The Emperor’s hand rose—a closed fist, still and silent. An immediate signal.
Behind him, Dame Erin and Sir Jean halted in unison. No words passed between them. There didn’t need to be. Their bodies shifted like a formation set by memory—Erin angled to the left, bow rising in a steady, unhurried motion. Sir Jean’s blade hissed a breath from its sheath, not drawn, but bared enough to gleam. Their mounts held still, trained to silence, breath misting faintly in the dappled light.
Then— A sound coursed through their silence. A twig cracked, with a hoof measuring an aura of deliberation and sure. It lacked neither the heavy gait of pursuit, or the scatter of prey—but on the contrary something practiced. Jotaro’s grip on the reins tightened. Sir Jean’s hand hovered fully at his hilt, his gaze locked to the bend where root and bramble made shadows shift.
And from beneath the low, vine-laced arch of the old trees, a rider emerged with the measured ease of someone who had never been denied a path. His stallion moved like polished ivory—satin-limbed and high-blooded, too finely groomed for true pursuit, hooves striking the moss with the hush of a ballroom floor rather than battlefield grit. Its reins were velvet-bound, its flanks unmarred by sweat or thorn. No dust dared cling to its coat.
And astride it rode a man carved for spectacle. He was beautiful—not softly, not boyishly, but with the edge of a sculpture meant to endure: high cheekbones, a strong jaw framed in waves of dark chestnut hair that curled just where court painters might wish it to. His eyes, pale like smoke diluted in crystal, swept the clearing not in curiosity—but in assessment.
His cloak was sapphire silk, heavy with embroidery that shimmered like snowfall—silver thistle, northern stars, and the heraldry of House Revenir stitched over his shoulder in mirror-finished thread. A lesser house in name, but grand in ambition, and louder still in its heir. The horn at his hip gleamed as if it had been polished mid-ride, undrawn for use.
He drew to a halt just at the edge of the fork—precisely where the hawthorn root curled like a sigil upon the earth. His mount stilled with trained elegance, and for a moment he surveyed the scene as though deciding whether to speak first or simply be praised. Then his gaze—sharp beneath its aristocratic ease—landed upon the Emperor.
And behind him—emerging from the veil of sycamores with well-timed elegance—his escort followed. Three knights, polished to perfection. Their armor gleamed like showpieces in sunlight, untouched by the scrapes of real pursuit. One rode a snow-colored mare draped in silk caparison trimmed with velvet plumage. Another bore a standard too ornate for maneuver—deep blue, stitched with a serpent coiled through ivy, its threads catching light like embroidery made to be admired, not feared. The third, taller than the others, wore no helm at all—his hair swept back with deliberate flourish, his collar high, his face expressionless as marble.
They moved in clean formation, yes. But it was too symmetrical. Too perfect in spacing, too deliberate in the angle of reins and the placement of hooves. The kind of unity rehearsed not in field or forest, but on polished stone beneath banners and chandeliers—court choreography dressed as command. Jotaro noticed, as did his knights.
Sir Jean’s lip barely curled, though he said nothing. The way his fingers flexed over the hilt of his sword was commentary enough. Dame Erin’s gaze swept over the newcomers without blinking. She didn’t lower her bow. If anything, her stance deepened—shoulders angling subtly as one who had seen the difference between pageantry and readiness… and did not forget it.
Jotaro said nothing of their arrival. His silence was an assessment, and the clearing read it clearly. His mount did not stir beneath him—steady, braced, sovereign in stillness. The air hung differently around him. Not tense. Not hostile. But immutable. As if this place—this path—had already chosen its direction. And he was simply here to receive it.
“Your Majesty,” he said at last, his voice low, firm, perfectly modulated—like iron slipped inside velvet. “I had heard this trail had been cleared. How fortunate, then, to find it still… spirited.”
Jotaro did not move, where stillness had always served him better than spectacle. “Lord Thane,” he said at last, with the kind of bored certainty that didn’t need to pierce—it simply weighed. “You’ve come far.”
Thane inclined his head. Exactly the angle required, no more or less. “It’s a privilege to be remembered,” he said smoothly. “And an honor to ride the Emperor’s path. Even by coincidence.”
“I don’t believe in coincidence,” Jotaro replied, gaze steady. “Not during a hunt.”
Thane’s eyes drifted, as if measuring the slope, the shadows beyond, and then, more pointedly, the crimson ribbon now moved to the Emperor’s crossbow strap. “I was under the impression,” he said softly, “that we were chasing the same quarry. Though I imagine… not all of us hope to win it for the same reason.”
Thane’s stallion shifted beneath him, flicking one ear as the breeze curled through the clearing—carrying the scent of moss, old bark, and something distant, almost sweet. “I’ve had a modest run this morning,” he continued, tone warm as polished wood. “Two bucks, one of decent size. My party nearly struck a third near the river bend, though it spooked early.” He tilted his head, thoughtful. “Too many riders nearby, or perhaps it knew better than to let itself be caught so easily.”
He paused just long enough to let that sentence rest between them. Jotaro didn’t answer, his gaze remained steady. Still, uninterested, save for the glint of knowledge beneath it.
Thane smiled again. Not in mockery—but in a performance meant for admiration. “I imagine you’ve had your hands full as well,” he said smoothly. “Still—should fortune elude you…” He adjusted the line of his reins, the gesture graceful, aristocratic. “I’d be more than happy to offer my prize to the feet of the young lady in ivory.” His eyes flicked meaningfully toward the Emperor’s crossbow strap. “They say she has… exquisite taste.”
Thane went on, lightly, conversationally—his voice layered like silk folded over steel. “White peonies, perhaps. Or camellias, if the weather holds. But snowdrops… yes. Snowdrops would suit her, wouldn’t they? Pale. Elegant. A touch of lavender at the tips.”
And in that moment, the world narrowed. The glass panes conservatory, where light fell in thin, reverent bars across polished stone. With that envelope try in front, half-filled with letters. Yet the tall crystal clear vase, was what he irrevocably remembered thus far. He remembered the way she had looked at them—only once.
And it struck him—not with fury, but with that cold, exacting stillness that belonged to kings who had long since learned not to blink. Jotaro’s fingers shifted over the leather strap at his crossbow, brushing once over the crimson ribbon he had retied there. A small quiet thing,but burned brighter than camellias, sharper than any bouquet crafted by lesser hands.
On a palace balcony lit by moonlight, where silence hung like velvet between them, he had already known how her gaze held his, shy and unyielding. The way she listened when others spoke, but only answered him. The dinners shared in silence, the ache he carried when she left a room—it had all been enough.
She was not his to command, yet she was his to protect. He would not share her with boys dressed in noble titles who thought a crest and a compliment could win the weight of her gaze. Not with peacocks cloaked in charm, offering flowers as if it were enough. Not with any man who mistook presence for possession.
Only a ribbon—tied without flourish, without ceremony. Soft in gesture but silent in meaning. He had understood it with the same precision he had come to understand her.
Thane’s stallion shifted beneath him—not startled, but unsettled. As though it, too, had sensed the shift in the air. The way the moss underfoot seemed suddenly too quiet. The way sunlight no longer filtered gently through the trees but fractured in narrow blades, caught on tension.
Jotaro said nothing yet, his composure remained unmoved even by the words of a fool. Yet when he opened his lips to speak, his tone held the dire weight as if he named a law that had already been written in blood.“She is not a prize,” he said, voice even, each word edged in restraint so honed it felt ceremonial. “And you are not welcome to treat her like one.”
The words landed soft—but the air around them did not. Sir Jean straightened without meaning to, spine aligning like a blade returning to scabbard. Dame Erin exhaled once, slow and measured, but her fingers curled tighter on her bowstring, the shift so subtle it barely moved her glove. Even the birds did not resume their song.
And Thane, for all his poise, blinked—like someone standing a pace too close to fire, only just realizing he could be burned.
This silence pressed in from all sides—dense as smoke in a sealed chamber, brittle as porcelain stretched to its thinnest edge. It did not empty the clearing. The moss beneath their mounts grew heavy with unshed sound, the kind that gathers before declarations or war. Breath seemed to curl back into lungs. Even the trees, old and knowing, withheld their creak.
Then—above the canopy—something shifted. His falcon above, left a single wing beat, folding into descent, all at once. The drop was silent, shaped like a blade returning to its sheath. The Emperor shifted his weight once, knees pressed lightly to the saddle.
His gaze had already found the break in shadow—a dip in the underbrush, a glimmer of something umber and broad-shouldered slipping through the foliage just beyond. The falcon’s wings flared in the upper canopy, carving through sun with regal violence. And still he waited, still as a verdict.
Then, without command or signal, their mounts surged. Jotaro’s stallion lunged forward with the might of something loose, not released. His mantle billowed like a storm-born banner, he rode through the columned trees with the precision of ritual. Dame Erin followed close behind, the breath of her mare sharp and rhythmic. Leaves snapped from branches overhead, flurrying behind them in a rush of gold and green
Sir Jean vanished into the eastern flank—his stallion a streak of shadow threading through root and mist. The rhythm of the chase echoed like war drums along the forest floor—hoofbeats pounding, wind shearing past, the lash of undergrowth yielding to something greater.
“The eastern crest narrows near the glen,” Dame Erin murmured, her voice low but clear—every syllable shaped with soldier’s precision. “The decline is shallow, but blind for thirty paces.”
“Sir Jean’s voice followed from behind, a steel thread through velvet quiet. “If he breaches the flank, I’ll collapse the corridor. Unless ordered otherwise—he’ll remain intact.” Jotaro gave a nod that was both unhurried and unreadable. It was the gesture of a sovereign who had already decided how the story would end.
Somewhere behind them, branches fractured—not by breeze or beast, but by ambition. It was not the clean parting of the game fleeing through brush, nor the hush of nature shifting in rhythm. No—this was human. Hurried, where the crunch of roots beneath untested hooves. The tempo of a pursuit that arrived one beat too late.
Sir Jean’s jaw flexed, eyes narrowing as the underbrush murmured with a rhythm that did not belong to beast or wind. It was human—measured, coaxed, late. He guided his stallion a half pace closer, voice pitched low and precise, stripped of doubt.
“We’re not alone.”
Dame Erin’s gaze never strayed from the ridge, but her hand tightened around the bow, posture shifting just enough to suggest instinct, not alarm. “ Lord Thane shadows us. Low flank, far right. He’s matching speed—barely.” Another snap behind them—shallow root, brittle limb. Then the jangle of a spur, too polished, too ceremonial. It dragged behind them like presumption.
Jotaro’s grip shifted slightly along the reins, but his gaze did not falter. It remained fixed ahead—on the place where the trees funneled inward and the glen curved like the throat of a hunt not yet declared. His posture never changed. “Let him try,” he said like a blade laid across the altar.
The glen narrowed before them—stone-lipped, root-crowned, cloaked in shadow and sun like a secret not yet confessed. The trees pressed close now, shoulder to shoulder like guards at a sovereign’s procession. Light speared through in long, blade-like shafts, falling in staggered angles that revealed only glimpses, never paths.
Jotaro’s heels pressed once—silent, sovereign—and the stallion obeyed like a shadow pulled toward purpose. It did not lurch forward. It flowed. The kind of movement that belonged not to haste, but to declaration. Behind him, the knights answered—not with shouted command or gallop, but with the artistry of practiced abandon. They vanished with the elegance of a blade sheathing itself across two directions.
Sir Jean pivoted low, banking into the gully like water slipping through a crack in stone. No rustle. No sound. Only a shift in wind where his presence had been. His cloak darkened to match the bracken, his form folding into the riverbend like a soldier carved from dusk.
Dame Erin angled to the right, her bow drawn loosely across her lap—not for battle, but balance. She passed between two ash trees with the exactness of someone who’d measured the gap long before arrival. Her horse moved like mist—no hooffall, no breath. Just glide.
Jotaro remained for just a heartbeat longer, he held the axis. His figure, mounted and unshaken, hovered within a blade of fractured gold, while the air curved around him, bent with weight. Even the ferns at his feet bowed slightly, kissed by the chill drag of his mantle. Then he moved—and the glen, ancient and listening, sealed behind him like scripture closing over a sacred name.
Further back, the sound of the pursuit faltered. Thane’s stallion came to a sharp halt, its flanks steaming in the cold. The breath that left its nostrils unfurled like fog in a chapel, disturbed by indecision. Around him, his knights slowed in formation
They had momentum, but no sense of direction. The path had not forked, ter it had done so without the mark to prove it. What had once been a clean line through loam and branch had dissolved into shadow and slant. One way dipped into a thick canopy, choked in root and pine. The other curved upward, rimmed in quiet gold. Both felt wrong. But only one carried the faint scent of ash and metal. Of sovereign breath.
Thane’s hand pulled the reins taut, knuckles white against pale leather. His gaze snapped from branch to stone, stone to trail. But the stag’s print was gone. So too was the rhythm of hooves that had meant to dominate.“They split,” murmured the knight to his right, his tone clipped but uncertain. “On purpose.”
“They’re fragmenting the trail,” one of the knights said, his voice clipped, sharp, trying to sound like command but trembling faintly at the edges. “It’s tactical, and too controlled.”
“No,” Thane answered—not loudly, but with precision. His tone was cold silver wrapped in silk. Smooth, regal and unyielding to surrender. “This isn’t evasion.” His stallion shifted beneath him. Even it felt the wrongness in the wind. “This,” he murmured, eyes narrowing, “is orchestration.” The air was still, too still, and the hush felt… claimed. “They’re not running,” he said again, softer this time. “They’re guiding us.”
His lips pressed into a tight line, the kind forged not from thought but from something older. Deeper. That brittle ache beneath pride. That sting of being dismissed not with insult, but by absence. His jaw clenched. His grip on the reins tightened. He would not be denied—not here, not in front of his knights, and certainly not by silence.
He turned in his saddle, posture immaculate. “Split formation,” he said, each syllable as precise as a cut gem. “Two take the ridge—trace the rootline above the gorge. Two ride the low bramble. Scan for hoof indentations, heat still in the moss. If the falcon reappears, follow it. If you hear it cry—follow that sound.”
One of his younger knights, barely past his second season in plate, shifted nervously. “But, my lord… what if it doesn’t call?” Thane looked at him with a stare polished in courtrooms. The kind that didn’t rise to anger—because it didn’t need to. “Then find something that does,” he said, his voice smooth and final, like the soft close of a coffin lid. The sound of Thane’s stallion faded into the underbrush, swallowed by ferns and judgment.
For a moment, the forest held no answer. But—elsewhere, deeper—another rhythm resumed.
The air was different here. Denser, which hung not with perfume or praise, but with damp bark, iron-touched wind, and the faint musk of antlered ghosts. The kind of air that remembered blood and kings. Sunlight no longer danced in the air, yet speared through the canopy in long, golden shards—fractured, jagged, slicing through shadow like cathedral light through stained glass. The wind hissed through pine, yew, and the ribs of the land like breath through bone.
Jotaro rode through it not as a noble seeking spectacle, but as a sovereign crossing into consecrated ground. His stallion’s hooves struck the forest floor with deliberate thunder—four-beat rhythm grinding into damp moss and mulch. Every step sounded like judgment. Leaves surrendered beneath the iron weight of his pace, and the breath from the beast’s nostrils rose in coils of mist—smoke from a silent forge.
His black mantle dusted in the breath of cold stone—dragged in tempo with the horse’s movement, catching on low branches, snapping once as he passed beneath the narrowing cathedral of trees.
From the left, the sound of hoof against root returned—measured, muted, deliberate. Sir Jean emerged from the shadowed flank like a blade rejoining its sheath, his silhouette half-veiled in mist. His horse moved in rhythm beside the Emperor’s, as though it had never left.
And behind them, Dame Erin slipped through the veil of undergrowth like a whisper in armor. Her bow remained cradled, but the angle of her head betrayed her focus—tilted slightly, just enough to follow a sound that was barely there.
They rode for several more paces in silence, the only sound the shifting breath of their horses and the distant murmur of water weaving through stone. The forest pressed tighter, not in resistance—but in reverence. And Jotaro’s knights, as if summoned by rhythm rather than command, returned to his flank one by one. No fanfare. No words. Only presence—anchored, certain, devout.
Dame Erin’s voice broke the silence first. Low, composed—a whisper beneath thunder.“The eastern rise flattens near the glen,” she said. “The deerbed trails diverge there. Hoofprints suggest two diverging patterns—possibly a split in the herd.”
“Fan the line,” he commanded. His voice did not rise. It had no need to. It simply cut. Cold. Sharp. Final. “Drive east and south,” he continued, the reins still steady in his grip. “Sweep the underbrush clean. No wounded echoes. No second arrows. Only certainty.”
They moved. Not with flourish. Not with noise. But with precision so absolute it felt like instinct refined to ceremony.Like a blade drawn into four parts, the formation split—swift, seamless, sovereign. Their cloaks whispered behind them like wind through a cathedral. The forest, old and listening, stirred—not with welcome, but with warning.
Crows lifted from the high boughs of a dead cedar, their wings thrashing into the hush with sharp cries—black silk torn across the canopy. A hare bolted into the underbrush, its white tail vanishing beneath twisted nettles. Overhead, light fractured through the trees in golden shafts, making stained glass out of leaves. The air tightened. Even the wind felt altered—thicker, shaped like the pause before war drums.
Jotaro’s stallion moved with practiced silence, hooves pressing deeper into moss-laced earth. The breath from its nostrils curled into the air—slow, steady, like smoke offered to something divine. Beneath them, the moss darkened with tension, crushed into velvet-green by iron and instinct.
The falcon was no longer visible. But it was there—felt rather than seen, flying above the thick lattice of limbs and light, its presence threading through the canopy like a phantom tether.
Jotaro’s gaze swept the landscape. It was a hunter’s scan—but more than that, a sovereign’s reading of land and intent. Tangle-rooted yew bowed beside bark clawed by antler or storm. The silver glint of a stream lay veiled in cattails and shadow—water winding through the earth like an unsheathed blade. Just beyond: a dip in the foliage. A bend in light.
A single track. Hoofprints, freshly pressed into the loam—edges dark and damp, crushed just minutes before. The weight and angle bespoke majesty. He drew the reins to a halt with command and thought. His stallion obeyed like scripture closing. It stood still—not startled, but reverent. Steam ghosted from its nostrils, curling like incense. Ears flicked back—not in alarm, but in understanding. The moment had gravity.
Jotaro dismounted in one silent and controlled motion. The saddle leather sighed as he shifted—no urgency, only intent. His boots sank into the forest floor with a sound like silk against stone. He knelt, gloved fingers brushing the edge of a crushed fern—its stem still bent, the green slick with breath-warm damp. The imprint was deep, fresh and alive.
He rose with slow precision—like marble remembering how to move, or a statue accepting its first command in centuries. His spine aligned with the horizon. The air adjusted to him. Even the wind slowed.
“They passed less than a bell ago,” he said. The moss had not risen, but the edges of the print were still wet with crushed loam, the fern beside it half-folded, trembling slightly though there was no wind. And just ahead—another sign. A long indentation, carved low through the undergrowth.
Jotaro stepped forward again, slow, soundless. The weight of his gaze pressed into the earth like a second imprint. Each tree stood like a column with a gust of wind. Each hoofbeat left the sound in the air like a war-drum in a holy procession. He mounted in one fluid motion, yet their procession was slow and measured. His knights followed in silence, cloaks drawn close, armor muted by moss and bark
The crossbow rested against his thigh, his hand a silent sentinel over it. The trees grew tighter, but the world widened. The deeper he rode, the more it felt like descending into a cathedral sculpted by root and time. Shadows folded in patterns across the forest floor. Shafts of golden light illuminated the space ahead like anointed corridors. Every branch seemed bent with ancient memory. Every leaf held its breath.
The light grew more sacred here—filtered and rare, as though each sunbeam had been measured before being allowed through the canopy. Ferns bowed beneath the weight of dew that had not yet evaporated. Somewhere in the hush, water moved—not in rush, but in murmur. A stream, perhaps. Or the breath of the earth exhaling.
And then—There.
Between two low birches, not twenty strides ahead. A movement—not startled, but sovereign. The stag stepped into view. Its coat was burnished umber, deep and earthen, yet touched with the gray of smoke at the throat—as though it had risen from the ashes of a forest long forgotten. Its antlers rose wide, sweeping in arcs that seemed carved by lightning and left to fossilize into bone. And there, at its chest, shone a white crest, shaped like a falling moon. A mark seen once in a generation.
For one breathless instant, none of them moved. Sir Jean, ever silent at the rear, eased his blade from its sheath. Not drawn, but lowered—its tip angled just beneath his stirrup, the steel catching the filtered light like a vow unsaid. Dame Erin drew an arrow with a silence that sang. Her bow lifted—not aimed, not loosed—just held steady. Guarding the perimeter of stillness as though it were sacred ground.
The man did not speak, or barely breathed. Above, the falcon’s cry rang once—sharp, singular. Then silence, like a seal set but not yet broken. His fingers brushed against the wood like a page in scripture. He raised it—not with hunger, but with clarity. His breath coiled in his chest, suspended like silk drawn taut.
And in that stillness, he saw her—his Kalithea. Not in vision, but in memory woven. The way her eyes lifted to meet his, soft and sure, though her lips spoke nothing. The way her silence was never hollow, only full of words too sacred to rush.
Her ribbon had trembled in his hand—crimson, warm, embroidered by her own touch. Not sewn for show, but for meaning. Meant for no one’s ears, but the world’s eyes.
And it was that memory in which that stilled his limbs and steadied his breath. It guided the way he held the crossbow, how his fingers curled around the carved wood. He adjusted the angle. The bolt aligned like fate. The stag stood unmoving, chest broad and gleaming with breath, the white crest pulsing once in the golden hush.
His fingers tightened—just slightly—over the carved grip. The bolt slipped free with the gentlest whisper, not a sound so much as a surrender. There was no thunder in its flight. No spectacle. Only silence cut clean, as though the air itself had been asked to part by something ancient and rightful. It soared, straight and silent, through a world that had paused to witness.
The wind stilled, the light drew inward, where even the ground seemed to hush, holding the weight of fate mid-breath. The sun caught on the stag’s white crest—a falling moon midrise, suspended in time. Yet the fracture in the rough, left a sound unfortunately mislaid in time. The echoes of heavy hooves in pars, where medal shod as sharp against the stone. The stag’s ears flicked back, its nostrils flared once, drawing in the foreign thread in the wind.
The stag moved in motion, like it was someone else elsewhere. It’s haunches coiled, and its muscles moving not with fear, but with the ancestor rhythm, something too sacred to be caged. It turned quickly in a single seamless motion, the crown of antlers gilding that scripture rewritten in motion. It left across forest floor, through shafts of fractured sun— vanishing into the cathedral gloom, as though it had never been there at all.
The bolt from the crossbow had struck bark, not flesh or fate. It lodged itself in the birch behind, very deep and only quivering once with the silent monument to what could have been. His Majesty’s gaze held the tree a bit longer, long enough to mark the loss with carefully concealed aggravation. And then, without a word he moved. His heels pressed once into his stallion, where the beast searched forward with gravity as the forest itself exhaled to clear the way.
Dame Erin pressed forward on her mare, bow returned to its sling but posture sharp, calculated. Her frame leaned slightly into the rhythm, her breath measured to the gallop. She scanned the trees with a soldier’s precision, not for scenery—but for risk. Each flick of her gaze measured cover, line-of-sight, and elevation. The silence between hoofbeats was not silence at all. It was calculation.
Sir Jean arrived on the opposite side, his stallion carrying him lower through the brush, hooves angled for smoother terrain. His sword hand remained loose, but never idle or rushed. He rode like a tactician—not to arrive first, but to ensure the Emperor arrived last and unharmed. His eyes, swept over root and ridge with the cool of someone who had survived worse odds and narrower margins. Jean turned, just slightly—no sharp movement, no sudden reaction, but a soldier’s scan.
Low and behold, nearing them when they were only lost not long ago, was the heir of the House of Revenir—Thane. In a flash of sapphire and silver, their arrival was not sudden but rather inevitable. They had simply waited until the rhythm of spectacle could rejoin the rhythm of war. Their armor caught the light where it pierced the canopy—too bright, too deliberate. Banners trailed behind them like embroidery stitched into the wind. Their formation held—tight, rehearsed, theatrical.
Thane’s arrival fractured the hush behind them—metal shod hooves ringing against stone, formation closing like a curtain drawn late. Jean’s voice followed, crisp: “Revenir gains.” But Jotaro did not turn. His eyes had already locked onto the shift in light just ahead—the broken brush, the breath in the air that still carried musk and memory. The world narrowed again. Not in panic but in purpose. And when the trail turned—he followed, not as a rival, but as a rightful heir to whatever waited beyond the bend. Thane could chase. But Jotaro would arrive.
The path broke again in rhythm where the shadows thickened, and somewhere ahead, the air shifted as if holding its breath. Behind them, the cadence of Revenir’s pursuit grew louder, sharper—metal biting into root, silk snapping on branch. The raven haired male’s gaze remained tethered to the trail ahead, where the underbrush still quivered with memory.
The stag had passed here—he could feel it in the pulse beneath the earth. His stallion moved with a clarity no command required, hooves slicing through ferns like scripture unfolding. Beside him, Dame Erin mirrored his pace, posture low, eyes scanning the treeline for the next sign. Sir Jean followed a breath behind, his hand resting near the hilt, not for fear—but for form.
Thane caught up beside him, where his manes hooves churned in rhythmless defiance, scattering leaves and frost from the undergrowth like confetti flung at a coronation that hadn’t been earned. He closed the distance in a flare of movement and color—his sapphire cloak billowing behind him like a comet of ceremony, catching shafts of pale light that fractured against the trees.
He turned in the saddle—barely—but enough to flash a smile meant for paintings. “Shall we make it a race, Your Majesty?” he called, voice gilded in arrogance, tossed like a jewel toward the hush of the forest.
Jotaro did not answer him, or spare him a glance. Yet his gaze was fixed foward neither on Thane or the contest, but on the shape of destiny just ahead. And so he let Thane pass—not with hesitation, but with the coolness of a man who had no need to contest what he knew he would claim.
The trees peeled back in a slender corridor of light, and there—barely more than a ripple through gold and shadow—the stag revealed itself. Crowned in antlers and cloaked in silence. Its body was poetry in motion, hewn from root and myth. “You bastard,” he muttered under his breath, low and sharp through gritted teeth. The bowstring quivered between his fingers, drawn too tight, too fast. His jaw clenched, and envy curled at the edges of his voice. “I’ll stake the beast,” he hissed, eyes fixed on the stag’s path. “And the lady’s affections as my second prize.”
He loosed the arrow—without breath, without stillness, without reverence. It did not fly like a vow carved in silence, nor like fate drawn taut in his hands. It flew like pride undone. The string snapped back against his glove with a brittle slap, louder than it deserved to be—echoing not with triumph, but with error.
The bolt twisted mid-air—barely, but ruinously. A gust caught its shaft, a tilt in the wrist too confident, too theatrical. It missed its mark, veering just left. And instead of flesh, it struck bark. The cedar groaned softly as the arrow lodged deep in its trunk, only the dull, unimpressive thunk of ambition falling short. The shaft quivered once, then stilled—pointless, pitiful. A monument not to intent, but to miscalculation.
The stag stirred, turning away in awareness to dismiss the moment in the same breath it held in its lungs. It moved in the flight or prey and departure of something too old to be caught by noise alone. It’s antlers caught a shaft of gold, as it vanished into the woods to be reclaimed.
Thane inhaled—too sharp, too late. His breath caught in his throat, a rush of sound that arrived without steadiness. His stallion bucked beneath him, not from panic, but from the discord pulsing through his limbs. It sensed imbalance—no longer command, but confusion. The left stirrup slipped from his boot. His reins jolted against his grip. One miscalculation cascaded into another.
He fell, not all at once, but in that terrible, suspended rhythm where a man feels himself slipping before he can stop it. His body turned sideways in the saddle, weight shifting with the inevitability of pride collapsing beneath its own ornament. The wind seemed to pull back—as though unwilling to share in the disgrace. The ground received him in silence, His knee struck a rock, dull and direct, and the pain bloomed up his spine like an afterthought.
Jotaro passed Thane’s crumpled form without turning his head yet his shadow casted a single glance downward. The light caught along Jotaro’s figure like oil on water untouched by interruption. As the Emperor’s form disappeared into the green ahead, a breeze unfurled behind him—soft, cold, and absolute.
The forest grew quieter the deeper they rode, not from stillness, but from expectation. Dame Erin and Sir Jean followed, each a silent constellation trailing his orbit. The trees opened like the hush before a crown was placed. The mouth of the forest gave way to a basin of light. The river unveiled itself—broad, slow-moving, gleaming with the pale shimmer of late morning. Mist ribboned along its surface, curling between reeds like old breath. The sun, just high enough, poured itself across the current in a sweep of gold.
Near that silver band, poised upon the far bank, the white crest rose and fell in quiet rhythm, and the breath from its nostrils mingled with the mist, curling above the water like smoke from a sacred hearth. One hoof entered the river—careful, deliberate—as if to test the veil between two worlds.
Jotaro arrived ike the final line of an old prophecy stepping into fulfillment. The Emperor’s stallion moved with solemn grace, hooves pressing into the soft earth like a clock marking time. Dame Erin and Sir Jean remained behind—watching, silent, alert as witnesses to greatness.
Along the curve of the riverbank, nobles stood cloaked in silk and insignia, their garments edged with the pride of old houses and polished ambition. They had come for sport, for spectacle—to witness a moment worth retelling in parlors and drawing rooms. Instead, they were given silence.
A goblet slipped from gloved fingers, landing softly in the grass. One woman, pale beneath her parasol, lowered it without thought. Another, lips parted as if mid-sentence, forgot the words entirely. The air did not hum—it held. Thick with reverence. With knowing. And at its center stood the Emperor.
He reached for the crossbow with the ease of ritual, not conquest. There was no weight to the motion, no pride in the draw—only stillness, as if the weapon had long been waiting to fulfill its purpose. His mantle shifted behind him, dusk-threaded and sovereign.
The ancient stag looked upon him. There was no terror in its gaze—only understanding. One sovereign to another. One bound to forest, to root and season; the other bound to law, to silence, to the weight of men. Between them stretched a quiet so complete it seemed carved from the dawn itself. And then, as if concluding a pact known only to the old world, the stag remained.
The arrow flew through the air with grace, called to a path with quiet purpose. No sound accompanied its flight save the soft murmur of air parting to allow its passage. It arrived beneath the shoulder, where life gathers deepest—like a hand placed gently on the heart.
The turned its head, the white crest on its chest catching the sun like the last page of a book read to its final word. Then, slowly—deliberately—it lowered its crown of antlers in greeting. Then the rest followed, its limbs folding with reverent precision, to a place it had once belonged.
Its breath, warm and whole, curled upward into the hush like incense from a chapel’s censer. The earth received the body without sound, and the flowers—scattered in pale blooms across the bank—remained untouched, unbruised by the descent.
Jotaro did not lower his crossbow at once. He held still, the weapon cradled with the same care one might offer a sealed letter or an unspoken vow. The wind lifted the edge of his mantle with the gentlest hand, catching the threads of dusk along its hem, but still he did not move. Only then, with the hush fully returned, did he draw a slow breath of his own.
But with a measured incline of the head, bowed not as emperor to subject, but as soul to soul. For even a crowned man must bow to something greater than himself. And the forest—witness to this brief and beautiful moment—had crowned him thus.
The air had grown gentle, brushed with that peculiar warmth that settles in the hour just before midday’s peak—a hush gilded in silk and sunlight. The court, having recovered from its previous awe, now moved with a polished quietude. Conversations resumed, porcelain teacups clinked, fans stirred delicately, more out of habit than heat. Yet something in the rhythm had shifted—subtly, unmistakably.
Beneath a flowering cypress, Kalithea remained seated, her figure the very image of composed stillness. The hem of her gown—ivory touched with crimson—lay spread around her like the bloom of a snow-petaled camellia. Her friends gathered in soft constellation about her, the folds of their skirts whispering against the grass, their voices low and light like wind among glass bells.
“You sit too quiet, darling,” Edwina remarked, her voice low and laced with elegance as she snapped her fan shut with a gentle flutter. “Like a portrait half-finished—waiting for the final brushstroke that will make it true.”
Kalithea offered no reply at first. Her eyes remained fixed on the path between the trees, where the sun filtered through like golden breath, and the leaves stirred as though carrying a secret. There was something in her stillness—not tension, but expectancy. A patience that did not feel passive, but poised.
“It’s not just her,” murmured Mirielle, her fingers idly tracing the embroidery on her sleeve. “Even the air feels suspended, like the page of a book not yet turned.”
Cecily adjusted the angle of her parasol, eyes lifted just beneath the brim. “There have already been two stags brought in,” she noted, her tone even, but soft with implication. “One from House Arland, the other from Revenir. Impressive, by their standards.” She glanced sidelong at Kalithea. “But you’ve not looked at either.”
Kalithea did not deny it. She simply tilted her head—graceful, serene—as though listening to something only she could hear. “I suppose,” Edwina mused, eyes sparkling faintly, “some glories are too quiet to announce themselves early. Perhaps we are all waiting for the right shadow to lengthen.”
“Or the right name,” Anise added with a sigh. She rose lightly from her cushion, her coral skirts whispering around her legs. “We are surrounded by spectacle, but none of it has held.” She strolled to the edge of the tent, where the grass was high and untamed, and the breeze had not yet forgotten to play.
Kalithea looked up, and for a moment—only a moment—the corners of her mouth curved into something softer than a smile. Not joy. Not pride. But something gentler. A quiet knowing shaped by memory and wish.
“I wonder,” Mirielle whispered, her fingers folding around her lap like the last line of a prayer, “what it will look like… when the one she waits for finally returns.”
“Like the answer to a question the world never knew it had asked,” said Cecily, her voice silken with wonder.
“Or like the end of a silence so long,” Edwina murmured, “no one dared believe it might break.”
Kalithea’s hand moved slowly to her booklet. The motion was reverent, like unfolding a letter long left unopened for fear of what it might hold. The spine sighed faintly as she turned to a fresh page, and with ink as dark as thought.“I do not know how he will return. Not whether with thunder beneath him or silence folded into each breath. I do not ask for spectacle—nor for the world to pause at his arrival.Only that he comes back to me, unharmed. Carrying that same stillness in his gaze that has always spoken more than his voice ever could. If he returns with that—even quietly then I will know that whatever he carries back from the woods, he still carries me too.”
She set the pen down as though it, too, had something sacred to surrender. And in the hush that followed—a single horn call rose over the field. It did not pierce the air—it sank into it, as though it had always been part of the world’s breath, waiting for the right moment to be exhaled.
The effect was immediate—subtle as snowfall, yet absolute. Chatter faltered mid-syllable, where laughter caught and curled back into the throat like a ribbon drawn too tight. Parasols, once tilted in idle grace, paused mid-air, lowered with the hush of courtiers bowing to something unseen. Fans, mid-sweep, folded like secrets too delicate to finish unfolding. A thousand gestures stilled at once as if the court had been caught mid-breath and cradled in the hand of a moment far older than etiquette.
Even Princess Marina, draped like a swan in an endless sweep of crimson, at the far edge of the terrace, did not escape the silence. Her ladies faltered, the symmetry of their poise cracked with the delicacy not enough to disgrace, but just enough to betray awe. Selienne’s fan, which had fluttered all morning with studied indifference, froze against her cheek like a painter caught before the final stroke. Anthemina leaned ever so slightly forward, the light catching on the edge of her pearl-studded dress. Vessina said nothing, but her breath betrayed her supposid strategy of admiration—already calculating what this entrance might shift.
“I wonder,” Marina mused, her tone like satin drawn through a signet ring, “if he returns with something grand enough that court might remember,” she continued, eyes never leaving the treeline, “after such a long and curious silence a gesture, perhaps… not of conquest, but of clarity. One hopes His Majesty has finally seen where best to place his favor.” “Her smile bloomed, sweet and wine-dark. “And if he brings her something delicate—” she added, each word slow as lace being tied, “perhaps that’s all he believes she can hold.
The trees parted with the grace of curtains drawn from a stage too sacred to name, and into the golden clearing they came. Dame Erin led, the bow across her lap was not raised, but resting in a completed quest. Sir Jean followed, helm tucked beneath one arm, his silver hair tousled by wind. He looked not like a soldier returning, but a witness to something that had already been written.
Opposite, Sir Amadeus rode in shadowed silk, his cloak a wash of midnight and quiet reverence. And beside him, Dame Adeline—her spear upright, her armor brushed to a matte finish, catching the sun not with gleam, but with quiet pride.
And at their center, as though the world had bent to make way—His Majesty. Without crease within his garments, not a trace of dust sullied his boots. There was no blood on his collar, no shadow on his brow—only the gravity of a man who had returned unshaken. He looked not like a hunter triumphant, but untouched by the war he had quietly won.
Above, the falcon circled once—then descended. It swept down from the canopy in a final arc, its wings slicing through the light like a seal being cut from a decree. With solemn precision, it came to rest upon one of the imperial banners stationed at the field’s edge—perched on the gold filigree, talons quiet but firm. The silk of the standard rippled once beneath its weight, then stilled—as if the bird, too, understood the ritual it had become part of.
Drawn upon a platform veiled in red silk—fabric so soft it caught the light like early morning wine—it seemed to float rather than roll. The platform moved slowly as it was led by an ivory and block horse bridled in silver thread.
The court leaned forward as one, their eyes wide, and in surprise, the fans stilled mid gesture. The audible breaths were scattered among them, some were stolen from their lungs, and some held their astonishment. The noblemen starred in hunger, the admiration flickering in their gaze, but not reverent. To many, the stag was magnificently conquered like a trophy, gilded in pageantry and poise for retelling.
Even in the moment of stillness, and the building of gossip to come, it had meant something else entirely to others. To Kalithea, whose hand rested against her heart. Jotaro who had not flinched when the life had left the stag, but had bowed his head to a soul, departed. His knights who rode in silence, that much echoing louder than fanfare. And too her dearest companions, Edwina, Cicily, Anise, and Mirielle— saw a creature offered and received with grace.
The stag’s body was arranged with such care it might have been mistaken for sleep. Its limbs folded neatly beneath it, not in collapse, but in rest—like a creature that had lain down by its own will, beneath the hush of old trees. Its eyes were closed, its breath long gone, yet something lingered in the tilt of its crown, in the quiet curve of its mouth—dignity, not defeat.
Its coat gleamed like aged bronze in the afternoon light, brushed smooth until it shimmered with the sheen of memory. Not a mark sullied its flank. Not a drop of blood marred its chest. The antlers rose wide and regal, draped in silk-white ribbon that caught the sun like vows whispered into winter. And just above its heart, a small violet.
Kalithea saw it, Her breath did not catch—it deepened, slow and silent, as if her body needed more air to hold the weight of what she was seeing. She stared, her lips parted just slightly, her lashes casting twin shadows over her cheeks. Her hands remained still in her lap, but the silence that enveloped her had changed. No longer a hush of waiting—but one of knowing.
“Oh,” whispered Mirielle, her voice hushed as cathedral glass. “He remembered.”
“He carried it through the woods,” Cecily murmured, her fingers brushing her fan though she made no move to raise it. “All that distance… and not a single petal disturbed.”
Anise leaned forward, eyes wide with breathless glee. “Do you suppose—” she began, then placed her hand against her cheek. “No. I don’t need to suppose. I know.”
Edwina, ever composed, gave a single, approving nod. “He did not simply return victorious,” she said softly. “He returned reverent. He made this a gift, not a conquest.”
Marina’s voice drifted into the hush like perfume—sweet, lingering, and faintly cloying. “A gracious gesture, to be sure,” she murmured from beneath the canopy of her scarlet parasol, her lips barely parting, her tone silk-laced with civility. “A touching display,” she murmured, her voice smooth as a silk ribbon being drawn from its spool. “So much care… for something already lifeless.” The edges of her smile held. But her gaze always too still and exact—remained pinned on the stag.
Selienne tilted her head, her fan half-lifted in the way of a courtier feigning indifference. “Still, how… novel,” she mused, as though reviewing a watercolor. “To carry one’s sentiment not in poetry, but in pelts.”
Anthemina, draped in gauze and whispers, smiled without warmth. “It’s clever, I must admit. The stag is lovely, yes… but I wonder—” she glanced toward Kalithea, her gaze coolly curious, “—if the gift was meant to impress her… or remind the rest of us what remains out of reach.”
Vessina, ever the most delicate blade, folded her hands atop her lap with practiced grace. Her words, when they came, were gossamer—meant to slip past the ear and linger in the bone. “Perhaps,” she said gently, “it’s meant to remind us that some things—when chosen—do not need to be explained.”
Marina’s smile did not waver. “But how fortunate,” she said lightly, her gaze following the procession, “that His Majesty has found time for sentiment. One only hopes it does not distract from his duties to the realm. Though…” she sipped from her goblet at last, “it would appear the court is quite taken by velvet gestures and woodland theatrics.”
Kalithea stood as though lifted by the hush itself, her form rising in silence while the court held its breath. The hem of her gown whispered against the grass. Her fingers, still curled at her sides, barely trembled—but her gaze did not falter. It remained fixed on the figure moving toward her through light and reverence.
Jotaro had dismounted without flourish, his boots striking the earth with the weight of inevitability. He walked not as a man returning from conquest, but as one bearing a sacred truth—one that needed no declaration. The reins slid from his hand, left behind without ceremony. His mantle swayed softly behind him, dusk-threaded and brushed by wind, trailing like a secret too long kept. A court attendant approached without needing to be summoned—young, cloaked in imperial grey, eyes lowered with instinctive deference. Draped over his arms was a cloth-wrapped bundle of deep onyx linen—the kind used not for ceremony, but for sacred handling. He bowed low as he offered it up.
Jotaro gave the faintest nod. With precise ease, he unfastened the mantle from his shoulders—the dusk-colored cloak that had chased his silhouette through every tree-shadowed turn—and let it fall into the cloth with the weight of something fulfilled. The servant folded the fabric carefully, hands gloved in white, then bowed again as he withdrew.
Another aide stepped forward—this one older, clad in deep navy with the crest of the Emperor’s personal retinue pressed in silver at his collar. Jotaro passed him the folded bundle in silence. No exchange was needed. The act spoke for itself.Only then did he begin to walk, as a man who had carried something unseen through the forest—and had returned with it intact. Each step landed like punctuation—soft, final, deliberate. The dust did not cling. The wind did not rise. Only the banners shifted gently above, stirred not by chaos, but by reverence.
How gloves peeled from his fingers in silence, revealing hands shaped by sword and silence. He folded the gloves once. Then again. And tucked them neatly into the sash at his hip—as though sealing away the very last breath of the hunt. Her breath caught just beneath her ribs, where no one could see, and her fingers curled lightly at her sides as though to steady what bloomed within her.
And when he reached her, he stopped—just shy of touching distance. He bowed his head slightly. Not as Emperor. But as the man who had promised her something quiet, and now returned bearing proof. “As I promised,” he said, his voice low, velvet-threaded, meant only for her. His gaze flicked—once—to the stag, then back. “I hunted because I gave you my word. And because reverence must be answered in kind.”
With a smile, she brought out her booklet, writing with each motion as delicate as a breath. “You did not return with conquest, but with a prayer made visible. The court may name it victory— But I know it for what it truly is:A vow fulfilled. A gentleness kept. You brought me something whole. And I shall carry the weight of that kindness longer than any crown may endure.”
Her fingers, soft but certain, offered it to him with a smile—quiet, radiant, the kind that bloomed not from surprise, but from understanding. And Jotaro— He received it like a message long awaited. The clear voice of a herald, robed in pine-green and bearing the sigil of House Valencera, rang across the clearing. “By order of the Noble Council, the judging shall now commence. All entries shall be reviewed for condition, merit, and marksmanship. The victor shall be named before the bell.”
An elegant ripple passed through the court as the judges emerged—six in number, clad in robes of neutral silk, each carrying ivory tablets and styluses of polished blackwood. They moved in solemn formation, pausing at each displayed stag, examining with quiet precision. They noted depth of shot, symmetry of antlers, condition of fur. Not once did they allow title or name to pass their lips.
When they came to the Emperor’s stag, the lead judge paused longest. The others followed suit, and yet, they did not marvel aloud—but their expressions shifted. After a moment, the lead judge turned to the herald and nodded once. The horn sounded again—this time sharp, declarative. “The winner,” the herald announced, “by unanimous merit of precision, reverence, and presentation—His Imperial Majesty.”
A swell passed through the court. Not a cheer. But something finer. Fans trembled in hands, parasols tilted toward whispers. Conversations bloomed behind lace gloves and silk veils. No voice dared insult. No lip dared sneer. For the prize had not only been won. It had been chosen. And beside him, dressed in ivory and crowned in silence, stood the girl he had hunted for. A girl who had once been overlooked by every eye in that clearing. And now stood—as the reason the Emperor had returned.
It started with gloved palms. Measured. Controlled. As though even clapping too eagerly would shatter the moment’s solemnity. Then another pair followed. Then another. Until the sound moved like rainfall over marble. The nobles did not cheer—they did not dare. But the murmurs that followed were rich with awe and perfectly tempered surprise.
“Well struck,” murmured a duchess in dove-grey damask, her voice rich with the polish of practiced awe. “His Majesty’s skill remains… untarnished.”
“A stag of that size,” remarked another, clad in violet brocade with garnet drops at her ears. “And not a blemish upon it? The execution was almost… devotional.”
“Did you see?” said a third, her silk gloves whispering as she adjusted her fan. “The flower. Precisely placed. That was no mere adornment.”
Lace fans shielded murmured speculation. Silk gloves covered glances as sharp as embroidery needles. Their tones were not cruel—no, they were too refined for that. But beneath the studied elegance of their voices, something shifted. Neither envy or boast, but for certain a sense of realignment.
Another court herald, dressed in deep navy trimmed with antique gold, stepped forward to the edge of the green. A court herald, dressed in deep navy trimmed with antique gold, stepped forward to the edge of the green. His voice rang out—clear, crisp, and ceremonial. The Winter Games are now concluded. All participants and guests may now partake in the season’s festivities. May the hunt’s peace rest upon you all.”
A swell of applause followed—refined, but resonant. It crested. Then dissolved into the court’s fluid dispersal. But Jotaro did not turn toward the pavilions, nor to the flattery waiting behind silk and silver. He turned to Kalithea. His voice was low, composed. Not cold—but sovereign. “Will you walk with me?” She nodded, her smile gentle and complete.
She felt the soft flush rise against her cheeks, an answer bloomed not from astonishment, but from peace. Extending his arm, she took it with grace and elegance. Together, they moved—past nobles who bowed without prompting. Past courtiers who lowered their eyes, though they knew not why. When they reached the tented arbor where her companions still stood—lovely in shades of celadon, rosewater, and moonlit lilac—Jotaro paused. The breeze touched the hem of his cloak.
“You’ve been well looked after,” he said quietly to Kalithea, though the tone was meant for the others as well. Then—he turned, full and stately, to the young ladies. His voice, now lifted to his full stature, was neither aloof nor indulgent. But it bore the confidence of one who had nothing to prove.
“Would you favor me with your names?” The girls curtsied—deep enough to show polish, not desperation. Their expressions remained poised, not fluttering. These were not children playing at favor. They were young women of title, of sense—and they understood who they were standing before.
Edwina, composed in tea-rose silk, stepped first. “Lady Edwina Rosamunde Ferndale of House Belclaire, Your Majesty. I am honored to know Lady Kalithea—and prouder still to name her among the most constant hearts I’ve met at court.”
Mirielle followed, her expression soft beneath her hair.“Lady Mirielle Evandrel of House Evendrel, Your Majesty. In her quiet, your companion sees what others miss. And teaches us to look closer.”
Cecily, clad in champagne-hued tulle with a garnet sash, gave a light, graceful curtsy. “Lady Cecily Duvan of House Viremont. Her words are rare—but never wasted. In her presence, I have found stillness I didn’t know I needed.”
Anise, wrapped in coral chiffon with mother-of-pearl combs in her hair, curtsied with lively grace. “Lady Anise Wynthorne of High Western Courts, Your Majesty. Your companion is not only gentle, but genuine. And for many of us… that has meant more than anything.”
Jotaro gave a single incline of the head. Precise. Controlled. It bore the weight of his office—and something just beneath it. “I know your houses,” he said. “And I thank you—for your courtesy, your measure… and for your friendship to the one I entrust.” His gaze swept over them—not in judgment, but in acknowledgment. They had not fawned, nor flinched, and that was enough.
But when his eyes returned to Kalithea, something softened. Not in stature—but in stillness. “They know you,” he murmured. “They see what I saw.”
Kalithea turned the page of her booklet with fingers light as silk thread. Her pen moved slowly—carefully—as though the ink itself carried breath. Then she lifted the page, and he read: To be seen by strangers is one thing. To be seen by friends—who expect nothing, and offer everything—is another blessing altogether. I am grateful for both. The girls behind her remained dignified, but their eyes shimmered with quiet joy—until a ripple passed through the court behind them.
Whispers stirred like silk trailing across polished floors. “He spoke to them—directly. And with respect. Not even the duchess of Velra was addressed so.”
“Anise Wynthorne—was that her? The one in coral? She must’ve been scheming for this moment since spring.”
“I’d say that his majesty’s companion has become quite the centerpiece,” murmured a lady in sapphire taffeta, her voice sweetened with false benevolence, “though I do wonder what exactly she did to earn such a display.”
A lord beside her dared to nod—just once, before he felt it. The Emperor’s gaze, directed between them, was cold and level with such iciness they dared not speak. And just like that, the whisper died in the throat it had bloomed in. The woman’s fan snapped shut, her mouth tightening like a thread pulled too taut. Conversation around them shifted, like smoke retreating from flame.
Yet at the center of it all, Kalithea stood untouched. Her face glowed—not in pride, but in something quieter. “If it permits,” Jotaro said, his tone quieter now, reserved only for her and her circle, “May I steal her away from you company for a short while”
Anise curtsied with polished warmth. “Only if you promise to return her, Your Majesty. Preferably without turning half the court to marble in your wake.”
Mirielle, ever composed, added, “And if it suits Your Majesty, we’ll expect a summary. No more than a chapter.”
Then Edwina stepped forward—not out of place, but as if the moment had awaited her. Her voice was silk wrapped around civility. “Of course, Your Majesty. Though we part with her reluctantly… we understand that some pages are meant to be read in quiet.” She bowed her head—deeper than before, not for formality, but for favor. “She is in good hands.”
Cecily smiled softly, her eyes glinting with something warmer than mere courtly charm. “We shall remain here, and speak kindly of her until she returns. That, I think, is a fitting task.” Their poise did not falter. Not even before an emperor. Kalithea, for a moment, looked at each of them—her expression radiant with quiet gratitude. She offered no words, only a nod. A small smile. A gesture as delicate as breath.
Then she turned—and placed her hand upon Jotaro’s arm. The court, ever watchful, parted without command. Parasols lowered. Fans paused. Even whispers faltered as the pair walked through. For though there was no music, no decree, and no crown upon either head—something about them moved the air like ceremony. And so they went, together, into the soft hush of the trees beyond.
They moved through the quiet seam of the field, the last golden light folding between their footsteps like silk caught on wind. Behind them, the court was still murmuring—its banners lilting, its nobles adjusting their tone to reflect what had now become undeniable. But all of it faded with each step they took. The pavilion flaps ahead stirred gently, as if bowing open just for them.
Kalithea’s hand rested lightly on his arm, but within her, a thousand things pressed upward—unspoken, weightless and trembling. It wasn’t nerves. It was reverence. She walked beside the Emperor, yes, but more than that—she walked beside the man who had kept his word without spectacle, who had returned to her not with conquest, but with care.
She withdrew her hand slowly, reached into her dress pocket, and opened her booklet. The sound of the page turning was soft as a breath. Her fingers moved in thought. And then, in slow, flowing ink, she wrote, “Do you approve of them? Of my friends?”
Jotaro slowed beside her, his gaze drawing over the script—not quickly, but as one reads something private. Precious. He looked ahead again for a breath, then back down at her. His voice came low, quieter than before, yet not distant—just hushed, as if meant for no one but her. “Why ask me?” His voice, deep and measured, moved like a shadow over velvet. Her pen touched the page again. The strokes came slower this time. More deliberate.
Kalithea’s pen dipped again, slower now. A faint blush touched the edge of her cheek, as though writing this was more intimate than speech. “Because I trust your eyes more than my own. And what I hold dear, I hope might be worthy in yours. They never ask for anything. They stay. Even when I cannot give more than stillness. When the court stared, they did not step away. I think… I hope… they are true. But you see more than I do. You always have.”
The final line trembled slightly, the ink thickening where her pen had paused too long. Jotaro came to a stop, fully now. The trees framed them both—light filtering through the branches like lace over glass. He turned toward her—not with grandeur, but with complete attention. Then, slowly, he lifted a hand. His bare fingers brushed gently behind her ear, tucking a strand of her hair away with the care one might show a silk ribbon caught in wind. “You already know they are true,” he said softly. “You would not keep them close if they were not. But if it comforts you—yes. I approve.” His thumb hovered just beneath her cheek, the distance too small to be anything but deliberate. “They stand with you in stillness. Without performance. That is rare.” A pause. “And I would not have you walk among wolves… without someone who bares their teeth for you.”
Kalithea’s breath caught—not loudly, but enough. Her fingers tightened just slightly around her pen. The blush that had bloomed on her cheeks deepened, her lips parted as though to smile. Instead, Jotaro turned, as he resumed their quiet path. She followed, the space between them growing smaller with each step, though neither one reached to close it.
The field slipped behind them—along with the whispers, the watchful glances, the weight of noble gazes pretending not to look. A grove of tall-boughed trees framed the Emperor’s tent, set apart just far enough to feel like another world. Guards stationed nearby inclined their heads and stepped aside without being told. Jotaro lifted one hand as they crossed the threshold, and with a subtle flick of his fingers—graceful, fluid as a sigh—magic stirred.
The tent’s entrance swayed shut behind them like the closing of a book. Curtains whispered together with the hush of silk on silk, sealing them in a dim glow of warm, filtered light. Kalithea turned at the sound, startled—but in that lovely, fluttering way she always was around him. The Emperor’s expression did not change. But there was something quieter in it now. Something nearer.
“You smile when I use spells,” he said simply, his voice lower than before—not just soft, but intimate. Kalithea lifted her booklet, the corners of her mouth curved delicately, yet she did not write, but simply smiled. And it bloomed across her face like a secret finally unfolding—gentle, luminous, more than a response. It was a girl who had been hunted once—now cherished instead.
Jotaro stepped closer, with a slow certainty, as if each inch closed between the was something sacred. His hand found hers again, and this time, he didn’t stop there.
His fingers curled over the back of her palm, then slipped upward—brushing along her wrist, until they came to rest lightly there. He did not pull her closer, but she stepped in on her own. His other hand reached up, settling just at the side of her waist—steady, protective, and reverent in its stillness. Kalithea trembled slightly at the contact, the warmth of his touch seeping into her like sunlight through frost. Her lashes fluttered, and her gaze fell shyly.
Jotaro looked down at her—his shadow taller than hers, his body a wall of quiet strength. She barely reached his chest, even in her heeled shoes. But it didn’t matter. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her cheek. It was unhurried—barely more than a breath. But it landed like thunder in her chest. Kalithea’s blush deepened instantly, her lips parting with the effort of not smiling too soon.
Then, his lips brushed her forehead. That one lingered. And her breath caught. She melted into him then, unthinking, unguarded—her weight not collapsing, but yielding. Her head pressed gently to his chest, just beneath his collarbone, where his heartbeat thrummed steady and sure.
Her eyes closed, and her smile, faint but radiant, bloomed against the warmth of his chest. Her hands curled softly against his coat, and for the first time since the morning’s pageantry began, her breath came easily—unburdened, safe. Outside, the court buzzed with music and the suns rays still shining. But within that tent—shielded by dusk-lined cloth and spell-stitched silence—the Emperor held her like a promise and the sound of two hearts at peace.
Chapter 38: Opera
Chapter Text
The west wing of the Emperor’s manor was hushed beneath the gentle weight of a rainy afternoon, the kind of stillness that settles like silk upon old stone and polished wood. Beyond the wide arched windows, droplets traced pale trails down the glass, painting the garden trees in blurred watercolor hues of green and gray. The corridor leading to the manor library was lined with tall sconces and the faint scent of parchment and lilac polish, warm and soothing—like something remembered from a story once read under candlelight.
Kalithea stepped softly upon the floors, her shoes making no sound. A velvet ribbon tied her hair back in a loose fall, and her sleeves were brushed with delicate embroidery—soft ivory thread against pale linen, subtle as breath. The air was cool in the hallway, perfumed faintly with cedar and books, and the rustle of her hem echoed in the quiet like a page being turned.
Just ahead, the open doors of the library welcomed them. The grand room was lined with ancient shelves, each groaning gently with the weight of record, fable, and empire. Towering windows spilled pale daylight across rugs and reading chairs, their golden trim glowing like the border of a forgotten kingdom. Kalithea stood at the threshold for a moment, soaking in the silence, the warmth, the sheer reverence of it all.
“Shall we begin our search, my lady?” asked Dame Adeline lightly, her voice warm and polished like tea poured into porcelain. She reached back to tuck a stray braid behind her ear and looked over with an amused glint. “Something with swords and sorcery? Or scandal and sweet nothings?”
“Scandal?” Dame Erin murmured dryly beside her, arms neatly folded behind her back. “Surely not under His Majesty’s roof.”
Kalithea only smiled and lowered her gaze with a soft shimmer of amusement in her eyes. She withdrew her small black booklet from the pocket of her dress and inked a line slowly, her script unfurling like pressed flower petals.“Perhaps something with a clever girl in disguise, and a prince who never speaks his heart aloud.”
Dame Adeline read it aloud with theatrical delight, then gasped. “My stars, she’s developing a taste for yearning.” She clutched her chest in mock despair. “Erin, we’ve lost her to romance.”
Kalithea laughed—but only in the quiet way she did, her shoulders trembling slightly as she brought her hand to her lips, eyes squinting with joy. She walked further into the room, trailing her fingers lightly across the spines of books as if listening to them whisper. The two knights followed behind her—not as guards, but as older sisters might on a garden stroll.
Dame Erin, ever the more expressive, stepped ahead to tug a volume off the shelf with a gleam in her eyes. “This one’s full of letters between a duchess and a war general,” she said, handing it to Kalithea. “Secret meetings, court spies, and something about a stolen coronet.”
Kalithea took the book, feeling its weight settle into her hands like a kept promise. She wrote delicately,“I do like letters. They feel like thoughts made permanent. Like a quiet voice on the page.”
Dame Adeline stepped forward, softer now. “That’s beautifully said,” she murmured, and her voice, though restrained, held a kind of affection not often seen in the battlefield steel of her usual tone. She knelt slightly to retrieve another volume from the lower shelves and offered it without ceremony. “This one’s about a girl who inherits a ruined estate and tames a wild horse no one else could ride. You might like her.”
Kalithea blinked once, then offered a soft, slow nod, her lashes lowering as she drew the books gently to her chest as if gathering something sacred. Their weight settled over her arms like silk-wrapped secrets—quiet things meant only for her. The room, though untouched by firelight, seemed to warm around her, not by flame, but by the tender hush of two women who did not view her as fragile, nor as something to be pitied—but as a girl they had grown to cherish.
“Three books,” Dame Erin declared, placing a final one atop the growing stack in Kalithea’s arms. “One for the mind, one for the heart, and one for the soul. You must read the first chapter of each before dinner and tell us your favorite.”
A smile—shy, shimmering—gathered at the corners of Kalithea’s lips. She lowered her gaze, the curve of her lashes soft against her cheeks as she opened her booklet and inked her reply with graceful care. “Yes, I will! Yet, only if you promise not to peek over my shoulder while I read.
Dame Erin raised both hands in playful defense. “I swear it upon my sword.”
Dame Adeline’s mouth curved into a wry crescent. “A rare vow from the Dame who once read ahead and spoiled a love confession.”
Kalithea’s laughter—light, breathless—rose like wind through leaves, delicate yet bright. It filled the vaulted chamber with something gentler than mirth, something almost like music—a note of joy that had not been sung in years. And as they turned to go, arms cradling quiet stories and the hush of blooming trust, something within her stirred. Her heart fluttered like a ribbon caught in wind, warm and pink and full of light. A morning spent among pages and polished stone, the soft patter of rain beyond tall windows, and the presence of two steady knights beside her—sisters not by blood, but by choice.
Kalithea walked silently down the long hallway, her steps muffled by the deep, lush carpeting that lined the floors like the slow ripple of a forgotten dream. The manor was vast, its stone walls adorned with intricately woven tapestries and golden sconces that flickered faintly with candlelight. She moved toward a grand sitting room, a space designed not for mere comfort, but for quiet, regal assembly—a place where the sovereign could receive visitors, or retreat from the world in solitude.
She set the stack of books down onto a low, velvet-clad table beside an overstuffed chaise, the surface of the table cool against her fingers. She had almost reached for the first volume when, from down the hall, the soft murmur of voices reached her—one was unmistakable, calm and clear, threading through the air with the same kind of warmth she’d known in the most sheltered corners of her heart. “…Not quite the same, is it?” Avdolia’s voice rang out, smooth as silk yet full of that familiar weight—her humor, dry and tempered with affection. Kalithea’s breath caught as recognition flared in her chest like a spark in dry grass.
Her heart fluttered wildly, the quiet ache of longing blooming into something more joyful, more alive. Her head turned instinctively toward the hallway, as if her very soul knew what her ears had already heard. And there she was, stepping into the doorway like some kind of summer sunrise breaking over a horizon. Avdolia.
The headmistress of the Magi Academy, a woman who had once been the guiding star of Kalithea’s life, now stood before her, a smile creeping across her lips—long braids swaying, her warm eyes alive with that undeniable spark of joy. Kalithea hadn’t seen her in so long—too long, in fact. And yet, in that instant, the weeks seemed to melt away.
Avdolia’s eyes widened, the breath visibly caught in her chest. Her poise cracked—not in any undignified way, but with the startled tremor of someone witnessing something impossible and beautiful at once. “Oh—Kalithea.” Kalithea’s breath left her in a shiver, her throat tightening with all the things she could not say, all the words she had never been able to shape aloud. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached into the hidden fold of her dress and pulled free her booklet—her voice, her language, her lifeline. But her fingers paused.
She couldn’t even write yet. Instead, she simply moved—her steps breaking into a quiet run, swift and light, as her skirts fluttered behind her. And then—her arms wrapped tightly around Avdolia’s waist, her face pressed against the familiar warmth of the woman who had helped her when she wept from inner turmoil and coached her through endless poise and lessons.
“Oh, my sweet girl… you’re safe. You’re well.” Avdolia pulled back just enough to study her face, her eyes sweeping across her cheeks, her posture, the fine dress and flushed skin. “Look at you,” she whispered, her voice hitching with a kind of reverent joy. “You’re glowing with life.”
Kalithea’s breath hitched softly, and her fingers moved with instinct, reaching for the hidden booklet tucked into her skirts. She opened it with trembling hands and began writing, her pen strokes quick and light, full of all she hadn’t been able to say until now. “You came to me like the first warmth of spring. I’m safe—I’m blooming. I promise. I’ve missed you with all the softness in me.”
Avdolia took the booklet gently in both hands, reading the words with care, and her smile deepened into something tender. “I missed you too, little star,” she murmured, pulling her back into another embrace—firmer now, steadier, as though to ground them both. “Every day, I wondered. I kept listening for news. I asked the winds, the letters, even the silences.”
Kalithea’s arms tightened around her, and when she stepped back this time, her fingers were already moving again, ink flowing across the page in breathless script. Your voice never left me. “Every word you taught me still blooms inside my thoughts. He—His Majesty—when he speaks my name, feels like light when I wear it. Now there are days when i simply cannot choose a pick for the benefit of reading.”
Avdolia read each line in silence, her fingers brushing the edge of the paper, and when she looked up, her eyes had softened even further. “And you’ve worn it with grace,” she said, voice low, proud. “Just as I knew you would.” She lifted a hand to Kalithea’s cheek, resting it there briefly—not with ceremony, but with the same familiar touch she had used since the beginning, steadying her through posture drills and helping her shape her first letters. “You’ve grown so much,” she said gently. “You’re standing here. In silk. In light, and….with books on your table.”
Kalithea’s lips curved upward, her cheeks blooming with color as she turned back to her booklet. The words came slower now, looped and careful. “I think… I’m beginning to feel like joy fits me. And for the first time… I want to stay, despite all the courts gossip and its thorns.”
Avdolia drew in a long, full breath, then leaned forward to press her forehead lightly against Kalithea’s, her voice no more than a whisper. “Then so am I.”
The soft click of polished boots echoed in the corridor—measured, deliberate, sovereign. Avdolia, still with her hand resting gently on Kalithea’s shoulder, turned toward the sound before he appeared. Kalithea did not need to look to know who it was. She felt it in the shift of the air, the quiet command that seemed to settle into the room before he even crossed the threshold
Jotaro—clad in deep garnet, the high collar of his embroidered coat casting his shadow long behind him. His gaze, cool and composed, swept across the chamber with imperial ease, pausing first on Kalithea—his eyes softening almost imperceptibly—before moving to the woman beside her. “Headmistress Avdolia.” Her name, spoken with that unshakable calm, held the weight of long acquaintance, and hesitation.
Avdolia’s brows rose as a slow, knowing smile tugged at her lips. “You’ve grown slightly taller,” she said dryly, folding her arms as though she were greeting a nephew who had outgrown his breeches but not his habits. “And your coat’s gotten heavier with embroidery. But apparently not your sense of etiquette.”
Jotaro’s expression didn’t shift. “You’re referring to the lack of another letter.”
“I am,” Avdolia replied, sharp as ever, though the edge was softened by something fond and familiar beneath it. “If you can even call it that. Three lines. No details. No clarity on her condition. Not even a proper salutation. I’ve seen more warmth in a palace memo.” Kalithea blinked, her gaze darting between them—her head tilting ever so slightly, lips pressing together in a barely-contained smile. It was rare to see him scolded, rarer still that he let it happen.
Jotaro exhaled slowly, his shoulders shifting just a fraction, his chin tilting downward. “The letter was… functional,” he said, voice calm, clipped. “I didn’t trust myself to write more.” His jaw twitched, just slightly. The only betrayal of tension. He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he shifted his stance—straightening his shoulders, eyes flicking briefly to Kalithea. When he spoke, his tone was quiet, deliberate. “I visited her chambers. Sat beside her for three hours while she slept. That seemed more useful than a letter.”
Avdolia scoffed under her breath, folding her arms. “And yet I, who raised her to read with care, received only a handful of words.” Kalithea’s fingers moved to her booklet, her smile blooming with amusement and tenderness. She wrote slowly this time, eyes dancing as she offered her response.
“She missed you too, Jotaro. I already told you that she would scold you…but she forgives you—on the condition you learn how to write a proper letter.” Jotaro stepped closer, reading her words without moving his head—only his eyes lowered.
Jotaro stepped forward—not abruptly, but with that smooth, deliberate rhythm that made it feel as though the air shifted with him. He didn’t lower his head. Only his eyes moved, scanning her writing in a glance, though something in his chest shifted as he read. A breath left him—not sharp, not loud, but faint, as if laughter had considered arriving and settled instead into the space between them.
His gaze lingered. Not unreadable now, but unspoken—the kind of look that bore no pressure, only weight. And when he finally turned back to Avdolia, his voice had returned to that cool, even cadence. “She’ll be staying until the evening,” he said, tone neutral once more. “A full day, at least.”
“I would stay longer,” Avdolia replied with a warm sigh, casting Kalithea a glance that brimmed with affection. “A month, if the magi council had any sense. But I’ve been summoned—misfiled reports and three overdue votes. They’re falling apart without me.”
Kalithea’s smile didn’t fade, but her lashes dipped low in a gesture of soft wistfulness. She pulled the notebook toward her again, her pen dancing across the page in flowing, ribboned strokes. “One day is enough, if I can carry the warmth of it longer than your cloak holds rain. Tonight, I’ll read in silence, and pretend it’s your voice turning the pages beside me.
Avdolia read it slowly, her smile deepening as she squeezed Kalithea’s hand in return. “You always did write like a girl who noticed everything,” she murmured. Her thumb brushed lightly across Kalithea’s knuckles, a small, instinctive gesture of care. Jotaro remained just to the side, tall and composed, hands tucked in his slack pocket. His silhouette against the tall windows was still and sovereign—but his gaze, unshifting, had not left Kalithea once. He watched her with that impossible patience of his, as though nothing else in the room held weight.
Avdolia noticed it, Not with the amusement of courtiers or the idle gaze of rumor—but with the quiet, seasoned discernment of someone who had once taught that same girl to hold her spoon gently, to fold her napkin like a rose, to write her name with the same elegance she now used to write his. She saw how he leaned forward—not only physcially, but in the way his attention never strayed. She noticed how the corners of his stance relaxed only when Kalithea spoke, how the slightest shift in her expression changed the rhythm of his breath. She said nothing of it, but suspecting something blossoming, she tucked it away in her thoughts like a sealed letter.
And Kalithea—still shimmering with the joy of reunion, her heart still gently echoing with the sound of Avdolia’s voice—felt it too. That quiet pull, the space between his silence and his presence, the way he watched, not because he wished to own her, but because something in him had already chosen her. She looked between them—Avdolia, who had taught her how to step into a world that once wished to forget her, and Jotaro, who had brought her into a world that dared to see her. She felt, wholly and quietly, held by both.
The room had quieted into something gentle and golden—like the end of a song. Sunlight filtered through the high conservatory windows, painting soft angles across velvet and polished stone. Jotaro glanced once toward the distant corridor, the subtle tension in his brow returning, though only slightly. “There’s still work waiting,” he said, voice low but steady. “Two envoys to answer. A border update from the east. And another audience with the fiscal minister who insists on repeating himself.” His gaze shifted back to Kalithea, softer now. “I’ll return in a little while.”
Kalithea nodded, her smile small but clear, her booklet untouched for once—because she didn’t need it. He stepped closer, and without asking or without pause—he reached gently for her hand. His fingers closed around hers with quiet finality. He brought her knuckles to his lips and pressed a kiss there—firm, slow, and without disguise. There was no curtain to shield them. No need for pretense. Just warmth, reverence, and a deliberate stillness.
She flushed—not dramatically, but in a way that softened every line of her face. Her lashes dipped low, her lips parted faintly. Her heart, though hidden beneath silk and corseted stillness, beat louder than the hush of the manor’s breath. When she finally lifted her gaze again, her smile had bloomed into something glowing and real. “You don’t need to wait on me,” Jotaro said, stepping back just enough to return her hand. “Go with her. The gardens are better company than I am today.” He turned, boots echoing quietly as he made his way down the corridor.
As the silence settled again, Kalithea’s cheeks remained flushed with a warmth she didn’t bother to hide. Her fingers brushed once over the spot he had kissed, before she gathered her notebook again with both hands.
“Headmistress Avdolia?” came the familiar voice of Dame Adeline, stepping into view. Her braid was neatly coiled, her posture confident but relaxed, the kind of ease found in those who no longer needed to prove themselves. “We heard word you’d arrived—though we didn’t dare interrupt His Majesty. Even though we know better than that.”
“And yet here you are,” added Dame Erin, her tone dry with quiet amusement, arms loosely folded. “The last time we saw you, you were correcting her wrist position over a teacup.”
Avdolia turned to face them fully, her expression softening with unmistakable affection. “Ah, my sword-sisters of the court. You’ve both grown.”
“Not taller, I hope,” Dame Adeline teased. “The guards already complain when I steal their shade.”
“Then wiser, at least,” Avdolia replied with a smirk. “You’ve done well by her.”
“She’s made it a privilege,” Dame Erin said, glancing toward Kalithea—not with ceremony, but with quiet fondness. “She’s steadier than most grown nobles I’ve guarded.”
Kalithea gave a shy smile, bowing her head just enough to acknowledge their words with grace. Her eyes sparkled—still colored by the moment Jotaro had left her hand kissed and her heart quietly stirred. Avdolia caught the look and tilted her head. “Shall we walk, little star?” she asked gently, her voice returning to the familiar cadence of their earliest lessons. Kalithea nodded, the motion fluid, practiced—but never cold. She stepped into rhythm beside Avdolia as if she’d never fallen out of it.
Adeline and Erin flanked them with quiet ease, their steps light, their presence protective but not overbearing. Together, the four women passed through the marble archways and into the soft hush of the emperor’s gardens. The path wound beneath flowering trellises and between ancient hedges, where the breeze carried the scent of jasmine, lavender, and lemon leaf. Somewhere ahead, a fountain murmured.
They wandered beyond the rose hedges and past the polished marble fountain, where the sound of water trickling over stone gave way to something quieter—softer. The deeper part of the emperor’s garden was tucked beneath a canopy of pear-blossomed trees and climbing ivy, where white petals dusted the stone path like confetti from a long-forgotten celebration. Here, the world felt still.
A wrought-iron bench waited beneath the tallest arch, its back curled like calligraphy. The moss-covered base was softened with linen cushions the color of ash and cream. Rain had passed through these paths earlier—the faint scent of wet bark and lavender still lingered—but the last of it had lifted now, leaving the air kissed with silver light. Above, the clouds had begun to break. It wasn’t full sunlight, not yet. But the kind that slips through after rain—golden and cool, like warm breath through cold glass. It dappled the path, streaking the ground in fragments of pale gold and shadow. A single butterfly—blue as ink on parchment—fluttered past.
Avdolia gestured toward the bench. “Shall we?” Kalithea nodded, her movements graceful, serene. She sat first, adjusting her skirts as she always had—precisely, hands smoothing over fabric, back straight without being rigid. Avdolia joined her a heartbeat later, resting her palms gently on her knees, her posture relaxed, but never careless. For a moment, neither spoke.
It wasn’t silence. Not really. The garden rustled. Leaves stirred. Distant birds called between the hedges. Somewhere behind them, Erin’s quiet laugh trailed faintly—Adeline no doubt saying something irreverent about the palace swans. And then— “You’ve changed,” Avdolia said softly, her gaze resting on Kalithea’s profile. “Not just your hair, your clothes, your posture.” Her voice lowered, eyes narrowing with fond precision. “It’s in the way you carry your quiet. You used to hide behind it.”
Kalithea turned to meet her gaze. A breeze stirred the vines above them, sending a scatter of white petals to the ground. Kalithea reached for her booklet with steady fingers, opening to a clean page. Her script appeared slowly this time, delicate but deliberate—each word formed as though she were tracing a memory. “I still feel small sometimes. But now I think… maybe small doesn’t mean lost. I don’t want to be unseen. Not anymore.”
Avdolia read the lines in silence. Her lips curved—not in surprise, but in confirmation. The kind of smile only someone who had watched every stage of growth could wear. As if these words were not new, but simply the ones Kalithea had finally gathered the strength to write. “You were never meant to stay small,” she murmured. “Only still—until you were ready.” Kalithea’s cheeks warmed, the pink blooming softly across her skin like blush spilled from rose petals.
Avdolia watched her for a long moment, then tilted her head ever so slightly, her tone shifting—gentle, knowing, the kind of mischief that lived in the hearts of women who had long since learned to read hearts before words. “And him?” Kalithea blinked once, averting her gaze only slightly. “His Majesty,” Avdolia said plainly, and her lips curved into that particular smile—sharp with insight, softened by affection. “You flinched at his name. Just now.”
Kalithea’s hand reached instinctively for her pen, but her wrist paused mid-air. Her breath steadied. She was not afraid—just… full. Of something she didn’t yet know how to carry. When she finally moved, her script flowed slower than usual—careful, lyrical, as though she were writing in a dream. “He speaks like stone warmed by fire. I used to brace for the cold… but now I wait for the warmth instead.” A pause, then another line came, shy and silken. “He frightens me only in how gently he holds the things I do not know how to say aloud. And how often I find myself wishing he would stay longer… even when he’s still beside me.”
Avdolia stilled, in awe. The way Kalithea’s eyes lingered on the ink as if it embarrassed her. The way her fingers trembled faintly beneath the loops of her writing. The way her cheeks—already warmed from earlier—flushed a deeper hue now, blooming into something rich and tender. And her eyes… shining, not with tears, but with something unnamed. Something vast. Something soft. Love didn’t always begin as thunder. Sometimes, it looked exactly like this.
“I see,” Avdolia said softly, reaching forward to gently tuck a strand of hair behind Kalithea’s ear. Her fingers lingered for just a breath longer than necessary, as if to steady what she already knew to be true. Then she leaned back again, her voice quiet, proud. “Then perhaps it’s no longer my place to worry about you.”
Kalithea tilted her head, questioning. Avdolia’s gaze didn’t shift. “You’re not a child in silk anymore,” she said. “You’re a girl with a name he says like it’s a vow. And whether or not he says it aloud, I’ve seen it in the way he looks at you—like the only thing in the room worth kneeling for.” Kalithea’s breath caught. Not because she was overwhelmed—but because something inside her had already hoped. Already felt it, blooming quietly in the hollow beneath her ribs. She lowered her gaze, then lifted it again slowly, as sunlight broke through the high arch of leaves above them—pale and golden, softening her features, catching in her hair like spun rose.
She didn’t blush with embarrassment. She glowed with it. Her hands rested in her lap now, fingers threaded together like she was holding something delicate inside her chest. And then, gently, she wrote one more line. “I do not know the name for this feeling. But I think it knows the name for me.” Avdolia read it—and said nothing. Only smiled, the kind of smile worn by women who have loved deeply, and recognized the shape of it in someone just learning how.
The light had grown softer by the time they returned from the garden—slanting gold, no longer bright but burnished, like evening warming in the coals. The corridors of the manor were still, the hush of late afternoon settling gently across marble and mosaic. Avdolia walked a few paces behind Kalithea and her knights, her gaze lifted—no longer on the walls, but inward. She had known the Jotaro as a boy, long before the crown sat firmly upon his head. Back then, his silences had been walls. Stone walls, not cruelty, but icy coldness—a boy taught to bear weight, not to share it.
He hardly smiled, rarely even, especially since his mothers passing, but now she had seen the softness in the way he kissed the girl’s hand. The steadiness of his presence. The way he watched her not as one surveys a prize, but as one guards something luminous. She saw the way he looks at her like he tries to memorize sunlight.
There was a stillness in Kalithea now—a deeper center. And it had not come from gowns or titles or ceremonies. It had come from being chosen—gently, deliberately, and without demand. Her reflections were interrupted by a soft clearing of the throat.
A servant girl had stepped into the hallway—young, dressed in slate-gray linen, holding a small silver tray with gloved care. She approached with quiet steps and bowed lightly before speaking. “For Lady Kalithea,” she said. “It was delivered from the east wing.”
Kalithea blinked, then stepped forward gracefully. She lifted the envelope, her fingers brushing the delicate seal—a painted crest of blue wax with a small crest that she recognized immediately. It was Anise’s handwriting. She smiled, wide and bright, nodding her thanks to the servant, who curtsied once more and left just as quietly as she had come.
Dame Adeline leaned in, her voice amused. “Shall I guess which one it’s from?”
“My coin is on Lady Anise,” Dame Erin said smoothly. “She’s been waiting for a reason to write since the hunting games.” Kalithea gently opened the envelope, her hands steady, her breath light. Inside was a folded invitation on thick, perfumed parchment. And nestled within it, a handwritten letter in looping, graceful ink:
To my dear Kalithea,
Forgive me for writing so formally—I find myself overly poetic when I am overly fond. And I am very fond of you.
This evening, there is to be a performance at the Royal Opera: The Veil of Aesthera, an aria staged only once every few years, when the lead soprano is brave enough to carry the final act in silence.
My family maintains a private box just above the Imperial gallery—it’s hardly grand, but it is beautifully placed. And I asked (very sweetly) that we extend it to include you.If you are able… say yes.
Say yes, and let the music wrap itself around your evening. Say yes, and let us look over and find you there—glowing, as you do, even when you are quiet.
With admiration and hope, Lady Anise (P.S. I’ve already imagined what gown you’ll wear.
By the time Kalithea finished reading, her heart had quickened in her chest—not with pressure, but with something light and warm and real. The idea of music, laughter, her friends’ bright faces leaning close in the darkness of the opera house—it stirred something within her. Avdolia, standing just behind them, smiled silently, watching Kalithea’s joy unfold like a petal kissed by spring. The girl’s smile—so real, so wide—looked nothing like the one she used to practice in the mirror.
But also… she turned her head gently toward Avdolia, who stood just beyond the knights, she had so little time left with her. She folded the letter gently, pressing it once to her lips in a gesture of quiet delight before slipping it back into its envelope. The joy tugged at her chest like a ribbon, caught between two corners of her heart.
Yet before she could react again, His Majesty returned. A fine layer of dust on his gloves, as though he’d come directly from the last of his appointments without pause. His chain glinted faintly with every step. The light from the high windows poured across his shoulders, casting long shadows behind him—but he carried no shadow in his eyes.
And when he spoke, his voice was quieter than usual, lowered for her alone. “What is it?” His tone was steady, curious—but there was something underneath. Something in the way he tilted his head just slightly, his brow smooth, his stance angled not toward the group, but entirely toward her. As though her expression alone carried more importance than the letter she held.
Kalithea hesitated only a beat before her fingers slid to her booklet. She opened to a clean page and dipped her pen. Her script flowed in soft, graceful curves—more tender now, as though her joy was spilling gently out in every loop and flourish. “A letter from Lady Anise, inviting me to join her at the Royal Opera this evening. She writes as though the performance cannot breathe without me there. But I— I do not know if I can bear to leave before I’ve had one last walk with her.”
She turned the page toward Jotaro, her cheeks still warm with the thrill of the invitation, though her gaze now flicked toward Avdolia, quiet and glowing with a kind of devotion only Kalithea could hold. Jotaro read in silence. His eyes lingered not just on the words, but on the careful handwriting—the way certain letters leaned inward, as though shy. As though they, too, were deciding what they dared to feel.
His eyes lingered not just on the words, but on the gentle tilt of her script—the way her loops leaned like flower stems in wind, delicate yet sure. Every curve of ink on the page whispered something soft, something that didn’t need to be spoken aloud for him to understand. Then, without moving from her side, Jotaro Kujo—crowned not in gold but in quiet command—turned his head slightly and called, low and unhurried:
“Attendant.” A figure stepped forward at once—a young steward in deep green, his boots silent on the marble floor, his posture crisp with training. “Have the Imperial Velvet Box prepared,” Jotaro said, his tone calm but unmistakably final. “Furnish it with fine cushions, mulled fruit, and something sweet for the hour past intermission. Replace the linens with something warm-toned… crimson or bronze, nothing pale. And request a fourth ticket. It will be needed.”
The words were not barked or rushed. They were spoken with the unshakable assurance of a man used to being obeyed, not because he demanded it—but because he rarely repeated himself. The steward bowed low. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
Jotaro gave a single, imperceptible nod before shifting his gaze to Avdolia. His tone didn’t soften, but the respect in his carriage did. “Headmistress,” he said, “if your evening permits, I would have you accompany us.”
Avdolia’s expression flickered—arch and knowing, the corners of her mouth curving in a way that suggested she had been waiting for the invitation before it had even been offered. “Inviting me to a royal opera,” she mused, fingers brushing the edge of her sleeve. “You do know I’ve been summoned back to the capital on council business.
Jotaro’s answer came cool and unbothered. “Let them wait.”
Avdolia gave a low hum of approval, her smile blooming fully now. “You’re lucky I keep a spell for changing into evening attire in the blink of a breath—and another for slipping back into duty just before dawn.”
From behind Kalithea, Dame Adeline chuckled lightly. “May I borrow the first one? I’m always late to state dinners.”
“You can have it,” Avdolia said dryly, “if you can survive the headaches that come with wearing it too often.”
As the steward departed down the corridor to carry out his instructions, Jotaro turned his attention once more to Kalithea—though he did not step any closer. He didn’t need to. The weight of his presence was already anchored beside her. “I’ll arrange the carriage,” he said. “You won’t go alone.” His gaze lingered on her, steady and unreadable—but she felt it all the same, the quiet promise beneath each word. “I’ll escort you both—personally.”
Kalithea’s breath fluttered gently in her chest, her lashes lowering. She said nothing aloud, but her body betrayed her—shoulders softening, fingers clenching lightly around her notebook like holding back a tide. She dipped her pen slowly, then began to write. “Then I shall wear something soft, and let the light catch me kindly. And if the music moves me—I hope I won’t be too quiet to be seen.”
His mouth did not move, but something subtle shifted in the line of his jaw. And in the pause that followed, his gaze did not drop from hers. For a moment his eyes softened, a subtle bow, Then, as he turned, his coat flaring softly behind him. But before stepping away, he paused once more—this time to glance at Dame Adeline and Dame Erin, who both stood alert near the archway.
“If she chooses to join her companions afterward,” he said, eyes unreadable, “stay with her. Quietly. Don’t hover. Just be near.”
Adeline placed a closed hand over her chest and bowed lightly, her expression both respectful and touched. “Of course, Your Majesty.”
“Always,” Erin said simply, her voice sure. Jotaro nodded once, then stepped into the corridor and was gone. But the silence he left behind did not feel empty—it felt like a line drawn across the moment. A signal that something had shifted. Kalithea stood quietly in the stillness, her fingers brushing over the letter from Anise again, the words now weighted with excitement, with nerves, with longing. She glanced at Avdolia—who was watching her with a smile only older sisters wore when they already knew the answer.
As Jotaro’s footsteps faded into the deeper wing of the manor, the corridor settled once more into stillness. Not silence—never that—but the soft, expectant hush that follows when something unspoken lingers gently in the air. Avdolia remained where she stood, one hand resting lightly on the curve of a column, her gaze following the place where the emperor had vanished. She didn’t speak immediately. She was not one to rush moments.
“He’s steadier now,” she said at last, her voice even, but touched with thought. “And warmer. Though you wouldn’t know it unless you watched his eyes.” Dame Adeline gave a knowing hum, her braid shifting slightly as she leaned against the opposite wall with casual elegance. “He hides it behind posture,” she murmured. “But he looked at her like she was something carved onto the inside of his ribs.”
Dame Erin arched a brow. “You’ve been reading poetry again.”
“No,” Adeline said with a grin. “She has.”
Avdolia laughed quietly, smoothing a hand along the embroidered edge of her sleeve. “Whatever it is between them… it’s honest. I saw it. The kind that doesn’t ask to be believed—it simply is.”
Their conversation drifted into soft, easy rhythm—the kind only shared by women who had stood watch over another girl’s becoming. They remained just outside the hall as light faded across the tiles, lingering in that small sanctuary of trust and pride. Meanwhile, Kalithea had slipped away with grace, her departure quiet, her steps light.
Down a nearby corridor, the sound of doors opening with gentle hands and slippered feet touching polished floors echoed faintly. “My lady.” Came Martha’s soft voice as she led the way, already motioning with a practiced hand. “Everything is ready.”
The others followed closely—Bridgette drawing open the velvet-draped doors with fluid ease, her expression calm, efficient. Sam offered a warm smile and immediately disappeared into the adjoining room to begin drawing the bath. Claudia and Claudette entered last, arms full of sweet oils, and fresh linens
As Kalithea stepped through the threshold of her chamber, the shift in atmosphere was immediate. The space was quiet but not lonely—lit by the glow of small sconces and the filtered light of the setting sun. The scent of jasmine, rose, and warm tea leaves mingled in the air like a lullaby waiting to be sung.
Claudia set the tea tray down near her writing desk and lifted the lid with practiced care. “Dr. Hasan’s blend again, my lady,” she said with a soft sigh. “We tried to leave it behind, but it seems the chef here listens to him and follows you like a devoted suitor.” Kalithea smiled faintly, eyes drifting toward the steam curling in the air. She let out a silent breath of amusement—part affection, part resignation.
Martha was already guiding her gently toward the chaise. “The water will be ready shortly,” she said, her voice as steady as ever. Kalithea nodded and lowered herself with care, her hands folding over her lap. She felt the weight of the invitation in her pocket still, the warmth of anticipation beginning to bloom behind her ribs. The opera awaited, and she was grateful she would not go alone.
It seemed like hours went by when the steam clung to the air like a veil of breath held against glass. Kalithea rose from the bath with grace, Bridgette’s steady hand at her elbow. The water lapped once behind her, then stilled, dotted with crushed petals—rose, violet, a touch of chamomile—floating like the last thoughts of a quiet dream.
Towels enveloped her in soft warmth, thick and perfumed from the hearth. The chill of the room met her skin briefly, before the cotton layers were pressed lovingly to her limbs. Claudette dried her shoulders with delicate strokes, while Sam knelt to press the dampness from her calves and ankles. Her hair, heavy with jasmine water, fell in dark wet waves down her back.
No one spoke yet. There was something sacred about this hour—the hush of twilight, the space between solitude and ceremony. And Kalithea, swathed in towels and surrounded by those who knew her every breath and silence, felt as though she were being gently drawn back into the shape of herself.
“Let’s not keep the stars waiting,” Claudia murmured at last, reaching for the cream silk robe resting on the dressing chair. The fabric shimmered faintly in the low light, thin and soft as moonlight. “Arms, my lady.” Kalithea stepped into it slowly, letting the silk slide over her skin. The robe whispered as it was fastened, sleeves brushing against her wrists. The scent of cypress and rose clung to her body, subtle and sweet—her own signature now.
From the next room, Bridgette returned carrying the first chemise—a layer of ivory muslin embroidered with soft blue thread at the edges. “You’ll want this one tonight,” she said gently. “It breathes well under the corset.” Kalithea nodded, her fingers tightening the robe’s sash briefly before parting it to step into the fresh layer. The muslin floated down over her shoulders like a sigh, skimming her frame, featherlight.
Sam chuckled, looking at Bridgette with a smile. “Corset or not, that waist will scandalize a row of duchesses.” Sam remarked lightly as she knelt again to help guide the hem. Kalithea laughed silently, her smile small but unmistakably amused.
“You should have seen Lady Vessina at the hunting games,” Claudia added, her voice full of mock-innocence. “She almost choked on her cordial when she saw you walk by.”
“Twice,” Claudette whispered, eyes wide with false shock. “And with no corset that day.”
“Tonight,” Martha interjected from near the wardrobe, “she’ll need one.” She turned slowly, holding a garment in both arms—boned, laced, and structured with precision. A soft dove-blue corset with white embroidered roses curling along the edges. It gleamed subtly with silver-thread detailing. “It just arrived. From Miss Lanali herself. She sent a note: ‘To complement the lilies of her presence.’”
Kalithea’s breath caught for a moment as she looked at it—recognizing the craftsmanship immediately. Royal Blue and white like the sea and the sky, regal, feminine and yet almost too striking to wear. Behind her, the maids had already begun.
The garters came first—soft silk bands, ivory with ribbon fastenings. Sam fastened them gently, securing them mid-thigh. Then came the stockings—sheer, lace-edged, clinging delicately to her legs. Claudia and Claudette moved with practiced ease, smoothing the fabric in place without tugging, adjusting the ribbons with whispered giggles.
Martha stood behind her now, calm and steady, as she always was. “Arms lifted, please, my lady.”
Kalithea obeyed, her heart fluttering as the corset wrapped around her waist. The blue silk hugged her form, cinching gently but firmly. Each tug of the laces pulled her upright—shoulders straightening, breath shallowing. But it did not hurt. It felt… sculpted. Held. Beautiful.
“There we are,” Martha said softly, tying the final ribbon. “The perfect hourglass.” Her hands moved next to the skirt—white layers of embroidered tulle and silk, shaped in gentle pleats and flowing to the ground in slow waves.
As they dressed her, Bridgette returned with a warm towel and began to carefully dry Kalithea’s hair. “You’re glowing already,” she whispered. “And we haven’t even touched the perfumes yet!” Kalithea smiled, her eyes fluttering shut as warm air was passed through her curls, drying them with care. The strands were brushed until they shone like dark ink in candlelight.
Kalithea smiled, her eyes fluttering shut as warm air was passed through her curls, drying them with care. The strands were brushed until they shone like dark ink in candlelight—soft waves falling in polished, silken ribbons down her back. Claudette stepped forward next, a small ivory tray in her hands. “We thought to leave your hair loose tonight, my lady,” she murmured, her tone reverent, “to match the softness of your dress.”
Carefully, she swept Kalithea’s curls back from her temples, arranging the front sections into a graceful half-up twist. From a silk-lined pouch, she withdrew three delicate pearl hairpins, each no larger than the tip of a petal. One by one, she nestled them at the crown of Kalithea’s head—like droplets of moonlight caught in midnight waves. Then a narrow circlet of tiny pearls set along a silver vine, its band so fine it vanished into her hair. It crowned her without weight, resting just behind her hairline, catching the light with every quiet breath she took.
“You look like something from a midsummer dream,” Sam whispered, pausing for just a moment to admire her. Claudia agreed quickly, approached next with a square velvet box, flipping it open to reveal the jewels chosen for the evening—a perfectly matched set.
First, a necklace: a string of pearls, dainty and pale as seafoam, with a single sapphire—cut like a teardrop—suspended in the hollow of her throat. Bridgette fastened it with steady fingers, and the stone shimmered softly against Kalithea’s skin, cool and true.
Then came the earrings: twin sapphires framed in silver, dangling just enough to glimmer when she turned her head. Claudia clasped them carefully, her fingers brushing Kalithea’s cheek with sisterly care.
“Hold out your hands, my lady,” said Martha gently. Kalithea did, and into her palms were placed navy lace gloves—elegantly sheer, stretching to her mid-forearm with scalloped edges at the wrist. Kalithea slipped them on, the fine lace clinging to her fingers like whispers. They completed the silhouette—poised and poised to be admired, without asking for it.
Then came the final touch. Bridgette approached once more, this time holding a tiny jar no larger than a coin. “No powders. No rouge,” she said softly, uncapping the jar. “Just a bit of balm. Rose-tinted. Barely there.” With a fingertip, she dabbed the softest sheen of color onto Kalithea’s lips. It wasn’t painted—it was kissed. A faint, glistening blush of petal-pink that deepened the natural hue of her mouth.
“Now for the perfume,” Bridgette murmured, reaching for a slim crystal atomizer. With practiced grace, she misted the air—twice—just above Kalithea’s shoulders. The scent floated down like evening light: almond blossom, bergamot, and a breath of something warm and ambered. It clung to her like memory—sweet and unmistakably hers.
Kalithea turned—slowly—and saw herself. The gown was unlike anything she had ever worn. Its base was a soft, creamy white—not stark, but warm, like the heart of a magnolia blossom beneath moonlight. Over this fell layers of sheer silk organza, embroidered with thread-of-silver florals that shimmered only when caught at the right angle. The full skirt was pleated from the waist down, flowing like water with every movement, cascading in soft waves that trailed behind her in hushed elegance.
But it was the bodice that arrested breath. The corset was deep navy blue, sculpted and boned, tailored to fit her like it had been stitched onto her soul. It hugged her hourglass shape with grace, the sweetheart neckline trimmed with fine scalloped lace. Along the front, delicate climbing roses had been embroidered by hand in pale ivory thread, as if a garden were blooming along her ribs. Tiny pearls nestled within each blossom, subtle enough to catch light but never to shout.
From her shoulders, silk ribbon straps fell like whispers—wide and structured where they joined the bodice, but trailing down her back in long tails, like loose tendrils of moonlight that had forgotten where to settle. The back laces of the corset had been fastened by Martha with precise care, drawn tight enough to shape her but not to bind. The trailing ribbons there, too, were navy silk, pooling softly at the base of her spine like falling dusk. And at the center of her chest, a blooming sapphire brooch brought the whole look together.
The last light of preparation touched Kalithea’s skin like a farewell kiss. Her hands smoothed the final silk ribbon down the back of her gown before she reached for her heels—white satin with a hint of pearl gloss, the bows at the ankle matching the lace at her gloves. As she stepped into them, she breathed once—slow and steady. When she straightened, her eyes turned to her maids-in-waiting. She didn’t write anything, not this time, instead, she looked at them—really looked at them—and smiled.
Martha, ever composed, blinked quickly to keep her emotions from showing. Sam clasped her hand with a soft sound in her throat that might’ve been a laugh or a sob. Claudia and Claudette, holding both of her hands between theirs, beamed like the proudest sisters in the kingdom. And Bridgette, cool and elegant as always, leaned forward just enough to whisper: “Leave them stunned, my lady.”
Kalithea turned, her gloves still warm from the girls’ hands. She gave one final nod, her curls glimmering with pearls, and made her way to the door. As it opened, the corridor outside spilled with golden lamplight.
Adeline and Erin stood waiting—not in plated armor, but in formal military dress, their uniforms tailored close, dark velvet with high collars and silver cords woven through their shoulders. Swords rested at their hips—not drawn, not decorative, but ready. They were radiant in their own right—statuesque, protective, proud.
But the moment they saw Kalithea, both women blinked—and grinned. “Well,” said Adeline, eyes wide with playful reverence, “we were sent here to escort a lady—not a vision.”
“I give it fifteen seconds before His Majesty forgets every word in the dictionary,” Dame Erin murmured beside her, lips twitching with mirth.
Kalithea’s cheeks flushed instantly—a blooming, radiant blush that colored her from the base of her throat to the tips of her ears. She pressed her gloved hands gently over her mouth, shoulders trembling with quiet laughter. Adeline offered her arm, the gesture both regal and mischievous. “Come, now, my lady. You’ve already stolen the whole night—you may as well arrive.”
Kalithea nodded, slipping her hand into Adeline’s as they began their descent down the grand staircase, Erin following just behind with watchful ease. The manor had grown hushed—not empty, but reverent. Lamps glowed golden against the dark stone walls, their reflections dancing along the glossy tiled floor. The steps beneath her feet were smooth and polished, and Kalithea moved slowly, carefully, her gown trailing like ocean foam behind her.
At the base of the staircase, beneath the arched marble gallery, Jotaro stood in profile—speaking quietly with Avdolia, his posture composed as always. His attire was nothing short of imperial—yet it bore no gaudy decoration, no flourish for spectacle. Everything about his look tonight was precision, power, and restraint.
He wore a tailored dark grey coat, the velvet so deep it drank in the light, falling long past his knees in a cut that accentuated his height and form. Over it, a navy blue waistcoat peeked through—brocade patterned with subtle silver thistle motifs, visible only in shifting light. His collar was sharp and tall, layered with a high-necked silk cravat, tied close to his throat and secured with a black sapphire pin shaped like a falling star.
A long midnight-black cloak with a rich navy-blue interior lined his shoulders—fastened at one side with a steel clasp shaped like an eagle in flight. A structured half-cape rested over one shoulder, its embroidery glinting faintly like frost on stone, and from beneath it, the gloved hand not resting behind his back carried fine black leather—ready to offer it to no one but her.
His trousers were jet-black, tucked neatly into polished boots that glimmered with quiet precision. The lines of his entire ensemble were cut with military clarity, but the fabric, the fall, the sheen—all spoke of a man who chose elegance, not one who was dressed into it. And though he wore no crown, his presence filled the space more than any metal ever could. He didn’t look up right away. But when he did—when he saw her on the stairs in her sapphire-trimmed gown, eyes glowing softly—the storm in him quieted. And the weight of the room belonged to neither his station nor her silence. It belonged to the look they shared across the marble space between them.
Each step Kalithea took down the staircase felt featherlight—yet echoed like a drum within Jotaro’s chest. Her hand rested on Dame Adeline’s arm, but her gaze never left his. The candlelight painted delicate shadows against the navy embroidery of her corset, her skirt blooming behind her like moonlight unfurling across midnight water. The pearls in her hair caught the lowlight, and her sapphire earrings swayed ever so slightly, like whispered affirmations.
Avdolia, standing just to Jotaro’s right, turned slightly to watch the man beside her. The look in his eyes was plain—for anyone who knew what to look for. Steady, ravaged and reverent. Not hunger, not possessiveness—but something deeper. Something fragile in the chest of a man who had never been taught softness and yet found himself staring at it, wrapped in navy and white. She smiled—quietly proud. And murmured, just before Kalithea reached them: “You look beautiful, my star.”
Kalithea gave a graceful, grateful nod, her hand tightening briefly around Dame Adeline’s hand. Her eyes full, and yet her lips trembled with meaning. Jotaro moved, his hand a gasping his chest in a simple bow towards her. And yet, after such, he extended a hand in simple offering. His gloved reached hers as her hand slid gently into his palm. He closed around her hand like he was catching a breath.
Then he leaned in, his voice low and quiet, meant for her and her alone—words like dusk slipping through a half-open window.“You do realize, don’t you,” he murmured, “that the room hasn’t exhaled since you walked in?” Her breath caught, her lashes low, a smile blooming on her lips—not coy, not practiced, but so sweet, so utterly real that he nearly forgot where he was.
He held her hand a moment longer than necessary before offering his arm, which she took with ease, as if it had always been meant for her. From behind them, Dame Erin and Adeline straightened as the double doors to the manor opened with a quiet hush. The courtyard beyond was lit with lanterns and glowing braziers. At the front of the procession, Sir Jean and Sir Amadeus waited, already mounted, their polished uniforms catching the firelight like starlight on steel.
Dame Adeline and Erin fell into step just behind, veils of formality rising around them like a curtain drawn for ceremony. They would ride flanking formation for the carriage—eyes sharp and weapons ready. Kalithea, Jotaro, and Avdolia walked together toward the waiting carriage—its frame a deep onyx trimmed in silver, with navy cushions and glass-paned lanterns glowing softly from within.
As they reached the door, Jotaro stepped forward to open it himself. Avdolia entered first with a soft hum of approval as she swept her cloak in and settled elegantly. Kalithea followed, her skirts swaying, and finally Jotaro, his movements smooth and unhurried, like the command of a man who had nowhere more important to be than beside her. Inside, the carriage was warm, dim, the scent of leather and lavender lingering faintly from the evening’s preparations.
The carriage rumbled softly beneath them, its wheels turning over cobblestone like the rhythm of an old waltz. Outside, the world was velvet and lantern-glow, glimpsed only through frosted glass. Inside, the silence wasn’t empty. It was full—thick with things not said. Avdolia’s gaze flicked to the opposite seat where Jotaro sat, spine straight, his gloved hand resting once again on his knee. Beside him, Kalithea sat with poise, her hands folded gently over her lap, her skirts gathered in elegant layers around her.
Jotaro spoke first—low, factual. “We’ll arrive just before the overture begins. They’ll delay starting if I signal for it.”
Avdolia glanced toward him, one brow lifted. “How grand,” she said dryly, teasing at his remark. “Delaying the arts by decree. Do you also summon storms to suit your mood?”
He didn’t glance at her. “Only when needed.” Then, calmly, “And only when someone else makes me late.”
Kalithea’s eyes lifted slightly, her smile small, but warm. She reached for her booklet with practiced ease, the leather cover slipping open like a favorite letter. Her pen moved slowly, gracefully, each curve written with care. “If we arrive late, perhaps the music will wait kindly, like a friend who leaves the door open in case you return.” She turned the page toward them, her eyes low but thoughtful. Jotaro leaned in slightly to read it, and for a brief instant, something in his posture shifted—not visibly, but perceptibly. As though the weight of command eased for just a breath.
Avdolia’s smile faded into something quieter. “My star reminds me,” she said softly, “of the kind of girl songs are written about. Not loud. Just… unforgettable.” Jotaro didn’t reply. But his gaze returned to Kalithea and lingered—longer this time, eyes fixed on her not with desire, but with something steadier. Something that looked like yearning wrapped in reverence.
Kalithea did not meet his gaze. She only looked down again and wrote one final line. “I hope I don’t shine too brightly tonight, only warmly enough to be kind.” And outside, the lights of the opera house came into view—brilliant and gold against the indigo dusk, a palace of sound and velvet.
The carriage came to a slow, seamless stop beneath the shadowed portico of the Royal Opera House—its tall white columns bathed in amber lamplight, the gilded crest of the empire catching every flicker of fire. The velvet carpet stretched before them like an unfurled vow, and the low hum of the waiting footmen, greeters, and attendants gave the moment a sheen of orchestrated silence.
The carriage door opened from the outside—Sir Jean and Sir Amadeus visible beyond, already dismounted, stationed with precision beneath the arch. Jotaro stepped out first, the crowd parting on instinct. He was dressed in shadow and structure, his dark grey coat slicing cleanly against the lanternlight, the silver embroidery at his collar catching faint glints like starlight on frost. His expression remained unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes searched only for her.
He extended his hand back into the carriage. Kalithea emerged with care, her gloved fingers resting in his. The opera lights struck her dress—navy corset, white and silver layers cascading like light over seafoam—and she stepped down as though gravity had forgotten her name.
Beside them followed Avdolia, regal and composed, cloaked in plum with ink-dark braids twisted like royal ribbons. Behind, Dame Adeline and Dame Erin followed in their combat-ready formalwear, eyes sharp even in velvet-lined sleeves. Inside the theatre, the crowd was already beginning to hum—softly, curiously, with restrained anticipation. A few heads turned, then more.
A quiet nod from Jotaro to the house steward, no words spoken—only a subtle glance. The steward bowed at once and hurried into the wings, whispering to the orchestra director. “His majesty wishes the wait of the overture.” Because royalty had arrived. And more than that—something unexplainable had walked through those doors. The kind of presence that didn’t announce itself in trumpets or tiaras.
It announced itself in the silence that followed them, the way even seasoned nobles straightened their collars and held their breath. As they ascended the steps toward the Imperial Velvet Box, Kalithea walked beside Jotaro, her hand resting gently on his arm. She didn’t grip, didn’t cling—only touched with light steadiness, her steps in perfect sync with his.
Avdolia remained just beside her, offering quiet commentary beneath her breath. “You are causing an earthquake, little star.” Kalithea’s lips quirked, blinking in a blushed surprise as she kept her gaze forward. A few guests who had yet to enter the theatre proper lingered in the grand foyer—fanning themselves or inspecting their invitations. But the moment their eyes caught sight of the Emperor and his companion, breath hitched in every throat.
A duchess near the marble banister stiffened, her fan of mother-of-pearl and peacock feather trembling just slightly at the hinge. “Is that—?” she breathed, eyes narrowing behind her lace veil.
“She’s must be wearing an original gown,” hissed the woman beside her, a marquess’s wife cloaked in dove-grey satin and dripping with moonstone. “That particular gown looks so similar to what a Duchess of Vermont commissioned three seasons ago and never released.”
“She’s not of the Lirian branch,” a viscount murmured from behind them, his voice clipped and smooth. “I know every girl in the western courts. She wasn’t at Rosemoor, nor the Harvest Cotillion.”
“And yet she walks with the Emperor like she belongs to the bloodline,” said a baroness with a velvet choker tight at her throat, rings clinking as she adjusted her opera glass. “No curtsey. No hesitation.”
A gentleman standing beside the grand stairwell adjusted the diamond pin at his cravat and whispered to his companion, “The Headmistress is with them. Avdolia. She hasn’t left the Academy for a little while, not even for the coronation gala.”
“Then the girl must be someone.”
“Or worse,” came the dry reply, “someone no one can claim.”
Others watched from the edges of the vestibule, half-hidden behind gilded columns or the crystal-garlanded palms that lined the hall. They stared over fans, behind feathered masks, their eyes sharp as embroidery needles. “She’s familiar,” muttered a dowager countess, a walking stick tucked beneath her fur-lined elbow. “I swear I’ve seen her before.”
“Yes,” said her niece, voice low, tone suspicious. “But not at any house I’d be seen attending.” “They say she was once a maid,” whispered a girl in blue tulle, clutching her lace gloves too tightly. “Or an orphan taken in by one of the magistrates.”
“No, no,that cannot be possible” countered a gentleman in a navy frock coat, his tone insufferably assured. “She’s the girl from the Winter Ball. The one who wore ivory and walked in like a prayer. That was her.” The rumor spread like frost over glass—quick, quiet, undeniable.
“Which makes it worse,” her cousin muttered, half horrified. “She’s…new. A mystery. A name we don’t know how to pronounce.” At the top of the stairs, the subject of their whispers walked in silence. Kalithea, in a gown that rippled like whispered water and stitched light into its very seams, walked beside His Majesty with neither apology nor arrogance. Her eyes remained low, her posture gentle. One hand rested at his arm, not tight, but steady. She had not bowed to the room, nor looked to see who watched.
From the distant boxes and rows below, the Imperial Velvet Box looked like a dream cut into architecture—carved from midnight and lined in silver, a sanctuary of hushed luxury perched just above the stage. The curtains around it were drawn back in soft folds of crushed navy velvet, trimmed in thread-of-pearl. Inside, three figures had just taken their seats, but only one drew every eye.
From across the gallery, nobles watched her like one watches a flame in the dark—drawn in without understanding why. “Look at the way she sits,” whispered a countess behind a fan of silver lace. “No jitters. No small talk. Just… ease.”
From a tier above, a group of young lords leaned against the velvet railings, trying—and failing—to appear disinterested.
“But who is she?” a woman in crushed lilac murmured. “No titles, no house, no lands. And yet—”
“They match,” her companion said, almost begrudgingly. “He with his storm, and she with her silence. They’re a pair, whether they meant to be or not.” And that was the most unsettling part for the court, how they looked like the perfect pair. Better than anyone wanted or wished to be, and even more so than Marina. More than any of the Season’s daughters who had been groomed since birth to sit where Kalithea now sat—serene, radiant, and impossible to displace.
Within the Imperial Box, the orchestra gave another soft tremble of strings as the conductor hesitated. He understood that they had not yet finished stealing the night. Jotaro leaned in, voice low, meant only for her “They must be watching,” he murmured. “Your friends. I imagine they’ve already found you.”
Kalithea’s lashes lowered, her fingers brushing against her lap before she reached for her booklet. She didn’t rush—only wrote with her usual quiet care. “May I visit them before the overture? I wouldn’t wish to be rude.”
He turned to her, his face remained calm—but something warm shimmered just behind his gaze, like glass catching candlelight. “If you’d like,” he said, voice velvet-dark, “I can have them join us here.”
She blinked, surprised. The offer was so… easy. As if all she had to do was whisper the wish. She dipped her pen again, with utmost grace. “I think I’d like to see them where they remain. To be among them where they have invited me in their hearts, not above.”
A soft breath escaped him—amused, understanding. And then, with a tenderness reserved only for her. “If you change your mind… the invitation stands.” She met his gaze then—fully. Her smile was small, shy, and staggeringly sincere, like a warm light that reached through the velvet hush between them. The space between his hand and hers remained untouched, yet the air shimmered, close enough to ache.
Yet, he reached forward and gently took her hand only with the kind of reverence that came from knowing he might never deserve to hold something so gentle—but would do everything to protect it anyway. He lifted her gloved fingers to his lips, and without a word, pressed a kiss against the back of her hand. Her breath caught, then came the blush—soft and startled, blooming across her cheeks like dawn seeping into porcelain. She lowered her eyes, flustered, but didn’t pull away.
She stepped back and performed a slow, graceful curtsey in perfect form. A bow deep enough to honor his station—yet unmistakably hers in expression. Neither of obligation or duty, but for him alone. Even though he had once told her she never needed to bow again. He watched in silence, his gaze holding hers as she rose from that curtsey, their eyes catching like thread between fingers.
With one last soft glance—a gaze that held gratitude and something just shy of longing—Kalithea stepped toward the exit of the Imperial Box, her skirts whispering across the velvet floor like flower petals gathered in soft wind. With a flick of his fingers, he gave a silent signal. Dame Adeline straightened immediately, her hand brushing the hilt at her waist as she followed, her stride graceful but alert. Dame Erin, ever measured, fell in just behind with quiet readiness.
The doors opened. Light spilled through, and Kalithea stepped into the golden hush of the corridor, her silhouette cast in the glowing lamplight like something half-remembered from a dream. Blue and white silk whispered behind her, the pearl pins in her hair glinting faintly as she passed.
She had barely crossed the threshold when, from her seat just beyond Jotaro’s right, Avdolia spoke—low, with the kind of mirth only an older sister figure could wield. “Careful, Jotaro,” she murmured, still facing forward but unmistakably amused. “You keep looking at her like that, and soon enough, the whole empire will stop pretending not to notice.”
Jotaro’s voice came cool and dry. “Let them look somewhere else.” But the pause was telling—the way his fingers, loosely clasped, shifted ever so slightly against his knee. The way his gaze lingered a moment longer on the now-closed doors.
Avdolia tilted her head, her smile curling knowingly. “Mmm. Not much of a denial.” Then, with the nonchalance of someone who’d known Kalithea since her handwriting shook and her spine bent in silence, she raised one hand and flicked her fingers toward the girl’s departing form. A subtle shimmer passed like a ripple in the air—soft, unseen to most.
She tapped two fingers lightly against the brooch pinned near Kalithea’s chest. “Just in case she needs a little extra luck,” she murmured, almost to herself. And from the hall beyond, Kalithea—without knowing why—suddenly felt just a little more certain in her step.
From behind fans, across opera glasses, beneath veils and diamonds and whisper-laced sighs, the court took in the image of a girl who had walked into the emperor’s box—and left it as if she had always belonged there.
Kalithea moved through the corridor like a quiet flame, her steps light against the plush carpet, the sound of her silk skirts a gentle hush behind her. The pearl pins in her hair caught every flicker of torchlight, and the blue-and-white gown she wore shimmered like a ripple of seafoam in moonlight.
At either side of her, Dame Adeline and Dame Erin walked at a respectful distance—near enough to shield, far enough to preserve the dignity of the moment. Their eyes were sharp, their expressions neutral, but every now and then, Kalithea could feel a glance—soft with approval, touched with something like pride.
“Your friends,” Dame Adeline said with a faint smile, “are likely to faint on sight.”
Erin added dryly, “If not from seeing you in that gown, then from the fact you left his side at all.” Kalithea’s cheeks flushed, but she didn’t look down. Instead, she let her fingers gently trail along the leather strap of her booklet as she recalled Anise’s letter. “My family maintains a private box just above the Imperial gallery—it’s hardly grand, but it is beautifully placed.” There it was. A steward in navy and brass stood near the arched entryway, arms folded neatly. His eyes widened slightly as Kalithea approached—recognition dawning swiftly in his posture. He bowed at once, then turned with ceremonial flourish to the closed curtain.
With a voice polished for performance, he announced. “Her ladyship, the Lady Kalithea.” The curtain pulled back. Lady Anise, in soft plum tulle with a bodice of scalloped silk and tiny garden pearls sewn into the sheer sleeves. Her smile was already rising before the words could.
Lady Edwina, statuesque in icy blue with silver stitching shaped like falling leaves, her hair swept into a braided crown. Lady Cecily, in rose-gold charmeuse that glimmered like sunlit honey, her shoulders bare beneath a cascade of sheer organza. And Lady Mirielle, gentle and bright, dressed in pale periwinkle with embroidered starbursts trailing down the skirt, her eyes wide and glassy with joy.
Lady Anise, always the first to glow, clasped her hands at her chest, eyes shining as though someone had just turned the stars on above her. Her voice, though bright, remained velvet-polite. “Kalithea! You came down to see us.”
Lady Cecily, graceful as ever in her rose-gold charmeuse, took one small step forward, her hand poised just above her heart. Her words were threaded with breathless delight. “Oh, you darling creature… you look like a midsummer legend cast in silk. Miss Lanali must have wept with pride when she finished that gown.”
Lady Edwina, ever regal and composed, tilted her head with practiced elegance, her ice-blue gown pooling neatly at her ankles. She studied Kalithea not with judgment, but with admiration so finely measured it could have belonged in a portrait. “Thread-of-silver embroidery along the corset, you look lovely.”
Kalithea, startled by the grace of their reception, could only smile—soft and luminous. She lowered her eyes momentarily before opening her booklet, pen moving with a kind of reverence. Her hand trembled slightly, not from nerves, but from emotion. “I promised I’d find you if I could, though I feared I might startle you from such high light. I hope I’ve not disrupted the overture’s hush.”
Mirielle smiled warmly, ever gentle and kind. “You’ve disrupted nothing, dear heart,” she said. “And if you had—we’d call it the loveliest interruption the theatre has ever known.”
Cecily reached for Kalithea’s gloved hand with affectionate ceremony, lowering her voice to a silken murmur. “You look like a poem dressed in velvet. He must’ve stared the entire way here.” Kalithea’s blush bloomed instantly, blooming up from her collarbone like a soft flush of dawn.
“I saw it,” Anise added with a twinkle, eyes flicking from behind her lace fan. “From below. His Majesty didn’t even pretend not to look.” That sent a ripple of laughter through the box—elegant, quiet, but real. No cruelty, no mockery. Just the joy of girls who had spent many nights wondering what such moments would feel like.
Adeline and Erin, just outside, exchanged a glance—smiling softly at the warmth spilling out like a melody from the room. Kalithea, cheeks still pink, wrote again. “You make me blush and laugh like spring, and yet I’ve never felt more grateful for a mirror not nearby—for I’d rather see your faces, all lit with kindness, than my own.”
The girls melted, their smiles touched with awe. Mirielle leaned in gently, pressing a hand to Kalithea’s wrist. “You speak like a garden in bloom,” she whispered. “No wonder the Emperor keeps you so close.”
Edwina, composed but glowing, looked around the box. “We left this seat for you,” she said, motioning to the velvet cushion between them. “In the secret hope you’d come.”
Cecily nodded, smoothing her skirts, as Anise opened her lips to speak. Anise added, voice softening. “You’ve been shining quietly since the Belvarez outing.” Kalithea settled into the space they’d left for her, the folds of her gown spilling like moonlight across the cushion. The warmth of their presence surrounded her—not sharp, not overwhelming.
She looked at each of them, hand poised over her page. You waited for me, and I hope you know I would’ve found you no matter how high the box or low the path. Your kindness has made this season bearable—more than bearable.. bright.” They all fell still for a moment, moved by the truth of her words.
The overture had not yet begun, And yet, the theatre felt suspended—held aloft in a breath it had not dared release. Chandeliers overhead flickered lower, as if bowing in reverence to the silence that gathered like fog across polished floors and velvet walls. Gold leaf softened in the dim, its sharp gleam replaced by a more tender glow, while shadows lengthened along the marble balustrades that rimmed the private boxes above.
The theatre dimmed again. Kalithea lifted her gaze. Above the tiers of nobles and their murmured rustling, above the velvet boxes and powdered brows, her eyes found the highest place in the house—the one balcony shadowed in reverence, veiled in imperial privacy. His eyes were not on the stage, but on her. Her gloves, felt warmer against her palms. The pearl necklace at her throat heavier. Her breath softened in her chest, like it had been touched by a hush more sacred than silence.
She smiled beautifully, but it bloomed like the first flower of spring—hesitant, real, and reaching toward something she hadn’t meant to name. And then, as if the moment had grown too full, she dropped her gaze—heart fluttering like ribbon in wind. She felt a shift in the air that made no sound, that stirred not a single curl of her hair—yet passed across her cheek like a whisper against skin.
No one had touched her. But the sensation remained—a phantom graze, like the air itself had remembered how to love. Somehow, beneath velvet and space and the breathless hush of the room, he had reached for her. With a subtle flick of his fingers, a gesture so small the world would miss it entirely—but not her. A secret between the two of them, passed through nothing but space, will, and something dangerously like longing. She lifted a hand slowly, fingertips grazing the place his magic had touched.
And in that moment, Kalithea forgot the hush of nobles, the pressure of eyes, the shape of courtly posture. Her world had narrowed to one balcony, one figure, and the unbearable stillness between two people who had never touched—yet always felt.
Below, the orchestra stirred. A single note hummed into the air, soft and tentative. The overture was ready to begin. Around her, the audience leaned forward, fans lowered, shoulders drawn tight with expectation. But Kalithea did not move. She simply sat—touched without touch, seen without spectacle, loved without a name.
The first notes of the overture unfurled like silk across the velvet silence. High, crystalline strings shimmered into the air—light as frost, trembling like glass before it breaks. Horns followed in low, mournful hums, as though echoing through forest hollows, weaving in and around the melody like smoke curling through golden leaves.
Kalithea sat still, hands folded gently in her lap, her posture as perfect as any noble—but her eyes, wide and awestruck, betrayed her. The curtain lifted. A veil of silver gossamer parted on stage, revealing a glimmering forest set aglow with fae lanterns. The story of The Veil of Aesthera began. It was a tragic romance—woven in secrets and war, with a hidden queen who wore silence like armor and a forgotten prince who burned to name her. Each aria bloomed with anguish and tenderness, sung with voices so radiant that Kalithea felt them not in her ears, but in her chest.
Soprano notes climbed like longing up cathedral walls. The tenor’s voice folded around the strings, low and aching, each word like a vow buried beneath years of quiet waiting. Kalithea’s lips parted in wonder. Her heart—already so full from earlier—ached in a new, tender way.
“She’s luminous,” Edwina whispered beside her, referencing the actress playing Aesthera.
Kalithea turned, cheeks pinking, but her smile bloomed nonetheless. She leaned slightly toward her friends, then wrote. “It feels like I’ve stepped into someone else’s dream. I never imagined music could be this… full. As though it reaches even where breath cannot.”
“She reminds me of you,” Mirielle murmured back. They giggled—delicately, beautifully—and Kalithea, glowing beside them, let herself belong. She sat with her hands in her lap, her gown draped like a painted wave around her seat, the scent of rose-powder, candlewax, and old wood mingling in the warm hush between scenes. Her eyes, wide from wonder, had not left the stage until the very last note faded.
And when the final aria swelled into its heartbreaking crescendo—Aesthera cloaked in silver, her veil torn away by love and ruin—the entire theatre held its breath. The soprano’s voice rose like a bird in the snow, soaring into silence just as the curtain fell.
A soft whoosh followed. Velvet, thick and slow, sighed down to meet the polished floor. And with it, the theatre exhaled. Not loudly—but like a garden sighs beneath the first breeze of spring. Lights began to rise—not fully, but enough to warm the faces of the audience in gold-leaf glow. Along the boxes, fans lifted. Gloves straightened. Murmurs began again like water returning to its banks after a flood.
She sat as if spellbound, her posture serene but the faintest tremble of breath escaping her lips. Her heart was full in that quiet way—so full it ached. Beside her, Mirielle dabbed the corner of one eye with a silken handkerchief. “She was exquisite,” she whispered.
But Kalithea remained very still. Her heart, steeped in melody and memory, was still suspended somewhere between the notes. And then, without needing to think, she reached for her pen again. It slid into her fingers like a part of her. Her hand moved in practiced loops, graceful as the script itself. “May I return to His Majesty’s side? I feel I’ve lingered long enough—though I wish to stay with you all longer.”
The reply came not in silence, but in smiles. Edwina, poised and elegant, looked over with a knowing warmth. “You must go,” she said gently, her tone low and composed, like a secret offered in candlelight. “He’ll be waiting.”
“We’ll be offended if you don’t,” Cecily added, eyes dancing as she flicked a curl behind her ear. “What gentleman gifts you the Imperial Box and not your hand during intermission?”
“We’ll manage,” Mirielle said, reaching to fix a loose corner of Kalithea’s shawl. “Though we’ll expect every detail written out—clearly, no excuses.” Kalithea’s blush rose all the way to her ears. She lowered her gaze, but the curve of her smile gave her away entirely. Her pen returned to the page. “Then I will write to you the moment I return to my rooms, each moment, as if it were poetry pressed in ink.”
A gentle stillness followed, warm and content. But before she could stand—there came the quiet shuffle of polished shoes. A rustle of robes. The steward by the entrance bowed low and stepped aside. And through the softened light of the doorway entered a presence wrapped in dignity, Avdolia stood Her cloak was indigo velvet, her braids wound in silver cord, and her eyes—sharp, clear, and endlessly calm—swept across the room not with scrutiny, but with recognition.
“Headmistress,” Anise breathed, placing her hand lightly over her chest. “It’s… an honor.”
Avdolia’s expression curved, the faintest smile forming like a crescent moon. “At ease, my dears,” she said, her voice low and velvety. “I came only to see the girls who have welcomed one of mine.”
Her gaze fell to Kalithea then—not with surprise, but with deep pride. She studied the girl for a moment longer, her eyes sweeping over the pearls in her hair, the fitted navy corset, the softness in her smile.
“You have found good company,” she said simply. “I could ask for no better gift.” She turned slightly, her robe shifting with elegant precision, and addressed the others with a gentle grace rarely seen from those of the Academy. “Your houses?” Avdolia asked gently, though her eyes already hinted at knowing. They responded in turn, polished and respectful as their upbringing demanded.
“Lady Edwina Rosamunde Ferndale of House Belclaire,” Edwina said, dipping her head with quiet dignity, her hands folded neatly at her waist.
“Lady Mirielle Evandrel of House Evendrel,” said Mirielle, her voice a soft lilt, her smile warm and composed.
“Lady Cecily Duvan of House Viremont,” Cecily added with the poise of one used to both flattery and scrutiny, her posture effortlessly flawless.
“Lady Anise Wynthorne, of the High Western Courts,” Anise finished, her voice touched with pride, but never arrogance.
Avdolia’s lips curved, just slightly. “Of course,” she murmured, her gaze drifting to each girl as if sifting through a treasury of remembered names. “Belclaire—your house funded the North Library Wing during the war. Your grandmother sat on the previous emperor’s personal council. Lady Rosamunde, I presume you are the one who wrote the report on cross-empire naval trade a few years back, yes?”
Edwina blinked, stunned for half a breath—then smiled, the praise clearly more than she expected. “I… yes. That was me, Headmistress.”
“House Evendrel,” Avdolia continued, eyes now resting on Mirielle. “You’re descended from the Astral Cartographers. Your mother drew the first magical map to chart the Saerin Divide. You favor her, in spirit.” Mirielle’s breath caught in delight, her blush blooming like a secret flower.
“And Viremont,” Avdolia said, nodding to Cecily. “Your house’s treaties kept the trade ports open during the Lysmar famine. That silver on your gloves—your family’s mines, no doubt.”
Cecily gave a startled laugh, then curtsied more deeply. “Yes, Headmistress. You are frighteningly well-read.” “
And the Wynthornes,” she said at last, her gaze softening as it fell on Anise. “The High Western Courts rarely send daughters east. But your name appears in the Academy’s garden grant. You drafted the petition?”
Anise’s mouth parted in surprise. “I… I did. With the help of my uncle, but—yes.”
Avdolia gave a quiet, pleased nod. “All noble. All kind. All accomplished. I am grateful to know you’ve made room beside you… for someone the court did not expect.” Then, she turned back to Kalithea—her voice low, threaded with affection. “You’re expected, little star.”
She extended her arm—not in command, but in invitation. Kalithea rose like moonlight poured into motion. Her friends all looked at her, glowing. Cecily adjusted Kalithea’s shawl with gentle fingers. Mirielle brushed a bit of lint from her sleeve. Edwina held her gaze a moment longer, with a smile. And Anise, ever bright, nodded decisively as she folded her fan with a dramatic snap.
“Don’t let us keep you,” she said, grinning. “But we expect—at minimum—a four-page letter, complete with metaphor, mood, and scandalous blushes.” Kalithea turned scarlet, as her pen moved quickly with every thought that came across her mind. “I will write every word, and fold it as carefully as a secret tucked beneath lace.”
Avdolia chuckled under her breath. “That, I suspect,” she murmured as she guided Kalithea gently toward the open corridor, “she will deliver.” And so the girl in white and navy stepped once more into the golden-lit hall, with her head high, her cheeks aglow, and her friends watching her like a precious dream they were proud to hold—even if only for a little while. So she left back to His Majesty’s box, as her knights followed beside her.
Behind her, the distant sounds of intermission murmured like waves—the clink of crystal, the rustle of silk, the low hum of voices threading through chandelier light. But before her, at the top of the gilded stair, the entrance to the Imperial Box stood open once more—bathed in quiet gold and solemn stillness. The hem of her gown whispered behind her like moon-pale mist, pooling softly at her heels. Every pearl in her hair caught the glow of the lanterns overhead, winking like stars as she passed beneath their flickering gaze.
Jotaro stood at is center, for neither decorum nor display, but because the moment she returned, his body rose instinctively—like gravity had shifted in her direction, and he was drawn without thought. Her skirts rustled softly as she paused at the edge of the room, her eyes lowering as warmth surged across her face—a blush rising like dawn across ivory porcelain.
As he held his hand towards her, she stepped foward. Her fingers slid into his palm—small, cool, trembling just slightly—and he closed his around hers like a vow spoken through touch. A quiet pull brought her close, never rushed, never forced. Then he leaned in—barely, only enough for his breath to graze the curve of her cheek as he whispered, “I began to wonder,” he murmured, “whether the second act would feel longer… without you in it.”
Kalithea blinked. The breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding released in a shiver. Her pen was already in her hand, but for a moment—she hesitated, then wrote. “ You must forgive me…I feared if I looked at you too soon, I’d miss the music.” And though he didn’t smile, something in his eyes softened—a shift behind the steel.
She turned her face just enough to meet his eyes, lashes lifted, lips parted with the faintest curve. Tucking her hand into his arm, they turned as Jotaro opened his lips to speak. “Intermission will remain dull. We’ll take the refreshment wing. No public hall.”
Kalithea and Avdolia nodded, as they followed his direction with swift detail. Avdolia inclined her head, her voice smooth. “Wise. The walls in there talk louder than the people.” His bearing held its usual sovereign weight—spine straight, hands composed, gaze fixed forward—but beside him moved Kalithea, and there, something softer lived.
Kalithea, still silent, lifted her pen as they began their walk, letting the motion soothe her nerves. She wrote carefully, the loops soft and full. “This hall and its court, still watches me like I am not real, nor do I exist. But after a moment with my friends where I may breathe in comfortable silence, here I may as well.”
Jotaro glanced at the booklet, then at her. His steps never faltered. “They simply lack the imagination to understand what stands before them.” Avdolia arched a brow, bemused, covering her smile with her hand to hide it. Kalithea’s grip on his arm eased ever so slightly—not in retreat, but in trust. The warmth of his sleeve beneath her fingers steadied her more than she expected.
Avdolia flanked her opposite side, her dark cloak trailing like shadowed ink across marble, eyes forward, but always aware. Adeline and Erin followed at a respectful distance, silent, attentive, ever present—but letting the moment unfold without interference.
The hush thickened more than just the intermission. It was the kind of silence that followed beauty not yet understood, hovering, warm and breathless, when the air still shimmered with unspoken meaning. The nobles leaned ever so slightly in the direction of the Imperial Box—not overtly, not shamefully, but with the kind of hunger that made fans flutter too fast and jewels hang too heavy.
“She’s leaving again,” came the low murmur from behind a lace fan edged in sapphires. “That’s twice in one evening.”
“With His Majesty at her side,” added a marchioness in stiff silver brocade. “Not a guard. Not a maid. Not a companion. The Emperor.”
“No one leaves the Imperial Box during second call,” a viscountess in high pearl collar sniffed. “It is simply not done.”
“Not even Marina,” someone murmured from behind a peacock-feathered mask. “Especially not Marina.She would have never been permitted to. Her duties forbade it.”
“Her duties,” echoed a countess with a wine-dark pendant, “or her limits?” A subtle smirk passed between the group.
“His Majesty never escorted Marina beyond any corridor,” someone noted. “And never during a performance. But this girl—she walks like the intermission waits on her arrival.”
“A silent girl granted an Emperor’s escort,” said a baron’s daughter in veiled emerald. “And a place Marina only dreamed of.” Across the gallery, on the lower west wing balcony, four young ladies stood like a painting gilded in light—their gowns immaculate, their posture elegant, their eyes turned not toward the stage, but toward the corridor.
“There she is,” Lady Anise breathed, her voice light as pressed petals, fingers poised at the edge of the curtain. “She’s leaving the box… again.”
Edwina leaned slightly forward with the grace of someone raised in observation. “The theatre may raise curtains—but she raises expectation.”
Cecily, ever serene, observed in silence before speaking. “Look at His Majesty,” she said softly. “He shifts for her—ever so slightly. A gesture few would notice… unless they knew what they were seeing.”
Mirielle, pressed her fingers lightly together. “They’ll call her something else soon,” Mirielle murmured. “Something they won’t admit aloud until the name has already taken root.”
“She looks wonderfully happy,” Anise said softly, her gaze still fixed on their friend in white and navy. “Not overjoyed. Not undone. Just… quietly, radiantly happy.” They all nodded. And though not one of them reached for another word, the feeling passed between them like light caught in a glass.
The corridor gave way to a smaller, secluded wing—an imperial salon tucked into the east side of the opera’s private galleries. It was not lavish in the way ballrooms were, but deliberate—a chamber where the finest details were meant to be noticed only by those who understood refinement.
The walls were paneled in pale walnut, the grain polished until it shone like moonlight on still water. Heavy velvet drapes in deep sapphire framed tall arched windows, their folds embroidered with thistles in near-invisible thread. A chandelier of blown glass hung low above the center table, its droplets catching the light like teardrops waiting to fall. The air held the scent of white currant and myrrh—subtle, imperial, clean.
Kalithea stepped inside first, guided gently by the hand resting beneath hers. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Her presence entered the room like a sigh—quiet, elegant, felt before it was fully seen.
At the center, a lacquered table had already been prepared: a silver tray of crystal cordial glasses, each rim lightly sugared; a fine carafe of chilled plum wine; three tiered stands of confections too delicate to endure an hour of the court’s heat. And—glinting like temptation—a bowl of sugared cherries, their ruby skins dulled beneath spun sugar, stems coiled like calligraphy.
Jotaro stopped only once they were fully inside. He unbuttoned a single clasp on his longcoat, then removed his gloves with practiced precision—not performative, just precise. Kalithea’s eyes drifted over the polished table once more, then back to Jotaro. The low light of the salon played softly along his profile—sharp lines made gentle beneath the flicker of the chandelier. He stood near the tray, a cherry stem held between two fingers, though he hadn’t yet taken one. His voice, when it came, was low but clear. “How have you liked the performance so far?”
Kalithea’s pen moved gently, her script unhurried, delicate in the hush. It feels like stepping into someone else’s memory. “A place stitched with sorrow and gold. I never knew voices could paint grief so beautifully.” She turned the page slightly so he could read it, like someone realizing the softness of snowfall only after stepping into it.
Across the room, Avdolia, now settled near the carved walnut paneling, let out a thoughtful breath. “The singers this season are exceptional,” she said. “The soprano playing Aesthera studied at the Ardrien Conservatory. Her voice was trained to carry through wind.”
Kalithea glanced at her and smiled, pen fluttering back to the page. “She sounds like starlight. The kind you only hear when the wind sleeps.” Avdolia laughed under her breath, not mocking—only touched. The moment stretched quietly after that. Jotaro poured another measure of his peach cordial, his fingers never rushing.
His coat shifted as he turned—his movement exact, every line of him drawn tight and regal—but Kalithea could feel the space between them lessening, not physically, but gradually, like the sun warming a patch of shadow. As he handed her a glass without asking. She accepted it with both hands, her gloves brushing the back of his knuckles. Just the stillness of two people beginning to share the same rhythm.
Avdolia’ a eyes softened, something shimmered faintly across her pupils, like moonlight skimming across glass. A pulse of magic, gentle and inward, told her what time refused to say aloud. Her hand moved lightly to her wrist, where a spell-ring had warmed. Not just for her to leave—but because they no longer needed her to stay. She stood slowly, brushing one hand over the velvet folds of her cloak.
Kalithea turned to her at once. Their eyes met—and the warmth between them bloomed like something unspoken, ancient and rooted in love. “I must return,” Avdolia said gently. “The council waits. And they have no patience for beauty, I’m afraid.”
Kalithea’s hand trembled slightly as she lifted her pen, each letter written with care. “I knew the moment would come, but so soon when the night was beginning to start? I do regret not being able to spend time with you more than I ought.”
Avdolia crossed the space between them and reached for Kalithea’s hand—not to read, but to hold. She squeezed it once, firmly. “I know you will write to me, little star” she said, tone low, but sure. “Pages and pages. I want ink on your fingers and truth in your spine.” Kalithea nodded, lips pressed together to keep them from quivering.
Then she turned—slowly—toward Jotaro. At their eyes locked, without blink or bow, she smiled. “You have my thanks, Jotaro,” she said. “For guarding her. And for seeing her.”
His answer was quiet. “She’s not something one misses once noticed.” She stepped back toward the door, raising one hand to the carved wood. Her fingers moved in a slow, circling pattern—tracing sigils that shimmered in soft silver light. She turned giving a small wink, her mouth curved faintly. “No,” she agreed. “She never was.”
Avdolia opened the door, stepping through the portal—woven from woven air and will—opened like the parting of curtains between two destinations. Closing it, left silence behind by something beautiful, something true. The velvet curtains hung still in the corners, and the cordial glass decanter remained untouched on the lacquered table. But something vital had stepped away, and Kalithea felt it immediately.
Her fingers remained curled loosely around the base of her pen, resting just above the last line she had written. The ink hadn’t fully dried. Her thoughts hadn’t either. For a long moment, she simply sat there—still, composed, but visibly caught in that aching pause that follows a farewell too gently given. Her lashes lowered, casting shadows over the soft flush of her cheeks, and her breath rose just a little too slow, as if willing her heart to settle.
Jotaro didn’t intrude upon the silence. He remained where he was—standing not far, posture still imperial in bearing but no longer reserved, his hands relaxed at his sides, his gaze fixed on her with a depth that didn’t ask for anything but understanding. His presence was solid, a quiet constant. And though he hadn’t stepped forward, there was something in the air between them—something that had stretched thinner now, more fragile, like golden thread held taut by shared restraint.
Kalithea moved slightly, her fingers tightened on the pen, and she brought it to the page with a grace that never faltered, even when her emotions stirred beneath the surface. Her handwriting flowed slowly this time—looped and even, but weighted. As if each word held more than one meaning. “When she left, it felt as though part of the room left with her. Is it foolish to miss someone before they’ve truly gone?” She didn’t lift her head. Not yet. She simply turned the page outward—offering it like a question folded in silk.
The space between them lessened with each soundless stride, and when he reached her side, he didn’t speak immediately. His eyes traced the words she had written, every syllable absorbing into him like water on stone. And when he looked up—finally meeting her gaze. “No,” he said, voice low and precise, its usual sharpness tempered by something softer. “It means you understood what she gave you… and that you never took it for granted.”
The quiet between them stretched—not awkward, but deep. Kalithea’s lashes fluttered slightly, and her fingers resumed their slow, careful movement. “She taught me how to stand without being loud. You make it feel safe to remain that way.” Jotaros gaze never wavered, but the line of his shoulders—always upright, always disciplined—loosened more, almost imperceptibly. A tension long held began to ease, not with a sigh, but with a stillness that said more than release.
His thumb grazed her jaw, the contact feather-light. And then—slowly, with the same patience one uses to trace a line they never want to forget—his hand curved behind the nape of her neck. Barely a touch. A hover. A cradle. As though he might draw her forward… but only if she wished. She simply looked up at him—gently, steadily—as though his presence wasn’t a storm to brace against, but a warmth to lean into.
The hush between them held, ripe with something unspoken, and then—her hand moved. Slowly, delicately, as though moved by instinct rather than thought, she raised her gloved fingers and reached for him—not for his face, not for his coat, but for the very hand he had placed so carefully at the curve of her neck. Her palm came to rest over it, a feather of silk against the back of his knuckles, her fingers curling tenderly, around his.
With the same grace she used to lift a teacup or turn a fragile page, she leaned forward—not hesitantly, not shyly, but with a stillness so full of purpose it could only come from someone who loved in silence. Her forehead brushed softly against the line of his chest, just beneath the collar, where velvet met the skin above his heart.
He didn’t move, nor de he exhale too quickly. His hand, already at her nape, remained steady, the fingers curling slightly in answer to hers, holding her not like a possession, but like a privilege. She stayed there, her form still and curved gently into his—one gloved hand covering his at her neck, the other resting lightly in her lap. Her breath moved against him in warm, soft waves, as though she were memorizing the way he stood, the way he felt, the way his heart might sound beneath layers of imperial garbs and restraint. “The second act begins soon,” he murmured near the shell of her ear, not urging, not hurrying. “They’ll delay it… but not forever.”
Kalithea’s lashes fluttered. She shifted only slightly—just enough to lift her head and look up at him, her cheeks still faintly pink, her gloved hand still resting lightly atop his. Instead, she gave him the smallest smile—a smile like a promise—and tilted her head in a graceful nod. She turned only slightly toward the table, reaching for her small evening booklet. Her pen moved with a steady hand, the words formed in a looped, elegant line. “Then let us return to the music, though I believe the most beautiful part has already played—here, in this quiet between us.”
Jotaro read it, his expression unchanged—but his gaze softened. “You say that,” he said quietly, “but I suspect the theatre will remember you.” And before she could respond—before she could even tuck her pen away—he leaned forward just slightly and pressed a kiss to her forehead. It was warm, deliberate, full of the kind of affection that asked for nothing and gave everything. Kalithea closed her eyes at the contact. Her lips parted, and a quiet laughter escaped her.
When she opened her eyes again, something flickered across her features—a thought, a decision. Her hand drifted upward, barely a whisper of movement, until the tips of her gloved fingers brushed the edge of his jaw. She traced the line of his cheek, slow and unsure, as though memorizing it in real time. And then, gently, she moved higher still, to the edge of his curls, just above his temple. Her fingers hovered there, touching only a few strands. They curled slightly in the light, darker than night silk.
But his hand closed gently around hers, not to stop her—but simply to hold. Without a word, he lowered her arm and pressed a kiss to the back of her hand—again. Slower this time. Then, at last, he extended his arm. She accepted it without hesitation, gliding into the crook of his elbow as though she had done so a hundred times before. The pairing was seamless. Her white-and-navy gown moved like wind-swept silk beside his storm-dark coat, the contrast of them striking as fire and snow.
And together, they turned toward the corridor. The heavy doors opened without command, gilded handles parting with ease, and the hush of the theatre beyond awaited them. Dame Adeline and Dame Erin fell into step behind—not beside, but at a respectful distance, the way shadows walk behind light. Their boots made no echo, their gazes stayed forward, but something quiet and proud passed between them like a breath. Neither had ever seen her so still, so glowing, so… certain.
Kalithea walked without falter, but as they stepped into the golden corridor, her posture shifted just slightly—leaning into the arm that held her. And Jotaro, silent as ever, adjusted his gait to match hers, but to follow wherever she wished to go.
They entered as the curtains behind them covered the outside light. Though together, it was a shock to see that Avdolia was no longer with them—that was when the whispers began. “Returned without the headmistress… or to what I assume her chaperone…” murmured a marchioness in amethyst tulle, her jeweled pince-nez perched at the edge of a delicate nose. “A move either steeped in trust—or boldness.”
“No chaperone and no attendant,” added her companion, a gentleman in sapphire velvet and antique rings. “She comes back not as a guest, but as someone meant to sit beside him.”
A third voice, older, laced with cold amusement: “She’s not just beside him, darling. She’s anchored. Watch the way he moves—precise, aligned. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was waiting for her tempo.”
A gentleman behind them snorted, folding his gloved hands behind his back. “And what does it say, then, that the Emperor adjusted the velvet of her seat before she sat? That he leaned down first—before the curtain rose?”
“That, my dear,” the first marchioness said, her smile thin, “says that she is not just a presence.” “She is a place he returns to.” A slow incline of his head, the turn of his body subtle—an emperor in silhouette, shadow and steel, bending only for one. His voice remained low, its thread too fine to be caught by anyone not seated beside him. But the movement alone was enough to draw the theatre’s breath tight.
“They look like a portrait,” someone murmured—one of the older duchesses in silver damask, voice muffled behind a fan of stiff lace. “Not staged. Not rehearsed. Just—natural.”
“Do you see how their silhouettes match?” asked a noblewoman from the box opposite. “The lines of his coat fall just behind the sweep of her skirt. He makes space for her.”
“He’s always been symmetrical in posture,” said a man from the high balcony, adjusting his cuffs. “Until now. He’s tilted left.” He observed again, fixing his glasses. “His arm is angled just slightly… the way one sits beside someone familiar.”
A woman in honey-colored satin leaned in, voice sharp as the pins in her coif. “He’s not gesturing for an attendant. He’s not holding court. That angle is… personal.” The words coiled like ribbons through the velvet silence, catching in brocade sleeves, beneath painted fans, along the edge of powdered throats.
Jotaro glanced toward Kalithea, his expression unreadable to most—but not to those who knew what it meant when an Emperor’s gaze lingered too long. He asked her something, though non heard, it was matched by the gentle dip of her head and a smile. Every practiced noble eye in the theatre caught it.
The emperor raised a hand, calling for someone close by. A steward in imperial colors, approached with expectation. The steward slipped from view, disappearing like parchment carried on wind, but his departure left the theatre stirred—as if the breeze of his footsteps had unsettled a hundred silks at once.
A viscount—young, but sharp-eyed—smoothed the lapel of his forest-green coat and leaned back, his arm draped with deliberate languor. “That was no request. That was a confirmation. Did you see the way she turned her head toward the corridor, just before the steward moved?”
“She knew,” said his cousin beside him, the diamonds at her throat shifting with every syllable. “Which means he told her beforehand. They’ve spoken about something already. Privately.”
Above them, in a box reserved for a duchy from the southern coast, a woman in deep obsidian velvet folded her fan and said coldly, “Only one other woman has ever been allowed to anticipate His Majesty’s steps.”
“Princess Marina?” her companion asked, gaze sweeping toward the Ilvane box.
“No,” the duchess replied. “His mother.” And then a swell—an invisible curve of silence bent around realization. But the theatre had shifted—and the Crown princess of Renaldi’s box felt it like pressure in the air before a storm.
The Ilvane box, perched like a gilded cage above the velvet sea of the theatre, was a study in cultivated elegance. Princess Marina sat at its center, a vision of poise and perfection. Her gown, a masterpiece of ash-violet charmeuse and embroidered grey silk, shimmered subtly under the chandelier’s glow, each movement catching the light like a whispered secret.
Her hair, coiffed into an intricate arrangement of curls and adorned with delicate pearls, framed her face with calculated softness. Every detail, from the precise tilt of her chin to the languid flutter of her fan, was a testament to years of practiced grace.
Around her, her ladies flanked her in deliberate formation—three perfect mirrors, polished by years of courtly conditioning. They moved only when she did. Smiled only when permitted.
Lady Vessina, her bronze curls woven with lilac ribbon, leaned ever so slightly over the railing. “Navy and ivory,” she mused, her tone sweetened with curiosity steeped in contempt. “One does wonder if she’s aware of what that palette implies.”
Lady Selienne, who wore ice-blue satin like a second skin, traced the rim of her goblet with a finger adorned in three sapphire rings. “And the embroidery. Certainly hand-stitched. But not by any house atelier I’ve seen in circulation. No crest. No mark.”
“How novel,” murmured Lady Anthemina, whose smile never once reached her glacial eyes. “A dress with no name—how appropriate.”
Marina’s fan paused mid-air. Only slightly. Just enough to still the air around her like glass cooling after flame. Her gaze dropped—not directly to Kalithea—but to the edge of the Imperial Box. To the place where the steward had returned once again, bowing low at the Emperor’s side.
“Not prepared,” she said, voice velveted and soft. “Placed..,” Marina continued, and this time her fan resumed its slow motion—measured, controlled, as if to tame the temperature of her pulse. The silence that followed was brittle as spun sugar. “But he listens,” she added, resuming the languid sweep of her fan. Each motion as measured as the ticks of a jeweled timepiece, as if to tame the slow burn behind her ribcage.
Lady Selienne tilted her head thoughtfully, her earrings chiming like wind chimes in a palace garden. “Still… we’ve heard nothing official. She is merely his companion. A seasonal arrangement, no more binding than a spring fête.”
“Precisely,” Vessina chimed in, folding her hands in her lap. “We’ve all known His Majesty to take an interest in causes before. A quiet girl from nowhere? That’s a… narrative. And narratives pass.”
Anthemina smiled behind her gloves. “And she does wear the role beautifully. I’ll grant her that. But a companion’s place is beside the Emperor… never behind the veil.”
Marina’s lips curved. A perfectly balanced, practiced smile. Neither pleased nor scornful. A court smile. “But she wears navy,” she said, tapping the edge of her fan against her chin. “Not crimson. Imperial tones.”
“Unlike some,” Selienne added delicately.
“She’s not so foolish as to forget,” Anthemina murmured. “She walks beside him, yes. But never ahead.”
“And when the season ends?” Vessina’s voice was honey-dipped silk. “Where will she go then?”
Marina exhaled, slow and composed. Then, softly—measured like a judge at court—“She will go back to wherever she came from. Quietly. As such girls do.” The ladies nodded, their expressions serene. Still—none of them looked away. Watching the curve of Kalithea’s gloved hand resting near his. Watching Jotaro’s gaze flicker toward her, not with indulgence—but with intention
She leaned back, her spine never touching the chair. Her fingers smoothed the edge of her fan as though composing herself—though she had never been anything but composed. Then she spoke again. “I have always said,” she murmured, “that companion is a charming word for a placeholder.” And though her voice was sweet as porcelain tea, no one missed the splinter buried deep beneath the glaze.
Lady Vessina’s fan did not move. It remained half-open in her hand, poised like a swan’s wing mid-flight, forgotten in her fingers. Her gaze, polished and precise, lingered on the girl in white and navy. “She does not speak,” she said quietly, “yet I find I remember her voice more clearly than most who do.”
There was a beat of silence—too long. Lady Selienne, ever attuned to shifts in air no chandelier could catch, offered a soft smile. “Mm. Curious, isn’t it, how mystery flatters the plain?”
Anthemina chuckled, silken and sharp. “Plain? My dear, if she were plain, we’d not be speaking of her now. No, she is… curated.”
“Like a painting?” Vessina mused.
“Like a lie,” Marina said sweetly, the edge in her voice powdered in rosewater and poise. Her gaze flicked downward, not with contempt, but the kind of practiced assessment one gives to a chessboard just before delivering check. “A clever one, perhaps. A well-stitched one. But I wonder how long such illusions can endure under the weight of expectation.”
Lady Anthemina’s eyes, dark as clove-laced wine, never left Kalithea’s smile. “It is a delicate thing,” she said, tapping her fan once against her wrist, “like a ribbon tied too tightly over an empty box.”
“A smile with no speech behind it,” Selienne added with silk in her tone, “is often mistaken for mystery. But really, it is silence in a prettier dress.”
“Perhaps that is the appeal,” murmured Vessina, voice soft and distant, like someone quoting a line she didn’t quite know the ending to. “To appear fragile, yet untouched. So quiet, and yet… listened to.”
Marina’s gaze flicked toward her—again, not sharply. Nothing Marina did was ever sharp. Her every gesture was as fluid as poured glass, her composure a crown honed through centuries of courtly memory.
“She is listened to,” Marina said, folding her fan with slow precision, “because she does not interrupt. There is a certain charm, I suppose, in the absence of contradiction.”
Vessina inclined her head again. “Of course, Your Highness.”
But Selienne smiled—just a sliver of a smile, as if scenting something beneath the lavender. “And yet His Majesty has never been one to tolerate absence of thought. He favors silence, perhaps, but not emptiness.”
Marina turned her gaze back toward the Imperial Box. Kalithea had tilted her head—slightly, attentively—as Jotaro leaned in once more. His words were inaudible, but the hush in the court below was thunderous. Marina’s fan opened once more. The gesture was slow, controlled, and absolute. “Then let her have a thousand silences,” she said, voice calm as perfume drifting over poisoned tea. “All stories begin with enchantment. It is only in the third act that the truth emerges.”
The women nodded as they laughed with such frivolous splendor, because one does not question a girl born to rule. “She is companion, nothing more,” Marina continued, her tone lilting with gracious certainty. “And companions—like gowns—are seasonal. Favored, yes. Dressed for display, occasionally. But never mistaken for legacy.”
The air around them shimmered—perfumed with rose and power. Anthemina lowered her lashes. “Still, I wonder…” She paused, narrowing her eyes. “If it is truly only enchantment.” Her smile curved like lace concealing a blade. “Or if His Majesty has finally chosen to write a new story—one no one expected.”
For a moment, Marina said nothing. The way Jotaro’s hand, still resting on the armrest, curved just slightly inward—close enough to hers that the court could not breathe. “The court always forgets,” she said, folding her fan shut with a whispering snap. “It is not the heroine who endures, but the one who writes the final chapter.” And her voice—sweet, soft, and polished with perfection—carried just far enough to make even her ladies sit straighter. “But when the history books are written, they do not remember the curtain. They remember the throne.”
A silence settled—glimmering, taut. Then, as though the thought had only just bloomed, Marina added lightly, “Perhaps we should invite her.” The words dropped like sugared poison.
Lady Selienne blinked. “Invite? You mean His Majesty’s companion, your Highness?”
“To our next evening gathering,” Marina continued smoothly. “The spring garden salon. All the daughters of rank will attend, along with their mothers. And… friends.” She glanced downward again, just briefly. “It would be cruel to exclude a companion, would it not?”
Anthemina’s lips curved. “Cruelty, Highness, is rarely so elegantly cloaked.”
“Then let us cloak it in velvet and call it grace,” Marina replied, her voice a balm painted over iron. “She may bring her little friends, of course. It would be… instructive for them.”
Vessina exhaled once through her nose, amusement threading through her voice like a silver chain. “And for the rest of court, a chance to see the difference between a borrowed light and a sovereign star.”
Marina gave a slow nod. “Exactly.” Her fan reopened again—leisurely, luxuriously. “She may sit beside him in shadow. But let her stand in our light and see what remains.” And with that, the Ilvane box settled once more into silence. And beneath the theatre’s breathless pause, Princess Marina laced her next move in ribbons of charm and quiet venom.
Chapter 39: Wicked
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The crimson halls of Renaldi’s palace roared faintly with the echo of past hunts, soldier boots, and long dinners carried by laughter. Banners hung like molten fire from dark rafters, and daylight slanted across the stone floors in warm streaks of ochre and gold. King Rist stood center-chamber—hands on his hips, crown crooked, eyes gleaming like a man always mid-battle or mid-feast.
“Well, well, if it isn’t my daughter trying to play strategist again,” he said, voice bouncing off the high beams like a cannonball in silk. “Let me guess—you want a seat at the next council table?”
Princess Marina stood at the edge of her father’s audience chamber, bathed in the glow of high-vaulted windows and pride-stitched silk. Her gown was a storm of amethyst charmeuse and dusk-lilac tulle, embroidered with the twin crests of Ilvane and Rendaldi in silver-threaded flourishes. Pearls gleamed at her wrists, and her earrings, long as candle flames, brushed her cheekbones every time she turned her head—precisely calibrated for maximum effect.
But her chin tilted a degree too high, and her voice—though honeyed—carried the unmistakable tremor of indignation, dressed in lace. “I’ve read the treaties. I’ve reviewed the grain reports from Myrose, memorized the Eastern port concessions, and I know half your council’s letters by heart—more than they do, I daresay. If His Majesty is to attend the next session, it would be—how shall I phrase it—unstrategic for me to be absent.”
From his place atop the carved lionwood dais, King Rist blinked. A booming, sunbright burst that echoed from the marble pillars like a festival drum. He slapped a hand to his chest, his crimson sash slipping askew from the force of it. “Unstrategic! My little scholar!” he grinned. “You—who once fell asleep on top of the wheat levy scrolls!”
“I was ten,” Marina seethed, teeth behind smile. “And you kept that room at forty degrees.”
“And still insulted the baron of Caerfeld in your sleep,” he said proudly, wagging a thick finger. “Called his mustache ‘millet with a grudge,’ remember? A true prodigy.”
“Father.” She stepped forward with the sweep of a stormfront disguised as grace. “I’m not asking to chair the council. I simply wish to be present. I understand the shape of these discussions. I understand him. If I’m in the room—”
“If you’re in the room,” Rist interrupted, brows climbing, “then half my governors will spend the session wondering what shoes to wear and the other half will duel over who gets to sit within three feet of your hemline.” He gave her a fond-but-firm grin. “And my dear, I need that table focused on policy, not perfume.”
Marina’s smile thinned to silk drawn taut over steel. “You think I can’t contribute.”
“I know you’d contribute,” he chuckled. “Sharp as a file and twice as dangerous. But this meeting isn’t the one. Not yet.”
She crossed her arms—elegantly, of course, a duchess’s pose—and arched a brow as if he’d just suggested she retire to needlework. “You’re keeping me out of my own future.”
“I’m keeping peace in my own council,” Rist replied, lifting his goblet, only to find it empty. “And besides—there’s already enough distraction coming.” Then, after a beat too long, added, almost offhandedly,“she’s got a name now.”
“Not ‘that woman.’ Not ‘the quiet one.’ Not even the court’s favorite whisper. Kalithea,” he said, drawing the name out like a taste he hadn’t expected to enjoy. “The southern barons asked me directly—‘Will Kalithea be present at the next round of talks?’ That’s how loud her silence has become.”
Marina’s spine remained straight. Her lashes didn’t flutter. The pearls at her throat shimmered with the subtlest motion of breath, but her face—her court-trained, portrait-worthy face—remained still. Only her hands betrayed her. Where they rested at her sides, the silk of her gloves began to pull taut—just slightly—as her fingers curled with restrained precision. “Court gossip,” she said coolly, as if the words tasted stale.
Across from her, King Rist gave a low chuckle, full-bodied and unbothered, as if they were discussing weather and not the slow undoing of his daughter’s ambition. “Court momentum,” he corrected, raising his goblet. “And it’s rolling downhill fast.”
She turned her head—not snapped, never abrupt—but tilted with the ease of practiced disdain, like an empress in a portrait turning from a lesser subject. “You think I’m losing, father?”
Rist gave her a look that was all warmth and rough affection. “I think you’re used to steering the tide,” he said, “and now you’re mad it has a current.” The words landed like a whisper of steel beneath brocade. She exhaled once, high and slow, where her chin dipped just enough to cast a shadow across her eyes.
“She hasn’t stood through a full season. She hasn’t been presented. She doesn’t know a veiled insult from a velvet compliment. And… yet she parades about in His Majesty’s company like some silent saint.” Her jaw tensed, the muscle flickering once beneath skin powdered to perfection. “She’s… common.” The word slid from her tongue like perfume laced with arsenic. “There is no lineage. No distinction. No refinement.”
Rist set his goblet down, the sound of it clinking faintly against the stone like punctuation. “And you,” he said, “are complicated. Which of those do you think is easier to rule beside?” She opened her mouth— “Don’t answer that,” he added quickly, waving a hand with mock alarm. “You’ll only get madder. And I don’t have the furniture to survive another one of your spiked fan tosses.”
Her voice, when it returned, was cool and low. But undercut with something venomous, carefully sheathed. “You think he prefers her. Over me.” Rist didn’t smile this time. “I don’t think it, my dear Marina. I see it.” The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was threaded with meaning. It glittered, sharp and silken, like the pause between movements in a symphony no one expected to end like this.
Then Marina spoke, smooth as cream poured over glass. “She won’t come.” She smiled again, practiced and utterly perfect. “To the summit— if she’s invited. Soft girls like that—girls who grow up tucked behind curtains—rarely walk into rooms with thrones. They don’t know how.”
“You sure?” he asked, folding his arms. “Because she looked mighty steady beside that throne last week. Didn’t even flinch when half the court bowed too slow.”
“She’s quiet,” Marina said again, firmer now, her voice like polished glass pressed just a little too hard. “Quiet girls seem composed until you hand them a crown and ask them to hold it still. She wouldn’t survive a council chamber.
Rist raised a brow, but she pressed on, her fan forgotten in her hand, her tone growing silkier—dangerously so. “And His Majesty,” she continued, savoring the words as if they might taste different if spoken more slowly, “has never once chosen simplicity. Not truly, he admires strength. Strategy. Presence.”
She took a single step closer, a gleam tightening behind her eyes. “I’ve studied those chambers. I’ve stood in those rooms. I know the weight of diplomacy, the tilt of power, the way a nod at the wrong time can undo an entire treaty. She doesn’t know those things. She can’t possibly.”
Rist scratched at his beard again, slower this time, as if weighing how long he could keep from laughing. “Maybe,” he said, “she doesn’t need to.” Marina’s brow arched as her father back in his chair, gaze thoughtful. “Maybe she’s not simple,” he said. “Maybe she’s just still.” He let the word hang there, then shrugged. “And maybe—just maybe—he’s tired of storms.”
She paused like the words had struck her, holding her fan a little tighter as she smiled again with that same hidden anger tucked away in rose lips. When she finally spoke, her voice was honeyed again, sweet and poised. “She won’t last. Not at the council. Not in the long season.” A pause. Then, silk-threaded venom: “She doesn’t know how to stay.”
Rist stood, stretching his arms with a slow, exaggerated sigh. “Well,” he said with a grin, “that makes two of you who seem determined not to leave.” The light from the clerestory windows spilled across the polished floors in slender shafts, golden and unforgiving, catching faint motes of dust suspended in the air like forgotten wishes. Outside, the palace bells tolled faintly, echoing through the stone corridors with the slow gravity of approaching politics.
Marina emained poised at the edge of the salon’s doorway, one gloved hand resting delicately on the carved architrave as though steadying herself against the world’s quiet betrayal. The velvet of her sleeve caught the light, a dusky sheen of amethyst with the faintest embroidery of storm-bloomed lilacs threading the cuff—imperial, understated, expensive.
There was a tension coiled within her stance, so finely hidden that only those who knew her—truly knew her—might notice the nearly imperceptible press of her thumb against her palm, or the way her breath had narrowed just slightly, tight beneath her corset.
Rist reached for his sash, readjusting it with the absent-minded precision of a man far more cunning than he let on. His tunic shifted as he moved, dark red and trimmed in ochre gold, the sigil of Renaldi glistening at his shoulder. “The council chamber won’t survive both our stubborn tempers, so I suggest you stay and dazzle your guests instead of frightening mine.”
Marina’s smile—so slight it was nearly a ghost—did not falter. But her eyes gleamed with something harder to name. “Of course, Father,” she said sweetly. Her voice was soft velvet pulled taut over piano wire. “It would be unseemly of me to intrude upon a table set for men.”
“Ha!” Rist barked, his boots thudding as he stepped forward, clapping a hand once on her shoulder with more fondness than finesse. “If you ever do intrude, they’ll thank you for the education—after they’ve recovered.”
She inclined her head, lashes lowering just enough to veil the sharp flicker in her gaze. “How fortunate that subtlety is one of my strengths.” He laughed again, louder this time, before striding down the corridor—his gait all swagger and careless grace, leaving a trail of citrusy cologne and mountain wind in his wake.
Only once he had vanished around the bend—his shadow folding into the long spill of marble and mirrors—did Marina exhale silently. She turned slowly, the heavy door to the salon opening for her as if by instinct. The hinges made no sound, yet within, sunlight poured through latticed windows, caught in the golden fringe of damask curtains. The scent of tea roses floated through the air, mingled with the sharper sweetness of candied violet and the powdery hush of lavender starch pressed into silks.
Her ladies were already arranged like petals around the central settee—each one a different bloom in the bouquet that was her court. The room was a study in pastels and precision. Painted fans fluttered. Delicate laughter laced with false innocence rose and fell like a well-rehearsed symphony.
Marina’s steps were soundless across the carpet. Her entrance did not disrupt the room—but it refined it, as though the presence of its mistress made everything fall just slightly more into place. Lady Selienne rose first, smoothing her dove-grey skirts and offering a curtsy dipped just low enough to suggest reverence, not equality. “Your highness,” she greeted, voice light, eyes watchful. “You are radiant this afternoon.”
“Lilac and storm-violet,” murmured Vessina, lips barely moving. “A bold choice, even for you.” Marina’s gaze swept the salon—over the porcelain tea sets laid with edible violets, the floral arrangements twisted into serpentine arches of white hyacinth and belladonna, the glinting masks arrayed like ceremonial offerings on velvet trays. The window lattices cast intricate shadows across the floor, delicate as lace but caged like iron.
A ripple of poised amusement passed among them, like silk gliding over glass. Marina moved toward the writing desk set beside the harp alcove. Its legs were gold-leafed and shaped like lion paws, the parchment already unrolled atop it. A waiting quill rested in an inkwell shaped like a swan’s head.
Lady Selienne perched lightly on the edge of the chaise, retrieving her gloves from the table before setting them aside. “Shall we proceed with the invitation, Highness?”
“Of course,” Marina said, seating herself at the desk like a reigning deity cloaked in lavender silk and sovereign certainty.
Selienne took the quill delicately between her fingers. Her calligraphy was famously elegant—curved like whispered threats, precise as surgical cuts. She dipped the pen and began.
“To the Lady Kalithea, and those esteemed women in her present company—“ Marina recited aloud, slow and sinuous. “It would bring us no greater delight than your presence at this evening’s costume garden tea soirée, to be held beneath the pergolas of Rendaldi’s southern lawn. A theme of myth and memory shall guide our festivities—gods and legends from the old world, reborn in bloom and silk.”
“Aphrodite,” Anthemina declared, brushing imaginary dust from her gown, “has already been claimed. Naturally.”
“As has Hera,” Vessina added with a smirk. “Though I doubt any girl with uncalloused hands would dare play Athena.”
Marina’s lips curved—not wide, not kind. “Then perhaps she may come as Persephone. Or a dryad, if her station better suits.”
“Something wilting,” Selienne murmured. “A costume that requires no voice.” They laughed again—soft, musical, and laced with the cruelty of girls who never expected to lose.
Selienne looked up from her pen, her posture exquisite even in leisure—wrist tilted, elbow poised just above the carved cherrywood desk as though gravity dared not touch her. A violet plume adorned her ink quill, its feather tip trembling with the slight breeze from the salon’s open lattice windows. “Shall I request her measurements?” she asked, her tone light as gossamer, but each syllable pricked like a needle through silk.
“No,” Marina said, her voice like lace dipped in honey. She reclined against the velvet chaise, fingers draped loosely over the armrest, her profile catching the faintest glimmer from the chandelier above. “Send something approximate. A borrowed silhouette will suit the borrowed favor.”
At the corner of the room, Vessina—cloaked in dusk-blue chiffon embroidered with tiny swans—turned a garnet ring on her finger with idle grace. Her lips parted in a whisper: “A gown in emerald green and blue?” She tilted her head, curls pinned into a sculpted knot. “Ill-fitted at the waist, and satin—it wrinkles with the slightest breath.”
Marina’s eyes did not shift, but her smile sharpened ever so slightly. “Perfect,” she replied. “We mustn’t let the court forget how she is to tailoring.”
“Or to dignity,” Anthemina added. Her tone was elegant, her posture pristine—yet something in the curve of her mouth mirrored the way one draws a knife across the skin of an apple: poised, smooth, irrevocable. She wore dove-grey charmeuse that shimmered like fogged glass when she moved, and her fan, adorned with tiny silver crescents, stilled mid-flutter.
The pen scratched on, a soft sound in the lavish hush of the salon—its rhythm crisp, deliberate, like swords being drawn beneath a curtain of roses. From her seat, Marina watched the delicate folds of the invitation take form on parchment bordered in gold ink and lavender embossing. The candlelight gilded her lashes. Her voice, when it came, was the polished breath of a blade sliding back into velvet lining. “And the guest list?” Selienne asked, lifting her chin. “Shall we make it… inclusive?”
“Oh yes,” Marina said sweetly, folding her hands over the silk fan in her lap. “Let every eligible daughter of noble standing be present. It would be poor form to exclude the rest of the court.” Outside, the late afternoon sun flared against the garden windows, casting fractured amber across the floor.
The shadows of the trellis vines curved like painted fingers over the marble. Vessina stood, brushing a speck from her sleeve as if brushing away an entire bloodline’s worth of irrelevance. “The others will rally again,” she noted. “They’ve missed your orchestration.”
“They always return,” Marina murmured. “When the music is composed just right.” She did not rise, not yet—but the tension around her body shifted like the prelude to a dance. Her hands were still. Her shoulders exact. But the air around her had begun to knot—like the tightening of corset laces drawn by unseen hands.
When at last she stood, the movement was balletic—no rustle, no hesitation. The others followed with unspoken deference. Anthemina gave a satisfied hum. Vessina rang for a maid. Selienne placed the sealed scroll atop a silver tray, its wax crest a cluster of violets pressed with Marina’s signet. The invitation would reach Kalithea within an hour—presented with politeness, wrapped in etiquette, and lined with arsenic.
Because beneath the silken florals and the mythical theme and the mention of fellowship, the message between the lines was crystalline: how she may have caught his eye, but the garden still belongs to her.
By afternoon, a second arrival brought no such venom—only joy. The carriage rolled into the estate courtyard with a soft creak of wheels and laughter muffled behind polished glass. The manor loomed before them—its stone face solemn, its archways veiled with ivy and climbing roses. Wisteria hung from the second-floor balconies like ribbons from a gown, and sunlight danced across the gold detailing of the doors.
But it was not the grandeur that made them gasp, it was their beloved Kalithea. Kalithea stood at the foot of the curved steps, bathed in late morning light that filtered through the ivy-covered arches of the emperor’s western estate. She wore a gown of dove-grey silk faille, its bodice sculpted and boned with a high empire waist, cinched delicately by a ribbon sash of cream charmeuse that shimmered like pale gold when the breeze caught it.
Embroidered thistles—His Majesty’s sigil—ran faintly along the sleeves in near-invisible threadwork, and at her throat sat a single teardrop sapphire, suspended from a white gold chain. Her long sleeves tapered to a point above the hand, fastened with pearl buttons at each wrist. A sheer overskirt, tinted just the slightest blue-grey, trailed behind her with the softness of drifting smoke.
The wind lifted locks of her hair from her back, as it drew attention to the faint gloss of balm at her lips and the light flush on her cheeks—whether from the sun or something more unspoken.
“Kalithea!” Edwina’s voice rang like a bell, bright and breathless, as she lifted the hem of her dress in her rush forward. All four girls emerged like petals from a blossom. Edwina wore a gown of dusky mauve silk taffeta with a ruffled high collar and rows of silk-covered buttons that winked in the light. Her hair was swept back in a braided crown, polished yet joyful.
Mirielle stepped down next, her periwinkle satin gown layered with lavender tulle, her delicate gloves stitched with lace roses. Silver star-pins glinted in the glossy waves of her hair. Anise wore soft antique gold, her dress trimmed with leaf-patterned embroidery in ivy green thread. A pearl comb held her curls in place.
Cecily—last but not least—was dressed in green chiffon, her skirt gathered in gentle pleats that swayed like flower petals, her neckline trimmed with tiny pearls and soft tulle gathered at the shoulders like a fairy’s wings. They looked like springtime nobility, each one the embodiment of a different bloom. But their eyes held only one season: the girl standing before them.
“You’re more radiant than rumor,” Cecily said, her voice a hush laced with joy and disbelief.
Kalithea’s smile bloomed, quiet and warm, her lashes low with emotion. She stepped forward, drawing each girl into her arms one by one—no words spoken aloud, only the message she had written earlier in her soft inked script, already passed between them in her booklet. “You came like spring itself. I feared I had imagined you. But no—here you are. And my heart remembers how to bloom.”
“Oh, you must stop,” Mirielle gasped, clutching Edwina’s sleeve with theatrical despair. “If you keep writing like that, I’ll ruin everything from my gloves to my reputation.”
“You’ll ruin me,” Anise declared, though her voice was full of delight, “and I haven’t even had tea yet.”
Cecily, who had wandered a few steps ahead, now paused at the threshold to the great hall. Her breath caught. “Oh…” They turned to follow her gaze.
The manor unfolded before them like the opening of a fairy tale. Polished floors gleamed with veined marble; delicate chandeliers swayed like crystal blossoms overhead. Florals in alabaster vases arched toward the sun, and ivory curtains stirred at the windows like sighs in silk. Painted ceilings whispered stories of dawn gods and garden nymphs, of constellations drawn in gold leaf.
Anise’s voice softened, reverent as the curve of a chapel arch. “This isn’t just a house.”
“No,” Mirielle murmured, her gaze lifted toward the vaulted ceilings painted in pale gold and lilac sky. “It’s a page from a storybook.”
“A chapter written for her,” Cecily added, her hand resting lightly over the carved banister, eyes still wide as she drank in the velvet settees, the frescoed walls, the scattering of flower petals arranged not in careless beauty but in deliberate grace.
Edwina turned, the hem of her mauve gown brushing over polished stone. Her voice—once merry—held something quieter now, gentler. “Kalithea… did His Majesty allow you to bring us here?” There was no pride in the question. Only awe. As if to ask was to confirm a dream.
Kalithea tilted her head, where the faintest smile curved at the edge of her lips—not smug, not assured, but soft, uncertain, blooming. She reached again for her pen, hands folded with the grace of a girl who had long learned to be silent—and had only recently been taught that her silence could speak volumes. “He wished me to feel at ease. And so he offered this space—For beauty, And for you.”
The words were simple. But they fell into the room like rosewater into still porcelain—soft, fragrant, and undeniable. Edwina pressed a gloved hand to her mouth, her voice trembling with delight. “Oh my,” she whispered behind the lace, “He adores you.”
Kalithea blinked—once, then again—and turned her face slightly to the side, but not before the bloom of color betrayed her. A slow, delicate flush swept across her cheeks, climbing to the tips of her ears. The same soft hue as the roses waiting in the vestibule. Her smile deepened—small, bashful, unable to be helped.
The silence in the room wrapped around them like the air before a snowfall—hushed, bright, sacred. The roses on the table—blush and heliotrope, her favorite—seemed to nod their fragrant heads. The tea service, engraved subtly with the imperial crest, waited on silver trays at the far end of the salon. A chair, high-backed and upholstered in ivory brocade, sat beside her usual place—always empty. Always his.
A girl like Kalithea was not meant to walk marble halls with roses blooming at her arrival. She was not meant to have her friends welcomed like duchesses, nor to be offered whole wings of the emperor’s private estate. And yet, by fate since the very beginning, she was placed here.
She gestured toward the parlor with a quiet flick of her hand, her sleeves of pale dove-grey whispering over her wrists like falling silk. The girls moved as one, gliding across the floor, skirts trailing like water lilies in motion. Their laughter resumed, lighter now, sweet and sunlit. But beneath it all, the unspoken truth gleamed like a stone in the riverbed.
The parlor was sun-drenched, its tall windows thrown open to let in the breath of late morning. The air smelled of tea roses and sweet cream. Other maids, and servants moving like clockwork shadows, poured into the room with practiced grace—setting porcelain cups upon embroidered linen, unfurling napkins folded like lilies, and lifting silver domes to reveal sugared cakes, honeyed walnuts, and cherry tarts cooled with violets.
Kalithea sat poised at the head of the table—not by design, but by quiet gravity. She lifted the silver teapot with steady hands and began to pour for each of them, the fragrant steam curling like lace between them. Edwina was the first to break the silence. “I’m beginning to suspect I’ve died and been brought back in lavender heaven.”
“This isn’t lavender,” said Anise, peering over the rim of her cup. “This is imperial lavender.”
“Imperial everything,” Mirielle added, lightly dipping a biscuit in her tea. “I half expect the sugar cubes to sing court hymns.” Laughter fluttered between them—light, silken, unforced.
“…It has the imperial anything,” Cecily added, nearly breathless as she poured the tea, her voice soft with reverence but still touched with wonder. “Even the teacups are rimmed in gold. Is everything in here… his?”
Kalithea merely inclined her head in that quiet way of hers, a smile warming the curve of her lips. They settled at last, like petals drifting into place—onto the velvet-backed chairs and satin cushions beneath the stained glass skylight. The sunlight filtered through in soft blues and golds, pooling on the marble floor like spilled paint.
Mirielle had peeled her gloves halfway, gesturing with them as she reached for a sugared petal. Edwina leaned forward like someone trying not to wrinkle her skirts and failing with delight, her silken petticoats rustling beneath her.
Anise propped her chin in one hand, lazily twirling her spoon, while Cecily sat primly, hands folded over her lap, eyes flicking to every detail—the candleholders, the floral inlay, the distant glint of a portrait framed in deep wood.
“Kalithea,” said Edwina at one point, tapping a spoon against her cup, “be honest—have you tried on every robe in the dressing chamber? I saw the wardrobe on our way in. I think it blinked at me.” Kalithea’s eyes smiled, though her fingers demurred.
“I’m serious,” said Anise, nudging her cake plate with theatrical offense. “If you tell me there’s a hidden room just for tiaras, I’m stealing you away tonight.”
“She’s not exaggerating,” added Cecily, hands cupped around her teacup. “Last winter she tried to break into the Duchess of Elmare’s costume closet.”
“I would’ve made it,” Anise sniffed, “if someone hadn’t squealed.” Their laughter was light and genuine, the sound of girls briefly unguarded—spinning stories of gowns and gossip and the way the musicians at the last ball had played two full measures off-beat without a soul daring to stop them.
The girls settled more deeply into the cushions and velvet-backed chairs, their skirts fanning out like blossoms in the afternoon light. Through the tall arched windows, sunlight slanted in golden bands, catching on the rims of the porcelain teacups and the crystal sugar bowl, spilling over the lacquered wood of the table where sugared violets, honeyed figs, and slices of apricot cake sat untouched in delicate disarray.
Mirielle sighed dreamily, her half-unbuttoned gloves resting in her lap. “I still cannot believe we’re here. An imperial manor. Do you know what I thought would greet us at the gate?”
“A footman in ceremonial armor?” Edwina guessed, spooning a second helping of sugared cream into her cup.
“No,” said Mirielle, with theatric despair. “A guard ready to tell us our invitation was a mistake.”
“It is rather mad,” Anise mused, tapping the edge of her saucer. “Even the air smells different here. Like freshly cut roses, books, and… policy.”
“I half expected His Majesty himself to emerge and ask for our passports,” Cecily murmured, hands wrapped neatly around her teacup. “Instead, we found Kalithea. And heliotrope. And a parlor more luxurious than my entire summer estate.” Kalithea’s blush deepened faintly at that, though she smiled with quiet grace and poured more tea.
They spoke, as girls do when safe in the hush of friendship. Of the next musical recital in the imperial gardens—“With lanterns strung between the silver elms,” Edwina added, wistful. Of the Lord of Glenstraith’s son, who had, with great determination and no coordination, attempted a bow so dramatic that his heel caught on his own cloak. Mirielle clapped at the memory.
But eventually, inevitably, the brightness folded gently inward. The laughter slowed. The clink of spoons diminished. A pause feathered through the room. And Cecily, delicate and proper, turned toward Kalithea with a gentleness that stilled even the light. “Kalithea,” she said, voice velvet-soft, “how are things… with His Majesty?”
The others did not flinch nor hush her, but it was the curiosity of girls wrapped in reverence and hope for their friend. Her fingers brushed the spine of her booklet, but she did not reach for the pen right away. Instead, her mouth curved—not into a smile, but something gentler. She blinked, and her lashes fluttered like soft wings before she finally dipped her pen. “Here in this manor, I must tell you, it is the Emperor’s for the season, I am permitted to remain. Not as a guest of the house, but as his guest.”
The words, though penned in the softest strokes of ink, did not fall lightly. They sank into the room like lace caught in rain—delicate, laden, intimate. Not indecent, just unbearably close. Honest in a way the court rarely dared to be.
Mirielle’s fan stopped halfway to her cheek. “Then you—oh, you wake beneath the same roof as him? Each morning?”
Anise’s fingers toyed with the edge of her sleeve, her voice a breath above a whisper. “And dine with him? Alone?”
Kalithea’s cheeks bloomed in reply—petal-soft, deeply pink, the hue curling into the tips of her ears like dawn creeping over snow. Still, she did not look away. She nodded once, the motion small but sure. Her pen moved again, slow as the hush that held them.
“We do not share a room, nor a bed. But we share mornings, and meals lit by low candles. We share silences that feel full. And glances that feel like conversations. But when we do talk, it is the most cherishable thing.”
“That’s more intimate than scandal,” Edwina murmured, a hand fluttering to her chest. “And infinitely more beautiful.” Kalithea’s lashes lowered, her gaze fixed gently on the page. The pen hovered, then inked once more—each word more tender than the last, like a confession cradled in silk.
“He gave me a library to call my own. He filled the halls with flowers I once mentioned liking. He notices when I grow tired. He slows his steps to match mine. But I can feel it… in the stillness he keeps around me. In how he watches—as if I were a thing he’s afraid to touch, for fear I might vanish.”
Anise released a soft breath, her lashes wet with quiet astonishment. “That’s not kindness. That’s reverence. Kalithea… he adores you.” Kalithea turned her face away slightly, one hand rising—delicate, unsure—to her cheek. She was still blushing, and the color was sweeter now, richer, touched by disbelief and something that trembled just below joy.
Mirielle leaned forward, her voice velvet-soft. “And you?” she asked, her fingers resting atop Kalithea’s gently. “Do you… adore him?”
Her eyes lifted instead—drawn toward the window, where the ivy stirred and sun slanted in long, soft threads. For a heartbeat, she only breathed. Then the nib of her pen touched the page again. “I did not know adoration could be so gentle. I thought it would be louder, brighter, and full of declarations and demand. But with him, it is quiet. It waits for me. I find myself listening for his footsteps in the hallway, and missing him when he has only just left the room.”
Anise made a sound like a suppressed squeal, her hands flying to her lap to stop herself from clapping. Mirielle pressed her lips together, visibly restraining the same girlish instinct. Cecily turned pink to the ears, while Edwina fanned herself with a napkin, her composure slipping one elegant inch.
“It’s like a forbidden novel,” Mirielle whispered breathlessly. “The kind we were told not to read but did anyway by candlelight.”
“And she’s living it,” said Cecily, awed. “Here. In an emperor’s home. In his presence.” Kalithea’s eyes did not lift, but her smile widened slightly. It was the smile of a girl who had been alone in silence long enough to know the shape of affection when it took root.
She dipped her pen once more, and this time, the ink carried something deeper. “I do not know what we will become. I know the weight of his gaze when I speak through written words. If that is not the beginning of something sacred—then I have never known what love means.”
The parlor softened to a hush again, heavy with meaning, gilded with emotion. No more teasing. No more questions. Only warmth, and wonder, and the sound of the wind brushing gently past the window—as if even the ivy had paused to listen.
There was a sound—soft, even, deliberate. The footfall of boots on marble. Pacing neither hurried nor languid. Each step carved in silent authority. A rhythm that did not need to announce itself to be obeyed. “His Majesty, the Emperor,” intoned the chamberlain with a bow so low it nearly touched the inlaid floor.
He was clad in deep midnight—a coat of tailored wool, lined in sable and pressed without flaw. Silver thread etched thistle vines in sharp, graceful spirals along the hem and cuffs—so fine the embroidery caught light only when he moved.
Beneath that, a brocade waistcoat in storm blue clung to his frame like it had been sculpted there, patterned in motifs of pale frost and shielded flame. His cravat, tied high, bore a pin of black sapphire, its facets glinting cold fire as he stepped forward. A half-cape, edged in navy silk, draped from his shoulder, clasped beneath the wing of a steel eagle—its wings carved mid-flight, caught forever between vigilance and strike.
The door closed behind him like a final breath. But Jotaro’s gaze—calm, sharp, sovereign—swept the room once, and found her in the midst of it. His shoulders eased, his brow softened, not enough for others to notice, but she did.
Behind him, Sir Jean and Sir Amadeus stepped into view—both dressed in formal black, the ceremonial sashes of deep navy crossing their shoulders in disciplined symmetry. Their boots were polished, their expressions unreadable. They stood like statues carved of command, like echoes of every quiet protection that had followed the Emperor. One since his coronation, the other since his early years.
The girls stood, Not clumsily, not giggling—but with the smooth, trained elegance of daughters of noble blood. And yet—even in their polish—something shimmered beneath their poise: a reverent stillness.
Lady Edwina stepped first, her rose-silk skirts rustling softly. She dipped into a low curtsy, spine perfectly straight. “Your Majesty.”
Lady Mirielle followed, soft-voiced, her eyes lowered respectfully. “An honor, sire.”
Lady Cecily, ever measured, let the faintest smile bloom as she curtsied. “Your Majesty.”
Lady Anise, her coral gown catching the light, gave a graceful dip—though her lashes fluttered slightly before she caught herself. “It is a privilege, Your Majesty.”
Jotaro’s nod was small, but no less weighted. It held no excess warmth, no feigned pleasantry. Only truth. And a sovereignty so innate it made even the tapestries seem to bow. He did not speak immediately. Instead, his eyes traced each face with that cool, unreadable intensity that saw more than it let on. And then, barely tilting his head, he acknowledged the men behind him. “That will be all.”
Sir Amadeus gave a silent bow, retreating with practiced grace. Sir Jean followed, silent as breath, their shadows vanishing down the marble hall with no more sound than falling silk.
“Kalithea,” he said again, but softer now—as if her name, even spoken aloud, was something to be held gently. She dipped in a faint curtsy, but his gaze flicked—not sharply, but knowingly—and she stilled midway. Her hands folded instead before her, and the smallest smile ghosted over her lips.
He stepped forward once, just near enough for his voice to drop into that softer register he rarely used, the one that held weight without edge.“I trust your afternoon has been… peaceful.” Kalithea inclined her head, but did not yet reach for her booklet. She simply nodded, the faintest warmth blooming across her cheeks. In her eyes was the same quiet joy from earlier, but now tempered with something she couldn’t quite name.
Jotaro’s gaze lingered, just a moment longer than propriety allowed. Then—without needing to glance toward the others—he lowered his voice again. “The council remains in discourse. I left them squabbling over merchant levies.” A pause. He added dryly, “They may not notice I’m gone.”
That earned the softest laugh from Kalithea—not aloud, but in the shimmer of her gaze, the way her shoulders lifted with the breath of mirth. Then, with that practiced, poetic slowness that had become hers, she reached for her booklet. “You escaped?”
The corner of his mouth lifted, barely. “Briefly.” Her pen moved again, delicate and deliberate. “And you used your brief escape… to return here?”
Jotaro didn’t answer right away. But the silence between them shifted—not strained, not uncertain. Just… steeped in something understood only between two people who had learned the language of stillness, and nearly becoming more involved in each others world. “I said I would,” he replied at last, voice low. “And I keep my word.”
The girls, seated but attentive, exchanged subtle glances—not out of mischief, but with a reverence shaped by the moment. Their hands stilled over napkins. Their tea was forgotten. They did not speak, not yet—but it was clear they were listening. It was Edwina who recovered first. Ever the one to speak with elegance when the air turned fragile.
She tilted her chin with a soft smile, her voice silken as she looked toward the Emperor. “Your Majesty must be a formidable strategist—slipping away from the council without a skirmish.”
Jotaro gave her a glance, as he acknowledged her response. “Not without a skirmish,” he said. “Only… undefeated.”
A flutter of polite laughter danced among them, like the stir of a curtain in soft wind. Mirielle lowered her gaze briefly, then looked up again with calm poise. “And now you find yourself back in the quieter half of the empire. In a room ruled not by scrolls and titles, but…” Her gaze slipped meaningfully to Kalithea. “By grace.”
“I prefer it,” he answered, with not a trace of irony.
Anise, ever spirited, let her hands settle gently over the armrest of her chair. “Then we’ll consider this the true court council,” she said lightly. “Though we may lack quills and robes, we offer far better refreshments.” Her tone danced at the edge of jest, but her curtsy as she finished was deeply respectful.
Cecily’s voice followed, soft as the hush of a turning page. “And surely more loyalty, Your Majesty,” she murmured. “For we do not barter favors… only friendship.”
Jotaro inclined his head just slightly. The gesture was not grand, but from him, it felt like a bow. His gaze returned to Kalithea, unwavering. Steady. And there—where the whole room seemed to hush for her—she bent again over her booklet. Her ink whsipered, “I am glad you are here.” Her fingers hesitated at the page’s corner. Then slowly, she turned it and let the next words bloom like night-blooming jasmine. “Even if only for a short while— it is more than enough for me. You turn to be the quiet in my chaos, and the calm between the hours.’
She didn’t look up right away. Her hand stayed folded, her lashes low. But the curve of her mouth—shy, unsure, touched with wonder—spoke what she didn’t say aloud. Jotaro read her words with a kind of reverence rarely seen in men of war. But the way he breathed—steadier now, softer—the way his hand brushed the back of her chair again as he stood near, it was answer enough.
Edwina leaned slightly toward Cecily, her tone hushed but joyful. “Oh, how could anyone think this wasn’t real?”
Cecily’s lips parted in a quiet smile, warm as candlelight. “It’s the kind of devotion you don’t speak of… you just notice.”
Mirielle’s voice followed, barely above a whisper. “The kind the poets try to name. But it always slips between the lines.”
And Anise—sweet Anise—simply looked at Kalithea, eyes brimming. “He doesn’t just admire her,” she murmured. “He returns to her. Every time.” The sentiment hung, tender and reverent, like a veil of perfume after laughter.
But before the moment could settle deeper, a soft knock tapped at the outer parlor door. The chamberlain reappeared, more hesitant than before, bearing a ribbon-tied letter and a carefully draped parcel in both arms—so pristine, so intentional, it was clear this had not come from any common courier.
He bowed. “Forgive the intrusion, Your Majesty. This was just delivered. It is addressed to the Lady Kalithea.”
The room stilled. Kalithea, surprised, exchanged a glance with Dame Adeline—who had silently stepped forward from the corner of the room, her eyes narrowed just slightly. Jotaro said nothing, but he stood more firmly between Kalithea and the letter as Adeline received it carefully. The paper was lavender-grey vellum, pressed with a deep violet wax crest with cluster of violets pressed with Marina’s signet.
Cecily’s breath caught, her voice just above a whisper. “That’s… from Princess Marina.” The room, once golden with warmth, chilled by half a degree.
Edwina did not blink. Her gaze fixed on the letter, sharp beneath her composure. “Why now?”
Mirielle leaned forward, her hand brushing lightly against her skirt as though to still it. “That’s her private seal,” she said, voice clipped, precise. “The seal, those violets, it is personal, not formal. Whatever it is… she wanted it to arrive directly.”
Anise’s eyes narrowed, and her tone—still laced in polite cadence—carried the weight of a warning. “Whatever she wishes to achieve or to accomplish, that simply is not just an invitation but a direct move.”
Dame Adeline placed the parcel gently on the table beside Kalithea and returned to her post like a shadow resuming its place on the wall. The air was not tense—but expectant. The kind of stillness that always came before thunder. Kalithea stared at the sealed letter resting beside the silken box. The lavender-grey vellum was embossed, opulent, meant to be admired. But there was something too perfect in its symmetry.
She lifted it—not with trembling, but with precision. Her fingers, brushed the fold. She tilted the letter slightly, inspecting its weight, its balance. The paper was too thick for mere invitation, there was more here than words. Then, softly, she turned the envelope—not to break the seal, but to study it once more. Her expression remained unreadable. But the glint in her eyes, the stillness of her hand, the set of her shoulders—those things belonged to the girl who had once counted footsteps in the dark and measured danger in tone, not volume.
Her skirts rustled like soft leaves gathering at dusk. Behind her, Jotaro still stood—quiet, composed, a sentinel draped in imperial shadow. She looked up, her chin lifting just enough to meet his gaze, and extended the letter upward. With trust in the man she knew as one might pass a key into the hand of someone who already knew the locks, he took it instantly.
Only the paper shifting in his gloved fingers, the seal splitting with a sound like a breath drawn inward. He unfolded the letter and read it in silence, his profile cast in half-light. His brow did not furrow, nor did his mouth tighten, but the stillness in his shoulders changed—grown more exact. More calculating.
“A costumed tea,” he said. “In the gardens of the palace. Hosted by Princess Marina.” He didn’t look at Kalithea as he said it. His gaze lingered on the bottom of the page, as if the parchment itself might whisper more. “And you are not the only one invited,” he added. “It names your companions.”
Edwina drew in a breath, soft but deliberate. Her fingers traced the rim of her teacup before she lowered it gently, as though steadying something finer than porcelain. “All of us?” she repeated, her tone polite but laced with discernment. “How thoughtful of Her Highness… to extend her reach so widely. One might almost mistake it for graciousness.”
Cecily leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing, not unkindly—but with the calculating grace of a girl who had grown up watching veils stitched over blades. “It’s no accident,” she said, voice light as lace. “This isn’t merely a gathering. It’s a staging ground. She means to make a scene… before the scene begins.”
Mirielle, ever composed, folded her hands in her lap and looked toward the sealed box resting near Kalithea’s elbow. “She has heard the whispers,” she said, her voice as even as snowfall. “And she intends to answer them in silk and spectacle—on her terms, before anyone else can write the ending.”
Anise’s brows arched with a theatrical air, though her voice was playful only on the surface. “A costume party.. with tea,” she mused. “How deliciously subtle. Poisoned compliments. Apologies dressed in ruffles. And just enough sugared violets to make you forget the taste of venom.”
“Or roses laced with iron,” Edwina added quietly. “Marina does prefer her battles dressed in bloom.” A silence settled between them—poised, not fearful. These were daughters of legacy—trained not just in embroidery and elocution, but in the strategy of survival. They recognized what was unfolding. The party was not for their pleasure. It was a summons dressed as civility. And Marina had chosen her timing with exquisite cruelty.
Jotaro folded the letter with one hand, the motion sharp and deliberate. His eyes, when they returned to Kalithea, softened only by degrees—but the steel beneath was unmistakable. “I will see to the details,” he said, voice low. “No one enters unguarded.” There was no need to explain further. He would not allow Kalithea to walk into that garden alone—not even in the finest gown.
As she reached for the parcel, and untied the ribbon, she opened the lid, beneath layers of tissue-thin vellum—folded too many times, as if to delay the inevitable—rested the costume. Emerald and blue, like seaweed cast up on stone. But no gleam of treasure stirred in its folds, no glint of moonlit tide, no regal drape. Only the shimmer of something forced to be beautiful, and utterly failing.
Kalithea drew it from the box herself. Her fingers, careful and precise, lifted the satin as one might lift a wounded thing—gently, without indulgence. The air that touched it seemed to bruise the fabric further, the bodice sagging beneath its own uneven weight, the sleeves puckering like a badly healed scar. The waistline sat too high. The shoulders too wide. And the beading—how it dulled in the light, neither proud nor deliberate, but merely there. A silence masquerading as adornment.
Mirielle, ever composed, adjusted the hem between her fingertips and let out a quiet breath. “The fabric bruises under air,” she said. “And the neckline would droop after a single step. It’s not an oversight. It’s a strategy.”
Edwina leaned in ever so slightly, her gaze cool and assessing, her voice soft as brocade. “This wasn’t stitched to flatter. It was stitched to humiliate quietly. Meant to wrinkle in the garden breeze and look most unfortunate beneath the sun.” She paused and spoke again. “She wants her own reflection to shine brighter by comparison. But light doesn’t come from satin. It comes from presence. And you… you were luminous before she even remembered how to curtsy.”
Cecily frowned, her poise untouched but her tone edged with muted disbelief. “She had access to every atelier in the realm—and she sends this?”
Anise cocked her head, a wry smile curling at the corner of her lips. “It’s not a gown,” she murmured, “it’s a snare stitched in satin.”
But Kalithea remained seated, her hands calm over the folds of the garment, unruffled even as the truth of their words settled like dust on silk. Instead, she looked down at the emerald-blue bodice with quiet reverence, as though honoring not the gown—but the effort it took to endure it. “She’s chosen green—verdant, jeweled—but not for grace. This costume, this gown, seems more to doubt that clothe in grace. I will not shame the seamstress, nor the thread that bore the weight. Yet it seems that her hand wished me small.”
The girls, touched by her words, said nothing for a moment.
Then Mirielle bowed her head, just slightly. “Only you,” she said softly, “could turn insult into poetry.”
Edwina’s voice followed, warmer now, almost affectionate. “Your grace is armor, Kalithea. She’ll never understand that.”
Anise lifted the sleeve again, letting it fall back like wilted ivy. “Let her cast stones of silk. We’ll turn them to laurels.”
Cecily reached for Kalithea’s hand, brushing her fingers lightly. “And when you walk into that garden… you’ll make her regret ever learning your name.”
Kalithea smiled then—faint, serene. A smile that did not gloat. A smile like quiet weather that clears the sky after storm. She dipped her pen once more, her ink steady and sure. “I will wear what is given with grace. But I will walk like I was never meant to beg.” Her gaze held no spite, only clarity— and something for more dangerous than vile words or expressions could ever be, dignity.
The silence that followed was still, and filled with the hush of recognition to the quiet beauty beside them. From behind her chair, Jotaro stepped forward, shifting the room like gravity had chosen a new center. He only looked—down at the gown that lay across her lap like an insult embroidered in moss and regret. His eyes flicked over each flaw, each crease meant to humiliate, each choice meant to diminish. Then—he turned, the kind that did not seek attention, but commanded it. The air behind him shifted, as if the room itself inhaled.
Before he could take a full step, something stopped him. A brush of fingers—soft, hesitant—just at the edge of his sleeve. She hadn’t even stood, yet only turned in her seat and reached her hand light with hesitation, as though she feared the silk of his coat might vanish beneath her touch. Her eyes rose slowly to meet his, she opened her booklet, pen already in hand, and wrote, “Where are you going? I do not wish for you to leave in such anger and silence before I may see you next.” He looked down at her, and for a moment, all of him softened.
He leaned just slightly forward, voice dropping to that low register he rarely used—meant for her alone. “Only briefly,” he murmured. “To summon Miss Lanali.” The next words he spoke, he did not say to the room, but to her alone. “You will be fitted properly,” he said. His tone was firm, but hushed. “And seen properly.”
How choice of words, caused her lips to curve into a grateful, thoughtful smile. Her cheeks flushed as her hand descended gracefully back into her lap. Then, he turned away. His cloak swept the floor as he moved—midnight fabric, silver-threaded at the hem—trailing behind him like the end of a sentence written by the stars. The door closed not with thunder, but with certainty. And in the hush that followed, the girls gathered around Kalithea—not like courtiers, But like shields drawn in a perfect ring.
Mirielle was the first to speak, her voice level, composed. “He sees her clearly. That is what unsettles Marina.”
Edwina, standing near Kalithea’s shoulder, folded her hands with polished grace. “He did not say she would be ‘dressed’ or ‘adorned.’ He said fitted. Tailored to worth. To presence.”
Anise laughed lightly, but the fire in her eyes betrayed the softness of her voice. “Greek mythology, was it? Then let Marina play at nymphs and muses. We’ll crown Kalithea like a goddess sculpted from starlight.”
Cecily leaned forward now, eyes narrowing with poise—not cruelly, but with the practiced insight of a girl who had grown up watching veils stitched over blades. “She tried to give you something that would slip,” she murmured. “But you stood taller in it than she ever has in her finest.”
Kalithea, owered her gaze to the wrinkled folds one last time—then slowly closed the box, her hand resting on the lid. “Let her dress me in seaweed. I will carry the ocean behind my spine.” And around her, the girls—sisters now in spirit—exhaled in quiet awe.
Instead, the conversation softened, turning like silk toward the upcoming gathering itself. The music. The scent of lemon verbena and pressed roses that would hang in the air like perfume and tension. Edwina spoke of likely arrivals—who would be dressed in which atelier, who Marina would seat nearest the fountain for effect. They passed time like this—gracefully, like noblewomen were taught to pass hours on porcelain clocks. Their voices rose and fell, a quartet of lace and steel, while beyond the windows, the sun moved gently west.
Thirty minutes later, there came a quiet knock. Dame Erin stepped inside with an elegant bow of her head. “Miss Lanali has arrived.” The hush that followed was not silence, but ceremony. Kalithea rose. Her friends stood beside her, each smoothing their skirts as if rising for a procession, as Dame Adeline took her position just ahead. And thus they walked—not as girls dressing for a party, but as quiet flames preparing to step into a tempest.
Dame Adeline led the way with her usual composed stride, her polished boots making no more noise than a breath upon marble. Dame Erin followed just behind the girls, a practiced sentinel with a glint of something sisterly in her eyes. The corridor ahead was gilded with winter light, spilling in through tall arched windows, bathing each girl in pale gold.
“Though I understand Marina for her cruelty dripped in satin and grace, I still can not fathom nor how she could have sent that,” Anise murmured, half to herself.
Mirielle’s tone was more refined, more cutting—without malice, but not without meaning. “It was a statement, not a gift. That gown was meant to wrinkle… and so was Kalithea’s image.”
Dame Adeline gave a soft hum of approval. “I saw the garment,” she said simply. “If that is what passes for a princess’s generosity, then I thank the stars I serve a different house, and a different lady.”
“Agreed,” Dame Erin added dryly. “I’ve seen better tailoring in the palace laundry.” The girls stifled their laughter, but it warmed the air between them—like breath against glass.
Then the doors to the dressing parlor opened with a graceful creak, and the hush that followed was one of quiet expectation. Inside, the room was already prepared. Lavender cushions framed an ivory divan, dressing mirrors stood like sentinels, and boxes—layered with ribbons and silk—lined the far tables like offerings at an altar.
At the center of the room stood a woman with auburn hair swept into a refined crown braid, not a strand out of place. Spectacles rested along the bridge of her slender nose, catching the soft light as she turned—already aware of who had entered, as if she had sensed them before the doors had opened. Her gown was a deep green velvet, long-sleeved and cuffed in silver thread, fitted not flamboyantly but with quiet authority—like a portrait sketched, then lived into.
And when her gaze found Kalithea’s, the seamstress smiled—not with charm, but with recognition. “My lady,” she said, voice warm as a hearth not yet cooled from last night’s embers. Kalithea stepped forward before her friends could speak, her movements soft but steady. She reached for Miss Lanali’s gloved hand—not in politeness, but with quiet familiarity, like one greeting an old friend she had not known she missed.
The seamstress did not flinch at the contact. Instead, she bent slightly, squeezing Kalithea’s hand once between her own. “Ah! It’s so good to see you, I was summoned immediately by His Majesty… dare I say that dress needed more than what meets the eye.” Lanali’s eyes glinted behind her glasses. “Yet any seamstress knows when a thread is being pulled.”
Behind her, the noble girls exchanged glances, eyes wide with restrained wonder. Lanali turned to them now with elegance practiced in court, dipping a perfectly poised curtsey. “Ladies. I am Linali Salova, imperial seamstress to His Majesty. It is my pleasure to assist you today.”
“The pleasure is ours,” Edwina replied first, voice smooth as porcelain. “We’ve long admired Kalithea’s gowns. But we never knew you were the hand behind them.”
“They always seemed as though no one else in the room could have worn them,” murmured Mirielle. “Not just tailored to her form—but her presence.”
Lanali tilted her head modestly. “Then I am pleased you noticed. I do not dress figures. I dress spirit. And hers,” she glanced toward Kalithea with subtle affection, “is not one you sew for lightly.” Anise, who had wandered near a large box on the table, lifted its lid at Lanali’s silent nod—and gasped.
Inside lay the refitted gown. Dark sapphire, embroidered in glints of silver and pearl, its bodice shaped like a breath held in reverence, its waistline curved like a line of poetry. “It’s… absolutely divine. Miss Lanali.. you're wonderful!” Anise breathed.
Cecily blinked as though seeing something sacred. “This wasn’t stitched. It was conjured.”
Lanali allowed herself the barest smile. “The original was… unsuitable. This one is made to honor her form—and the truth of her standing.” Kalithea moved closer to the box, reaching out with gentle fingers.
She ran a hand along the velvet-smooth fabric, her touch reverent, not possessive. Her eyes shimmered, not with vanity—but with gratitude. She reached for her booklet again, pen gliding. “I’ve never asked to be dressed. But you always make it feel as though I deserve to be.”
Before Lanali could respond, quick taps sounded down the corridor. A bark, short, and somehow dignified in the way only a creature with absolutely no patience for nonsense could muster. Kalithea’s head turned at once, a glimmer softening in her eyes before the door even opened. The doors parted just enough to permit a small blur of movement, and then in strutted Iggy.
A mop of wiry fur and aristocratic disdain, the terrier marched straight into the dressing parlor like he owned the velvet settee and the empire beyond it. He paused, sniffed once at a dangling ribbon, then surveyed the room with narrowed blue eyes as if appraising who, if anyone, was worthy of his attention. Then his gaze landed on Kalithea—and only then did his shoulders relax, ears perk up.
Kalithea smiled soft me sudden. She lowered to her knees just as he reached her, and he immediately rose to his hind legs, paws placed delicately on her skirts as if demanding to be lifted with dignity. Kalithea obliged at once, gathering him into her arms like a long-lost prince.
“That is not merely a dog,” Edwina said at last, her voice low with astonishment, as though she were speaking of a monarch in miniature. “That is a judgment dressed in fur.”
“A most imperious one,” added Cecily, folding her gloved hands over her skirts, “and he has already decided which of us are worthy of his glance. I fear I did not pass.”
Mirielle’s brow lifted with practiced elegance, her smile composed. “He regards us with the gaze of an archivist—taking note of every ribbon, every lace, and every offense against his sensibilities.”
“He has the stare of a magistrate,” Anise murmured, hand to her chin, delighted. “But the posture of an emperor on his day of leisure.” Their laughter was not loud—it was refined, glittering softly like the ripple of water beneath cut crystal. And though Iggy gave no outward acknowledgment of their approval, his tail shifted once, not quite a wag—perhaps a concession.
Kalithea looked down at him, her hand moving to cradle the back of his head. Her expression was gentle, fond. Then, with her booklet balanced on one knee and ink sliding like breath across vellum, she wrote. “I met Iggy one morning with Dame Adeline and Dame Erin in the imperial Palace. He did not know who I was, and neither did i know whose dog he was, but I found out only briefly that this little companion was Headmistress Avdolia’s. Not her pet, but more of an animal who held his own world.” She lifted the page and turned it gently for her friends to see.
There was a pause—one touched with grace, as if something tender had been set before them and they instinctively quieted to preserve it.
“Oh, Kalithea,” Edwina breathed, hand pressed lightly to her chest, “even your affections arrive cloaked in poetry.”
Cecily stepped closer, her gaze softened now. “And to think,” she said, “that every court lady clambers for jeweled pins and favors from admirers—while you are gifted the loyalty of the Headmistress’s most guarded companion.”
Mirielle offered a smile that carried both admiration and quiet reflection. “It is a rare soul,” she said, “who earns the trust of something so instinctively cautious.”
“And rarer still,” Anise added, her tone warm, “to be loved without question. It says more than titles ever could.”
At this, Dame Adeline—still stationed near the arched entrance—allowed herself a chuckle. “If he’s curled in her lap, then the rest of us can stop speculating. That’s the highest approval she’ll ever get.”
“And I’m afraid none of us can compete with that fluff,” Dame Erin remarked with a smile, adjusting her sword belt. “He’s already claimed her skirts, and her pillows as sovereign territory.” And Iggy, with his little emperor’s scowl and loyal heart, tucked his head into her arm and fell asleep.
The room dimmed slightly as clouds passed the windows, casting long slants of light across the velvet carpets. Somewhere else again, the distance, bells chimed the hour. Princess Marina stood near the marble colonnade just outside the receiving hall, the hem of her ruffled gown brushing the checkered floor like a whisper too sharp to be sweet. Her ladies—Selienne, Anthemina, and Vessina—bowed with their usual grace and murmured farewells, slipping away to ready themselves for the upcoming garden masquerade.
Marina had not moved for some time. She stood alone now, fingers delicately curled around her fan though she did not open it, her gaze fixed on the corridor that led to the imperial council chamber. She blinked once, a slow, imperceptible shift. Then took one step forward, her heels silent against the marble.
She had timed her walk precisely. Had planned the angle, the hour, the excuse. It was supposed to be the perfect moment for coincidence—for a passing smile, a shared hallway, a word spoken in shadow. Her fingers tightened ever so slightly around the carved ivory of her fan. Her expression did not change.
Princess Marina stood still, her figure poised beside a lacquered column, half-shadowed by the fall of velvet drapes. She pretended to admire a tapestry stitched with the myth of creation, her head tilted slightly, her ivory fan open just enough to veil the corner of her face.
The door ahead had not closed fully. And voices—aged, gravelled, and burning with contained venom—slipped through the sliver of space like smoke from a dying fire.
“She is the reason,” murmured Lord Huron, his tone low and bitter. “He was never this defiant before. Not until she.”
Marina’s lashes lowered. “She dines with him. She sits beside him at court. She does not bow,” said Lord Tolomy, each word clipped like a thread being cut. “And the court applauds her for it.”
“She silences us,” Lord Rendel growled, his fine blue robes rustling as he paced. “Without uttering a word, she has stolen half the court’s favor. And his Majesty—he watches her as though she is carved from divine right itself.”
“She is nothing, a former—,” spat Lord Akirus, coughing as his words cut off from his throat. “And yet he treats her as if she were the empire’s chosen star. Do you see how the others look at her now? As if she were born to belong.”
Marina’s fingers tightened around the frame of her fan. Lord Huron’s voice dropped, colder now. “The girl is dangerous not because of what she says, but because of what she doesn’t. She absorbs loyalty without asking for it. Nobility whispers of her humility as if it were a crown. And now… she lives in the manor. Wears the empire’s colors. Sleeps under the same roof.”
There was a beat of silence. Then Lord Tolomy spoke again, voice slow and calculating. “If we wait longer, our influence will wither completely. The boy is no longer a child. The age of guardianship is over. If we lose the last thread of command—what are we, then? Advisors in name alone?” “She must be removed,” Lord Akirus said bluntly. “Silently. Permanently. If not by decree, then by circumstance.” Marina’s breath caught, but she held still. Here i thought that Prince Cassium’s arrow would have done the trick.”
“A scandal would suffice,” muttered Lord Rendel. “Something that would cast her presence in an unclean light. Enough to stain her in the public eye—strip away this… undeserved reverence.”
“She has too many watching her now,” Tolomy countered, quieter. “Those noble girls, the knights, even Avdolia… We must be patient. But precise.”
The door creaked open further,a single footstep echoed in. Soft, deliberate, slippered in pearl-toned satin. The candlelights flickered as Princess Marina entered. Her presence was not loud, nor did it need to be. Like perfume from a shattered vial, she permeated the air—fragrant with noble lineage and the quiet menace of someone long underestimated. Four pairs of eyes turned toward her, their conversation immediately dissolving into a practiced stillness.
For despite their gray temples and inherited titles, she was the daughter of King Rist, born of old Renaldian blood—the kind whose name came stitched into ledgers thicker than law. And she was beautiful in a way that court preferred: flawless, adorned, and far too clever to be dismissed.
Marina closed her fan and bowed her head, just slightly. “My lords,” she greeted smoothly, her voice silk and soot. “Forgive my intrusion. The doors, I fear, were not quite sealed.”
Lord Rendel was the first to speak, his tone warming with false gallantry. “Your Highness. Always a pleasure. We were… merely speaking of seasonal affairs.”
“Ah,” she said, stepping closer. “And is the season so turbulent that it must be navigated in whispers?”
Lord Huron exhaled, a long breath between weariness and recognition. “We were discussing the storm behind your Emperor’s eyes, Princess.”
Marina’s lips curled at the corners. “The girl cloaked in silence? Yes. The one who seems to collect loyalty like it’s owed to her.”
“She is not noble-born,” Lord Akirus added quickly. “And yet she is granted privileges not even daughters of kings—” he caught himself, too late. Marina’s smile sharpened—without ever becoming impolite.
“I take no offense,” she said sweetly. “I only seek clarity. Tell me, my lords… who is she really?” Her charm seeped through, as their shifted between, unsure whether to let this secret become known to the world.. to her world.
Lord Rendel folded his hands, a brow raised as his eyes narrowed in utter distasteful fashion. “Your highness, you must be sworn not to utter a word of her origin. We must not tarnish His Majesty’s reputation.”
Marina only nodded, her fan fluttering as she nodded in protective and favoured armour behind her smile. “You have my word.”
Lord Rendel continued. “A former slave. Rescued by His Majesty. Named and sheltered. Since then, her favor has… grown.”
“She lives under his roof,” Tolomy said. “Dines at his table. Wears dresses tailored by his own seamstress. And today—” his eyes flicked toward the firelight— “I am told she was seen escorted alone to the fitting parlors, with his knights, and company— only by intel.”
“A procession for a nobody,” Lord Huron bit out, the veins along his temple visible beneath his fading hair. “Not even a bastard with a traceable family, just a name he gave her himself.”
“And worse,” murmured Lord Akirus, narrowing his eyes as though peering through the folds of his own disdain, “She has become a symbol. They say she is gentle, silent. Gracious. The court now rallies her. The lower lords defer when she passes. Headmistress Avdolia, tutored her only for a short time, regards her with unspoken favor.”
“His Majesty has changed,” Rendel added, voice roughened by worry. “He speaks less to us, his trust is guarded, and protects her like a blade sheathed in velvet—like a crown guards its jewel.”
Then, from the shadows carved by the marble columns, Marina stepped forward. Her footfalls were soft, designed for halls like these—made to drift across centuries of privilege without ever leaving a trace. “I see,” she murmured, her tone like silk lined with steel. “So it is fear I smell burning beneath all this incense.”
She paused again, choosing her words carefully. She paced slowly forward, like a dancer across a chessboard. “Let us be plain,” she said. “You, my lords, wield influence. But not permanence. That belongs to the throne. And the Emperor—” she paused, her eyes cooling to glass, “has begun to forget that you helped him rise.”
Lord Akirus bristled faintly, but Marina did not wait. “You fear this girl because she makes him… soft,” she continued, eyes sharp as a polished brooch. “Because in her silence, he sees something worth protecting. You fear the story he is rewriting with her name on the first page.”
“And what if,” Lord Tolomy murmured, his voice like slow-turning silk, “we no longer attempt to unseat her with whispers?” The other lords looked up, interest faint but sharpening. Tolomy rested his hand upon the arm of his chair, expression calm—too calm. “What if,” he continued, eyes flicking to the crackling hearth, “we considered something more… final?”
Marina’s fan paused mid-air. She did not speak at once. She merely studied Tolomy, the faintest arch to her brow, a pearl of silence suspended like a tear on porcelain. “I ask, go on,” she said sweetly, almost absently.
Tolomy’s voice dropped. “There is an old adage in my house: a rose blooms once… but a thorn kills without ceremony. If you wish to reclaim His Majesty’s gaze, Lady Marina, would you risk sharing it with a memory?”
Marina lowered her fan, inch by inch, until its carved edge rested against her lap. Her lashes fluttered just once, as if brushing off hesitation. “I would not call for blood,” she replied gently. “That would be… unseemly.” The lords exhaled as though they had been holding their breath. “But,” she continued, rising slowly from her seat, “I do believe in absence. In the delicacy of something untraceable. A vanishing—not with violence, but with grace. The sort of disappearance the court mourns briefly… and forgets by supper.”
She walked toward the hearth now, skirts brushing the marble floor like water on stone. “I am hosting a costumed garden tea soirée,” she murmured, her tone light, silken, practiced. “You have heard, of course. Every noble maiden of the season is invited—including her.” Her hand hovered above the fire. “And somewhere amidst the chatter and petals—there will be a single cup.”
“A cup that does not burn,” Marina murmured, her voice the smooth pour of fine liqueur. “That does not blister, nor bruise. Nothing so vulgar. No, it shall be slow. Sophisticated. A mercy draped in chamomile.”
Akirus’s brow furrowed, though his posture remained stately. “You speak of poison.”
A hush curled about the chamber like mist over cold glass. Lord Rendel’s voice came next, low and refined, scarcely more than a breath. “It would need to be… immaculate. No stain upon your name. No tether to the crown.” Marina’s smile returned—neither cruel nor kind, but detached and inevitable.
“This is not vengeance,” she said, folding her fan with a sound like silk drawn over steel. “This is preservation. His Majesty is beloved—by the court, by the people. But affection is transferable. If she remains… they will come to see her as his confidante.” Her gaze sharpened, sorrow cloaked in sovereign resolve. “And I will not allow the heart of the empire to beat for a girl whose very name was granted by his pity, and whose steps scorch the palace floors with tarnished beauty.”
It was Lord Huron who broke the silence first, his voice low, gravel-lined, as though dragged reluctantly from his throat. “We are speaking, then… of murder.” A flicker passed through the firelight.
“Do not speak so plainly,” Lord Rendel hissed, leaning forward with sudden sharpness. The rubies on his signet ring caught the flame. “Do you wish the walls to remember?” He glanced once at the tapestries—rich, ancestral things—then back to the others, his voice a whisper robed in velvet. “Even bricks have ears in this palace.”
Lord Tolomy, draped in grey with a pinched mouth like old paper folding, tapped the ivory head of his cane once against the stone floor. The sound was deliberate. Judging. “We are speaking of necessity,” he said, each syllable dry as salt. “A culling. The Emperor may wear the crown, but he does not yet wield it. And if he is lost to affection—then the realm is lost to sentiment.”
Lord Akirus, only slightly younger than the rest of the aging men, straightened in his seat. His gloved fingers curled against his jaw in thought, unease tightening the line of his shoulders. “But if this is uncovered… if even a shadow of suspicion drifts toward us… We would not be seen as guardians of the crown. We would be traitors. Public enemies. Hanged in the square.”
“Not if it is done with elegance,” Marina replied, smooth as aged wine. “Not if it is done as nature would—gently, slowly, without a trace. You will not raise your voices. You will not speak her name. All you must do is ensure the court whispers questions. That is all. I,” she said with a faint bow of her head, “shall provide the cup.”
Lord Rendel leaned forward, the chain of his council medallion glinting as it shifted. His eyes were narrowed beneath heavy lids, calculating. “And such.. your means to use the garden soirée.”
Marina inclined her head as if accepting a compliment. “Naturally. The court will be watching the costumes. The theatre. The laughter. It will be a perfect tragedy.”
Tolomy let out a brittle breath that might have been a laugh, though it carried no warmth. “Greek mythology, was it not?” he mused. “Fitting, I suppose. The gods were always fond of cruelty veiled in beauty.”
Lord Akirus shifted again, the leather of his gloves creaking. “And if His Majesty uncovers the truth? If this leads back to you—or us?”
“We speak not of truth,” Marina said, her tone like silk smothering steel. “Only an illusion. When it is done, no one will point to you. Or to me. It will be fate. Fragility. A sorrow too soft to examine.”
Then Tolomy rose, his cane steadying him as he stood. “No,” he said at last, voice cold, clipped. “If this is to be done, you take the first risk. If your name is caught in this—if a single whisper lands near the Emperor’s ear—we will not shield you. There will be no pity.”
“Agreed,” Rendel murmured, nodding solemnly.
Akirus exhaled slowly, glancing toward the windows as though the night itself might listen in. “And if it succeeds,” he said, “you’ll have your place beside him—whatever part of him is left.”
Marina did not blink. “That is all I’ve ever wanted.” Marina tilted her head, pale and composed. “Then, my Lords, let me be the most elegant ghost the court has ever known.” Marina turned her back to them, her voice the last to leave the room. “A pact,” she said, “of silence. Of preservation. Not of loyalty.”
And the lords bowed—not to her, not to each other, but to the shadowed necessity of what they’d wrought together. One by one, they vanished into the hush of the corridor, their robes trailing like judgment behind them. Their footfalls were faint, yet final—vanishing into velvet dusk. Only Marina remained, her hands resting lightly on the polished table, her fingertips brushing the cool marble. Somewhere, invitations were already sealed, and in her mind the cup remained.
Notes:
comment what a you think!!
Chapter 40: Poisoned lips and cups
Chapter Text
The parlor had been cleared, the trays removed, the gowns hung in their silk-draped frames. And in the center of the imperial dressing chamber, lit by amber sconces and the pale hush of fading afternoon, Kalithea stood still as a statue—while the world wove around her.
Miss Lanali circled like a sovereign moon, her voice low and precise as she tugged at the folds of satin and sapphire. “Lift here… yes, and—Martha, pin that at the shoulder. Just beneath the emerald clasp—no, not so tight. Her breath must look like reverence, not restriction.”
The gown shimmered as it caught the light—no longer a mockery in green and blue, but transformed, refined, reborn. It was the same cut, yes—but it was not the same soul. Now, it was sculpted to Kalithea’s form like a myth remembered. The deep sapphire fabric clung not in desperation, but in command. Its folds draped over her shoulders with grace stolen from ancient goddesses, held by two oval crests of green fire—emerald cameos set in gilded filigree, like the eyes of sleeping lions.
Silver thread curled like vines around the bodice, each stitch deliberate, each gleam soft as starlight. Pearlwork kissed the hem with whispering curves, and a thin sash of midnight velvet rested at her waist—not cinched, but resting like a vow made only once.
Lanali stepped back. “Now the finishing.”
Claudia and Claudette moved in unison, lifting a small chest carved from mother-of-pearl. Within lay the jewelry—subtle, but sovereign. A pair of teardrop emerald earrings, matching the shoulder crests. A diadem of brushed gold, thin and elegant, with a single emerald resting at its center like a drop of spring on snow.
They fastened it across her brow, just above where her hair—no longer bound—spilled in wild, curling waves of deep red. It cascaded freely, kissed with faint perfume and gently brushed until it rippled like silk caught in a soft breeze. “She asked for it down,” Bridgette murmured from the corner, folding ribbons with quiet reverence. “She says how His Majesty always looks first at eyes, then her hair.”
At Kalithea’s feet, Sam knelt, fastening the final strap of the heeled slippers—white satin, with silver soles, the curve of the heel catching just enough light to make it seem enchanted. When she rose again, she whispered, “You’ll walk like the marble was carved for you.”
With final touches, a cherry red balm across her lips, as she smiled at her maids- in-waiting, and Lanali with adoration and quiet gratitude. And lastly. Thich powdered creams as if to cover her branding scar. Its color gone and blended thoroughly. When they stepped back, a hush fell. Miss Lanali was the first to speak, her voice soft, like a seamstress who’d just sewn a hymn. “You are not dressed as a goddess, Kalithea. You are dressed as yourself, and for that matter I am very pleased for you.”
Kalithea did not speak. She only turned, slowly, toward the tall mirror that stood by the bay window. And the girl who looked back at her—was not merely beautiful. She was something carved in reverence. Something not meant to beg for space, but to have it woven around her. A figure from myth, yes—but a myth that breathed.
The blue of the gown deepened where the shadows touched it, and glowed softly where the sun caught its edges. The emeralds gleamed like watching eyes. And her hair—red as garnet silk—spilled over her shoulders in gentle disarray, like a crown that refused to be tamed.
Lanali approached quietly, and placed one final pin at the waist. “When she sees you,” she murmured, “it won’t be the gown that ruins her. It will be the fact that even at your most adorned… you remain unbothered.”
Kalithea turned to her maids—her knights—her friends. Their expressions, all of them, had shifted. Not to awe. But to quiet understanding. They were no longer preparing her for a party. They were preparing her for a reckoning.
The mirrors had fallen silent. Her maids had withdrawn. And still, Kalithea lingered—draped in midnight blue and silver thread, the faint scent of lilac and parchment clinging to her skin like memory.
Outside the dressing parlor, the manor was quiet, save for the distant murmur of lanterns being lit and the muffled bustle of servants preparing for the evening’s spectacle. But here, beneath the hush of velvet drapes and chandelier glow, the world narrowed to breath, fabric, and thought.
Dame Erin stood at the door, her profile upright, unreadable. Dame Adeline waited just beside her, hands loosely folded, the soft flicker of light catching on her breastplate.
Dame Adeline glanced up, then softened. “His Majesty is in his study,” she said quietly, as though reading Kalithea’s thoughts. “He asked not to be disturbed—” She paused. “But I do not believe that rule was meant for you.”
Erin smiled, adjusting her sword belt. “He’s been waiting, my lady. Not in body, perhaps. But certainly in breath.” Kalithea blushed in response, turning her gaze away from them as a small quiet breathless laughter left her lips. The girls like older sisters, looked at her as they escorted her down the stairs, Dame Erin holding the door open for her as she shut it behind them promptly.
Dame Adeline read then tilted her head with a soft laugh. “Once he says you, I believe he will call it proof that gods still favor men.”
Erin nodded. “And if he’s foolish enough to say otherwise— which I doubt, then you must knock some sense back into him, with your words.” That coaxed the faintest laugh from Kalithea—soundless, but visible in her eyes. She gathered her skirts, stepped into the corridor, and followed the path she had only dared to dream of days ago. Dame Erin, motioned toward the direction of Jotaro’s study, as they both gave her a wink.
Kalithea paused, fingers tightening on the velvet folds of her gown. She had not gone to him before in his study, at least not like this— wrapped in emerald green, sapphire, and daring. The air shifted around her, full of candlelight and silence and the thrum of some new boldness that had not come from her, but had grown inside her—like ivy coaxed toward sun. Then turned—slowly, deliberately—and began toward the corridor that curved like a river of carved stone toward the Emperor’s private wing.
The great manor quieted as she walked, as if the walls themselves recognized the hush of something sacred unfolding. Marble gleamed beneath her heels. Tapestries faded into shadow. And with each step closer to the door, her thoughts curled into poetry she could not yet write. The door stood shut, regal and unmoving. Behind it, the only man whose gaze made her feel more real than her reflection ever had. She knocked only once, the blush on her cheeks apparent.
Then his voice—low, even, velvet pressed into command. “Come in.” Kalithea eased the door open. The room smelled of parchment, cedarwood, and something darker—ink, perhaps, or quiet waiting. Candlelight danced across the tall shelves and map-lined walls, casting golden halos upon the velvet chairs and the wide desk at its heart.
Jotaro stood behind it, one hand resting atop a closed folder, the other slipping the clasp of a leather-bound tome back into place. But the moment his gaze rose—when he truly saw her—the room seemed to forget its purpose. He stopped moving and stood still in the way of tides pausing for the moon. She curtsied towards him, beautifully and gracefully, in reverence to the man she adored.
The half-cape swept with her, and the emerald crest at her brow caught the light like a drop of spring rain held too long in winter’s palm. He placed his leather book on the table, forgotten, as he strides towards her with the poise and restraint of a man who offers her far to much, but with ever bit of sincerity.
His hand rose, hesitant in its own power—lifted not to touch, but as if uncertain whether the act might unravel everything he’d fought to hold back. “Kalithea, you look…” He faltered. The silence that followed was not hollow, but reverent. When he spoke again, his voice was low, roughened by something old and tender. “You look beautiful.”
Her lashes fluttered like a page about to turn. A flush crept high across her cheeks—roses blooming beneath alabaster. She dipped her gaze briefly, as if to catch the breath she’d forgotten to hold, then finally reached for her pen. The movement was slow, ritual-like, her fingers steady despite her heart’s flutter. “I was not afraid to come, not by you Jotaro… but I feared I may look.. too much. I fear that in this dress I look armed for a war that I may only hope to win.”
He read it in silence. The candlelight caught his expression—and something softened, like winter yielding again and again to spring. “You,” he murmured, “are never too much.” He took a step closer. She could see now the shadows beneath his eyes, the tightness drawn fine around his brow—regality worn with fatigue. But even in his weariness, there was no mistaking the steadiness of his gaze, or the way he looked at her as if she were a secret he had carried for lifetimes. “You are the only thing,” he said lowly, “that keeps this world from feeling small.”
She blushed again, deeper now—her gaze dropping, lashes falling like a curtain over candlelight. The booklet trembled slightly in her grip, as though her heart had surged faster than her hands could follow. She looked at him, as she smiled, as the man before her gently held hand against her back. “I thank Lanali and the others for dressing me so beautifully, but I would rather stay here… with you. Even if it is only for a moment?”
He didn’t speak until the silence between them had thickened—had meant something. “I’ve seen too much,” he said. “Politics, death and power.” He leaned in, his breath grazing her ear, his voice stripped to its quietest edge. “But when I look at you, I remember I still have a heart.”Kalithea turned slowly, just enough to meet him—not fully, but enough to feel him, to anchor to the warmth of his nearness. Her fingers found the edge of his sleeve and just held it.
She turned fully then—her hand still lightly at his sleeve—and looked up into his face. The calm he carried in public had not left him, but here, in this closeness, it bent. And then, with a soundless flutter of her lashes, she began to write again—faster this time, as if the emotion had built too quickly to delay. “You always make me feel like I belong in the places I fear most. As if I were made not to disappear, but to be seen…I know not what to do with that.” He read her response as she turned another page. “Do you know what it means to feel wanted by someone who could have chosen anyone?”
The question hung in the air, like incense smoke—delicate, impossible to contain. Jotaro’s expression did not change. But something beneath it cracked—softer than breaking glass, deeper than breath. His hand rose, gloved and careful, and he touched the edge of her chin. Just enough to tilt her face toward him. Just enough to see her—not the costume, not the image, not the court’s rumors—but her. “I never saw anyone else.”
Kalithea’s breath caught, booklet pressed gently against his chest, as if she were unsure where to place it. One hand lingered near his sleeve, her fingers curling softly into the fabric. Then, trembling slightly, she wrote “If I am a storm, then you are the shore I break against. Somehow, you never fall.”
Jotaro read the words—and did not move. But something deep in his gaze shifted. The edges of his composure blurred, like ink pulled into water. He reached for her hand, not to read more, but to hold it steady between both of his palms, as if it were something breakable and holy. “Kalithea,” he said—just her name, but it left him like a vow.
Her lashes lowered, and when she looked up again, her eyes shimmered—not with tears, but with a reverence she hadn’t known how to name until this moment. Instead, he stepped forward until their foreheads nearly touched, until he could feel the shape of her breath against his skin. Until every inch of restraint he had forged around her threatened to crumble. “Even the sea,” he said, voice low, “kneels to the moon.”
His arms encircled her slowly, reverently, as if he were memorizing the shape of her, not just in form, but in presence—in breath and stillness. She fit against him not like something claimed, but something returned. Kalithea remained still, her ear pressed against the steady beat beneath his coat. His scent was clean and cold—like dark cedar and rain on slate—and beneath it, something rarer, warmer.
He was already watching her. His face was close—closer than she’d ever let anyone be. His breath touched hers. His hand moved only to cup her cheek, fingers trembling at the edges, as though even now he didn’t dare close the distance. Her fingers left his chest and rose—hesitant but sure—to brush the edge of his jaw.
And in that breathless space between almost and yes, he leaned in like a tide returning to shore, steady and inevitable, as though every breath between them had only ever been borrowed. The booklet slipped from her hand, forgotten—pages fluttering against the floor like moths fleeing light. Her eyes closed as her lips parted in silent welcome. Her cheeks bloomed crimson, radiant with the warmth of something unnamed but long dreamed of.
His hands moved—one cradling the back of her head, the other finding its place at her waist, drawing her closer with reverence, not claim. He held her like she was something celestial and delicate, and he didn’t want to make a single misstep. Like touching her wrong would tilt the stars. Her hands, shy at first, found the edges of his coat. Then bolder, she let her fingers curl into the fabric, anchoring herself to the only gravity she had ever chosen.
And her heart, quiet for so long, thundered behind her ribs—not in fear, but joy. She had not known that a kiss could feel like this. As if the ache of being alone in the world had been answered, without sound, by a mouth that asked for nothing but her being. And when they finally drew apart, breath shared and shallow, disbelieving.
And then—without warning, without shame—her joy broke. Not in sound, but in light. Her eyes welled with sudden tears, too full to contain. A soft, radiant smile bloomed through the. Her fingers remained lightly curled, suspended in the air between them, trembling with something too fragile to name. Her eyes, glistening now, did not turn away. There was no fear in her expression—only awe. Only the full, soft ache of being seen.
His brow lowered just slightly, and the line of his mouth softened with something he did not let most people see, humility. He reached up, and slipped off his glove without haste. With bare fingers now, he tucked one loose curl behind her ear, and with a thumb just barely shaking, he brushed the tears from her cheek—first one, then another.
His hand lingered at her jaw, warm and unguarded. “May this be the last first kiss you ever have,” he said, his voice low. “Because no one will ever deserve a second.” Kalithea’s breath left her in a quiet rush—half-laugh, half-sigh—and she looked down again, shy but glowing, cheeks pink with warmth that would not leave her. A tear still clung to one lash, but she made no move to hide it. Then, in a whisper only she could hear.“I will always make room for you. Even in my crown, if that’s where you wish to stand.”
Her eyes shimmered, caught between joy and disbelief, her smile soft and trembling. And for a moment, she forgot that there was a world beyond this room. He was looking at her like she was something precious—something that couldn’t be replaced, not by power, not by peace, not by an empire.
Kalithea didn’t rise to meet him. She simply tilted her head, lifting her chin just enough, her hand against his chest steady now. She stayed rooted where she was—on the ground, on the page, in the center of his world—and let him come to her. His lips pressed to hers with more certainty now—not demanding, but devoted. It was the kind of kiss that steadied the world, not shattered it. When they parted, the hush between them was as soft as snowfall.
His gloved hand lifted once more, palm still curved to her back, while with the bare fingers of his other, he turned slightly—toward the booklet she had dropped earlier, fallen to the floor like a petal torn free in the wind. Without a word, he opened his hand, and the air around them shimmered faintly.
It floated into his waiting grasp, and he turned it over in his hand once, before offering it back to her. His expression softened again, like the magic had cost him nothing, but giving her this—this—had meant everything. She accepted it with trembling fingers, as his mouth tilted—something between a smirk and something too private to name.
Kalithea’s gaze turned to the window, where light now painted the marble a golden tint. The sun had begun its slow descent, casting longer shadows over the garden paths. Jotaro followed her gaze. His hand fell from her waist, reluctantly. “It’s late,” he said—quiet, not reproachful. His tone held no push to leave, only the weight of time, like a curtain beginning to draw.
The golden dusk caught at the edges of her gown, weaving a final thread of warmth through the sapphire folds. She moved beside him not like a companion, but something precious being led through a temple—each step quiet, each glance reverent. He opened the door for her himself, no attendant needed. The imperial knights, all of which they both equally knew, waited beyond—Sir Jean, Sir Amadeus, Dame Adeline, and Dame Erin—stood at attention. But tonight, they were not alone.
Five more knights waited behind them—draped in dusk-colored cloaks embroidered with the imperial crest. The candles lit the way down the corridor, and a hush had fallen across the wing. Everyone seemed to know that something had changed. He stepped into the hall with her, arm in arm. The sound of their steps echoed faintly—his sure and calm, hers like rain on stone.
When they reached the foot of the stairs, he paused. “You won’t go walk without my name, and neither unprotected,” Jotaro said lowly. His voice held the edge of a promise, carved not in stone but something stronger—will.
Kalithea turned to look at him, the candlelight gilding her lashes, her mouth parted with words not yet spoken. She pulled out her booklet, not with haste, but with quiet ceremony and wrote with grace as deliberate as prayer. “I do not fear, Jotaro—not while your presence still lingers like spring beside me. But I thank you, for making the path gentler.”
He read the words, and something in his gaze stirred—quietly, deeply. “You belong to no garden but your own,” he said. “But if they try to cut you from it—” He didn’t finish, nor did he need to. Instead, he stepped closer, kissing her temple with adoration. Kalithea’s breath caught softly, and she bowed her head just slightly, a flush of red -revel at against her cheeks. She tucked the booklet back into the hidden seams of her pocket, and turned at last to the doors ahead.
Dame Adeline moved first, opening the carved archway with silent strength. The doors didn’t creak—they parted as if they knew whom they were letting through. She glanced once at Kalithea, her voice soft and sure. “Hold your head as you always have, my lady. We’ll walk with you as far as they dare let us.”
Dame Erin followed just behind, offering a fleeting smile as she passed. “And if anyone so much as whispers wrong, I’ll trip them into the punch bowl. Gracefully, of course.” She winked, her hand resting lightly on the hilt at her side. “Though I suspect you won’t need us—your silence is louder than any blade.”
Sir Jean gave a grin and a wink as he stepped to Kalithea’s right, his tone giddy and charming. “Try not to dazzle the entire court too badly, my lady. Some of them still believe they stand a chance in emerald.” Kalithea smiled, lips closed but eyes gleaming. Her fingers brushed lightly against her booklet but did not open it. They understood her gratitude without ink.
Then came Sir Amadeus—last, as always, not from hesitation but vigilance. His steps were deliberate, his presence a wall of quiet strength. He paused as he reached her side, speaking low and without ceremony. “You are not alone tonight. That must be more than enough.”
She looked up at him—at the faint silver in his dark hair, the knight's smile tucked beneath his curled mustache, as she offered him a curtsy softer than any farewell. Sir Amadeus' smile grew wider, but his gaze was kind. “Good,” he murmured. “Go with certainty. We’ll be there when the lights dim.”
The additional knights stepped a little bit further behind Kalithea, guarding her as if she were a sacred verse entrusted to living stone. Jotaro stood still as they walked forward, watching her figure as it moved toward shadow and lantern light.
Jotaro stood still as they walked forward, watching her figure as it moved toward shadow and lantern light. And just before she crossed the threshold, Kalithea paused, turned, and with the same muster of grace and eloquence, curtsied in reverence to the many who had given her everything. And Jotaro, who had never bowed to the whims of court or chaos, inclined his head to the girl who carried half his silence and all his storms. Then she walked on, her knights at her sides, toward a garden sewn with petals, poison, and theatre.
Jotaro stood beneath the arch, hand still curled at his side where her warmth had lingered. He only watched—silent, composed, unwilling to blink for fear the moment might vanish. Her silhouette, draped in sapphire and firelight, became the only thing the corridor seemed to hold. Her hair, loosed and gleaming like a banner of garnet silk, caught the fading light as she turned one last corner. And then—she was gone.
A quiet snort rose behind him. Iggy’s tiny nails clicked against the marble as he trotted to Jotaro’s side, his small black and white frame appearing out of shadow like a ghost with opinions. The terrier stared down the path where Kalithea had vanished, then growled—low and sour, the way he did when upcoming perfume or politics annoyed him.
Jotaro’s mouth barely twitched. “She’s safer than most people would guess,” he murmured, not to Iggy, not to himself—just aloud, as if voicing the truth made it stronger. “But I’ll send another six. Let them blend with the hedge if they must.” Iggy made a grunt of approval. Then, like any knight of his own making, he turned and padded away—fluffy tail flicking once, unimpressed. Jotaro watched them both disappear. Then slowly—reluctantly—he stepped back inside.
Down in the carriage court, the marble steps glowed with the lanterns newly lit for evening departures. The horses, draped in imperial harnesses of silver and sea-blue, pawed lightly at the stone, steam rising from their nostrils like the breath of dragons. The imperial carriage, lacquered navy with silver trim, stood waiting—its crest glinting like a vow.
Kalithea descended the steps with her knights in perfect formation, but nothing about her felt rehearsed. Her gown moved like water over stone—rippling, weightless, undeniable. Dame Adeline leaned close as they reached the carriage, her tone hushed, teasing. “If you make him look at you like that again, I fear he might propose before Marina finishes her speech.”
Dame Erin, not to be outdone, smirked and added under her breath, “It’s the hair, and your color is unfair. It’s like watching poetry take a walk.” Kalithea turned crimson. She glanced down, lips pressed into a barely-contained smile, and reached quickly for her booklet—only to halt halfway, laughing softly behind one hand. She thought about their kiss once more, yet blushed so fiercely the emeralds at her brow might as well have caught fire.
With a gentle shake of her head and a smile she couldn’t quite contain, she stepped into the carriage. The silk cushions embraced her. The door shut with a quiet thud. Outside, her knights exchanged one last glance before falling into position—Adeline and Erin riding beside, Amadeus and Jean ahead. As the wheels rolled forward and the lanterns behind them dimmed into distance, Kalithea sat back, hands folded over the satin and silks of her gown, heart still fluttering. The carriage rocked gently as it turned toward the palace.
It did not take long for the palace came into view like a myth unveiled—its marble columns gleaming with the gold of evening torchlight, each flame cradled in bronze bowls shaped like open lilies. The wide garden steps leading to the reception hall had been garlanded in laurel and jasmine, vines trained to curl like Olympian scrollwork over each balustrade. In the center of the marble forecourt, dozens of carriages clustered in ornate rows—lacquered wood and embroidered drapery spilling onto the stone like river banners at festival tide.
The air shimmered faintly with dusk heat and the soft perfume of rosewater fountains. Footmen in Grecian tabards guided nobles from their carriages with theatrical flourish, each guest descending in gowns and robes reminiscent of myth and constellation—togas cut from ivory silk, dresses laced in gold thread and trailing tulle like starlight. The theme had not been subtle, nor had Marina intended it to be.
But no one looked toward the steps. They had all begun to murmur—hushed voices turning in the direction of the long, dark carriage that had just pulled in beside the obsidian lions of the eastern drive.
It halted without fanfare. And silence, like a ripple in a reflecting pool, followed in its wake. One lady in pearl-laced chiffon touched her fan to her mouth. “That is not His Majesty’s seal alone… it’s paired—by design.”
Another whispered, “A personal escort. That carriage… that is not a guest’s entrance. That is a sovereign’s passage dressed in velvet.”
A nobleman, eyes narrowed behind his mask of golden laurels, murmured as if reading an omen, “I counted them. Nine imperial guards, certainly not housebound. Flanking both sides… and the front.”
His companion adjusted her jeweled mantle and said in disbelief, “Such protection is not given lightly. Not even to foreign royals unless a treaty’s ink is still drying.”
“And yet here it is,” said another softly, her voice like silk drawn through candlelight. “Given to someone of noble standing perhaps? Not to a daughter of an empire. But to the girl they still whisper about as the Emperor’s companion.”
“The one with the silent mouth and the eyes like winter dusk?”
”Indeed, so it appears that not only does the headmistress favor her, but His Majesty cherishes her above all else.
From the higher steps, a few noble daughters clutched their fans in gloved hands, eyes wide. One even dropped her vinaigrette pendant in shock as the four emerged. Sir Jean descended first—his cloak rippling like storm-dyed steel, eyes scanning the crowd with soldierly measure. Sir Amadeus followed, his long silhouette stately, as though carved from granite and dressed in dusk. His expression gave nothing, yet his posture demanded respect.
Dame Erin and Dame Adeline moved next, flanking the open door with practiced grace. Their armor gleamed like burnished silver over their formal dress tunics, swords worn with elegance that never looked ceremonial, only then did Kalithea step down.
The gown caught the torchlight like an oracle’s vision—sapphire velvet draped in silver thread, the emerald crests at her shoulders glinting like lion eyes in twilight. Her hair, long and wild, poured over her back like blood turned silk, crowned with a diadem no heavier than her name. She descended like a figure the myths had forgotten to warn them about.
“She does not look like she was chosen for his favor,” one elder baroness said under her breath. “She looks like she is his favor, made flesh.”
“And guarded like a crown jewel,” another murmured. “What does that say of her standing?”
“It says…” one young nobleman in forest green murmured, “that she is no longer merely rumor.”
“It says,” corrected his aunt, more sharply, “that she has become consequence.”
And at the bottom of the marble steps, waiting like stars aligned at just the right moment—stood her friends. Edwina, poised and radiant, wore a gown of pale gold veined with amber vines, her shoulders draped in sheer linen that mirrored ancient priestesses. A delicate circlet of wheat-gold sat atop her chestnut curls, and her sandals laced up to the knee in spiraling ropes of ivory satin.
Beside her, Mirielle stood tall and graceful, robed in dove-grey silk with silver feathers embroidered at the hems, her dark hair pinned with mother-of-pearl combs shaped like wings. Her cuffs sparkled with aquamarine stones, and a small crescent moon charm hung from her belt.
Anise, ever bold, wore deep crimson trimmed with bronze, her bodice styled like a warrior queen’s breastplate softened with velvet. Her arms were bare save for twin golden cuffs, and a single rose quartz hung from a torque around her neck.
Cecily, the gentlest, looked as though she had stepped out of a Hellenic painting—draped in pale seafoam green, her gown fastened with shell clasps at her collarbones. A thin golden chain wove through her braided hair, catching the light like threads of sunlight caught in tidefoam. They turned at once when they saw her, their eyes widening with awe—not surprise, but joy too deep for words.
As Kalithea reached the final step, Dame Adeline gently gestured toward her friends. “They must have been waiting a while,” she said softly, not without fondness. “They wouldn’t go in without you, that I am sure”
Erin added, in her warm older-sister tone, “They looked like temple goddesses standing guard. I was nearly afraid to approach.” Kalithea smiled, cheeks warming, and gave a graceful nod of thanks—one hand lifting lightly toward her knights in gratitude.
Edwina stepped forward first, her gloved hand extended with the grace of a courtly hostess greeting royalty. “Kalithea,” she said, her voice hushed in awe, “you descend as though from myth itself—cloaked in starlight and silence. I daresay no poet alive shall do you justice, but they will try… and try most devotedly.”
Mirielle’s eyes gleaming with warmth. “Kalithea,” she whispered, as though speaking her name were a blessing, “you do not enter a gathering—you transform it. There is something in your poise tonight… as if the moon itself has lent you its dignity.”
Anise offered a knowing smile, the corners of her eyes crinkling with delighted mischief. “More than the usual imperial knights and an entrance by starlit carriage,” she murmured, her voice velvet and edged in mirth. “If His Majesty wished to silence the court’s envy… I’m afraid he’s done quite the opposite.”
Cecily reached for Kalithea’s hand with reverent care, her fingers curling around it as though it were spun glass. “You look,” she breathed, “like every tale we whispered as girls—of kind queens, and lost stars, and love too grand for explanation. I am quite undone by the sight of you.”
Kalithea lowered her head slightly, shy and overwhelmed—but smiling. Her cheeks warmed, and for a moment, her voice found no parchment. She brought out her booklet at last and wrote with graceful honesty. “I would have arrived on foot if it meant being with you all again. But I think… he wished me to be seen.”
Dame Erin leaned toward Dame Adeline with a soft chuckle. “He certainly made sure of that.”
Dame Adeline answered dryly but fondly, “This is the sort of entrance that earns odes and sleepless nights from young nobles for months.”
Sir Amadeus, who rarely spoke unless necessary, gave a simple nod to the young ladies. “You are her friends. That makes you under our watch as well.” His voice was firm, but not unkind like an older brother beneath armor and purpose.
Sir Jean added with courtly precision, “Should you require anything, simply look for the crest. We will not be far.” The girls curtsied again, expressions touched with reverent joy, and Kalithea—flanked now by friendship and loyalty—ascended the grand stairs, her knights and companions surrounding her like the petals of an unopened prophecy.
As they climbed, the faint rustle of silk against stone whispered behind them, and the air grew heavier with perfume, music, and the low murmur of expectation. The staircase arched like a bridge toward theatre, lit on either side by sconces fashioned in the likeness of Greco-Roman torches—golden flames flickering above carved marble deities. The very architecture seemed to press in with anticipation, as though even the walls were waiting for Kalithea’s entrance.
Edwina opened her lips to speak, laced with her usual composure and a touch of wry discernment. “I am told,” she said with refined coolness, “that not a single olive branch was arranged without Marina’s express decree. Even the flutes must bow to her whim—no compositions newer than the third century. As though the music itself must forget time.”
Mirielle did not lift her gaze as she spoke. Her words came smooth as ivory, edged with quiet mirth. “If she arrives in a clamshell chariot,” she said softly, “we must not laugh. It takes courage to perform beauty beside someone who never needs to perform at all.”
Anise let out a breath of laughter—not sharp, but bright with affection. Her voice remained courtly, her posture proud, but there was unmistakable joy in her words. “Greek mythology, was it?” she said. “Then let Marina dazzle in her pageantry. You don’t need marble columns or golden laurels, Kalithea. You are the story they will remember.”
Cecily glanced to Kalithea then, her tone gentle, her expression open as spring light through silk curtains. “She may dress herself in myths,” she said, “but none of it will matter. Not after the way His Majesty looked at you. That kind of gaze can’t be tailored. It’s felt.”
Kalithea’s breath caught—not from fear, but from the ache of wonder that refused to fade. Her fingers brushed the edge of her ribbon-bound booklet—not to write, but to feel. To anchor herself. And when she smiled, it was not for the court, not for ceremony—but for them. Their presence wove around her like garlands not meant to gild, but to accompany. She was not their ornament—she was their heart.
At the crest of the grand stairs, the imperial knights bowed back like the closing of a book—Sir Jean and Sir Amadeus steady at the rear, Dame Erin and Dame Adeline casting one final glance toward their charge. The other guards, unseen but felt, folded into the edges of the palace like shadows sworn to silence.
A steward appeared, his robe falling in precise folds, his voice as calm as the hush before the ceremony. “Lady Kalithea,” he intoned, bowing low, “the garden of Olympus awaits.” And together, with her friends beside her like petals before a bloom, Kalithea stepped forward—toward the light, toward the stage, toward whatever the gods had planned, and into the heart of Marina’s creation.
The garden hall was vast, carved into a living ode to Olympus—columns draped in fluttering silks, the ceilings veiled in pale gauze to mimic cloudlight, and the air laced with perfume of rosewater and crushed myrtle. Light refracted through crystal sconces like shattered dawn, falling in soft halos across marble paths and trimmed boxwood hedges sculpted to resemble serpents and laurels.
Tables of gold-veined stone bore fruits and pastries arranged like offerings to forgotten gods, while lanterns swung gently above fountains where bronze nymphs poured water from urns into lily-strewn pools. Get despite the grandeur of the room, the five young women, glowing in Grecian silhouettes, had presence threaded with grace and purpose.
Voices rose, soft as perfume. A countess, holding a glass chalice of wine, sneered with jealousy. Twirling her cup delicately in one hand to not tip the liquid onto her stole, she spoke aloud. “Lady Kalithea. The Emperor’s chosen companion for the season.”
Another, a viscount's daughter, she idling her lips with her studded pearl fan, raising an arched brow in Kalithea’s direction. “I hear others say she was once no more than a shadow in the east wing. A servant girl, or something close to it. Look at her now. That is not transformation. That is revelation.”
“She wears hardly any jewels—just a ribbon and composure. And yet I can’t recall the color of our dear hostess’s gown.” A duchess in regal attire fiddled with her emerald ring, shocked in expression, yet not in composure.
One noblewoman, draped in lilac silk and a diadem of freshwater pearls, pressed her gloved hand over her mouth and whispered to her companion, “I think I understand, why dear Marina is so…” The noblewoman paused, choosing her words carefully. “The girl doesn’t simply arrive—she unsettles.”
And from near the musicians’ dais, a baron’s daughter with a practiced smile whispered, “Do you think His Majesty will come for her tonight?”
Her sister leaned in, the feathers of her fan tickling her cheek. “If he does, half the court will sigh—and the other half will pray they’re not in his path.”
The scent of orange blossom and warmed marble lingered on the air, mingling with the heady notes of fig and clove that wafted from the banquet tables. And still the eyes followed her—not as they followed Marina in her orchestrated entrances, not with choreographed awe—but with the breathless awareness that something rare had entered the garden.
Even the noblemen, groomed in sculpted curls and fine sandals, turned with renewed alertness. One lord in bronze-trimmed robes paused mid-sentence, eyes fixed on Edwina’s serene stride. Another murmured to a friend as Mirielle passed, comparing her grace to the daughters of Delphi. A third—young and princely—offered Anise a lingering glance that turned briefly reverent when he noticed Sir Amadeus watching.
One older viscount, his beard oiled and braided, leaned in toward a countess beside him. “You see that one? The quiet one with the ivory sleeves. Mark my words, child. She’s the reason our Emperor sleeps soundly—and the reason the court will never be the same.” As they moved through the garden, her eyes drifted over the crowd—not with fear, but with the composure of someone who had already survived the worst nights of her life and now walked only forward.
She met no gaze with challenge, only poise. She bowed her head only once—to an elder duchess—and even that small motion felt like a gift rather than a courtesy. Her friends remained near, each one attuned to her silence as though it were music. They did not jostle for position, nor giggle for attention. They were her companions, not her court. And in the hush that followed their entrance, it was understood. The host may have summoned the party. But Kalithea had become its center.
From across the colonnaded garden pavilion, beneath a marble arch draped in white wisteria and lamplit ivy, stood Princess Marina. She stood like a relief carved into ivory—a vision sculpted for Olympus, her gown the soft hue of blushed marble, cut in the Grecian style but tailored to perfection. It draped her body in fluid layers of sunset silk, each fold edged in golden embroidery that shimmered like firelight caught in thread.
Twined about her upper arms were coiled gold serpents, clasps designed to evoke divinity and control. A soft net of rose-gold chain circled her waist like a leash no one else could see. Her hair—ash brown and gleaming—had been curled into an intricate crown braid, fastened with tiny pink sapphires shaped like laurel leaves. Her lips matched the color of ripened peach, her gaze lowered beneath long lashes with just enough stillness to appear pious—yet knowing.
Her fingers, gloved in pearl silk, tightened only once around the gilded stem of her fan. Behind her, her three closest ladies had arranged themselves like attendants to a high priestess. Lady Vessina, cloaked in a sleeveless chiton of bronzed flax and ivory, her curls pinned up and crowned with gilded ivy. Selienne, robed in pale lilac with shoulders bare, her golden cuffs etched with words in ancient script; Anthemina, draped in palest blue with a silver-dipped veil cascading down her back, soft-spoken and sharp-eyed, a living scroll in motion.
The dress.. was changed. Vessina’s fan slowed its rhythmic movement. Her voice—barely audible, barely breathing—carried only to Marina’s ear. “It is… the costume, Your Highness.”
Marina’s jaw barely moved. Her voice was silk drawn over steel. “Ours,” she said. “Tailored, twisted and elevated, I can see that supposed change.” What had once been a passive slight, a pale and forgettable garment, had become an act of defiance through elegance.
Anthemina spoke first, softly, her gaze lifted from beneath her veil. “I see that our dryad has made it hers. It no longer mocks her station—but reflects it with grandeur.”
Selienne, cool as ever, tilted her head slightly. Her voice remained velvet-wrapped but wry. “It was meant to appear unfinished—as if gifted from pity, not favor. But now… now it breathes command. By accident, or by brilliance.”
Vessina’s smile flickered, minute and unreadable, like a candle’s flame caught in a draft. “Even her restraint draws the eye,” she murmured, voice low as a cathedral whisper. “Only by… presence. And it dares you not to look.”
Marina’s lips remained composed, tender as painted porcelain—but her gaze, once warm with curated charm, cooled to crystal. “She wears it,” Marina said softly, “like a relic unearthed from an empire that forgets how to kneel.” Her voice was calm—almost indulgent. But the words dripped with condescension, each one glazed in silken venom. Her fingers shifted ever so slightly, tension coiled behind their delicate posture.
A silence followed, as if even the music feared to intrude. Around them, the air trembled faintly with strings and the brittle laughter of those too far to hear the undercurrent of war. The crowd did not shift in her direction, they shifted towards the girl in deep emerald green and blues, who moved without pretense or provocation.
Marina did not falter. But the stillness was now a performance, and every inch of poise had begun to cost. “Let her dazzle,” she said at last, voice as warm as sunlit wine. “But do not forget—the stars burn brightest just before they collapse.” Her smile curved like a mask—flawless, lovely, and tightening at the seams. Her teeth did not show. Her eyes glittered like gem-cut malice beneath long lashes.
The music had shifted—lighter now, with plucked strings and drifting flutes that lilted above the murmur of courtiers like smoke above incense. Kalithea’s steps slowed as they moved past an ivy-wrapped column, her eyes lifting toward the far perimeter of the pavilion.
She could see them—Sir Amadeus, positioned near the marble stairs with his hands loosely behind his back, eyes sharp beneath his ceremonial stillness. Sir Jean lingered near a lattice of lanterns, speaking to no one, but watching all. Dame Adeline had made her way subtly toward the veranda’s southern side, while Dame Erin circled closer to the fountain, her posture unthreatening but precise.
Even the five additional guards had melted into the scenery—one disguised as a steward, another posed near the musicians. None called attention to themselves. But Kalithea felt their presence, each one like a stitch in a tapestry of invisible protection.
“My dear Kalithea,” Edwina said gently, looping her arm through Kalithea’s, “do not let her shadow fall across your evening.”
Kalithea turned, smile soft and real. “It does not,” she wrote in her booklet, the ink slow but certain. Then, after a pause, she added, “I only wish he were here to see this.”
Mirielle looked up from her wineglass, her tone light but threaded with warmth. “Then let the night carry your grace back to him. There is no soul in this garden who could describe you as anything less than divine.”
Anise’s eyes gleamed as she caught the direction of Marina’s gaze. “Though some may try,” she whispered, one brow raised. “Do not look now, but our beloved hostess has been watching since you arrived. I fear she has counted each thread of your gown.”
Cecily leaned in closer. “Do you think she regrets sending it now?” she asked, voice hushed and posh. “What you wear does not speak of rivalry. It speaks of reverence.”
Kalithea lowered her eyes briefly, fingers grazing the folded booklet. Then, with the faintest smile, she wrote, “I only wished to wear it kindly. Even unkind gifts deserve dignity.”
The girls exchanged a glance—a quiet hush of affection and awe. And then Anise narrowed her eyes. “There is something different about you,” she said, teasing now. “What is it? What had happened when we left His Majesty’s Manor to prepare for this event?”
Kalithea’s blush answered before her ink could. But she still lifted her pen, and wrote with composure and yet, the faint tremble of her hand gave away her increasing affections. “He kissed me,” she wrote.
Four gasps, all perfectly hushed and decorous, rose like bubbles in champagne. “No.” Edwina blinked, delighted and utterly composed. “You must write that again. My mind refuses to believe it unless it sees it a second time.”
“Where?” asked Mirielle, her voice lilting like a harp string. “When? Were we not just speaking of you being statuesque? Now you’ve become a myth.”
Kalithea nodded once, modestly. Her eyes shimmered with a warmth she could not hide., yet in a moment she wrote again. “It was in the study, when I dared to enter even only for a moment to see him. Before he walked me to the carriage and nearly departed, we kissed once.. then another. How could I ever forget such a moment?
Cecily brought her gloved fingers to her lips, eyes shimmering with stunned delight. “That is not a kiss,” she whispered breathlessly, voice feather-soft. “That is a vow wrapped in silence.”
Anise clutched her fan, as though to steady her suddenly fluttering heart. “He kissed you,” she murmured, eyes wide with dazed admiration. “And then he cloaked you in knights like a secret he refuses to share. I do not know whether to faint or to bow.”
Mirielle pressed her hand to her chest, her usual elegance slipping into a soft hush of girlish disbelief. “Kalithea… you must tell us everything. Was it gentle? Was it slow? Was there music, or only stillness?”
Edwina’s voice, low and lovely, rippled with quiet awe. “He gave you not one.. but two kisses?” She smiled, as though the words had painted color into her soul. “What sort of man does that to a girl unless he already dreams of forever?”
Kalithea, blushing, kept her eyes downcast. Her hand lifted slowly to write. “There were no stars—but it felt like moonlight. He brushed my haor away from my cheek with such care… and then kissed my head with such fondness before he kissed me.”
There was a breathless stillness, as though the air itself had leaned in to listen. Anise blinked, dazed. “And this was… in the study? No no pardon me, HIS study?”
Kalithea nodded, writing again. “He let me within that chamber immediately, and looked at me as if the word ‘beautiful’ had only just been invented.” A sigh rippled from her friends—elegant, restrained, and tinged with something dreamlike.
“My dearest stars,” Mirielle breathed, her voice touched with wonder. “It happened. It finally happened.”
Cecily leaned closer, her cheeks a soft rose-petal hue, her tone reverent as silk. “Then what are you now?” she whispered. “Still his companion… or something more? Something named with his heart?”
Kalithea paused, then wrote slowly, “I do not know what to call it. There is no title yet. But when he looks at me… I feel as though I’ve been named in a language older than sound.” The silence that followed was tender—woven not from shock, but from awe. A stillness born from witnessing a secret finally spoken aloud. Then came laughter—not sharp, nor shrill, but golden and soft, like light through gauze.
Their joy circled them like the hem of a coronation gown—stitched not with scandal, but with the sweetness of something real. As they moved toward the refreshment courtyard, their skirts sang in whispers, and their sandals echoed like a verse in a song half-remembered. The nobles turned again—but this time not with suspicion or calculation. Their gazes were softened, slowed.
Yet, beneath the arch of trailing wisteria, beneath the golden breath of lanternlight, Marina watched. She watched as the girl she sees to unmake, laughed with bare shoulders and flushed cheeks. Walked with companions, not guards. Smiled with the steadiness of someone who knew she was cherished. And was loved—so openly, so gently—that even envy itself could find no place to land.
The path curved gently into the next pavilion—an open colonnade strung with golden lanterns and garlands of pressed myrtle, each flame swaying like a whisper caught mid-dream. The marble beneath their feet had been inlaid with lapis and white quartz, forming winding mosaics of constellations—Orion, Andromeda, Icarus in ascent. And as Kalithea walked among them, the stars echoed beneath her steps
Her companions remained close, their presence a hush of silk and sincerity. “I still feel,” murmured Anise, “as though we’ve wandered into a tale we were never meant to end.”
Mirielle smiled. “Then let us linger. Let the garden believe it watches a prelude spun in verse.”
Kalithea wrote with delicate grace, writing quickly as she looked around for only a brief moment.“It feels like a dream—but yet I fear it is one too carefully stitched to be false.” Yet as they reached the center arch, the hush turned.From across the pavilion, beneath draping ivy and wisteria, approached Princess Marina.
“Lady Kalithea,” she intoned, each syllable dipped in fragrant civility, “What a pleasure to see you—draped so… unexpectedly.”
Kalithea curtsied with gentleness born of dignity, not performance. Her fingers held her booklet as one might hold a blossom offered to spring. Her pen moved, the page unfurling with serenity. “Your garden is exquisite, Your Highness. I am grateful to walk within it.”
Vessina’s gaze swept over Kalithea like the stroke of a fan dusted in pearls. “It is rare,” she said, voice fragrant and cool, “to see restraint worn so commandingly. A quiet triumph—if an accidental one.”
Cecily stepped forward, her expression serene, her eyes resolute. “It is not restraint. It is reverence—for the evening, and for herself.”
Selienne’s smile shimmered like heat over glass. “And yet the court stirs, dearly Lady Kalithea. A single entrance… and the muses themselves seem to vanish.”
Mirielle’s voice, elegant and clean as winter wine, rippled through the hush. “Then perhaps the muses have grown idle,” she said, gaze serene, voice lilting with a kind of thoughtful grace. “Or else they find themselves outpaced.”
Anthemina tilted her head, her gloved fingers stroking the carved ivory of her fan as though tuning a harp. “I wonder,” she mused, sweetly indulgent, “what His Majesty must think—of such… transformation.” Her eyes glinted, though her tone remained soft. “From a shadow to a centerpiece… it is not a journey made lightly.”
Edwina’s smile was almost imperceptible, refined and knowing. “One might guess,” she said, smooth as porcelain, “by the number of guards he sent in his stead. Trust, I hear, requires fortification.”
Marina’s fan stilled in the air like a waltz interrupted. Her gaze sharpened—beautifully. “How swiftly,” she said, her tone silk-laced with civility, “affection blooms… when left unpruned. Though I confess, I marvel at how confidently the garden has restructured its trellis.” Her voice was velvet draped over iron. Her smile held, but it had cooled.
Kalithea bowed her head—not low, not high, but in the perfect angle of solemn grace. The page she offered, curved delicately between her hands spoke her words though she spoke none. “I am not a bloom, Your Highness. Only a branch he chose not to sever. I grow still—not to replace, but to remain.” The words breathed like incense—humble, rooted, and yet impossible to dismiss.
A pause followed taut as the ribbon was drawn too tight like a breath in the court’s throat. Even the wind seemed to hush itself against the wisteria. Then Anise’s fan brushed her cheek like a secret. She leaned close, her voice featherlight. “And yet that branch bears fruit,” she murmured. “A kiss, they say, before the hunt?”
Vessina’s lashes dipped in slow, amused acknowledgment. Selienne’s fan gave a measured flick—sharp, stylish, deliberate. “How romantic,” she said, a touch too bright. “Though smiles, as we know, do not crown queens. They… amuse. Delight. They warm the hand, not the throne.”
“No,” Cecily said gently, her tone a quiet bell against the barbed silk of the exchange. “But kindness might. And kindness is harder to wear than a crown.”
For the first time, Marina’s smile did not simply cool—it calcified. She held it like a chalice carved from salt. Her voice, however, remained a marvel of poise. “You are well accompanied, Lady Kalithea,” she said, letting each syllable rest like pearls set upon lacquer. “And watched, too, it seems. Tell me—did His Majesty not wish to attend himself? Or has he grown fond of sending his… adornments in his stead?”
Kalithea did not look to the path, nor to the nobles watching, not even to the gates where no emperor yet stood. She looked skyward, as though the constellations carved into marble were only echoes of the stars above. Then, softly, with quiet breath and unshaking fingers, she wrote. “He sent me with his trust, Your Highness. And I carry it as I would his hand— Not with pride, but with prayer. Not as an ornament, but as someone who was asked to arrive, and did not falter.”
She held the page out, not proudly, but gently—like a prayer cupped in both palms. And in that hush, Marina’s fan lowered, her expression unchanged. Her lips curved again, a little too slowly, and too deliberately. “How poetic,” she said at last. Her voice was a wineglass held too long. “One hopes, of course, that such sincerity endures court life. The Palace is not known for cherishing prayers.”
She gave a small, practiced laugh. “Still—how quaint. His Majesty’s tastes have always leaned toward the sentimental. A charm here, a keepsake there. Curious treasures. Sometimes—often—they’re even quite pretty.” Her smile lingered a beat too long, then she clapped her hands softly. “Ah, but we’re far too serious for such a lovely garden morning. Ladies,” she said, her voice lilting, “shouldn’t we call for a little refreshment? A cordial toast—between friends?”
Vessina’s fan fluttered once in agreement. “Your Highness is as marvelous as ever. A charming idea.”
“Ah yes, something light,” Selienne added smoothly. “Perhaps a citrus blush—nothing too heavy for such delicate company.”
One of her nearby appeared as if summoned by the wind, their tray gleaming with crystal flutes and chilled goblets, each rimmed in candied petals and dusted with gold leaf. Marina’s eye moved once—just once—to the glass in the center. “For you.” Marina said sweetly. “A token to mark the occasion. Your presence has… brightened the garden.”
She accepted the glass with both hands, as if it were an offering of roses. “Your Highness, you honor me, with your generosity,” she wrote in quiet script. “And I am most grateful. May this garden remember only kindness.”
Marina’s smile shimmered like glass—flawless, but chilling. Around her, the ladies lifted their own goblets.“A lovely sentiment,” she murmured, her voice smooth as pearl cream. “I have always admired the quiet ones. There’s something… rare in the way they bloom. No need to shout, no need to vie—just a whisper, and the world leans in to listen.”
Attendants turned next to Kalithea’s friends, presenting their flutes with delicate precision. For a moment, a hush—thin as silk—settled between them. Edwina took her glass with regal poise, though her eyes flicked, just once, to Marina’s hand. She did not smile. “For Kalithea,” she said quietly. “And for all that is watched but not spoken.”
Cecily accepted hers with elegant stillness, her fingers barely brushing the stem. “For what is kind,” she murmured, “and thus most worth protecting.”
Mirielle’s eyes lingered on Kalithea before she nodded. “To the girl who walks like a prayer,” she said, “and speaks like a sonnet—whether the world deserves her or not.”
Anise tilted her head, accepting her glass last, her fan resting lightly at her wrist. “If we drink,” she said softly, “it is not to flatter—but to stand beside. Even in silence.”
Marina’s hand raised higher than the others, just slightly. Just enough to be seen. Her eyes lingered on Kalithea—neither cold, nor cruel. Her voice, when it came, was soft as velvet pressed into the curve of a dagger’s sheath. “To things delicate enough to treasure,” she said, “and fleeting enough to never be forgotten.” The crystal chimed like windbells at dusk—sweet, ephemeral, nearly holy. Kalithea’s lips touched the rim.But beneath the laughter and the lilt of string music…the roots held their breath.
Kalithea lowered the glass with both hands, her fingers soft against the crystal stem. A small smile lingered on her lips—gentle, serene, touched faintly by the blooming warmth against her cheeks. For a moment, she looked almost luminous, the garden framing her in stillness. The white silk of her gown caught the light like a fallen star. Somewhere, doves cooed in the branches overhead.
But then, her breath caught. At first, it was no more than a hesitation. A small, poised stillness. A ripple beneath her ribs, like the air turning inward. Her chest rose again—too quickly. Her hand trembled, as the breath she tried to take never arrived. The glass slipped from her fingers, with a crystalline shatter, splashing across the grass like a scattered crown. Wine bloomed over the stone like a wound, seeping crimson.
A cough, sudden and too sharp, tore itself from Kalithea’s throat. At first, it was merely a ripple in the air, a delicate crack in the glass of the moment. She blinked, surprised, placing a hand lightly to her lips, ever-polite—even as something unfamiliar clawed at her chest.
Her spine lurched forward, and a ragged breath scraped up her throat like torn silk. Her eyes widened—not with fear, not yet—but confusion, as though the garden had tilted sideways beneath her. Something seared inside her—heat and pressure, sharp and unnatural, like fire winding through her ribs. The pain was not loud, but immediate. A poison-tongued beast wrapped tight around her heart.
A cough burst through her again, and she bent forward, barely catching herself. Red streaked her chin, her teeth, her fingertips. It ran down her hand in glistening threads.
“Kalithea?” Cecily’s voice cracked like porcelain dropped from a cathedral’s highest spire, splintering the hush with a sharp, trembling edge. Her hands flew to her mouth as her eyes fixed on the crimson blooming across Kalithea’s lips. “No—no—something’s wrong—”
Mirielle was the first to move, her gown whispering across the marble like startled birds scattering into flight. Her knees hit the ground with graceless speed, pale gloves reaching, trembling. “Her lips—stars above, look at her lips—they’re turning blue—her skin—!”
Kalithea was swaying like a reed in some unseen storm. Her eyes, usually calm as still water, were wide now—glassy, startled, helpless. Her mouth opened as if to speak, but no sound came. Only a gurgled breath, caught mid-bloom, swallowed by pain.
Anise caught her just in time, sinking to the ground and gathering Kalithea into her arms as though cradling something too delicate to touch and too sacred to drop. “She’s burning,” Anise breathed, voice gone thin and broken. “Her skin—it’s on fire—she’s so hot—I can feel it through her—what’s happening to her—?!”
Kalithea’s fingers, trembling, blood-slicked, reached feebly for the leather-bound booklet pressed within her pocket. But her strength betrayed her, and just as she was about to write, the weight of the world had become too much for the grace of a girl’s hand. The booklet fell from her fingertips, pages flaring open as it landed, one, two, three—like wings collapsing, each delicate word exposed to the grass, to the blood, to the horror now rooted in the earth.
Another cough—this one thick, violent, drawn from the base of her ribs. A stain erupted from the corner of her mouth and ran in stark, jagged rivulets down her jaw and into the pale silk at her throat. Not the red of roses. Not even the red of rubies. But the dark, rusted red of something torn from within. The kind that did not whisper of wounds—but of endings.
Cecily’s hands were stained now with wine-dark streaks as she tried to wipe the blood away, whispering, “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay,” even as her voice broke with each breath. “We’re here—don’t close your eyes—Kalithea, please—don’t close your eyes—”
“Someone do something!” Anise choked, her voice cracking into something unrecognizable. “Help her—gods—help her—”Sir Jean and Dame Adeline cleaved through the startled circle of nobles like a storm in velvet, weapons half-drawn—not out of aggression, but instinct. The garden had turned into chaos. Guests surged. Gold-embroidered sleeves vanished in a blur of motion. Screams rose like smoke. Glass shattered somewhere in the distance.
Marina was the last to move—and yet somehow, the first to command. Her fan dropped soundlessly from her hand, landing like a fallen petal on the garden path. Her face, painted in the softest blush and pearl, turned alabaster. She surged forward, hands lifted in helpless urgency, voice ringing out across the garden in perfect, practiced alarm.
“Someone fetch the palace physician!” she cried, her tone crystalline with panic, threaded just enough with tears to be convincing. “Now! Go—run!”
Vessina stood stiff beside her, lips parted in stunned disbelief, while Selienne clutched Marina’s sleeve like a girl waking from a nightmare.“She only sipped it—just once,” Selienne whispered, dazed. “It couldn’t—it couldn’t be—”
“It’s the fruit,” Marina said swiftly, her breath hitching, eyes wide, trembling. “The wine must have had pomegranate or fig—some—some ingredient—she must be allergic—GO!” Her voice cracked as she turned to one of her footmen. “Ride to the palace—summon the physician and three healers. I want them here, now!”
The footman fled without question, vanishing through the hedges at full gallop, chased by a second attendant Marina had waved down with breathless command. She turned again, sinking gracefully—perfectly—to her knees beside Kalithea, who was now barely conscious in Sir Jean’s arms.
“Is she still breathing?” Marina’s voice was tight with horror. “Oh stars—don’t let her die—please—what is happening to her?!” Her hands hovered, fluttering uselessly, like doves refusing to land. She didn’t touch Kalithea—she wouldn’t—but her entire body shook with poised desperation. Her expression was sculpted anguish. Her tone, high and breaking, carried through the garden like the cry of a mourning dove.
Behind her, Anthemina whispered hoarsely, “There’s blood on her lips—what could cause this from one sip—?”
“No one else drank from that glass,” Vessina said quietly, though her voice trembled. “Only her.”
Marina’s eyes flicked—just once—before her lashes lowered, thick with practiced grief. “No,” she breathed. “No, it wasn’t just her—I—I raised mine too—look!” She lifted the untouched glass she’d kept at her side, still full, still shimmering. “We all toasted—we all—” She let her voice break, expertly.
The courtiers around them, stunned into silence, began to stir like leaves caught in a sudden wind. The murmur came slow at first—hushed, uncertain—but then quickened, spreading in rivulets of fear through lace-covered mouths and gloved hands pressed tightly to corseted chests.
“Did you see her lips? They were blue—gods above, blue—”
“I saw the blood. It wasn’t just a cough. It—she bled.”
“No no—it can’t be poison—Her Highness drank too. They all did. Didn’t they?”
“Not from her glass,” whispered a lady in mauve, her jeweled fingers trembling as she gripped her husband’s sleeve. “Did you see? That girl—Kalithea—she was handed hers directly—”
A young marquis nearby paled. “That wasn’t one of the usual attendants. I’ve never seen her before.” Someone gasped. A clutch of ladies turned toward the wine tables as if the linens themselves might answer for the glass now shattered across the grass like broken light. Nearby, a steward was already overturning chalices, his hands shaking too violently to be of use.
“It must have been a reaction,” said Lord Merelwin, his voice too loud, too quick. “She’s foreign—perhaps… perhaps it was a fruit or spice—something in the wine!”
“Her skin—she turned to marble in seconds—”
“Have you ever seen a reaction like that?” another noble hissed, tugging at his collar as though the air had grown thick. “It’s unnatural—too quick—too violent—”
“It wasn’t the wine,” a duchess murmured behind her fan, her voice like a whisper behind veil and velvet. “It was something in the air. Or the glass. Or her blood.”
“Someone poisoned her.”
“No! No, that’s absurd! No one would dare poison someone so close to the Emperor—”
“She’s not his wife,” someone snapped. “She’s his—his companion. A companion can be replaced.” And still—Kalithea’s blood lingered on the grass like spilled ink in the middle of a poem. Somewhere in the distance, a mother pulled her young daughter behind her skirts. Another noblewoman fainted against her husband’s shoulder, catching the scent of blood on the wind.
Marina bowed her head, pressing her trembling hands together at her lips. “Please,” she whispered. “Please don’t let her die like this.” Inside, her thoughts raced—not with guilt, but calculation. This was not the pace she’d intended. The poison was chosen for elegance, for subtlety. Something to fray Kalithea’s health like silk unraveling from the hem. A week of fatigue. A shadow over her beauty. A fever that would have sent her into quiet seclusion—perhaps even back to the countryside from which she came.
And though it startled her—though it pulled the rug of her orchestration faster than she had planned—there was no denying the thrill that rippled beneath her panic like a secret kept too long. Pity would set in. Fear would follow. The garden had turned against itself, and Marina—trembling, beautiful, undone in gold—was already being whispered of as the gracious host to a tragedy no one could have foreseen.
The court would recoil, as it always did. From scandal. From mystery. From the unsettling thought that a girl so quiet, so beloved, could collapse in plain view—delicate as a flower in winter, wilting under unseen frost. The glass had broken, the girl had fallen and the story… seemed to turn in her favor.
Chapter 41: Recoil
Chapter Text
They had never seen the garden so quiet. Not even at dusk, when the musicians packed their lyres and nobles murmured their goodbyes, had it ever felt like this—hollowed out, brittle. The laughter had long vanished. The scent of wisteria now clung too sweetly, masking the copper tang that had soaked into the earth where the Kalithea collapsed.
She had been carried swiftly into the palace’s west chamber—her friends in a flurry of silk-stained sleeves and trembling grace. Other servants had followed, frantic. One of the other imperial knights stayed behind to ensure no one stepped too near the broken goblet. A shattered curve of crystal glinted in the grass, catching the inside light like a blade.
Now, the courtiers stood suspended in a tension that no etiquette could explain. Their fans drooped in limp fingers. Their expressions teetered between fear and fevered curiosity. The whispers churned in elegant circles, but no one dared speak too loud.
“They think it was an allergic reaction—maybe the wine?”
“But why only her? Her friends drank too—”
“No one would dare poison her. Not here. Not at a princess’s party.”
“The Emperor—he’ll be furious—”
The murmurs threaded through the crowd like invisible silk cords, tightening with every breath. Fans clutched tighter. Gloves fidgeted. Jewels trembled faintly on pale clavicles as heads tilted, uncertain whether to retreat or to remain and witness.The air had turned—charged not with music or perfume now, but with dread. Dread and spectacle. Courtiers lingered near the hedges in their embroidered silks and silver-veined brocades, faces drawn and watchful, as though expecting thunder to peel across the sky.
Jotaro strode in like a thunderhead with a crown. The path parted before him like the sea before judgment. The path cleared before him without command. He wore no armor, no cloak—just the dark tailoring of his imperial coat, the navy waistcoat and high cravat still crisp from the manor. His boots struck the tile like a metronome counting down toward reckoning. The expression on his face was unreadable, but the fury—the fury—walked ahead of him in silence. Even the wind bent away.
Some courtiers stepped back as though scorched. Others bowed too quickly, too low, hoping their silence might shield them from the storm gathering in the Emperor’s gait.
Behind him, Sir Amadeus, as his station, captain of the guards moved quickly, murmuring to attendants. The Renaldian physician—rushed from his office in the East wing by Dame Erin—trailed behind with his case clutched to his chest, red-faced, panting, apologizing for arriving too late. Jotaro didn’t look at him, and neither did he look at anyone. His jaw was set, his aquamarine orbs cold and unreadable. No storm showed on his face—but it was in the air around him.
The crowd moved aside in stunned reverence, as if the weight of what he might say—what he might do—had frozen their breath mid-word. Those who had once laughed behind fans now bowed their heads, uncertain whether to offer condolences or prepare for exile. He passed Marina without even a glance. She curtsied with exquisite control, her smile as glassy as ever, her voice lifted just loud enough: “Your Majesty, I—” Without so much as a stop in his stop, his eyes were only on one person.
An attendant led Jotaro down the hall, where the chamber had been dimmed, the air laced with lavender and panic. Kalithea lay on the velvet-cushioned fainting bed, her emerald and blue costume wrinkled and stained. Her hair, once perfectly arranged, clung in strands near her temples. She was unconscious—but not peaceful. Her breath came in ragged threads, her lips tinged violet. The blood had been wiped from her mouth, but her skin still bore the pallor of collapse.
Sir Jean stood at the foot of the bed, silent, posture tight. Dame Adeline looked up as Jotaro entered—and for the second time since her knighthood, she seemed unsure how to greet him. He said nothing. He crossed to Kalithea and dropped to one knee beside her, his coat brushing the floor. His gloved hand reached for hers, gently curling her fingers into his palm. She was cold. Her hand, which once fit so easily into his warmth, now felt like snow clinging to stone.
The Renaldian physician moved forward with trembling formality. “Your Majesty, we suspect it was—some reaction to the wine, or a fast-acting—”
“Fix it,” Jotaro said.His voice was low. Measured. Not loud—but it filled the room like fire finds oxygen.
“I will do everything—everything I can—” the doctor stammered.
“You will save her,” Jotaro replied, still not looking at him. “If she dies, so do you.”
Behind him, Kalithea’s noble friends—Cecily, Anise, Edwina, Mirielle—stood just inside the door, pale and trembling. They had been the ones to find him. To tell him, through breathless tears and smeared gloves, of the cough, the blood, the wine. They hadn’t said the word poison. But they hadn’t needed to, he saw it in their eyes, and through the tears they shed.
He saw it now in hers. Even unconscious, her face looked pained, her brow faintly furrowed. And something beneath his sternum twisted so hard it felt like the cracking of ribs. He brushed a strand of hair from her forehead with a gentleness that did not belong to a man forged in war. She had written he sent me with his trust—and now she lay pale and bleeding in a room full of fear. He looked down at her, and for a moment, the façade cracked. His shoulders fell by a fraction. His throat shifted. He breathed once through his nose—then looked back up.
“She doesn’t belong here,” he said. Quietly. To no one in particular, and yet to all of them. “Not in a palace that allows this to happen..” He bent low. Slid one arm beneath her shoulders, the other beneath her knees. She was so light. Too light. Her head lolled against his chest like something fragile wrapped in silk. Her breath shivered against his collar.
He stood with her in his arms—a sovereign stripped of ceremony, cloaked not in gold but in fury. The hem of his coat swept the floor like a storm-borne banner, dark against the white marble. Her blood stained his cravat. Her head lay still against his chest, her breath shallow as paper—barely there, barely enough. And yet he held her as if she were everything the world owed him.
To the corner of the room where Kalithea’s friends stood—Cecily, Edwina, Anise, and Mirielle—each of them pale, their dresses stained, their hands still trembling from where they had touched her, caught her, cried out for her. Just a single, solemn nod—imperial.Cecily’s throat bobbed. She bowed her head, her voice barely more than breath. “Please… let her wake.”
Mirielle brought a hand to her heart, her eyes shimmering. “She was smiling. Just moments ago. Smiling.”
Edwina pressed her lips together, but the tremble broke through. “She didn’t deserve this. She never did.”
Anise closed her eyes, the weight of silence bowing her lashes. “Stars above… take anything else. Not her.”
The guards parted with grim precision, like a tide yielding to a sovereign moon. Velvet-clad sentinels snapped to attention, their helms catching the chandelier light as they stepped aside without needing command. Doors—polished mahogany, carved with gilded lilies—swung open not by hand, but by the sheer force of presence.
Dozens stood paralyzed in place—noblemen rigid with dread, noblewomen with hands clasped at their lips, silks trembling. The scent of roses had long since been choked by the iron tang of blood and the cold stink of fear. Yet in his arms, Kalithea, laid limp and blood-flecked, her hair trailing like a red silken ribbon against the curve of his shoulder. Her breath shallow, her hands still, her face turned faintly toward his chest—as if even in unconsciousness, her body knew safety only in proximity to him.
The crowd did not speak. They parted only with their eyes. Like courtiers before an omen. No rustle of silk, no cough, no whisper dared to fill the silence. Some bowed instinctively. Others simply watched with widened gazes—unable to move, unable to breathe. He walked past them—past the toppled chairs and spilled wine and crumpled silks. Past the bouquet someone had dropped in the chaos. The petals, once white, now trailed in red across the marble like a warning.
He walked past them all as though they were smoke. All but one dared interrupt him. “Your Majesty—” came a voice, poised yet fraying. Marina. She had broken her stillness at last, stepping forward, fan clutched tight in hands that trembled too suddenly to be grace. “Your Majesty—please—shouldn’t she remain under supervision? The palace physicians—”
Again he did not gaze her way, or speak, yet something inside her—inside the lacquered shell of perfection—splintered. Her voice faltered mid-breath, and the edges of her composure curled inward like parchment to flame. Because he hadn’t just dismissed her, he ignored her, and walked past her as though her words held no merit—no presence—no place in his world.
And worse still—he had done it while cradling Kalithea, not as a burden, not as a wounded companion, not as an obligation…as if she were a holy thing fallen from heaven and caught before she could shatter.
A countess, ever draped in moon-colored silk and lace so sheer it whispered when she moved, touched trembling fingers to her throat. “He carried her as though she were a bride,” she murmured, eyes wide and silver-bright. “Or a soul pulled from the altar. Not… not a concubine. Not a companion.”
A smaller titled noble, his costume heavy with sapphire embroidery, leaned in, disbelief staining his breath. “Did you see his eyes? That was no political show. That was the fury of a man without consequence.”
“Or of one whose love has been threatened,” said a Marchioness her voice cool and curved like a blade beneath silk. Her hair, ash-blonde and sculpted high with onyx combs, did not shift as she tilted her head. “You don’t summon physicians with that tone unless your heart is on the slab beside hers.”
“Not what,” came a whisper from a Baroness, tall and feather-crowned, her violet eyes sharp with calculation. “Who.” They all turned their eyes to the doorway where he had vanished, where the air still felt scorched by the Emperor’s presence.
“He didn’t even look at the her Highness,” said a viscount, his voice hollow with disbelief.
In the eye of it all, Marina stood motionless. Her ladies behind her no longer wore the veil of serenity. Selienne’s lips had parted in silent panic, her fan trembling in her hand. Vessina stared hard at the floor as if trying to rewrite what had just occurred. Anthemina’s gaze trailed the door still swinging faintly in the wake of the Emperor’s exit, her fingers curled so tightly in her gown that the satin screamed.
“He’ll search for the cause,” Selienne whispered. “He’ll start asking—every servant, every steward—every guest.”
“And if he finds anything…” Anthemina swallowed. “Do you think he’ll stop?”
“No,” Vessina said, voice low. “No, he won’t.”
Marina did not answer. Her lips were still parted in the shadow of her last smile—one that now refused to return. Her face was composed, but her body was stiff, glass-brittle. And still—still—a part of her thrilled at what she had done. For all its mess, its deviation from the plan—it had worked. But she was dying in them. And as Marina lowered her eyes at last, letting the hush of the court pour past her like water through a broken sieve, one thought rang clear above all. She would win in the end.
The corridors had never seemed so long. Gold-limned sconces blurred past like the hours she had lost. Kalithea did not stir in his arms—light as snowfall, breath shallow as mist. The cloak of imperial velvet pooled beneath her like dusk itself had chosen to wrap her limbs. At the doors to his chamber—in the sanctuary of his manor, for no one would dare place her elsewhere—two women stood waiting.
Dame Adeline, her jaw clenched, her gloved hands white at the knuckles. And Dame Erin, with her arms crossed tight, her expression set in stone—but her eyes were glassy, red-rimmed from what she would never allow herself to cry, not again. They bowed their heads. And when the door opened, they followed silently behind—sentries of sorrow and storm, pacing the border of his grief.
Inside, the room had been transformed. The velvet daybed had been stripped of its ribbons and silks, replaced with linens white as peace and just as cold. Her maids were already there—Martha, calm but pale, directing Claudette to bring fresh water. Claudia hovered near the hearth, whispering prayers in her mother tongue. Sam stood at the bedside with trembling hands, trying to brush Kalithea’s hair from her blood-slicked cheek. Bridgette moved like a ghost, wiping the edge of her lips with a cloth she would not let go.
And just beside the door, another moved. Iggy had sat as if carved from stone the whole time, eyes locked on the rise and fall of Kalithea’s chest. Summoned not by command but instinct and for the dear life of his most cherished companion, he leapt lightly from the floor, landing on the edge of the mattress with a soft thud. He padded across the bedding with surprising gentleness for something so proud and bristled, then curled slowly against her side, nuzzling beneath the edge of her arm until his head came to rest just over her heart.
His ears twitched once. The entire room, in that moment, seemed to pause for him. The maids said nothing. Even Jotaro watched — expression unreadable, but unresisting — as the little creature closed his eyes and let her heartbeat steady his own.
Doctor Hasan, who had been summoned within hours from Ilicia, stood at the center of it all. With his narrow shoulders hunched over her pulse, as he placed a needle full of medicine and magic ink running in pale vines along her wrists, he bowed his head once as the Emperor entered—then turned at once back to his task. “Your Majesty, she lives,” the doctor said, voice tight. “But only just.”
Jotaro placed her on the bed with a gentleness that silenced even the wind. He did not move from her side. The doctor unstoppered a vial of blue light—an alchemical mixture that shimmered like starlight in liquid form. He dabbed a drop of Kalithea’s blood into it, and the color shifted—red to violet to green. A curl of smoke rose, and then a soft, unmistakable chime echoed through the air.
“A crafted poison,” Doctor Hasan said gravely. “Rare. A strain meant to kill slowly. But this batch was… unstable. It struck the lungs first. If she had taken a longer sip from the glass—” He did not finish.
“Do you know the maker?” Jotaro asked, standing beside her bedside. His hand hovered near her cheek, not quite touching. His thumb brushed a single curl of red hair away from her brow. That same brow he had once kissed, more than once, when no one else had dared see the way he did.
Doctor Hasan hesitated. “Unfortunately not, Your Majesty. Only the type, whoever made it, held no traceable signature.” Silence returned, save for Kalithea’s breath—thin, slow, but present.
His eyes did not move from her face. Her lips were pale. The lips he had kissed only hours before—soft and blushing beneath starlight. The same lips that had smiled after the taste of wine, before her lungs betrayed her. But the room pulsed with what he carried, grief, and fury. And as Kalithea’s chest rose again—barely, beautifully—he did not speak to the court, Doctor Hasan, or to the guards who shifted positions outside, only to her.
The chamber breathed like a cathedral—slow, sacred, steeped in silence. The chaos of the garden, the gasps, the blood, the weight of a hundred gazes—had been left behind in another world. Now, only the fire remained, flickering low across polished floors and ivory walls, casting long shadows over the silk-bound bed where she lay. Her skin still bore the faint pallor of suffering, her lashes dark against the linen, her fingers resting slack atop the embroidered hem of her gown. Her blood had been wiped from her mouth—but not from his mind.
Jotaro had not moved in some time. He only watched her, watched the curve of her cheek, pale and tender where her fever had broken. Watched the soft flutter of her breath—the breath that had nearly stopped. And still he felt the echo of it all—the thundering hush of the crowd, the way her body had folded in his arms like a flower too early plucked. He remembered the weight of her, how light she had been, how horribly still. This had happened only three months ago, when the arrow had nearly taken her from him, and now a poison had almost done it again.
His hands—bloodstained and gloved—rested on his knees, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed the storm caged within. Whoever had done this—had dared to harm her, to make a spectacle of her. To turn her kindness into vulnerability and her grace into danger. She hardly cried, only when it mattered, and yet did not.
Even when her blood had struck the grass like rusted wine, or as her breath stuttered like a wind-snapped ribbon—she had tried to speak. Even at the edge of death, Kalithea had reached for her words. He could not forgive, nor forget. The court could keep its suspicions, and poison-veiled parties. He would not offer them vengeance, at least not yet. Because she still breathed, only that seemed to hold him presently or else he would snap.
Dr. Hasan and her maids-in-waiting had left a little while ago, and yet he despised how quiet it was, though used to it.He rose from the chair beside her, with the movement of a man who held storms behind his eyes, but offered her only stillness.
His fingers brushed against her wrist, just once as if asking permission to speak. And though she did not wake, her pulse answered—faint, but present. “I should have been there,” he murmured—not as an emperor, not even as a man who ruled empires, but as a man kneeling before something he could not bear to lose again. “I should never have let you walk into that garden alone.”
His voice, so rarely tender, so rarely broken, softened further as he leaned in. “You looked for me, somewhere in that garden..” His thumb brushed her hand—light as breath. She did not flinch, but her lips parted slightly, as if the echo of his voice found her in sleep. He drew in a breath—not sharp, not broken—but full of something that quaked just beneath the surface. His thumb brushed the back of her hand again, where the skin was still warm, still hers. His eyes never left her face. “This is the second time,” he said, voice low. “The second time the world tried to take you from me.”
He sat beside her once more, the folds of his cloak settling over the edge of the bed like nightfall wrapping a hearth. One gloved hand lay discarded beside him. The other rested over hers—firm now, as if anchoring her to the world. “I failed to stop the arrow. But I brought you back.” His voice was steady, his words shaped with reverence. “And today, again… I failed to protect you before the fall.
The firelight cast amber shadows across his jaw, making a battlefield of the silence between each phrase. “I wasn’t there to catch the glass,” he said, quieter still. “So I caught you instead.” The fire crackled softly behind him, and the air smelled of lavender and clean linen. His tone sharpened—not with anger, but vow. “No one will touch you again unless I permit it. No one will look in your direction without knowing whose side you belong to.”
He exhaled slowly, the sound brushing her temple. “You are not a companion. You are not a curiosity. You are not a girl from nowhere who was lucky to be chosen.” “You are the woman I chose.” He looked around the room—the soft drapes, the clean linens, the flowers someone had brought in haste. It was not only just her sanctuary now, but his. His jaw tightened. “You will not return to that palace. Not until I burn out whatever serpent dares to linger in its walls.”
He leaned closer once more, resting his brow against her crown, breathing her in—not her perfume, not her presence, but the simple proof that she still was. With out strategy of calculation, he only stayed. And outside the room, the imperial guards stood sentinel. Inside, his majesty remained—wrapped in velvet and resolve, firelight in his eyes, and the only thing he worshipped cradled in silence beside him.
But even stillness could not last forever. He had not moved from her side in hours—not to rest, not to eat, not even to breathe properly. His mantle hung loosely on one shoulder now, unfastened and uneven, as if he no longer remembered how to wear it. The fire had burned low. The coals pulsed gently beneath the hearth, casting Kalithea’s face in a soft, unreal glow—like candlelight over snow. And her pulse, faint but true, beat just beneath the skin of her wrist, where his fingers still rested.
He watched it rise and fall, as if it alone could hold back the tide of everything else—court, scandal, poison, fury. But duty had its voice too. At last at what felt like forever. His body ached in places he hadn’t noticed before—the pain of tension held too long. He turned, only half-dressed in his own anger, and looked back once more. His palm hovered over hers, not quite touching. Then, with a breath that shook more than he allowed, he left the room.
The hallway greeted him like the edge of winter. Cold air seeped in through stone arches. Somewhere distant, a servant bowed too low. A guard adjusted his grip on a spear, averting his eyes. He entered his study with slow, reluctant steps—as though each carried the weight of leaving her behind. His desk sat untouched, the reports that he scurried and left behind full of scattered papers. The scent of ink and parchment lingered faintly.
He pressed both hands to the desk. The storm inside him was not noise, but silence—low, seething silence that clawed behind his ribs. He felt her presence, a quietness that was not empty, but alive. Avdolia’s hair was swept over one shoulder like a silk rope, her robes dark and heavy from travel. She did not wear her title on her sleeve—but the weight of magic and knowing shimmered faintly around her like the breath of a storm not yet spent.
“I thought I would find you here,” said a voice, calm and measured. “Not in bed, or at ease. Of course not.” Avdolia stepped into the room like dusk—quiet, unhurried, inevitable. Her long robes swept behind her in deep navy folds, the scent of parchment and temple incense following like a ghost. She stopped just short of him, her posture straight, her eyes unreadable beneath her braids.
“You were afraid.” He did not reply. But his shoulders twitched—just slightly as if she had struck some hidden chord. She simply lowered her voice, slow and steady, like rain smoothing the edge of a blade. “And now you are angry.”
He said nothing. Not at first. But she saw it—the faint twitch in his shoulders, the breath that rose but never reached his lips. As if something inside him fought not to surface. The part of him that had once been a boy, watching his mother’s coffin disappear beneath a mountain of magnolias and camellias. The part of him that had never learned how to weep without war.“I am always angry,” he said at last, voice low, rough like stones dragged across iron. “It is not new.”
Avdolia did not move. She remained in the threshold between the hearth and the desk, framed by the slow flicker of firelight and the deeper shadows behind her. “You’re wrong,” she said gently. “This anger is new. You wear it differently.”
He turned then, just slightly. Not enough to meet her eyes, but enough for the candlelight to catch the edge of his jaw — the tension held there, clenched in a way no sword had ever commanded.
“I have no enemies within this court,” he continued. “None who breathed under my reign would dare claim the title. They bow when I pass. They smile, sign decrees, praise the harvest as if I cannot smell the stench of their ambition beneath the perfume.” His eyes flicked to her — and the fire behind them was not loud, but ancient. “But they would not touch me,” he said. “So they found the softest point of light in my orbit and sought to extinguish it.”
Now Avdolia stepped closer, folding her arms across her chest. Her tone remained cool. “And what will you do? Snuff out every shadow in the court? Strike heads for a poison you cannot trace?”
“If I must.”Jotaro’s reply landed with no inflection, no ceremony — just truth, weighty and unadorned. Like a sword left standing in the earth after the battle has already been won. “I gave them peace,” he said. “Trade. Discipline. My patience.” The words came one by one, flat and stripped of ornament. Each syllable precise, as though anything more would give shape to the fury still caged beneath his skin.
He stood still, his eyes fixed on the reflection of the gardens in the glass. The moonlight outside made the pane look like frost — and in it, the vague memory of Kalithea’s body. “They thought I wouldn’t see.” A beat passed, as the remaining light from his fireplace behind him cracked like a breath through clenched teeth. “They were wrong.”
Avdolia said nothing at first. She studied him — not for show, but with the steady quiet of someone measuring the storm, not the lightning. His posture hadn’t shifted since he’d spoken. Every line of his body remained perfectly composed. But beneath that silence, she could feel it — not chaos, not grief. Composed calculation.
Avdolia’s expression did not change. But her next breath came slower. “Jotaro, you above anyone knows that she would not want vengeance.”
He turned then, one hand slipping into the folds of his coat, his back to the window now. Shadows cut across the floor like the bars of a cage, but he did not move through them — he remained still, centered. “She would want her friends to laugh again. For the court to speak of gardens and gowns and music, not poison. She’d ask me to let it go — to let the silence swallow it, just this once.”
“And this? What about this, you would not let it falter and be swept under the rug, even for her sake, and your own.” Avdolia asked.
He looked at her then — and the fire behind his gaze was slow, precise, and absolute. “This will stay,” he said. “Until I know who. Until I know how. Until every hand that moved a cup or uttered a command is uncovered. Quietly and entirely.”
Avdolia stepped closer. “The physician, did he show you, explain, or tell you what it was?”
Jotaro’s jaw tensed.“Ashroot. Masked in a mild sedative — a servant’s tea for dizziness. It mimics faintness, slows the pulse, and fades before the body can fight it. It was meant to be blamed on her health. On her nerves, a lie that would have allowed her to die slowly, days later, behind closed doors.” There was no shake in his voice. Only the low, searing fury of someone who had already played the moment back a hundred times in his mind.
“She always smiles,” Jotaro murmured, his voice low and level, “like the world will be kind to her if she is kind first.” The words hung between them like a thread spun in silk — delicate, dangerous, utterly true.
Avdolia’s tone softened, but never lost its weight. “And you believe her?”
He did not answer right away. His jaw shifted — not from tension, but from memory. His gaze drifted past her, past the firelight and the glass and the shadows stitched along the marble floor. Then, finally, the answer came. “Yes.” With the quiet force of a mountain that has always been there, unmoved, until someone finally asked if it would stay.
“She believes in good things. Still. Even when the court circles like blood in the water, even when they whisper and fawn and feign.” A pause. “Without words and without writing, she believes they will soften if she just smiles first.”
Avdolia blinked, listening carefully without interruption. She could sense the change in him, great and vast to the people that knew him closely, and yet to others he remains the same.
“She changes the air in every room she enters. Without effort. Without even knowing. They all notice — the women, the advisors, the lords who think they’ve seen everything. They all feel it. And they hate her for it.” A breath, sharp and subtle. “Because she does it without trying.”
Avdolia’s eyes narrowed slightly, her voice quieter. “You speak of her as if she were light.” The fire cracked behind him, and a long breath passed between them. “You admire her,” Avdolia said. Avdolia watched him for a moment longer. When she finally spoke again, it was with the same calm that she had used to teach children how to write their names with magical care. “She has changed you.”
Then, after a long pause — as though the truth had been circling in the room all along, waiting for the moment it would be safe to land — Jotaro said quietly. “I kissed her.” Avdolia blinked — not from shock, but from the weight of hearing it aloud. “Before the party,” he said. “In this very room.” His hand dropped from the desk, looking up at the ceiling in a fondness of his companion. “I’ve seen her wear a thousand expressions,” he said. “But that one — that’s the one that won’t leave me.”
Avdolia inhaled gently, arms folding across her chest — not closed-off, but grounded. “I was beginning to think no one would ever tempt you into something so thoroughly improper,” she said. “Let alone someone you would allow to see you, and unguarded.” Then Avdolia stepped forward, her voice warm but firm.
Jotaro replied quietly. “She was not meant for court, not politics, not the war behind the curtains. She didn’t choose any of it, and yet I asked her to. Regardless of it all, she still walks with grace. She still treats every moment like it is full of worth.”
Avdolia’s throat caught for a moment — just slightly. Then she cleared it and looked at him. “You’ve found someone to protect.”
He did not look away. His voice, when it came, was steady as stone. “I found someone worth giving peace to.” He paused, then opened his lips again. She is not the empire,” he said. “But she is the only thing I’ve ever wanted to shield without order or oath. Not because she is mine. Not because I must. But because the world, in all its cruelty, will never deserve her.”
And for the first time in many years, Avdolia smiled — not faintly, not out of politeness, but with quiet, genuine joy.“I wondered… if it would ever happen. If the crown would ever bow its head to someone not of its bloodline. Not of its choosing.” She reached forward, gently laying one hand over his sleeve — the same hand that once guided Kalithea’s curtesy. “And I am glad,” she said, “with everything in me, that it’s her.”
Then, as if returning from a cathedral into the affairs of state, Jotaro exhaled once through his nose and turned. The mask returned — not out of hiding, but duty. He reached for the silver bell that sat on the edge of the long oak desk and gave it a single, precise ring. The sound was sharp, restrained. Within moments, the outer chamber doors opened.
A guard stepped through — not one of the posted knights, but another one. Tall, severe, and utterly silent in his black uniform trimmed with silver thread. “Your Majesty,” he said, bowing.
Jotaro didn’t hesitate. “I want every one of the Renaldian palace servants who touched the refreshments brought in by midnight. Not questioned, collected and quietly. Their names logged. Their movements mapped. I want the steward of the glassware isolated, and if they asks why, tell them I’m curious whether he prefers red wine or antidotes.”
”Yes, Your Majesty.”
Jotaro’s tone did not rise. His instructions came like falling blades — efficient, cold, and unmistakable in intent. “I want the musicians,” he added. “The florists. The escort who delivered the invitation. I want every person who stepped foot into that garden party brought to me in parchment and silence.”
“And the nobles, and the hosts?” The knight asked, voice even.
Jotaro’s eyes narrowed just slightly. “Let them squirm, for now. But I request King Rist’s and Princess Marina's attention, and cooperation. See to it. ”
“Yes, sire.” The man bowed again and disappeared just as swiftly. The door clicked shut, and only gor a moment, all was still again. Jotaro walked back to the desk — his stride smooth, measured — and began organizing the letters left in disarray, his ink-stained gloves brushing aside the documents he had cast aside in the hours after Kalithea fell. He reached for the wax seal, but his hand paused just above it.
The door opened not with ceremony, but with cautious hope. It was Sam, her expression half-held in wonder, half-swallowed by disbelief. “Your Majesty,” she said breathlessly. He turned immediately. Her eyes were wide, brimming with emotion she could not properly contain in front of an Emperor. “She—she’s awake,” Sam whispered.
The seal in Jotaro’s hand dropped soundlessly back to the table. And without a word, he crossed the room. With speed — cloaked in command, wrapped in urgency so absolute the guards stepped out of his path before their minds could catch up to their instincts. The air in the study still pulsed from the force of his exit.
Sam hesitated, Claudia and Claudette who showed up behind her blinking with quiet astonishment. Avdolia gave them a gentle nod. “Go to her my dear,” she said. “He will need no escort now.” Sam curtsied, and smiled with affection, leaving Avdolia in the study with more then just a messy desk. She smiled, and then, lifting one palm, a warm current swept through the room.
Papers rose in a swirl of gentle magic, reordering themselves. The ink dried. The seal righted itself. The curtains straightened as if they had never known panic. The fire quieted to a soft, well-tended glow. The study returned to order — not because it had to, but because someone should care for the place he left behind. “She’s all right,” she said to no one in particular. “And so he will be.”
Kalithea woke as if surfacing from water — not with shock, not with sound, but with the weightless drift of breath finding its place again in the ribs. A pale, flickering glow that brushed the inside of her eyelids in rhythms, as firelight was dancing somewhere nearby.
The warmth,not around her, but beneath. The soft press of velvet covers, layered linens tucked at her side, the faint scent of lavender and something herbal soaked into the threads. The air around her was hushed, like the breath of a cathedral at evening — as though the walls themselves had been told to be still. Her fingers stirred, as she felt the brush
The ceiling above her was high, carved with gentle arches. Gilded filigree traced the corners. A fire burned low across the chamber, its light gilding the far wall in soft bronze. The curtains were drawn. The room was dim. She recognized it— not a guest chamber, and not her usual room. The Emperor’s west wing, his private space. And she — she had been placed in its center.
Her brow furrowed faintly. Her body felt slow, heavy, as if the world had briefly turned to molasses and only now began to unstick from her skin. Her chest rose again, fuller now, as she let her gaze drift to her side. A chair was drawn near, unoccupied of course,but faint warmth still lingered at its edge, and beside it and neatly set, a glass of water, untouched, and a single folded cloth.
Dame Adeline and Dame Erin must have come and gone, their posts shifted as they had unwillingly retired for the night. Her lovely maids must have been near, the room now held only silence and flame. And then, like a thread pulled loose from the seam of a dream, the memory began to return — not all at once, but in quiet fragments.
The soirée, the cup, and a strange taste on her tongue — metallic, almost floral. A glint of gold on porcelain affiliated with a clink of laughter in crystal. The soft hum behind her eyes grew sharper, colder, until it roared. Edwina had called her name, as the ground came rushing up. She could not tell if the grass was against her cheek, or if it was her hair as she was held by one of the knights.
The sheer silk of her sleeve was cold and wet. Her body had felt far away then — unreachable, sinking, as if someone had cut the strings that tethered her to herself. She remembered the sound her breath made as it tried to reach the surface, and nothing else after. Her fingers curled weakly into the blanket. Her throat tightened, but no sound emerged.
Has it all happened? A low shift of movement answered her.There, nestled against her side, was a small small black and white body — fur ruffled from sleep, ears perked, eyes already watching. It seemed that even before anything, he had been there the whole time, curled beside her heart like a sentry in miniature, refusing to leave. As her eyes opened further and her hand twitched, the little terrier rose onto his paws, stared directly into her face — and licked her cheek.
Then — slowly, with the effort of someone returning from a place far deeper than sleep — she moved her hand, just barely, to rest near him. Her fingers brushed the soft fur behind his ear. He nuzzled into her touch with a low, contented huff, then nestled back against her collarbone, one ear flicking toward her chest, listening again to the beat he had guarded.
She blinked only once as if the motion itself took effort. The faint sound of the door shutting minutes earlier still seemed to echo softly in the corners of the room. Her maids had been there — she remembered Martha’s hand steadying her shoulder, Bridgette’s voice quietly murmuring her name, and Sam who had left quickly with the twins to tell His Majesty.
And now… it was just her and the soft pulse of the room, or so she thought. Iggy’s ears pricked up first— sharp, alert, pointed like twin silver leaves. His body tensed faintly against her chest. The door opened without panic, and full of purpose. Jotaro’s silhouette filled the doorway like a storm held in stillness — the open collar of his coat undone. His breath caught in his chest when his eyes found hers. For a second, he didn’t move.
He crossed the room in a silence so complete it hummed as if each step was part of some sacred rite. She watched him come closer — her lashes trembling, her throat aching with effort. Her lips parted, but no sound came. Her chest lifted, shallow. Her fingers twitched beside the blanket, unsure of whether to reach. Tears welled silently near the corners of her eyes. Somewhere beneath all the softness she wore like silk, she had feared she might not open her eyes again. That she might not see him again.
He was beside her in an instant, the chair long forgotten. He went beside the bed, gloves discarded, breath held — and reached out with hands that had held nations steady. His palm found her cheek, and she loosed her eyes for a moment against the warmth of his calloused hand. His voice was quiet, and raw. “…You scared me.” She opened her eyes again.
Her tears did not fall — they simply shimmered there, like morning dew. Her lips parted again, and this time, her breath shaped one word. “I’m sorry,” she mouthed, though there was no sound that left her voice, she could only offer that without her booklet.
He shook his head once. “No,” he whispered. “Don’t say that.” His thumb brushed lightly beneath her eye — as if even her tears deserved to be touched with care. “I came as soon as they told me,” he said warmly. She looked at him — truly looked — and saw the hollowness beneath his eyes, the edge of sleeplessness on his brow, the pain he hadn’t spoken because it would do no good to say.
And still, he was just as dashing and incredibly handsome to her. Even with weariness beneath his eyes, and the dim firelight, with no crown to frame him and no cloak to cast a silhouette of command. In that moment, stripped of all pageantry, he was simply Jotaro — the man she had watched from a distance and through silence, whose gaze could command armies but now held only her.
His hand moved slowly, brushing her cheek not as if touching fragile glass, but something irreplaceable. Then — as gently as light breaking across a garden at dawn — he leaned in. And this time, his lips did not stop at her brow, but against her lips, soft and slow. Just breath and reverence and the trembling gravity of everything unspoken between them. It was a kiss that asked for nothing and gave everything.
Her lips, softened into his. There was no urgency — only surrender. The kind born not of helplessness, but of knowing with absolute clarity — that she had always belonged here. That every kindness he had shown her had led to this. And in that soft, shared breath, her love for him spilled through — shy, uncertain, but utterly sincere.
A quiet huff interrupted them. Iggy, still curled at her side, opened one sharp eye and let out a long, disapproving sigh through his tiny nose. He shifted once, flicked his tail — and then, with great ceremony, jumped down from the bed. His paws padded silently toward the adjacent room through the smaller side door — the one the staff had fitted just for him, leading into his private little parlor with his velvet chaise and golden dishes.
Then he disappeared into his room, and the door swung gently shut behind him with a soft click. Jotaro did not pull away. His forehead rested gently against hers, their breaths mingling in the space between them — fragile and warm. She shifted, just slightly — her body rolling gently to one side with a wince of effort. The linens gathered in the bend of her elbow, and her fingers reached instinctively across the edge of the bed, as if searching for something.
Her booklet, left without resolute at the remnants of Marina’s party, her lips parted faintly, but no sound followed. She blinked, eyes flickering toward the nightstand, toward the hearth, toward the chair he had once sat in during those long, endless hours.
Before she could strain further, he took her hand — without hesitation. His fingers wrapped around hers, warm and certain, and brought them gently to rest over the blanket at her side. “You don’t need to write,” he murmured. “Not now.” Her hand twitched beneath, and since the aftermath of it all, she smiled.
Jotaro looked at her, and she looked beautiful. Not in the way the court praised beauty — not powdered and powdered, sculpted by fashion. Pale and half-wrapped in linen, hair brushed but loose, skin dewed faintly with sleep. But to him, she looked like the very heart of the empire, something fragile and sacred that no one else knew how to hold. He let his thumb pass lightly over the back of her hand. He exhaled,“I would’ve torn down the world,” he said quietly, “if you hadn’t opened your eyes.”
“You didn’t see the garden,” he murmured. “After.” A beat passed. His jaw tightened. “They looked at me like they knew,” he said. “Like they saw something they’d only whispered about behind walls.”He didn’t raise his voice, but let his heart speak for him. “I think they all understood,” he added. “That I would’ve ended it there. If you hadn’t survived.”
Her eyes flickered — not from fear. From understanding. She felt it in the way he spoke, the way his hand still held hers like it was the only thing tethering him to the room. Then, after a long silence, he said — more quietly than before. “You’re not mine.” His voice was perfectly composed, but the space after the words bent slightly around them — as though the room itself understood the weight of that restraint.
“You’re not mine,” he repeated, “and still…” He exhaled, slowly. “…something in me stopped existing the moment I saw you on the brink of death again.” Her thumb moved slightly beneath his hand — a small motion, but deliberate. Her gaze was heavy with sleep, but her eyes stayed on him — unwavering, wet with unshed tears, not from fear or pain, but from knowing.
Jotaro was still beside her, his hand wrapped gently around hers. The fire cast his silhouette in bronze and shadow, tracing the line of his jaw, the unspoken weight behind his silence. So instead, with the last of her breath, she moved her lips. “Stay?” He didn’t respond right away. His brow furrowed slightly — not from refusal, but from restraint. As though he were trying to make sure this wasn’t fever speaking.
That was her, she blinked again, her fingers curled around his a little more as if clinging to something she would not let go. And then — slowly, silently — he nodded.
He removed his boots with the silence of someone who did not wish to wake a world already trembling. Jotaro unfastened the clasp of his cloak and folded it neatly across the arm of the velvet chair — all without fanfare. He moved with the precision of a man who had walked through snow and fire, storm and throne room… and now stood at the edge of something infinitely more fragile.
He crossed to the bed with the same caution he might have shown approaching a shrine. And then, with his shoulders drawn low and his heart unreadable, he lay down beside her on the outermost layer of the bedding.
Kalithea’s lashes fluttered, and her head shifted slowly on the pillow. Her breathing hitched once with the effort. She turned — just enough for her cheek to face him. Then, slowly, painfully slowly, she inched closer. Just enough for the edge of his sleeve to brush the back of her hand. He met her hand with his — folding it into his palm, wrapping his fingers around hers in a hold that was steady and warm and infinitely careful.
Her body spoke for her — a small breath, a soft sigh, and the way her shoulder barely leaned into his arm. She had asked for his comforting presence and he gave it immediately. He turned toward her — slow, deliberate, like gravity itself had shifted. His hand never left hers. His breath exhaled softly, and his forehead drew close to hers once more.
Her eyes met his — wide and heavy with sleep, but filled with something luminous. Something bright. He saw the trust, the love in her eyes, as if her soul had finally found the space it belonged in, and that space just… happened to be beside him.
Then, wordlessly, Jotaro moved. Just one hand, the one not holding hers, shifted across the blanket, slow and unhurried. It found the curve of her waist, resting lightly at her side, where it was born of instinct, not boldness. Her body softened into it — like exhale to inhale, like tide to shore. Her head came to rest just beneath his jaw, her forehead brushing the collar of his coat, her breath curling faintly against the linen at his throat.
Her lashes lowered as sleep crept back in, and the last thing she felt before surrendering to rest was the steady rhythm of his chest beneath her ear. And Jotaro — sovereign, silent, battle-forged — watched her in the glow of the hearth as if she were the only thing he had ever wished to protect.
His hand against her back, their fingers laced together, their breathing as one. And in the hush of that highborn room, beneath firelight and velvet and the quiet hum of survival, they lay side by side- as a beginning without a name, a promise without sound, and love blooming between a space in breath.
And yet, down the corridor, Avdolia still felt the shift in the air. She stood near the colonnade just past the west wing — where the tall, carved windows lined the stone like pages in a sacred text. Her cloak hung still at her shoulders, and the firelight from within flickered faintly through the golden seams of the doorway ahead.
She did not press her ear to the panel or send a listening spell through the lock. She simply stood — composed, unhurried — and felt it. There were some silences that needed no magic to read. She had felt the tension unravel the moment she saw the Emperor’s shoulders lower as he crossed the threshold. She had seen Sam, Claudia, and Claudette run back down the hall with tears clinging to their lashes, whispering over and over that “She’s awake. She’s awake.”
Now there was only quiet, the kind that settled like a blessing. Avdolia closed her eyes briefly. The edges of her mouth softened. “Your more of a fighter than you realize, my little star.” She had known, of course. Then, with a faint flick of her fingers, she cast a ward of stillness over the hallway — a small spell, old and unfussy. It would keep the light low, the noise outside, the courtiers away. For now, that wing would remain untouched.
She looked once toward the door again — and this time, she smiled.But like someone who had known love when it had been quiet, and therefore knew exactly what it sounded like now. And then she turned, and walked away — her hair trailing behind her like a thread of shadow.
Chapter 42: Increasing
Chapter Text
The morning light broke across the palace like gold over glass — soft at first, then sharp. Word had spread before the bells even finished tolling for the 10th hour. Even a week after the incident, Kalithea had survived, and with a quick recovery.
The eastern receiving chamber gleamed in the early hour — its ivory walls washed with soft morning light, filtered through stained glass panes that scattered gold, rose, and sea-blue across the marble floor. The room smelled faintly of roses and ink. The courtiers whispered it like a miracle, and a name reborn.
Princess Marina of Rendaldi stood already in place, back straight, hands delicately folded in front of her waist. Her gown — pale ivory trimmed with soft blue , was high-necked and cinched with a pearl-tied corset, its shape noticeably more modest than her usual fashion. Her sleeves were lightly puffed at the shoulder, embroidered with tiny silver blossoms. And her hair, once twisted into elaborate updos, had been pinned into a looser, center-parted style that curled behind her ears in soft coils. The resemblance was not precise, but it was intentional.
Even her earrings, twin sapphires hung from slender gold wires glinted with the same cool hue Kalithea had days before. Marina’s chin was lifted just so, her lips painted in a subdued coral. She looked perfectly at ease. But the maid who had helped her dress had seen the clenched jaw. The teeth grinding behind the closed door. The crack in the teacup that Marina hadn’t noticed pressing too hard between her fingers. She had heard, of course, that that woman survived—a pity.
King Rist, broad-shouldered and boisterous in a dark plum jacket, leaned one elbow over the arm of his velvet chair as the firelight caught in the gold of his signet rings. His beard, half-damp from his morning wash, curled neatly around his grin. “You should’ve seen the priest’s face when I told him the girl had woken,” he said with a bark of a laugh. “Looked like he was ready to compose a hymn.”
Marina smiled with effortless sweetness. “Well, Father… the court does love a miracle,” she said, the word miracle pronounced with the lilting reverence of someone who did not believe in them at all. Her hands rested atop one another like folded silk. She sat in perfect posture — not a wrinkle in her gown nor a shadow out of place beneath her lashes. Her voice had taken on a new softness in the past few days, a more pious lilt, as if practicing humility were a delicate art form she had only just begun to favor. But she had practiced the smile — that smile — in the mirror until it no longer wavered.
The doors opened before King Rist could reply. The room quieted before he spoke, as if the very walls recognized him. He wore a deep navy imperial overcoat, finely tailored and pressed to perfection, its shoulders squared with polished silver buttons inlaid at the cuffs — a nod to court protocol, though none of it softened him.
A black sash crossed his chest, looped through the hilt of his ceremonial dagger, untouched but gleaming. His midnight colored mantle, lined in ash-grey silk, hung with gravity from his shoulders — the hem moving like a blade unsheathed. The embroidery across his high collar was subtle — steel thread in the pattern of thistle and frost, symbols of judgment and endurance.
His boots, immaculately cleaned, clicked against the marble like a countdown. His dark hair was swept back loosely and unhurried—with the precision of a man who rose before the sun and had not rested since. He walked directly to the head of the table and did not sit.
“Your Majesty,” King Rist said, rising with a clap to his shoulder. “We were just discussing the recovery. A blessing, isn’t it?”
“She lives,” Jotaro said. “That is all that matters.” The weight of his voice made the fire snap.
Marina’s smile — delicate, precise — deepened just a touch, though she lowered her gaze demurely before speaking, as Kalithea often did when uncertain eyes were on her. “How fortunate,” she murmured. “We were all so dreadfully concerned. When the whispers came through the estate halls, I thought I might faint. And yet…” she exhaled, fingers brushing the edge of her teacup, “she is strong. Stronger than anyone expected.” She tilted her head — a careful, studied gesture — and for a brief second, her earrings swayed beneath the light.
Without glancing in her direction, he turned fully to King Rist. “We’ll need your household’s full cooperation,” he said. “It was your land. Your hospitality. The tray was delivered under your banner.” There was no accusation in his tone, but the implication was steel-edged.
Rist cleared his throat, smiling in that same boisterous manner always accompanying him. “Of course, of course. You’ll have it. No one’s dragging their heels on this.”
“I’ve already dispatched investigators,” Jotaro continued. “Uniformed guards will not appear. I don’t intend to disrupt the public appearance of unity. But your kitchen, your imported goods, and your contracted personnel are no longer under your discretion.”
Marina’s fingers gripped the side of her skirt beneath the table. She inhaled as if calm — exhaled as if kind. “Your Majesty,” she said softly, lifting her chin, “I would also like to offer myself — to assist, however needed. Perhaps a second gathering, more intimate. A luncheon, maybe, with select members of court. Nothing extravagant. But enough to redirect attention. Ease public worry.”
Jotaro’s eyes narrowed, just slightly. But in a room where every twitch of his expression mattered, that slightness cut like frost along a silver edge. “And how would that help her?”
Marina did not flinch. She had practiced for moments like this since childhood — a thousand rehearsals before polished mirrors, coached by ladies who whispered with knives behind their fans. She leaned forward — just enough to seem earnest, not pleading — her chin tilted, her gaze delicately widened. “Lady Kalithea is dear to so many,” she said sweetly. “But you know how our court can be… Some nobles are proud. Suspicious of change. I only mean to guide them toward understanding. To help them see—what you see.”
Her lips curved with pristine warmth. “I’ve grown rather fond of her myself.” A lie, perfectly spoken, delivered like perfume on lace.
The silence that followed was not empty — it was deliberate And in that silence, Marina’s pride nearly splintered. Her gown — navy brocade embroidered with a thistle motif almost identical to Kalithea’s ensemble at the hunt — folded awkwardly beneath her wrist. She adjusted it, then adjusted it again. Her knuckles were pale where they gripped her fan.
Jotaro turned his gaze to her again. “The garden soirée,” he said, voice like polished iron. “It was hosted under your name. Was the guest list reviewed?”
Marina’s throat tightened — but she did not let it show. “I submitted it to the council, as is customary,” she said smoothly. “The beverages were arranged through my personal maid. We chose from our family’s vineyard. Nothing… unusual.” A pause, then — coy, almost regretful.“Though now that you mention it, my maid seemed uneasy that evening. Nervous. She had never handled such a high number of servings on her own.”
Jotaro’s gaze did not shift like a blade drawn but not raised. “And where is she now?”
The question was quiet, but it rang through the chamber like a command too grave for echo. Across the table, Marina folded her hands together with immaculate grace, the lace of her gloves pulled taut across her knuckles. Her back remained straight. Her lashes did not so much as tremble. “Dismissed,” she said softly. “The morning after the… incident.”
The word tasted sweet in her mouth — not because of what had happened, but because it had not succeeded. “I sent her away. It was an instinct, nothing more. She was acting strangely once the rumors began. Pale. Shaking. I thought perhaps she was frightened… or guilty.” She exhaled as though reluctantly sharing something distasteful. “I hoped it was only nerves. But if there was a weak point in the chain, I believe it must have been her.”
King Rist lifted a brow. “You think the girl may’ve tampered with something?”
Marina bowed her head just enough for it to seem demure. “I cannot say for certain, father. But she was newly assigned to the wine tray — she hadn’t served in such a visible role before. She was eager, but… unpolished. I noticed it before our first toast.” Her words dripped with delicacy, a very courteous concern. But not once did she utter the maid’s name.
Jotaro said nothing, yet he watched her the way one might watch a candle flame gutter in still air — waiting to see if it would endure, or flicker out beneath the weight of its own performance. A gesture of ‘helpfulness’ wrapped in a bow of noblesse oblige. A sacrificial lamb, neatly presented before the imperial gaze — with no blood on Marina’s own hands. Only the illusion of prompt responsibility.
Jotaro’s eyes narrowed. Only slightly. But it was enough to make the air shift. He said nothing, because there was nothing to say. Even her gown was reminiscent of what Kalithea had worn during the stag hunt. Her hair, once piled high in the latest Renaldi fashion, had been braided in gentle waves and pinned with pale pearls. Softer, more understated, just like Kalithea.
It was not flattery, but strategy. Jotaro did not even glance long enough to acknowledge it. Imitation might fool a crowd, but not him. Jotaro’s expression didn’t shift, but there was steel in his stillness. He turned slightly toward Rist, ignoring her completely and therefore breaking the unspoken tension with the precision of a knife through silk. “Any gaps in the timeline, even a servant sneezing out of turn — I want it accounted for.”
King Rist straightened his posture with a statesman’s ease, draping one arm behind his chair, his crimson mantle edged in bronze thread catching the faintest light. “Yes, yes, as I said, we will cooperate fully, of course,” he said. “I'll alert my steward to begin pulling the kitchen logs, invitation scrolls, and security rosters. Though I’ll admit…” He let out a gruff half-laugh, “I never thought my dear daughter’s garden party would warrant such military precision.”
“It warrants more,” Jotaro replied. His tone remained level, but the room chilled slightly at the edge of it. “This was not an accident. Quiet enough to pass through banners, loud enough to kill.”
Instead, he turned toward a parchment Sir Amadeus had laid at the head of the table. “Your household submitted its wine imports late this season,” he noted. “The delivery was processed two days before the soirée. That delay left room for intervention. Tampering.”
Rist leaned forward, rubbing his beard with one gloved hand. “I’ll speak with our bottler. See if anything unusual came through. You think it was in the wine?”
“The poison was subtle,” Jotaro replied. “Too faint to trace through the scent. But its effect was swift enough. Whoever administered it intended delay — not spectacle.”
Behind her careful smile, Marina’s mind raced. She had timed it well, just enough to make Kalithea collapse and perish—to see if Jotaro’s affection would falter under pressure. If he would look at her — finally look — when the girl was not there to breathe. But she had lived, and what was worse, he carried her like something holy, and untouchable. Marina’s fingers curled slowly beneath the edge of the table, where no one could see.
“I imagine,” she said lightly, “the court will expect a statement from you, Your Majesty. Or at least a public appearance. Something… to assure and steady the court.” Marina tilted her chin, undeterred. “You needn’t speak at length,” she added, hands folded perfectly atop one another. “Even a few moments at the next assembly. Or perhaps the opening of the spring joust — just long enough to quiet the speculation.”
King Rist glanced at her, eyes flickering. “My dear, do you really think there’s been much talk since this has happened?”
“There’s always talk,” Marina replied sweetly. “But I’m sure it will die down soon. Especially if—” she paused, as though bashful, “—you’re seen supporting her recovery.” She said it so gently and so plainly with earnestness masked in decadence.
Jotaro’s voice broke through like a flint on a stone. “Support does not require performance.”
Marina turned ever so slightly toward him, folding one hand against her chest in a gesture of graceful humility. “Of course not,” she murmured. “But still… if you must appear, it would be my honor to accompany you. As someone the court is familiar with — someone close to both households — I might help temper the tone of things.”
Jotaro’s eyes passed over her once, just movement, sliding instead toward King Rist. “I’ll be leaving within the hour,” he said. “Your staff may expect the interviewers by dusk.”
Rist nodded, his affable tone returning. “Of course. Anything you need, we’ll see it done. The joust is coming soon — perhaps I’ll make space in the itinerary to publicly reinforce support. The court eats that sort of thing up.” Jotaro gave a nod, setting the report flatly on the table.
Marina spoke again, quickly. “If you’d like, I can assist in selecting the guest list,” she offered, smile intact. “Only those who’ve proven trustworthy. We don’t want another… mishap.” She let the word hang, just long enough to feel like silk drawn taut.
“I’ll decide the list,” Jotaro said, and for a moment, it might have ended there. But then he added — slowly, evenly, as if measuring each word against the weight of his own fury. “No list, gathering, nor face — no matter how polished, will pass without my seal.” He paused just long enough to let that final word settle into the silence. Then, without waiting for dismissal, he stepped back from the table.
Sir Amadeus moved first, his boots a silent echo across the marble. Sir Jean followed — neither bowing nor speaking, his eyes trained only on the space before him, and standing half a step behind Jotaro, his hand resting near the pommel of his sword in casual readiness.
Jotaro turned only once at the threshold, his coat catching the movement like a banner drawn across steel. “I trust your household will not delay my men,” he said to Rist. “Any obstruction will be seen as an admission.” Without another word, Jotaro stepped through the doors.
The warmth from the sun should have been comforting, should have softened the corners of the room, but it did not reach Marina. Then — too quickly — she smoothed her skirts.
The gesture snagged at the waist seam, crumpling the fine pleats beneath her wrist. She stilled her hand at once, correcting the fold with the elegance of someone used to watching eyes. But there was no one left in the room except her father.
And his gaze had sharpened. King Rist leaned back slowly, one leg kicked out, the edge of his heavy coat sliding just off his knee. He studied her without smiling. His fingers, calloused from a lifetime of battle and banquets, tapped absently against the carved armrest. “You alright, dove?”
Marina blinked once — as if the question itself was too soft to require a real answer. “Of course,” she said. Her voice lilted like sugar stirred into tea. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Her father watched her, with the quiet ache of a father who knew the shape of his daughter’s face too well to miss the war behind her smile. “You’re dressed different,” he said finally, his voice slow. “Not your usual frill and sparkle.”
Marina’s lips curved, faint and practiced. “Court is changing,” she said. “So must we.” She tilted her chin just slightly — letting the light catch the comb in her hair. Exactly the kind Kalithea had worn at the opera, though hers had been tucked with less precision and more innocence. Marina’s was perfect, but it sat heavy against her skull.
Rist’s eyes flicked to it — and then away. He didn’t comment, only exhaled softly and leaned back further in his chair. He looked at the fire again, like a man who’d seen too many wars to be surprised when one reached his doorstep.
Marina rose too gracefully. Every step was choreographed, every movement gliding as though she floated on ceremony alone. Every step was choreographed, every movement gliding as though she floated on ceremony alone. But her fingers clenched once — just once — at her side. As if trying to press something venomous back down her throat before it burned its way free.
She reached the corridor with ease, and once the double doors sealed shut behind her and her father’s steady gaze was gone her curated mask split. She drew in a breath — too fast, too sharp — the kind that scraped against the ribs as it tried to make room for wrath. Kalithea lived, as if surviving was somehow proof of his favor.
Marina’s heels clicked louder now, echoing in the corridor’s marble bones. She passed two maids, but they did not meet her eye. “This isn’t how it was meant to be,” she muttered, her voice low, refined, trembling beneath the surface. “It’s not how it ends.”
As she walked down her empty parlor, save for the chill of absence, the scent of orange blossom clung to the cushions — imported perfume, steeped into velvet. One candle burned at the table’s edge, its flicker throwing slow shadows across the gilded trim of the walls. Marina stood still in the center of the room, hands folded, chin lifted, posture perfect.
The doors shut behind her with a muted click. Her steps echoed faintly as she crossed to the mirror above the hearth — tall, gold-edged, and cruel in its honesty. She paused, and for a moment, studied herself. There was not a thread out of place.
The ivory gown, stitched in Rendaldi lace, was fitted to perfection, understated, yet deliberately so. Her bodice curved precisely, her sleeves tapered to the wrist in that new, softened fashion Kalithea wore. Her pearl comb shimmered where it nestled in the crown of her curled hair, the same style. “He didn’t even glance,” Marina whispered. She stepped closer, each heel a ghost of the court behind her. “She smiled,” she went on, voice like cooled silver, “and the entire empire bent its knee.”
Her gloved fingers reached up, loosening a tendril of hair at her temple — trying again to mimic that innocent fall of Kalithea’s rose-red locks. It slipped too deliberately. It didn’t move like hers. Marina seethed softly, “and still she commands more than I ever have.” A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts as she opened her lips to speak.
“Enter,” Marina snapped — her voice sharper than she meant, though the sound hadn’t yet finished echoing. At the door creaked open, a maid stepped in carefully, her head bowed low with a smile on her face and a set or porcelain teacups in her tray.
“Your Highness, I have you tea—”
“Set it down and go,” Marina cut her off, not looking. Her tone was ice, her eyes still fixed to the mirror.
The silver tray clinked faintly onto the marble table. The maid hesitated, lips parting as if to say something more — but then thought better of it. She dipped into a curtsy, wide-eyed, and retreated silently. She closed the door gently behind her, not before the redness at the tips of her ears betrayed the fear rising in her chest or the moment became one the servants would whisper about.
Marina looked at herself again, measuring her face of its perfect symmetry. She had changed within a week, and she had adapted. The very ribbon of advice from every whispered gossip thread and rethreaded it into her wardrobe, posture, and the very cadence of her voice. “She has reverence,” Marina spat softly, “but she doesn’t even know what to do with it.”
“She stands there,” she whispered, “all quiet breath and blinking lashes… and suddenly she’s the one everyone bows to?” Marina’s lips trembled. “Do they think she’s noble because she’s silent?” she hissed. “Because she looks up at them like some porcelain holy girl? Is that it?”
Her reflection offered no answer. “I was born for this. I was raised to wear the crown. I’ve practiced every curtsy, memorized every name, every lineage, every mode of address.” Her gloved hand pressed to her chest — not delicately, but hard, as though she could feel her ribs resisting the shape of her rage. “ I know what to say. I know how to say it. And still—still—”
Her next words came sharper. Low, and bitter as frostbite. “He looked at her. That thing. That pitiful, voiceless stray he keeps dressing in sapphires.” Her hand flew to the edge of the table, gripping its carved marble lip until her knuckles paled. A pearl from her bracelet snapped — and she didn’t even flinch as it struck the floor.
“She was nothing. A filth-born scrap below a servants shoes. My shoes should be at the foot of that throne.” A choked laugh broke from her lips — too dry, too polished to carry joy. Her fury tasted like blood beneath her tongue. “She doesn’t even speak, and yet they hang on her silence as though it were scripture. I breathe, and the world blinks. She blinks, and the world weeps.”
Her eyes darkened, “She’s not beautiful,” Marina snarled suddenly — almost childlike, almost desperate. “She’s not. She just—” The mirror cracked, as a sharp line split through its center, as though the glass itself could no longer bear the lie. Marina jerked back, for a breathless moment, she said nothing.
Then slowly, mechanically, with a grace so unnatural it could only have been rehearsed — Marina lifted her chin. Smoothed the silk at her waist. Adjusted the slight tilt of her bodice until it sat flush against her spine. Her gloved fingers moved like clockwork, resetting the marionette strings of poise and posture she had spent a lifetime mastering. The line in the mirror split her in half — but she refused to look away.
Behind her, was a soft rustle. The parlor doors opened with a quiet click. The scent of rosewater and powdered lavender followed, as her ladies entered, not a one of them speaking, not yet, for they had learned long ago to read the temperature of a room before opening their mouths.
Lady Vessina came first, her bronze curls swept into a modest chignon, eyes sharp as ever beneath fluttering lashes. Anthemina followed, fingers gloved in ash lace, carrying her fan like a weapon veiled in silk. Selienne, taller, ever-smiling, walked in last — though her gaze flicked from the cracked mirror to the untouched tea with barely disguised caution.
“Your highness ” Vessina said smoothly, bowing her head. “We came as soon as the drawing room was cleared.” No one commented on the mirror, at least not directly. But Selienne’s lips parted slightly — and closed again, unreadable.
“Sit, we have plenty of work to do.” Marina said, her voice clipped — but calm, like a silk ribbon drawn taut before it snaps. Her ladies glided in without hesitation, but the air in the parlor had thickened. As if it remembered the crack in the mirror. As if the walls had heard what had been said before they arrived.
Anthemina’s brow lifted with gentle curiosity as she settled into a brocade-backed chair. “Work?” she echoed, as though they were entering a salon for embroidery, not a war council in velvet gloves. Marina turned to face them, like a sunrise drawn in blood and lacquer.
“The court is uncertain,” she said, every word measured with aristocratic precision. “So we give them something certain to speak about.” Her voice was sugar-laced and serpent-steeped, like every letter penned by a queen who never had to raise her voice to destroy someone.
Selienne, ever honey-tongued and carefully adorned in lilac silk, leaned forward slightly. “But the poisoning…” she murmured, her words softened like silk stretched over a blade. “They’re saying she — lady Kalithea — barely survived.”
Marina folded her hands, each gesture deliberate. “A tragedy,” she intoned. “One we shall mourn. Publicly.” She took her seat as if descending a throne — every line of her spine rehearsed to perfection, the silk of her skirts cascading around her like calm water over a cliff’s edge. “But mourning,” she continued, eyes bright as polished ice, “cannot halt society. The court needs ceremony, distraction and… warmth.”
Anthemina adjusted her gloves. “And you, Your Highness, intend to offer it?”
Marina smiled — a perfect, polished thing, honed like a jewel cut too many times. “Who better?” she said smoothly. A quiet hung over the room then, like a pause before thunder.
It was Anthemina who filled it. “My dear, you’re dressed… simpler, more elegant” she said, light as a tossed feather. The compliment was not meant as admiration — but as inquiry, and something almost like warning.
Marina’s gaze turned with just a shift — slight, precise, like a cat who’s caught the scent of something uninvited. “Is that a problem?” she asked. Her voice remained sweet and underlying with faltering composure, the way arsenic is stirred into tea.
Anthemina smiled quickly, fluttering her fan gracefully and with ease, like the glance she had given her was nothing at all.“No, my lady, course not. It is simply just… unusual, and unlike the you we have seen.”
Vessina said nothing in response, but her eyes, keen as ever beneath her curls, drifted to the comb at Marina’s temple. It was not her usuals, like sapphires, opals of opulent jewels. Just a pearl clip, unmistakably similar to the one Kalithea had worn when the court had all but swooned. No one spoke of it, but they noticed too.
“I adjust to suit the court’s needs,” Marina said coolly, tucking one hand beneath her chin. “Isn’t that what a leader does?” Selienne, whose loyalty was usually syrup-sweet and shameless, let her eyes fall to her lap. She smoothed the edge of her glove, once, twice, then stopped.
Marina felt her world shattering, as she leaned forward suddenly. Her voice dropped an octave, as she smiled with such fake nicety. “Do you know what I see when I look at her?” she said, her smile stretching wider. “A girl who cannot even speak. Who wears pity like perfume. A mute with a ribbon around her throat — and now they call her radiant.”
Her hand swept through the air in a slow, disdainful wave. “They think her silence is grace. That her stumbling shyness is charming. That her… unknowing past makes her… romantic. My dears, she has no lineage, title or sense of her place. Still, HE looks at her like she fell from God’s ribcage.” Marina’s voice snagged on the word he like a jewel catching lace, though she veiled the fracture with a breath so sweet and shallow it could have been bottled in crushed violets.
Her hands clasped in front of her, flapping her fan as she felt the heat steam from her body. Her eyes, lit from within by something sharp and ancient, gleamed beneath the chandeliers. “And when the time comes,” she said, “when their adoration burns her too brightly… when their golden girl wilts beneath the weight of their own reverence—” And her smile returned like venom flowering beneath porcelain. “—we will be ready, wont we?”
A silence, boomed. Thick and alive with the weight of glances not exchanged, of breaths held too long.
The three girls — Vessina, Selienne, and even ever-loyal Anthemina — sat straight in their chairs, corseted and composed, but something in them had shifted. Her speech, the dress without laces and frills, and delicate jewels. The mirror cracked — no one had mentioned it, but they had all seen it, spiderwebbed behind her as they entered. They wondered, privately, if she had done it. If the fury behind her eyes had finally found glass thin enough to break.
And worse—worse was the imitation. The soft waves in her hair, the whisper of color in her cheeks. The way she now spoke in poised tones that no longer seemed hers, a mimicry so precise it felt violent. She was trying to become her. For the first time, her ladies — her audience, her instruments, her chorus of curated flattery — weren’t certain they were safe.
Selienne didn’t lift her gaze from Marina’s sleeve, the stitching there not quite her usual design. Vessina tugged once at her glove, only to still when Marina glanced over. And Anthemina tilted her chin, but too slowly, the expression faintly guarded, keeping her lips parted as though she meant to speak, but didn’t.
They felt the shift, the tilt, the sliver of something unstable glittering beneath all that poise. She had not lost her mind, but she had… twisted it. And now they, who had once sharpened their words to match her bite, sat quiet as petals before the storm. Unsure if they were still her confidantes — or simply next in line to be cut.
She turned back to the fireplace, chin lifted, eyes fixed, mouth faintly curved, and nd they, who had once followed her without question, watched her in silence. Not just wondering if she had gone too far. But if, without realizing it—she had already begun to fall.
In a much kinder and warmer area, seven dawns since her collapse, since cool stone and frantic hands cradled her body while the music never quite stopped playing. Whispers became gasps and courtiers clutched their pearls, unsure whether to call it tragedy or omen. Kalithea had survived — not as a tale told in past tense, but as a soft breath that continued, impossibly, miraculously, like a candle resisting wind.
Since Jotaro had rested by her bedside, she felt more at ease in his presence. Yet on the second day, when the fever had thinned from her brow and her lashes fluttered like wings testing flight, Avdolia had entered with no announcement, let in by Martha and Sam who tended to her. She had come with a small parcel wrapped in velvet and sealed with wax — no fanfare, only quiet knowing in her eyes.
“This,” Avdolia had said, placing the book in Kalithea’s hands, “will hear you even when you cannot speak aloud.” bound in blue leather, cool to the touch, the edges gilded faintly like sunlight caught on water. And when Kalithea’s fingers brushed its cover, her thoughts had stilled — not in fear, but in awe. She had written nothing, not yet. But as her gaze lingered, the first sentence appeared. “You are still here, and so I will remain not only by his side, but by yours as well.”
Her breath caught, She had not moved her hand, and yet the ink curled across the page in her own delicate script, as though the soul had spoken first and the pen simply obeyed. Now, she walked with it resting lightly against her arm, cradled like a bird too sacred to cage.
Dame Adeline walked at her right, Dame Erin at her left. Their armor shimmered pale silver in the dappled light, ceremonial today rather than combative. And though they spoke softly, their eyes never drifted from her for long.
“The wind is gentle today,” Erin said, brushing back a strand of Kalithea’s hair that had caught in her sapphire and pearl comb. “It suits you.” Kalithea offered a quiet smile, one corner of her lips curling like the first sign of spring. Then, with the faintest breath, she thought her response — and the notebook obeyed.
”You are far too kind, Dame Erin. I am grateful for the breeze, it reminds me that I’m still here.”
Dame Adeline glanced down, caught the newly inked line, and her stern mouth softened. “She’s still got her poetry,” she murmured, “thank the heavens.”
They reached the fountain — the one with the ivy-draped basin and sleeping marble cherub — and paused in its hush. “His Majesty returned this morning,” Dame Adeline said after a pause. Kalithea’s gaze lifted. “He went straight to the council chambers,” Erin added gently, “but I imagine he’ll come to see you once he’s done tearing apart every name on the guest list.”
At that, a small, private warmth bloomed in Kalithea’s chest. She wrote nothing — only let the book rest a little heavier in her arms.
“He hasn’t slept much,” Dame Erin continued. “Not truly. I passed Sir Amadeus — he says His Majesty had been reading every report himself.”
Kalithea’s steps slowed, the edges of the sky deepened above them. Sunlight curved through the garden walls like golden breath. Then — softly — ink curled again across the page. “I was unaware of how much I caused, whether alarm, or spectacle. But Dame Erin, Dame Adeline, did he carry me far?”
The question hung in the morning light like a petal caught mid-fall — gentle, unsure, but still brave enough to drift. Neither knight asked how she meant it. Dame Adeline, ever steady, replied with the hush of someone who had witnessed something holy. “Far enough to make the whole court go silent.”
Dame Erin, walking just behind, added with a tilt of quiet awe, “No, but Far enough that no one dared ask if he should have.” They paused by the ivy trellis, where sun traced soft gold across the garden stones. The roses nearby were blooming again — impossibly red, as if trying to match the courage that had once left Kalithea’s lips colorless.
She turned with a grace that seemed stitched from glass and moonlight. The blush-pink skirts of her gown caught the breeze like spilled perfume. The bodice, laced in crimson silk, bloomed across her form like a whispered oath — steady, unflinching, and sculpted to breathe dignity into her still-healing ribs. The sleeves draped loosely from her shoulders, a lattice of pale lace that danced as she moved.
Her hair, no longer pinned in place, tumbled freely down her back in quiet waves. Tiny red gemstones shimmered at her ears, soft as garnets kissed by candlelight — not grand, but beautiful, like a secret remembered. She looked toward the path at the garden’s edge — the one that led from the west wing, where council doors slept in solemn quiet.
The sun warmed her sleeve as she turned back to the trellis, her gaze drifting to Adeline and Erin. The lace at her wrist caught on a leaf and fluttered — like a breath caught mid-sentence. She lifted her booklet, the soft blush-and-rose leather creaking faintly in her hands. A line curved into place once more, “My friends, Cecily, Mirielle, Anise, Edwina? How are they? Have they written, oh I miss them.”
Adeline’s smile was gentle. “They have. All four.” Kalithea’s eyes brightened, her fingers pausing on the edge of the page.
“Mirielle sent pressed violets in your recovery,” Dame Erin offered, her tone warm with mischief. “Anise wrote a poem — a full one, mind you — and managed to rhyme your name with seraphim.”
Dame Adeline chuckled softly. “Cecily said she nearly fainted at recalling when she was presenting, and Edwina… well, she’s asking if she should change Her Highness in some form of match for honor.” A quiet breath slipped from Kalithea — not a laugh, not quite. But her shoulders shook faintly, her lips parted in mirth, and for the first time in days, her smile held sunlight.
Kalithea’s gaze dropped — tenderly, reverently — to the soft paper beneath her fingertips. A sentence began without a pen, blooming from thought alone. “Then I shall write at once, I believe that reaction must have caused them to be more frightened than myself. I owe them calm first, and their thanks for their kindness to me.”
“They miss you,” Dame Erin said, her voice quieter now. “Even now, I think they’re counting the days until you walk into a salon again and turn every head.” Kalithea did not lift her eyes, but a bloom of color rose at her cheeks — the gentlest, softest pink — and it was answer enough.
The path from the west wing stirred — not with footsteps, but presence, a ripple in stillness. Dame Adeline noticed first, dipping her chin toward the garden gate just as the figure came into view — tall, cloaked in dusk-toned navy and black, the tailored cut of his coat sharp enough to command silence. Though he had not run, there was something breathless in the way he arrived.
His expression — hard-edged from council matters, forged in quiet fury — stilled the moment his eyes found her. His rage faded, like winter yielding to light. Bathed in blush and soft pinks, her bodice structured in velvet and lace, the sleeves loose and whispering, her hair down like a promise not yet spoken. She looked not healed, but luminous — as though her survival had grown roots in something sacred.
She looked up at last, and in that single glance, shy, hopeful, lit by color and softness, his composure nearly broke. Jotaro gave a slight nod, Dame Adeline and Erin bowing only once and slipped away in silent retreat, but not before Dame Erin sent Kalithea a knowing wink.
Even as Jotaro beared, a furious, high-pitched yip exploded from the corridor beyond. Iggy barreled down the stairs, fur flying like a war banner, paws slipping across the marble as he launched into the garden with singular purpose. Bending just in time, the little dog crashed into her arms like a storm of indignation and joy.
She nearly laughed — the sound catching in her throat as she lifted him gently, cradling him to her chest. Iggy licked her chin once, barked twice in outrage, and promptly curled into her arms like he had every right to be there. And though he said nothing at first, his gaze softened — no less imperial, but aching with reverence.
For a moment, he said nothing. Then his voice came—low, controlled, but tinged with something rarely permitted to rise in his tone. “I’m afraid, I have hardly been around this past week.” He looked at her—not in the way kings look at courtiers, but in the way one might look at a memory too fragile to touch. “I should have been here sooner,” he said at last. “I should have stayed closer.”
She didn’t move right away. Just lowered her gaze, the blush at her cheeks deepening—not from shame, but from startled grace. The little notebook she held trembled slightly as words appeared across the page like a secret blooming in ink. “Jotaro you were never far. Even when I slept, I think I felt it. Please don’t think I ever expected more. Your kindness, and your adoration has always reached me—even when you were not near enough to see it.”
His hand hovered, then found its place gently at her back. She did not flinch. Instead, she leaned slightly into his presence, as if his nearness was a warmth she had missed more than words could hold. The garden fell away behind them, soft and murmuring as a memory. The colonnade stretched long and quiet, shadowed with evening.
Above them, stained glass cast faint color across the stone, bleeding pale garnet and gold over their joined steps. The scent of lavender hedges thinned as they passed into cooler air, the hush of the west wing embracing them like a lullaby. His hand remained at her back, not possessive, but protective. She felt it — the weightless gravity of him — as though he were drawing her through more than corridors.
“I missed this,” he murmured, voice low and thick with something soft. “Just you. No council. No orders. Just… peace.”
She looked ahead, toward the corridor’s end, where a line of velvet curtains stirred gently in the breeze. The morning sun drifted to afternoon light, as her fingers brushed the edge of her booklet. No longer a thing she had to write in, only one she had to feel.
And so, from her heart to the page, the words bloomed without sound. “I missed you, too. Not just your voice, or your steadiness. But the stillness you bring—I missed everything that wasn’t duty or fear.” She hesitated for a moment, then lets her thoughts speak for her. “I do believe and I know I frightened everyone. My dear knights, my friends. But I feel better now, I truly do. Though I am most positive in that very drink I was allergic —“
But Jotaro’s steps faltered. They reached the threshold of his private parlors then — the curtains parting as if they knew him. Inside, the room glowed with sunshine and the faint perfume of myrrh, parchment, and the citrus oils rubbed into the wood. “It wasn’t something you were allergic to” he said, voice gentled, but unyielding. Kalithea turned her face toward him — brows drawn in a fragile question. “It was poison. Subtle. Rare. Near impossible to trace. But not an accident.”
She did not move, not even her lashes flickered. Only the shift of ink upon her page gave shape to her breath. “Then…someone meant to hurt me?All this time until you had arrived I had assumed it was a reaction. I dared not ask anyone, for I believed something like that to be impossible.”
He gave the smallest of nods, and though her chest tightened, and a chill slipped down her spine like candlewax cooling, her face did not crumple. Her hands did not shake, but stood in silence for a breath, then another. “Then I must have done something very kind… or been very lucky. Perhaps both.”
Jotaro’s throat worked around words he didn’t say. She meant it with the kind of quiet conviction only a soul untouched by bitterness could carry. He reached for her slowly — almost unsure, as if reverence required permission. And when she gave it — not through words, but through the soft lift of her gaze, the way she tilted just barely into him — he kissed her.
Iggy, still nestled between her arms, gave a snort of disdain and a single sharp bark, as if scolding them for forgetting his presence. Kalithea smiled against Jotaro’s shoulder and gently set him down. The terrier strutted toward the velvet sofa and jumped up in a single elegant bound, curling into the center cushion like a prince awaiting tribute.
Kalithea turned once more toward Jotaro, and her penless notebook filled the silence with truth. “I am here of course. A little more worn, yet a little more aware. Still yours to protect—if you still wish to…”
He caught her hand in his, fingers wrapping around her slender palm. He pressed her hand to his chest — to the quiet drum of his heart, unhidden now. “You are.” And in that gilded hush, beneath the scent of firewood and forgotten citrus, they could smile even for a moment.
Then he stepped back just slightly, though his fingers lingered. “I have something for you,” he said, voice a little quieter — not distant, but tinged with something fond. “Wait here.”
Kalithea blinked, surprised. Her cheeks warmed at once, though she gave a tiny nod, the hem of her blush-pink gown fluttering as she turned toward the parlor. He disappeared behind one of the adjoining doors, leaving her in the hush of the afternoon, where the velvet couch and the sound of gentle breezes welcomed her with their gentle quiet.
On the side table a small bundle of envelopes rested — pale parchment tied with a ribbon of ivory thread. One of the other maids must have set them there, awaiting her waking moment. She approached with slow steps, the lace at her sleeves brushing faintly against her skin as she reached out. The top envelope bore Mirielle’s careful hand — all curving loops and graceful pressure, her signature scent faintly present on the paper, a mixture of lilac and sugared cream.
My dearest Kalithea,
By the stars, I hardly know how to begin. We only hope that you are well, and I can’t recall that night— oh, how our hearts stilled. I do believe Anise cried after. Edwina cursed (in four languages, no less), and Cecily sat in such stunned silence once we arrived back, that I feared she’d taken ill herself. We were frightened, darling. Not just for your health, but for what it meant — to see someone so good, so composed, so quietly radiant, fall. Because you have always struck me as the kind of girl who would survive even winter’s cruelty — and still find a way to bloom. Please write soon, I want to know how you are recovering. That you are resting, and surrounded by the kind of love that brought you to us, if not just by His Majesty.” - Ever yours, Mirielle
Kalithea’s fingers hovered over the last line,hHer throat tightened, but she did not weep. A single breath rose, soft and fragile, and her lips curved — gently, gratefully. She folded the letter again with reverence, setting it down atop the others. In that quiet, where warmth hummed from both hearth and memory, she waited — not with fear this time. But with a heart open wide enough to receive whatever gift came next.
The parlor was hushed when he returned. Kalithea, still standing beside the table where Mirielle’s letter lay, turned as the door opened. Jotaro entered slowly, but something in his bearing had changed. His coat, still buttoned at the collar, shifted as he moved — but his focus did not stray. He held something in his hand, small, square and wrapped in black velvet bound by a single ribbon of navy.
Her breath caught before she even understood why. He approached with reverent steadiness, as though bringing forth a relic rather than a gift. And when he reached her, he didn’t speak right away. He only held out the box between them, letting the light brush over the velvet until it looked like the night sky stitched in shadow.
Kalithea’s gaze lifted to him. Then, slowly, she opened the lid. Inside, nestled against dark silk, rested a ring. The beautiful silver was burnished with time, its center stone a deep, storm-kissed sapphire encircled by a thin line of newly polished diamond. Faint etchings curled around the setting, the imperial crest, softened by generations of hands, but still proud and solemn.
Kalithea stared, unmoving. Her hand remained at her side, as if afraid that touching it might unmake the moment. Jotaro’s voice came low and steady.“It belonged to the first empress,” he said. “The wife of the founding Emperor, Erina Nobelious Joestar— my ancestor from three centuries ago. She wore it during the war of unification. And every sovereign since has passed it to the woman he deemed… not merely worthy, but sacred.”
Her lips parted. A breath — faint, uncertain — escaped her. “My mother was the last to wear it,” he continued. “When she died, I had it sealed away, and no one has touched it since.” He looked down at the ring once more, then back at her.
Her eyes searched for his first, unsure, fragile in their wonder. “You’ve already given me everything,” The words appeared on the page, her fingers trembling, “A name, your manor, and a kindness so fond that you never dared offer before. How… how could there be more?”
Jotaro’s gaze did not falter. “This is not more,” he said, voice low, steady. “It is only the truth.” He paused “I don’t give it to you as a ruler,” Jotaro said, and his voice was quieter now — not cold, but weighted with memory. “I give it to you as a man. One who saw you rise from ash, and still carry gentleness in your hands.”
Her eyes shone with disbelief, showing him the booklet as she felt uncertain still of how precious this moment was. “This belonged to your blood. Your noble ancestors. I was… I am nothing beside them.
“You are not beside them,” he replied. “You are beyond them.”
Kalithea looked down at the ring again — and her smile, when it came, was soft and uncertain, as if she could scarcely believe it was meant for her. “This stone,” her booklet wrote slowly, “It’s too old to understand me. But, even then Jotaro, why now?”
“I nearly lost you, twice. And I refuse to spend another day pretending that I don’t already know.” He paused, never looking away. “There’s only ever one given each generation,” he finished. “And I’ve had it set aside since you said yes to coming here with me.” Jotaro reached for her hand again, this time folding both of his arms around it— and with the same quiet precision he gave orders and ended wars, he slid the ring onto the fourth finger of her left hand.
The ring caught between their palms like a promise passed down through time itself. The sapphire caught the light, flickering like a star held close to the chest. “When I think of what kind of Empress this empire would need…” His words trailed for only a breath. Not because he hesitated — but because the truth required no embellishment. “I see you.”
She looked down, the ring cool and firm against her skin, then up again — her gaze bright as waterlit moonstone. And though her lips never moved, her hand lifted slowly toward the booklet resting beside them. It opened as if by instinct, and her thoughts inked themselves across the page in delicate, blooming script. “You offer me something older than kingdoms… And I do not know how to carry it with anything but awe.”
She looked down, the sapphire glinting like a secret the stars had once whispered into the world. “Do you mean it, truly? That you see me — not as someone found by chance, but chosen? Not just because I nearly slipped from your hands… but because you would have held them out either way? There are others. Girls born into silks and legacy, raised to speak where I once knelt. Surely they would make finer portraits beside a throne.”
A pause, then she looked away, glancing back at him with a glimmer in her eyes of something so innocent and true. The ink faded for a moment, as though she herself was afraid of the question’s weight. “What do you see when you look at me… truly? Because when I look at you, I see the beginning of everything I never knew I could have.”
“The others were trained to wear jewels and titles,” he said, voice low. “But you were forged. Not in marble halls or beneath painted ceilings — but in silence, in survival, in gentleness kept whole even when the world tried to ruin it.”
He stepped closer, and his hand came to rest against her cheek — not as a lover reaching for beauty, but as a sovereign pledging his truth. “I do not want a consort who dances through ballrooms repeating names she never cared to learn. I do not want a crown that sparkles but means nothing.” He exhaled — not from weariness, but relief. As if the thing he had held in his chest for too long had finally settled into shape. “There is no one better.”
Kalithea’s eyes shimmered — not with disbelief now, but something fuller. Her lashes trembled with the weight of it, tears caught like dew at the corners of her eyes. Her fingers trembled faintly as smiled, the ink trailing like breath on glass. “I am still learning what it means to be strong, more than you know. But you’ve never made me feel I had to change what was soft in me to be worthy of standing at your side. You make me feel as if even my quiet could be sacred.”
And that — that was when the world seemed to hush around them. As if even the walls of the imperial parlor recognized the moment not as something private… but profound. He only stepped forward, gaze steady — the same gaze he carried into war councils and law halls, the same gaze that had silenced ministers with a breath. But here, that power had shifted.
His hands framed her face, his thumbs brushing her cheeks where the tears had not yet fallen. He kissed her like someone who had waited lifetimes to be certain. Like someone who had searched through empire, through silence, through exile — and had finally arrived at his answer.
She leaned into him, the ring cool against his chest, her breath catching not from surprise but from the sheer weight of feeling. Her arms wrapped around him as if she, too, had found the place where she could begin again. And when they parted, their foreheads still resting together, Kalithea’s breath was slow, full of grace and trembling belief.
Whatever came next, it would not be asked with witnesses. It would bloom in time. But the world would remember this moment — the breath before becoming — when a girl with no lineage stood wrapped in the warmth of a future only he could give, and he, an emperor, finally understood what it meant to give everything without needing a throne to bless it.
Kalithea looked down, her fingers lightly brushing the sapphire on her hand — the cool of it, the weight, the vow folded inside it like breath. Then, softly, she reached for his hand. Her own was steady, but shy — curling into his like a ribbon threading through armor. The page inked itself, as her thoughts appeared like ribbons. “I have no crown to ask of you, nor gold or jewels I wish. Jotaro if I may..” The words glimmered in soft script, like petals unfolding in light. “May I ask for one thing?’
Jotaro did not press her, but he watched. Steady as stone beneath sunlight and patient in a way that made the air feel slower. “You may,” he said — not as a man indulging a whim, but as one granting space to a sacred truth.
Kalithea’s eyes dropped again, a soft flush rising to her cheeks as the next words unfurled, tender and unsure. “I’ve never seen the coast, not the cliffs, the sand, or the water coursing against my skin, not truly. A place where the sky is endless and the sea forgets to listen to titles. I’ve always wanted a picnic, a breeze. I know I’ve mentioned this before, not long ago, but I want to share that moment with you.”
Jotaro’s gaze deepened in the way still water deepens before it begins to reflect the sky. “I remember,” he murmured. His voice was low, deliberate, but the edges of it glowed — like embers shielded in a gloved hand. “You had mentioned it to Avdolia, when you visited the Magi Academy.” His hand moved gently to her chin, lifting it just enough that her eyes met his. “Then that’s what you’ll have.”
And in that same breath, Iggy barked — a delighted, high-pitched declaration of approval. His ears perked like sails catching wind, and he leapt from the velvet couch in a full spin, then tapped his claws frantically on the marble.Kalithea startled into a laugh — soft, blooming — as she looked up again, still unsure she wasn’t dreaming. The notebook pulsed against her palm. “Are you certain? It isn’t too much?”
Jotaro looked down at her, and for the first time in days, the corner of his mouth curved only slightly. “If it were too much,” he said, “I would carry you there myself.” Kalithea’s breath caught. Her fingers, trembling just faintly, reached forward — brushing the edge of his sleeve like a girl afraid the moment might vanish if she touched it too fully. A blush bloomed softly at her cheeks, as if the warmth in his words had found a place beneath her skin.
Without another word, he leaned down — and pressed a kiss to her forehead. At their feet, Iggy gave a faint bark, in almost absolute abhorrence, and nudged at Kalithea’s ankle with his paw. She knelt, cradling the small terrier in her arms, and he settled with a theatrical sigh — tail flicking, chin resting contentedly against her shoulder like a prince carried to his throne.
A Jotaro took in the sight — the girl, the ring, the dog curled in silk — and something unreadable passed through his gaze. Then he turned toward the archway and spoke with that same reserved authority that steadied nations. “Wait for me in the parlor,” he said, already moving. “I won’t be long. An hour — no more.”
Kalithea clutched Iggy closer and tilted her head, the faintest glint of shy hesitation at her lashes.” She walked towards him, standing by as the notebook shimmered faintly. “Should I help with the arrangements? I could carry something, or write a list. I don’t mind.” She paused, then added — in that same blooming script that always seemed to kneel before the moment. “I only wish to ease what you carry.”
“You don’t ease it by helping,” he said, voice low and certain. “You ease it by being here. Your requested for this moment—with me,” he said. “Let me be the one to give it shape.”
Kalithea’s lashes fluttered once, then lowered, as though his words had placed something sacred in her hands. The warmth in his voice — not indulgent, not patronizing, but reverent — lit a quiet bloom beneath her ribs.
Her slippers whispered against the floor as she turned toward the parlor. The corridor carried a hush threaded with distant movement — the low thrum of a steward’s command, the brush of bootsteps against polished stone, and the faint murmur of preparation being carried out with precision. She did not need to see the bustle to feel it: the manor was stirring like a harp string plucked to life.
Iggy wriggled in her arms, letting out a short, undignified bark that startled a nearby footman into nearly dropping a polished tray. With typical imperial entitlement, the terrier squirmed free and leapt down, his claws clicking merrily as he trotted into the parlor like he owned it. He inspected a velvet cushion, sniffed the corner of a draped armchair, then hopped up — only to immediately hop back down again with an annoyed grunt, as if the ambiance lacked the proper deference to his station.
Sunlight slanted across the parlor floor, casting warm beams across the embroidered rug and glinting off polished silver. She stepped inside, her fingers brushing along the edge of the writing desk as she passed, her heart still fluttering from the feel of his words.
The heavy door opened again — and this time it was Dame Adeline who entered first, her braid freshly bound tighter, her dark undersleeves visible now beneath a light traveling tabard. Erin followed, her usual court boots traded for something closer to fieldwear — still elegant, but meant for terrain. Sir Jean trailed next, already adjusting the belt across his chest, and Sir Amadeus carried a neatly folded outer cloak with the imperial crest discreetly stitched along the hem.
They moved with practiced coordination, crossing the parlor quickly — one to check the light packs by the window bench, another to speak with the steward — but when Dame Adeline caught sight of Kalithea, she offered a soft smile and a slight bow.
“Don’t be alarmed, my lady,” she said gently. “We’ve only changed for readiness. Nothing less formal — only more prepared.”
“By His Majesty’s request,” added Sir Amadeus with a faint smile, nodding to the sword now strapped against his back.
“Your safety, after all,” Dame Erin murmured as she passed, “is a matter of principle… and pride.”
Kalithea’s lips curved again, her heart lifting. Iggy barked twice in approval, then ran a full circle around the knights’ boots before returning to Kalithea’s hem and sitting down firmly, his nose lifted as if to declare he, too, was part of the royal guard. Having completed his inspection, he sat with his chest puffed and nose slightly raised, looking for all the world as though he had personally ensured her protection.
The knights, once their packs were confirmed and garments adjusted, gave her a nod of subtle farewell. Dame Adeline was the last to pause, offering a murmur, “We’ll see you shortly, my lady,” before exiting the parlor with the steady grace of someone trained to stand through storms.
Across the marble hallway, near the west corridor that opened toward the Emperor’s wing, Jotaro stood near the arched window, rolling his sleeves with quiet purpose. The coastal road lay coiled in his mind like a promise, and his thoughts were already three steps ahead — wind conditions, safe stops along the cliffs, proximity to the manor’s landing terrace.
“Everything’s already being prepared,” came a voice behind him — familiar, level, low with casual formality. “The knights are armored light. Horses saddled, but I figured you meant the closed carriage.” Sir Jean leaned against the opposite column, arms crossed, one brow lifted just enough to convey interest without mockery. His silver hair caught the light, a few locks already undone from their tie — a sure sign he had grown too impatient to care about appearances.
Jotaro didn’t turn. “You figured right.” Boots approached with no urgency, only ease — the kind of calm that came from years of service, and the rare right to speak plainly.
“Just between us…” Sir Jean’s voice lingered in that space between protocol and old friendship. “You gave her the ring.”
The words settled into the room like a shift in wind. And though Jotaro did not turn, his stillness deepened. “She didn’t ask for it,” he said. “But I wanted her to have it.”
Jean’s gaze dropped briefly to the floor. “It was your mother’s.” There was something solemn in that — not grief, but memory. The kind that lingered like incense long after the flame. “It’s never been touched since,” Jean murmured. “Not until today.”
“No.” Jotaro paused, then, quieter: “The council believed it would stay locked away until they approved someone else. Until they could hold it out like a treaty.”
Jean gave a low whistle beneath his breath. “You really do know how to ruin a bureaucrat’s appetite.” Jean watched his old friend for a beat longer, arms folded casually across his chest, though his eyes were sharp beneath the ease. He had seen Jotaro at ten— sharp but friendly with such adolescent joy. At fifteen and seventeen — sharp-tempered, reluctant to speak unless pressed. And now after his coming of age, the edges were still there, but the weight had settled. And it wasn’t armor, it was simply her.
“You’ve changed,” Jean murmured finally, not as a jest but as something quietly observed. “Not softened. Just… steadier. Like something in you finally has a place to rest.” Jean blinked — then laughed, short and breathless. “You really are gone for her.”
Jotaro didn’t deny it. The look in his eyes had no room for denial — only a kind of calm certainty that came from choosing, fully and without excuse. “I was gone,” Jotaro murmured, “from the moment she danced in that costume, and met in the courtyard full of camellias and moonlight.”
And so he stepped back, giving Jotaro a single, knowing glance as he started toward the opposite hall. “Then I suppose I’ll go check on the basket,” Jean said, not bothering to hide the grin that curved his mouth. “Make sure someone remembers to pack more than holy water and dried fruit.”
Jotaro tilted his head faintly. “If the wine’s missing, you’re walking back.” Jean’s laughter echoed down the stone corridor as he vanished around the corner. Jotaro stood for a moment longer in the hush. And though his hands remained at his sides, his mind had already turned forward — to the parlor where she waited.
The quiet lingered only a moment longer before Jotaro turned, the sweep of his coat catching the fading corridor light like a black wing folding with purpose. His strides were measured, yet not slow—each step drawn forward by something more magnetic than duty.
Kalithea stood just near the window, her figure half-wrapped in light. One of her maids—Claudia, perhaps, or her twin—had draped a sheer white shawl around her shoulders, translucent as seafoam. Another had fetched the pale parasol from her wardrobe, its silken canopy barely veined in embroidery. She held it now, folded gently in her hand, while Iggy darted between her slippers like a shadow with opinions.
When she turned at the sound of his approach, it was not with alarm or practiced elegance, but with that same unassuming grace that had undone kingdoms in his chest. Her expression was soft, tinged with a nervous brightness. A summer blush still lingered in her cheeks, and the ring—his family’s legacy—glinted faintly beneath the sheer fabric at her wrist.
Jotaro didn’t speak at once. He only stopped before her and let his gaze rest there—on the picture of her, ready for the sea but still hesitant at the threshold. But simply to lift the shawl slightly higher over her shoulder where it had slipped, his fingers brushing the curve of her collarbone with reverent care. “You’ll need it,” he said, voice low. “It’s windier by the cliffs than you’d think.”
Kalithea dipped her head, her booklet opening again in her hand, the script unfolding slowly, shyly. “And you’ll be there… so I’ll be warm.”
The edge of his mouth curved and extended his arm. She hesitated only a breath before taking it, her fingers curling lightly against the crook of his elbow, the parasol resting delicately in her other hand. Iggy gave one last excited bark and sprinted ahead—clearly assuming he had permission to lead the royal party.
Together, they walked through the hall, the hush around them parting like silk. Her knights stood waiting already outside—Dame Adeline in a more travel-worn version of her uniform, her hair bound tightly back. Dame Erin’s blade had been exchanged for one she could fight in. Sir Amadeus and Sir Jean mounted the carriage’s rear step, murmuring to the driver.
The door to the lacquered carriage stood open. A picnic basket, secured in fine leather ties, waited inside. And as Jotaro helped Kalithea up with a hand at her waist—light but unshakable—the wind caught the edge of her shawl like a blessing, lifting it briefly in a dance of light.
Within, the space was dim with filtered gold, padded with velvet cushions and the faint scent of cedar from the picnic hamper. Kalithea settled first, her parasol folded gently to rest beside her, while Iggy — bold as a prince — leapt up without waiting for approval and wedged himself neatly between them, tail wagging like a pendulum marking out joy in slow, steady time.
Jotaro watched the terrier’s triumphant sprawl for a beat, then looked past him to her — the way her hands rested folded atop her lap, her shawl still fluttering faintly from the open carriage window, her gaze cast not down but outward.
He said nothing at first. Just studied her, as one studies a letter never sent — knowing its contents by heart, and still needing to read it once more. “It’s not a long journey,” he said at last, voice low as the wheel hum beneath them. “But I thought it might feel longer if we brought too many people.”
Kalithea turned, slowly, her notebook blossoming as the ink began to form again. “That is all I ever wished for. To drift far from duty, but not from you. To be elsewhere… yet still held close.” She paused. The next lines curled with quiet ache “ You know.. that I have never crossed the city’s breath. Not since chains, nor silence—not ever.”
Jotaro’s brow furrowed faintly. Not in disapproval — but in the quiet, unspoken ache of someone realizing the depths of what had never been given. “I’ll take you further next time,” he said. “Wherever you want.”
She looked down, the blush at her cheek as soft as dusk. Then, lifting her eyes again, her smile bloomed — slow and full, like a secret unfolding in sunlight. When she wrote next, the ink danced in loops, moved by the rhythm of wheels against earth and the hush of something sacred unfolding. “I think… this is already farther than I ever dared to dream. But if you promise there will be a next time— Then I shall believe in the road ahead. Even the miles I have not yet seen.”
He turned fully toward her now. Not as a ruler, but as a man who would move mountains to protect the smallest spark in her voice. “There will be,” he said. Iggy gave a soft bark — not the loud declaration from earlier, but a quiet sigh of contentment, his chin resting on Kalithea’s thigh now as if he, too, knew peace when it sat beside him.
The carriage creaked slightly as they turned westward. The city faded behind them. Open fields unfolded like ribbon — green, soft, studded with wildflowers catching the sun. In the far distance, the faint shimmer of the sea began to glint between trees, each glimmer like a promise not yet spoken.
Kalithea watched it all — one hand absently stroking Iggy’s back, the other pressed over the ring still new and impossibly old upon her finger. But in her stillness, there was a joy too wide for words. And beside her, Jotaro sat — a man who had shaped kingdoms, now content to shape only a day, because it was for her.
The hour seemed like only minutes when the carriage wheels slowed at the edge of the world. A narrow path opened before them, winding gently toward the cliffs — where sky and sea reached for one another in a language older than stone. The air smelled of salt and sun-warmed thyme, and somewhere in the hush, gulls cried like distant strings of a violin, bowing toward heaven.
Jotaro stepped down first, boots pressing into the earth with quiet finality. He offered his hand not as a formality — but with the solemnity of one who knew that this moment was more than a pause. Kalithea took his hand, her fingers light in his, and then — once her slippers touched the grass — she stilled.
The wind greeted her like an old friend. It swept through her loose hair, lifting each strand with tender reverence. Her shawl fluttered behind her like a silken banner. The parasol rested against her wrist, still unopened — she had refused to shield herself from the light, wanting instead to let the sun kiss her skin without hesitation, without permission.
She turned to him once — eyes wide with reverent joy, not needing to speak. Then she took a step forward. Jotaro didn’t follow immediately. He let her roam with the gentle defiance of someone tasting freedom not in rebellion, but in grace. She wandered across the sloping green, the hem of her gown brushing over wild lavender and soft white clover, her movements light as music straying from its sheet.
Behind them, in a second carriage further down the path, her knights and maids emerged, moving quietly. The staff began to set up in practiced silence: A blanket laid atop the cliff’s highest stretch, a low table and silver flutes for sparkling water, a basket lined with linen and filled with what she loved best — sugared cherries, rose-petal cakes, warm slices of citrus bread.
But she did not yet see it. Kalithea had reached the edge of the world. And there — framed against a horizon of gold and blue, with sunlight combing through her unbound hair — she looked less like a girl born of silence, and more like a memory the sea had tried to keep.
Kalithea turned back toward him — and this time, there was laughter in her eyes. This was something softer, brighter. A joy unlearned but remembered — like a girl rediscovering the way light feels when it filters through leaves. She took a step toward him, then another, until her slippers left the trampled grass and found steadier ground. Her notebook remained in her dress pockets, forgotten for now — because her expression said more than any ink could dare attempt.
When she reached for him, her hand found his sleeve — fingers curling just beneath the line of his coat — and with the faintest tug, she coaxed him forward. She led him like the tide leads the moon — gently, insistently — toward the very edge of the cliff where the wind rose higher and the waves below struck rhythm against the rocks. He didn’t resist. He never had, not truly — not from the moment she first looked at him like he was something more than a crown.
And when they stopped, she turned so they stood together, shoulder to shoulder. She tilted her face toward the wind, and he watched the sunlight settle along her cheekbone, where her smile had grown bold with light. She pulled out her booklet, the words appeared immediately. “It smells like salt and rain and something I can’t name,” her words were a ribbon caught between breath and wonder. “Does it ever frighten you?”
She had asked it so simply — the kind of question that no court would dare give voice to. And yet it hung between them now, carried by wind and wonder. What it meant to choose a moment like this. Jotaro’s gaze did not drift to the horizon. It stayed with her — with the girl who once flinched from eye contact but now pulled him toward the edges of the world as if joy were a kingdom worth conquering.
“No,” he said at last, voice low and sure as the cliff beneath them. “The fear isn’t in choosing this moment.” He reached for her again, his knuckles grazing the side of her jaw — a soldier’s hand tempered into gentleness only she had ever known. “You make peace feel like power. And for that, I would choose you again. Every time.”
The wind stirred again, lifting the hem of her gown like a blessing from the salt-touched air. The parasol she had let fall leaned forgotten against the edge of a sun-warmed boulder, its silken panels glowing like a faint memory of duty she had chosen to set down. She stepped closer then, one hand against his chest — light, unsure, reverent. And when she looked up, her voice came not from her lips, but her presence, full of a question she no longer feared asking.
Without a word, he stepped forward and offered his hand. She took it — not with the shyness of a guest, but with the trust of someone who knew she would not be led astray. The cliffs gave way to a gentle slope where soft grass met a worn trail, and just beyond it, the staff had already spread the blanket beneath the only tree that dared lean toward the sea. The basket waited, tied in navy ribbon, flanked by silver dishes glinting faintly in the sun.
A short distance away, their knights stood with calm discretion — watchful but not hovering. Jotaro lifted his hand, just once — two fingers raised, and like that, the tension eased. Dame Adeline and Dame Erin turned slightly from their post, eyes still alert but softened by the peace around them.
Sir Amadeus leaned casually against the carriage, his sword still at his side but untouched. And Sir Jean, ever the spirited one, wandered toward the edge of a hill with Iggy bounding and barking at his heels.
She glanced up at Jotaro as they reached the blanket, the wind tugging at her shawl in playful wisps.“You knew exactly where to place it,” she wrote, once seated, her parasol tucked beside her like a folded dream. “Right under the tree. Just enough light, just enough shade.” The breeze tossed her hair again, and this time, Jotaro reached to gently tuck it back, letting his fingers graze her temple before resting at his side.
She sat with her legs tucked gracefully to one side, the parasol resting behind her now, forgotten — her focus only on the sea and the man who had led her here. The notebook, soft ivory and silver-bound, lay open on her lap. Her hand hovered briefly above the page before ink began to bloom, delicate and unhurried.
“Jotaro you’ve done so much and have spoken so little. You’ve carried too much on your shoulders.” She paused, then let the words appear onto the page. “Won’t you… let me carry you now?
Jotaro glanced at her from where he knelt, one knee still braced on the blanket. His brow lifted — not in confusion, but in the faintest breath of surprise. And then she gestured. . A shy, knowing smile. And the open curve of her lap — invitation clear as day.
He only moved — slow, precise, like a man obeying a holy rite. The weight of his title dropped behind him with every breath as he settled beside her, then leaned back, head resting gently against the folds of her skirt. His eyes closed. One hand remained by his side; the other, instinctively, found hers.
Kalithea’s fingers slid into his hair. It was not styled for court — looser now, swept slightly back, strands catching the sunlight like darkened gold. She combed through it with patient devotion, her touch light, reverent. The breeze lifted curls along her wrist, and still she moved — neither hurried nor hesitant.
She smiled, watching his breath slow — his frame, always taut with restraint, gradually softening beneath the hush of her care. And though her notebook remained open, no more words appeared for now. Only the sea spoke, that great, ever-moving lullaby of waves against rock — and the sky, wide and clear, holding them like a promise that needed no name.
The wind stirred around them — gentle, constant — lifting the scent of wild rosemary and salt. Kalithea’s fingers moved slowly through his hair, and Jotaro, for a time, remained still. But after a long moment — when the breeze had lulled and her hand had stilled at his temple — he opened his eyes.
And the first thing he saw was her. Not above him like a statue or a queen in posture, but like something warmer — softer. A girl bathed in gold, her lashes lowered, her cheeks kissed by the sun. The breeze tousled strands of her hair around her collarbones, and the sheer shawl she wore rippled faintly like silk caught between sleep and sky.
And on her hand — the hand that now rested gently over his chest — the sapphire glinted once more. That old imperial ring, older than both of them, older than the names it had outlived, now catching the sun like it had found home. His eyes traced the curve of her smile, the quiet lift of her shoulders as she breathed, the way she seemed at ease only when no one else was watching.
And in the stillness of that moment, Jotaro knew something without ceremony or decree. That she was the choice he would make again and again — not for empire, but for peace.
For the sound of her laugh, the weight of her hand, the way the world seemed to soften when she looked his way. Kalithea glanced down and met his gaze — her expression blooming with surprise, then affection, then something quieter. He reached up instead, his fingertips brushing the edge of her sleeve, his thumb resting at her wrist — where pulse met warmth, and where the past no longer chased her name.
And so they stayed, wrapped not in silence, but in something more sacred than speech. The sky stretched overhead, the sea kept singing, and far behind them, the world waited. But neither of them turned back. Not when they had already stepped into something better than history, and something that belonged only to them.
Chapter 43: Jousting for love
Chapter Text
The spring air broke like crystal across the countryside. Sunlight spilled over the hills in silken ribbons, softening every edge of the royal jousting grounds until it gleamed like a painting. Wild poppies bloomed in reckless profusion along the fences, nodding their crimson heads as if they, too, had come to witness the spectacle.
The wind, fragrant with orchard blossoms and warm grass, tugged at silk pennants high above the crowd—each bearing the crest of the imperial house or noble families bold enough to sponsor a knight.
Beneath the stands, the earth trembled with hoofbeats. Rows of destriers were led out and polished to gleaming by their squires—manes brushed, flanks oiled, their armor reflecting sun like hammered starlight. One tossed its head, snorting through its bridle, while another pawed at the ground with restless pride, sensing its moment approach.
Above, the nobility had begun to gather in tiered seating that curved like an amphitheater around the jousting field. Parasols bloomed like lilies in every shade—ivory and lavender, blush and powder blue—as noblewomen whispered behind gloved hands. Jewel-toned gowns shimmered beneath the sun, and even the men, draped in summer-weight brocade and embroidered coats, could not hide their excitement.
“Will His Majesty appear?” The voice came from beneath a parasol stitched in moon-thread lace. A marchioness who had not missed a spring joust since her debut. Her gloved fingers rested lightly on her fan, but her eyes, sharp as mirrors beneath the veil, drifted to the empty imperial seats with unmistakable hunger.
“I heard,” murmured a noble lady adjusting the swan-feather trim of her hat with deliberate grace, “that he has not missed this event in eight years. Not even during the mourning season.”
“Yes,” said another, “but that was before winter.” A hush pressed between them — not silence, but the kind of careful pause that court women wielded like veils.
“You oughtn’t say that aloud,” another woman warned softly, her smile as polished as the opal at her throat. “One never knows whose ears attend in such weather. ”
But the veil had already lifted. The question had loosened the corset of propriety. “I’m quite glad she lived,” offered a baron’s daughter barely a year into her first season, her voice young but earnest. “The girl from the garden, the tea house, and the one who drank what was meant to harm her. She looked like… a poem that day.” She hesitated, eyes softening. “It would have been wrong, somehow, if she’d vanished.”
“You mean His Majesty’s companion?” An older viscount corrected, his words draped in dignified finality. “They say she’s returned and well.”
“I saw the imperial crests arrive last night,” whispered his viscountess whose name had long faded behind her jewels. “Sir Jean in the silver mantle. Dame Adeline bearing travel-worn armor. The entire manor guard, all at once. That kind of movement… speaks volumes.”
“Then she must be present,” a countess said, lowering her voice with well-practiced intrigue. “She would never miss the spring joust. Not now. Not if she’s—” she glanced over her shoulder, then leaned closer, “well enough to walk.” The phrase glided down the rows like perfume loosed from a fan:
It was not the drink the court remembered. It was the collaps, and the silence that fell like snowfall. Followed by the image of his Imperial Majesty Emperor—sovereign, steel-bound, unshakable—carrying a pale girl through the archways as if the very sky might fall with her breath. The court, ever reverent toward what rises, had begun to turn. Not abruptly, but as petals turn toward light.
Princess Marina, for all her silks and station, had begun to fade beneath the weight of another’s legend. “We still have no whereabouts or knowledge of her lineage” noted one Baroness behind a veil of rose gauze, sipping from a cut-crystal goblet.
Beneath the gossip, the heralds moved with quiet precision. The imperial horn had not yet sounded. The Emperor’s banner had not yet risen. But the seats near the royal dais remained untouched—draped in crimson and cream, their silks unused, their space conspicuously reserved.
Peacocks called from the orchard walls, strutting with feathers like jeweled fans. Somewhere in the distance, a bard’s lute plucked a tune older than empire. Servants in muted livery wound their way between the nobles, offering cordials chilled with mint and rosewater, sugared cherries, and iced wine too early for decorum.
But no one refused, after all….it was the spring joust, a better tale since the long winter. And as the hour crept toward noon, with the sun burning higher and the field growing quiet with expectation, all eyes turned toward the far gates of the arena—waiting to see if they would appear.
The chamber set aside for noble ladies overlooked the jousting arena from an arched gallery wrapped in shade and silk. The marble floor, cooled by spring wind, mirrored the rustle of parasols and the delicate tap of polished heels. Within its velvet-lined confines stood Kalithea—not in ivory or crimson this time, but in a gown awash in soft pink, cream, and the flushed bloom of rose red. It moved like dusk over snow, layered with tulle and silk charmeuse, cinched at the waist with a ribbon threaded in gold embroidery.
Her hair flowed in long, gentle waves, the curls brushed until they gleamed like burnished copper and rose caught in sunlight. She stood slightly apart at first, looking over the jousting field, though her gaze held not anxiety—but a quiet awe. And behind her, like petals drawn to a bloom, came her friends.
Edwina was the first to reach her—her pale lavender gown glinting with silver beadwork at the hem, her soft brown hair drawn back in a coronet braid that suited her gentle wit.
Mirielle followed, all frost-blue silk with delicate scalloping at the collar and cuffs, her gloves pearl-white and fingers folded with propriety.
Anise arrived last, arm-in-arm with Cecily, the two dressed in shades of primrose and celadon, their skirts moving like water against the floor. A garland of woven pink blooms circled Cecily’s golden curls, while Anise had pinned a single jeweled bee at her shoulder, the mark of her family’s crest.
Edwina, ever the first to notice, drew in a small, sharp breath. “Kalithea,” she said, voice laced in wonder, “what is that on your hand?” Kalithea’s fingers, as if responding to a whisper older than memory, shifted slightly. The sun caught on the sapphire’s facets, as the air changed.
“Oh my,” Mirielle breathed, “I knew something had changed. You’ve always glowed in silence… but this—this is a new light.” The girls looked between one another, skirts brushing like the hush of turning pages. Cecily’s curls bounced as she moved nearer, her gloved hand delicately lifted as if to reach for Kalithea’s own — and then, hesitating, she stopped just short, reverent.
“Is it,” she whispered, “what we think it is?” Kalithea, still quiet, reached into the folds of her gown. The ivory notebook appeared like a secret summoned, with an edge gilded, still pristine. Her thoughts appeared slowly, the way one might pour water into a shallow bowl so as not to spill.
“I do not yet know the name it should be given. Only that it was not given with witnesses, nor with fanfare. It was offered where the sea met sky— And I said much, and I did not say no.”
The effect was immediate. Edwina gasped — not sharply, but like someone realizing they had been holding their breath since the snowfall. Anise clutched Mirielle’s hand with a delighted squeeze. “He asked her.”
Cecily’s eyes glimmered like rain pooled in a silver dish. “Does anyone else know?” Kalithea tilted her head slightly, as the sunlight skimmed her profile. The girls exchanged a chorus of near-silent squeals — muted but sparkling with the reverent joy only spring court ladies could contain. Somewhere, a goldfinch trilled from a balcony railing.
“And the ring,” Mirielle whispered, her hand still clutched to her chest. “It suits you. Not because it’s royal. But because you wear it like it remembers you.” Kalithea smiled then — soft and wide, the way flowers open when they know they are safe.
“Oh heavens,” Anise murmured. “The whole court is going to lose their minds.”
“They already are, I assume,” Edwina said with a knowing hum, brushing a wisp of lilac chiffon from her shoulder. “They’re still gossiping whether he’ll appear today. Imagine when they see her walk in.”
“With that ring,” Cecily added, her voice light but eyes wide with girlish awe. Mirielle caught the glint in Kalithea’s eye and smiled, resisting the gentle urge to tease. It was still spring, after all—there was something sacred about letting joy unfold without interruption.
Anise, in clutched her parasol close as they began to move down the grassy path. “Kalithea… may we ask? About what comes next? About… the future?”
The girl in rose and cream did not rush her reply. Instead, the sunlight brushed her cheek, and she paused, lifting her notebook delicately. The spring air moved her hair like a hymn. “The future is not a contract. It is a vow written by his breath. He made it so, and I believe every word of it.”
Mirielle exhaled like a sigh that had waited all winter to be spoken. “And today,” Anise pressed, her cheeks blooming pink, “will His Majesty ride?” Kalithea’s eyes flicked up—toward the distant fields beyond the hedge, where pennants gleamed like banners of fire, and nodded once.
Their reactions came like wind through glass chimes—light, breathless, musical. “Oh, we must find good seats,” said Edwina, practically glowing. “I want to see him ride for you.”
The hush rippled through their little group as he appeared. His Majesty did not simply walk — he moved like a storm that had chosen peace, clad in formal imperial regalia of deep red robes, threaded in goldwork that shimmered like weaponry in repose. Garnets adorned the collar; ruby-toned crests sat at his belt. How dark black trousers where clean, and his shoes polished to perfection. His mantle hung from his frame, in that imperial way where there was no mistaking him. Not the tilt of his jaw, and not the weight of silence that followed his steps.
His eyes—steel dark and sea-sure—swept the area first, and found her. Her cheeks flushed in the light as he reached them in measured steps. His gaze shifted briefly to the girls—her girls—each of them poised, elegant, holding in delighted gasps like they were younger girls in spring dresses again.
”Greetings to the sun of the Empire.”
”Greetings to the sun of the Empire.”
”Greetings to the sun of the Empire.”
”Greetings to the sun of the Empire.”
Her friends curtsied gracefully, Kalithea following with her decided reverence to a man who she called hers. “Ladies,” he said, voice even, with the weight of command veiled in civility. “I thank you… for keeping her in good company.”
Mirielle opened her lips, her voice low but clear, “You know just as well, your Majesty, that we are—very fond of her.” Jotaro’s brow lifted slightly as his gaze softened. Then, with a gesture subtle but sure, he extended his arm toward Kalithea. She stepped forward — graceful, blooming, her hand settling in the crook of his elbow like it had always belonged there. The court might have blinked and missed it — the ring glinting beneath her sleeve. But her friends smiled as if letting go of something they had never truly held.
He glanced at the knights waiting nearby—Sir Jean and Dame Adeline standing at attention in ceremonial armor, Dame Erin adjusting the crest on her swordbelt. “I trust you will see them to their seats.” The knights bowed low, immediately stepping forward to escort the ladies with quiet, practiced grace. Edwina looked back only once, and when she did, it was with the soft look of a girl who knew she’d witnessed something rare.
Kalithea and the Emperor walked toward the dais then—arm in arm, silk brushing stone, the scent of rosewater and armor mingling like some new, unspoken rite. And behind them, spring held its breath.It was the way she looked up at him — with a quiet certainty that had not been there when they first met — and the way he tilted his head, faintly, whenever the breeze caught her hair.
“You look like spring tried to dream you into being,” Jotaro said at last, his voice still and thoughtful.
She smiled, slow and quiet, the words of her notebook already in motion before he finished the breath. “Then let it dream me into a full summer.” There was a stillness in her then, but not the kind born of fear — rather the kind that belonged to someone learning what it meant to be cherished without question.
“Jotaro, in this spring weather, I can’t recall my birthday,” her booklet shimmered quietly, fingers trailing over the edge of the ivory notebook resting against her side. “I cannot remember the day, but while in my chains it must be near the solstice.”
Jotaro’s step didn’t falter, but something changed in him. The set of his shoulders shifted — not in tension, but in the way mountains shift beneath snowfall, becoming something more sacred for the weight they carry. “Then we’ll choose a day,” he said simply.
She hesitated — not out of doubt, but shyness. Her booklet wrote in script, showcasing her words plain to him with her heart.“You don’t have to do anything. It is enough just to walk like this. To be seen.”
But he shook his head, just once. “I want to.” There was no grandeur in the words. Only truth, wrapped in the quiet timbre that seemed to live in his chest whenever he looked at her like this — not as the Emperor, but as the man who had chosen her when no one else dared.
They passed beneath a trellis strung with climbing roses. The air smelled faintly of orchard bloom and polished brass. Ahead, the jousting field gleamed in the sun — a wide expanse of gold-dusted grass flanked by noble banners and white ceremonial pennants that swayed like breath.
Jotaro glanced sidelong at her, the way one might study a map before setting off to sea. “What would you want?” he asked, softer now. “A celebration? A gift?”
Kalithea looked toward the sky as if searching for permission. The breeze played through the loose waves of her hair, lifting them like ribbons. She did not speak, but the soft whisper of words curved in circular motions. “I would like to laugh with my friends, and to walk like this with you. If there’s time for both on that day… then I would ask for nothing else.”
Jotaro glanced down as she turned the booklet slightly toward him. His reply came low and warm beneath its solemn edge. “There is always time,” he said. “The day is yours, then so is mine.”
She turned toward the field then, but a faint crease bloomed at her brow — that fragile trace of worry too soft to name. The ink returned to the page as she looked in his direction. “And… in the ring? Will you be alright?”
Jotaro’s stride did not falter, his voice, as ever, was steady. “I’ll ride,” he said. “I won’t fall.” He paused, seeing the hesitation in her stance. “I won’t,” he repeated, this time more gently — not as command, but as a promise. “I’ve never fallen. Sir Jean will ride and so will Amadeus. Yet Sir Jean is more reckless than I am.”
She looked up at him, her eyes deep with that quiet storm of care that had no name — the sort of gaze that worried not for the crown, but for the man beneath it. The notebook remained still in her hands, but her head bowed just slightly, shoulders curving in something that might have been relief — or reverence. She did not write again. She only walked with him, the hem of her gown brushing the path like a sigh.
And beside her, Jotaro — silent but unwavering — carried the moment as if it were glass in his palm. The arena rose ahead, tiered in silks and sunlight. Crimson velvet and soft cream cushions fanned beneath banners of imperial gold. The arena, once murmuring with idle anticipation, stilled like a held breath.
They had appeared, from beneath the canopied arch where crimson silk swept aside, the Emperor and his companion stepped into view — arm in arm, sun at their backs, the wind tousling the hem of her gown as though nature itself had bent to greet her.
Gasps stirred — not the scandalized kind, but the kind that slipped past parted lips before manners could catch them. Fans trembled, gloves twitched. A few lorgnettes lifted in pale, gloved hands, as nobles leaned forward with practiced grace and unspoken awe. The one who had collapsed and had been carried as if made of breath and divinity was now radiant, walking as though the earth itself had bloomed beneath her steps.
“She’s wearing ivory again,” one of the Marchionesses whispered, her voice tucked behind a rose-scented fan. “But with blush and rouge this time… do you see the embroidery?”
“Like trailing camellias,” murmured her companion, adjusting a monocle with reverent precision. “That’s no debutante’s gown. That’s the color of spring written into silk.”
“She’s still appears soyoung…” another breathed. Farther up the stands, Edwina and the others sat, a few rows above the noblemen’s gallery. When Kalithea turned slightly, she lifted a hand in a gentle wave — not enough to cause a stir, but her joy was complete.
The procession below them shifted as the joust prepared to begin. Horses were led out beneath the banners of their houses — silvers, blues, deep crimsons that shimmered in the spring sun. Pages rushed to and fro with lances, bridles, armor pieces that clicked and shone like polished bone. And in the eastern alcove — where the royals traditionally sat — another scene unfolded.
Princess Marina had not yet stood. She sat stiffly, her gloves creased from where she had clenched them in her lap, her expression composed in the way paintings lie—perfectly. Her usual golden coiffure had been arranged into soft waves, scattered with pearl pins… a style not unlike the way Kalithea had worn hers at the garden party.
Not even Princess Marina, with her endless reach into the ateliers and silk halls, could summon the same silhouette from memory. But it was close enough to draw a comment. A red bodice, tightly corseted, with off-the-shoulder sleeves softened by dark cream gauze. The hem swirled with floral embroidery, vines trailing in metallic thread, their shapes echoing a memory rather than a design.
But the fabric lacked the fluid grace of Kalithea’s. It shimmered where hers glowed and whispered where hers breathed. “Do they notice?” she asked, softly, though not kindly. Her voice, as always, bore the chilled cadence of rehearsal — each word dipped in poise, dried in control.
Lady Vessina, ever the first to adjust her tone, replied smoothly, “Everyone notices you, Your Highness.”
But her gaze, flicking to the imperial dais, betrayed something else. “They seem… fond,” Lady Selienne murmured, careful not to say names. “The court watches.”
“Then let them,” Marina said, tilting her chin slightly. The sunlight caught the curve of her pearl earrings — heirloom pieces from Renaldi. “What is a court, if not a stage? Let them memorize their lines. I have yet to begin the second act.”
Anthemina gave a soft hum — neither agreement nor dissent. Her gaze swept the arena, pausing not on Jotaro, but on Kalithea. “Her hair is down in more waves today,” she observed. “Unbound…and bold.”
“Uncouth,” Marina corrected, though the edge of her mouth twitched. “A charming accident, I’m sure.”
“Or a practiced one,” Vessina murmured, folding her fan once, then again, slowly. “And yet… it suits her.”
That word, suits, settled uncomfortably between them — like wine turned too warm. Marina’s fingers drifted to her skirt, smoothing fabric that had wrinkled slightly at the knee. But her voice, when it came, was low and perfectly clipped.“She suits only because she was allowed to.”
And still, the parade below unfolded. Kalithea, seated with serene posture, smiled faintly at something Jotaro had murmured — her head tilting, lashes low. A breeze caught the edge of her sleeve and lifted it gently toward him, like a silken offering. She did not look toward the court.
“Dame Adeline stands just behind the dais,” Selienne noted quietly. “And Sir Jean… he rides today.”
“Let’s hope he doesn’t fall,” Marina said, too sweetly. “It would be such a shame. The Emperor’s most loyal knight — and one of her escorts?”
A trumpet sang — one clear note, golden as sunlight, ringing out across the arena. Then the voice of the announcer, drawn up to the dais with a scroll as wide as his embroidered sash, boomed in perfect courtly cadence. “By declaration of the Spring Joust of the Imperial Season — the first match shall be waged between House Caelyre and House Branwythe. Their chosen champions: Sir Aldric of the Westvale Marches… and Sir Halston, son of the Red Spire.”
A murmur rippled from the shade-cloaked boxes, nobles leaning forward in anticipation. Silk sleeves rustled like leaves, fans fluttered. Above them, sunlight broke through the drifting canopy clouds in golden swaths, making the armored horses shimmer as they trotted to their marks.
Kalithea turned slightly, her parasol resting closed against her lap. Though the crowd had lifted in sound and posture, she remained serene — eyes tracing the field, the gleam of lances, the stamp of hooves. Only when she felt Jotaro glance toward her again did she lift her booklet. “Jotaro, will it be dangerous? Their armor looks like the sun may shatter it in moments.”
Jotaro’s gaze lingered, not on the field, but on her face. The way her hair curled in the breeze like painted strokes. The way the light caught against the sapphire on her hand. His voice, when he spoke, was low enough to fall between them alone. “Not today,” he said. “Today, they show their pride more than their skill.”
Kalithea’s smile, gentle as a petal unfolding at dawn, lingered beneath her lashes. Her gaze lifted, quiet but sure, ink drying on the page between them like the last notes of a song meant only for two. “And if you ride? Will it be for pride… or for truth?”
Jotaro’s reply came low and even, weighted not with grandeur but with something deeper—something still and unwavering as the sea cliffs he had once led her to. “I show you.” And it was then—just then—that the world noticed.
A dowager in the third tier, leaned forward to adjust her lorgnette, the glint of sunlight catching something unexpected on Kalithea’s hand. The sapphire and diamonds caught the light, gold older than half the court’s lineages, crest-etched and unmistakable. Her fan slipped from her fingers, landing against her lap with a muted thud. “Is that…” she stammered.
Her husband, aman whose only passion more enduring than lineage was imperial relics, leaned forward until his nose nearly touched the railing. His breath caught. “That is the imperial ring.”
Gasps bloomed like blossoms in sudden heat. Swift, delicate, uncontrollable — like something that had lain dormant too long beneath snow, now breaking through at the first touch of scandalous spring. For on Kalithea’s hand, poised so thoughtlessly in her lap, there glinted a sapphire the color of royal storms.
One by one, the nobles began to notice. A Lady of the South dropped her fan outright. A Duke from the western reaches blinked hard, then blinked again. The Viscount of Halbrook, known best for his obsession with old bloodlines and relics, leaned forward, his voice hoarse with disbelief.
“That stone,” he whispered, nearly breathless. “It cannot be…”
“The Empress’s ring?” a Baroness hissed, her pearls trembling faintly against her collarbone. “But it was sealed with her gowns. Locked in the sovereign vault. No one has worn it since—”
“Since Her Majesty Holly Nobelious Joestar,” said a Marchioness, her tone both hushed and razor-edged. “It has not touched living skin since the day she died. Five years ago this spring. She wears it.”
The phrase passed through the tiers like a spell, or an accusation — no one quite willing to believe it, yet unable to deny what their eyes had already understood. “She wears it,” another repeated, quieter, as if trying the truth on her tongue.
“And not as a necklace,” murmured an elder courtier, his brocade sleeves rustling like brittle leaves as he leaned toward his wife. “Not displayed at a ceremonial hall. But upon her ring finger. Her left ring finger.”
This was not some ornament granted in favor or borrowed for the season. This was the imperial ring — until his mother’s final breath, the one sealed away like a relic too holy to be touched again. It had been the symbol of an empress, and now a sovereign’s betrothal.
And now… it has returned. Not on a princess, or on a noble heiress. But on the hand of the girl the court could never forget once the season had begun. The one Jotaro had carried without a word through stone halls and hush-filled colonnades, while the court trembled and dared not speak.
The whispers no longer concealed themselves. “She’s the one he gave the ring to,” came the reply. “That makes her everything.” Kalithea sat untouched by the storm she had sparked. The pink and red of her gown caught the light like a dawn that refused to retreat.
Below them, the tournament surged into motion. A thunder of hoove,a crash of steel. The tilt rang with glory and failure alike. The new challengers. House Varnes bested House Edevane in a narrow match — the final blow a clash of shields so loud it made the noblewomen flinch behind their parasols. One rider fell, the other circled with a practiced hand, bowing low toward the imperial dais as the crowd murmured its approval. But not all eyes followed the victor.
Most were already lifted — higher, toward the canopy where the Emperor sat beside the girl who had in the beginning, been known only in whispers. Kalithea watched it all with quiet reverie, her notebook resting lightly in her lap. She only smiled — that small, luminous smile that had begun to haunt the court’s imagination. And beside her, Jotaro leaned in close enough for only her to hear. “You’re too quiet,” Jotaro said beneath the hum of distant cheers. “Are you bored?”
She shook her head gently, and instead of replying aloud, she let her thoughts meet the page. “The knights are fierce, and the sun is kind today. But neither hold my gaze when you speak to me.”
Jotaro read the words, and something unspoken settled at the corners of his mouth — a short smile, perhaps, softened and held back not by duty, but by reverence. His gaze lowered to her hand, and then, quite deliberately, he lifted it. He kissed her knuckles — as a sovereign might honor his queen.
Kalithea barely moved. She only met his gaze, her lashes low, her mouth parted slightly in the sunlight. “You are to ride next,” she wrote slowly. Does it not weigh on you — the gaze of so many hearts, hoping you may fall?”
He read it, then looked past her to the sea of nobles below full of glances like arrows, feathered in silk. “Only one gaze matters to me now.”
Her pen hesitated. She blinked once — not from confusion, but as if steadying herself against the gentleness in his voice. She glanced at the ring, a small smile on her face as the ink shimmered faintly on the next words. “They are watching, she wrote, the words almost shy. Even now, I am sure they wonder what it means.”
“They’ll know soon enough,” Jotaro said. His eyes swept the audience with all the gravity of his crown, then softened once more as he returned to her. “They’ve already guessed.” And at that, her smile unfurled — not wide, but radiant. The kind of smile that made poets abandon structure, that made stories whisper themselves into being.
And then — too soon — he stood. “I must go,” he said, low and firm, like the tide withdrawing from shore. “They’ll be calling me to the stables.” Kalithea nodded, though her eyes did not falter. The parasol at her side remained unopened. The sun touched her cheek like a benediction, and the wind played with her hair as if reluctant to let him go.
“Then go with my gaze upon you Jotaro. I beg, return as the sun does —only certain.” Jotaro looked at her once more — long enough to drink in her stillness, the gentle bravery of a girl in spring colors holding the eyes of an empire. The red of his imperial attire — deep, regal, threaded with gold and the dull gleam of embedded garnets — shimmered in the sun as he descended. Behind him, knights moved into position with quiet precision.
And Kalithea remained seated, a single figure against a cascade of silks and marble, unmoved but not unmoved. Below, the herald’s voice rang again, now sharper, keener, charged with the electricity of a name everyone had waited for. “By ancient right and sovereign decree, His Imperial Majesty the sun of the Empire, Jotaro Nobelious House Kujo shall ride this bout — against Sir Halric of House Dunmoor, for honor, legacy, and rite of spring.”
The crowd gasped before they cheered — not out of joy, but awe. An Emperor did not ride lightly, and yet here he was, announced not with trumpet and title, with no crest but his own breath. And all eyes, as if guided by invisible thread, turned upward towards Kalithea.
The sapphire on her hand. The way the sunlight loved her more than marble. The way her quiet posture filled the imperial canopy with more gravity than any crown. Farther off, beneath another canopy shaded in ivory and lilac, Princess Marina of Rendaldi sat like a statue carved in floral lace. Her gown — an echo of Kalithea’s silhouette — had failed to command the gaze it once might have.
Her eyes, narrowed though still smiling, followed Jotaro’s every step. She clapped — precisely three times — the way highborn ladies were taught to applaud without urgency. Yet beneath her gloves, her fingers curled inward — faint, white half-moons forming at the base of her palms where nails met skin.
“She truly lives,” she whispered, her smile never once faltering. “How… miraculous.”
Her voice, sugar-spun and breathless, did not quite reach her ladies — but Lady Vessina, closest, turned slightly, sensing the shift. Marina’s tone had changed. Still sweet. But too sweet. The kind that coats a knife. “I suppose we must all be grateful,” Marina added, louder now, letting her fan drift lazily in front of her lips. “To recover from such a tragedy. What courage.”
“She does seem well,” said Selienne with soft uncertainty. “Remarkably so, given… well.”
“Given what?” Marina asked, her lashes lowered with elegance sharp enough to cut. “Given that she drank from the wrong cup? That’s hardly bravery. That’s misfortune.”
Anthemina attempted to fill it. “But most of these high nobles and the court favors her now, Your Highness….her story—”
“Is unfinished,” Marina said, voice as delicate and deadly as frost. “Let us not pretend she’s won anything. Hearts are fickle. And I’ve not lost mine.” Her smile returned, perfect and fixed. She adjusted the delicate brooch at her throat, a soft ruby framed in diamonds, almost the same hue as Kalithea’s dress.
Marina lifted her chin slightly and turned back to her ladies. “We must remind them,” she said, tone honeyed, “who held court before her. Who wore the dais. Who they once adored.” Marina leaned in, her voice velvet over ice. “We begin by writing her story for them. Whisper it sweetly — that she’s still too weak to stand.”
The tide had shifted — subtly, utterly. Their perfect Princess, once the sun around which lesser stars revolved, now felt like something ornamental. Something performing regality, while another girl — silent, poetic, unnamed by lineage — had become the axis upon which the court’s breath turned.
The crowd leaned forward in unison, as if the very wind held its breath. A shimmer of red and gold appeared beneath the eastern arch — not loud, not theatrical, but absolute. The kind of presence one did not announce.
The Emperor emerged, he wore a coat of deep imperial crimson, lined with sun-touched chartreuse — a hue reserved only for sovereign blood. The outer silk moved like poured lacquer in the light, edged with embroidered stars in burnished gold. Beneath the elegant garb, faint glints of armor gleamed at his shoulders and forearms — polished steel hidden beneath silk, like a warning kept close.
When he mounted, the stallion bowed as if it, too, knew who it carried. The bridle was black velvet, the saddle trimmed in grey and bronze. And Jotaro Kujo — ruler, rider, storm veiled in royal restraint — lifted his helm only to nod toward the imperial box to the woman seated within it. And though he said nothing, every noble in the crowd could feel the weight of his gaze.
From her seat, Princess Marina clenched her fan too tightly. Her jaw, softened in preparation for a smile, did not curve as it should have. “He always looks most gallant when riding,” she said aloud — too sweetly, a pitch rehearsed from seasons past. “So composed. So… divine. Don’t you think?”
Lady Vessina, seated just behind her, offered a faint, uncertain hum. “Wouldn’t you say,” Marina continued, voice silked and breathless, “that we once made the most perfect pair? My father’s station and my name. His crown, we complemented one another. That’s what people said. Isn’t it?”
Selienne faltered. “They… used to say so, Your Highness.”
“Used to?” Marina turned, just a fraction too quickly.
Anthemina leaned in, adjusting the brooch on Marina’s shoulder with practiced elegance. “You still shine, my dear. Your highness, always shines— of course you do.” And none of them missed the way the court now looked through her, not to her.
Worse — past her, to the girl beside the Emperor’s seat, and on her hand — unmistakable now — the imperial sapphire. The hush that fell across the upper tiers was not silence but a recalibration. Kalithea’s ring had glimmered only once, catching a thread of noon sunlight as she tilted her hand to adjust her dress.
And the court, connoisseurs of subtlety, saw through it instantly. They saw the loosened tendrils of Marina’s hair, which now framed her face in gentle waves — an unusual departure from her normal coiled precision. They saw the frilled gloves, softer in style as if in unconscious mimicry of the girl whose every breath now drew imperial consequence.
One Viscountess let out a breath that might have been a laugh, had it not ended in a cough. “She copies,” her eyes said, not needing words.
A Marchioness nearby narrowed her gaze as she adjusted her bracelet — one of the imperial gala sets, worn only by those who remembered true protocol. “Poor thing,” she might have said, if pity had been in fashion. “Poor child, playing empress with someone else’s legend.”
A ring of young debutantes — barely in their second season, all satin ribbons and flushed curiosity — glanced toward Marina, then back to the imperial dais. One of them, a Viscount’s daughter with a voice like bell chimes, murmured behind her lace fan, “But she wore that same blush shade last fête, didn’t she? And it suited her less.” The others giggled, soft and cruel.
From the box just behind hers, a younger lady — perhaps a Count’s niece, new enough to still whisper without subtlety — leaned toward her sister. “But she’s wearing a similar parasol,” she said, eyes flitting toward Marina. “Only red and cream… just like—”
“Nearly dear sister, nearly like her,” the sister finished, sharper, the edge of her voice honed by jealousy poorly concealed. “And with her hair loose now. She never did that before.”
“They say imitation is a form of flattery,” said a Viscountess with a fondness for phrasing, “but one must choose the right muse and the right century.”
“She’s trying to remind us,” murmured a Dowager Duchess, her voice like parchment, “that she used to be the one people watched.”
“She still is,” came a lazy reply from a young nobleman behind her. “But only for how far she’s fallen.”
Even her ladies, dressed in orchestrated harmony beside her, flicked glances between their mistress and the true center of gravity now seated across the arena. Though their expressions remained practiced — lips painted, eyes shaded with devotion — the shimmer of doubt had begun to show. Hairline cracks behind rouge and ribbon.
Lady Vessina, ever sharp, leaned in close enough for Marina alone to hear. “They’re watching you.”
“As they should,” Marina said sweetly, her smile taut across her cheekbones. “He is about to ride, after all.”
“Not the same as watching him,” muttered Selienne, eyes trained on the imperial box.
Anthemina tilted her chin in Marina’s direction, her voice satin-smooth. “Perhaps the court would’ve remained yours, had she not risen again.”
“She wasn’t supposed to rise,” Marina snapped, too quickly. Then caught herself, blinked, smoothed the edges of her voice. “I suppose not from a scandal like that.” She paused, fanning herself for a moment, before her ladies began to speak more quietly to each other.
“She’s wearing it,” murmured Selienne, her fan trembling just once before her wrist re-stilled with practiced grace.
Anthemina leaned forward slightly, her gaze honed not toward the lists, but toward the imperial dais. “I saw it too. The light caught on her hand as she turned, the left side my dear.”
“The sapphire?”
“No imitation,” Vessina whispered, her voice low with reverent disbelief. “Not even the jewelers at Marvenn could replicate that crest. That ring hasn’t left the vaults since—”
“Since his mother, the Empress died,” Anthemina finished, her eyes sharp beneath half-lowered lashes. “And now Lady Kalithea wears it. As though it had waited for her.”
A velvet stillness stretched thin between them like a thread waiting to snap. Marina’s lips parted—elegantly, of course. “What ring?” Her ladies stilled, but even in court, silence was its own language. And this one was not the silence of reverence—it was the stillness of women who realized their empress-in-waiting might be behind the tale unfolding before them.
Vessina was the first to speak, her tone delicate as lace dipped in chilled wine. “The sapphire, Your Highness. The one not seen since the Empress’s final procession. It’s—well…” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “It’s on Lady Kalithea’s finger.”
Selienne leaned forward slightly, her smile touched with something faintly sorrowful, like a garden frost come too early. “It shimmered during the parade of arms,” she offered. “My brother sits four boxes down — he says it bears the imperial crest. The original carving. No replica. And the band…” She hesitated, then added, “It hasn’t changed in centuries.”
Marina didn’t blink. “No court announcement?” she asked at last, voice smoothed to silk though her hands had gone rigid in her lap. “No heraldry? No letter from the imperial house?”
“None that we’ve seen,” Selienne answered, her tone sweetened with caution, like syrup concealing bitter fruit. “But… one doesn’t need horns to understand.”
Anthemina — always the most composed — tilted her head like a woman weighing the value of rumor against fact. “It isn’t an heirloom loan,” she said softly. “There was no ceremony. No presentation. And yet—”
“She wears it,” Vessina finished, her fan lifted just so — half-open, shaped like a camellia bloom. “As though it had always belonged to her. As though the vault had never sealed it away.” The words landed without weight but not without a wound. They were spoken in that specific register of court — gently, with precision. The way one might lace a goblet with poison and still offer it with a bow.
“No other woman has worn it,” Vessina added after , eyes turned toward the arena. “Not since the Empress passed.”
“We have no assurance of her lineage,” Marina said, her tone like polished marble, lifting a brow, and yet seethed with hardly concealed anger and jealousy. “She has no sovereign name or a dowry sealed in ink.”
“Nor did the first sovereign bride,” Anthemina murmured. “Only the will of His Majesty the Emperor, that was enough then.” There was no air left behind Marina’s ribs. Only the press of knowledge, sinking like stone beneath her corset. She had not been warned, or chosen. Her jaw remained steady, but the muscles at her temple had begun to tighten. A single pulse bloomed behind her ear, furious and red.
The field had stilled for him. The crowd no longer fidgeted, no longer gossiped—at least not aloud. For when the Emperor rode forth, the spring sunlight itself seemed to draw back in deference. Sir Halric of House Dunmoor awaited him at the opposite gate—his steed, a pale grey warhorse, armor crusted in silver and indigo, the sigil of the falcon pressed boldly across his shield. He was taller than most, built broad and brutal, his lance longer than regulation by a finger’s breadth. A favorite of the noble houses, and undefeated.
But when the Emperor lowered his own lance—modest, unadorned, deadly—it was not the crowd he answered. The wind rose with them. They charged, and the world compressed to a single point—hoofbeats, glinting armor, narrowed sight. The collision came like prophecy: Halric’s lance glanced off Jotaro’s pauldron with a shattering spray of splinters, but his strike landed clean—low on Halric’s shield, tipping the knight just enough to unseat him halfway.
From the shaded royal pavilion, Marina watched, her fingers elegantly curled around a silk fan she had not opened once. Her eyes followed Jotaro as though she had painted him herself, every movement rehearsed and sacred. He was her ideal, her version of a sovereign prince—and yet, he had never looked at her the way he looked at her. Kalithea, who sat with her friends beneath a sheer awning, laughing in her quiet, serene way—though she never made a sound.
Kalithea, whose pen moved like a ribbon across the page, answering questions with poetry, holding the attention of the court not by force, but by presence. That cursed, blessed ring on her finger, called for no trumpet, no scroll, no signature of announcement. But every noble knew the weight of that jewel.
Marina did not blink. But her fingers—once poised and delicate—tightened around her skirts with too much tension. “I am unwell,” Marina interrupted smoothly, not turning her head. Her voice was melodic, trained, beautiful even in its collapse. “The sun. It is… warmer than expected.” The excuse had been used before—by baronesses hoping to leave early, by mothers shielding daughters from poor matches. But when Marina said it, it was to escape not the weather, but the weight of a court that no longer gazed her way.
Selienne rose at once. “Shall we summon your steward?”
“No,” Marina replied, already rising, her gown spilling like softened frosting around her slippers. “I will only step away. I shall return before His Majesty’s next match.”
One old Lord in sapphire robes stood halfway, unsure whether to bow or watch. A few younger women hesitated, sensing something was wrong but unsure if they had permission to acknowledge it. Marina walked slowly—graceful as ever, not a fold out of place. But her parasol did not open. And her steps did not carry the lightness they once had.
She only looked towards Kalithea’s box only briefly, though her gaze caught on the red silk of her skirt, the way her friends laughed like she belonged to the season itself. One of the imperial knights—Sir Amadeus, no doubt—had escorted the girls over with a soft nod, as if they were already family. She did not turn her head again, not even once. But her ears had already memorized it—the sound of Kalithea’s laughter, though silent, and the way the others responded with delighted exclamations, as if she were the sun they had been waiting for.
Marina’s shoes met the shaded carpet of the noble walkways with soft, perfumed thuds. Still nodding once when a minor viscount bowed to her in passing, though she did not look at him. She passed through a silk-draped curtain—stitched with her house’s crest—and entered the private tent meant for her rest during intermission. Rose-scented air swirled around her, the cushions fluffed, the goblets chilled.
But Marina’s mask began to crack the moment the curtain fell closed behind her. She yanked the parasol from her hand with a jerk far too sharp for silk, and tossed it onto the divan with a graceless rustle. The second her gloves were off, she slapped her palm against the carved table edge—an elegant sound, but a violent motion. “Malrose!” Her voice rang out, yet when the maid entered, startled but quick, carrying a tray of lemon-rose tonic, her head bowed in practiced subservience. “Refreshment,” Marina snapped, already pacing toward the vanity
The cup was offered with trembling grace. She took one look at the reflection in the mirror—her lips, still painted in coral gloss, her hair falling in elegant coils around her ears—and found it lacking. “I said I wanted the strands softened today,” she hissed. “Why is the coil still so high? It makes me look severe.”
“Of course you shall,” she snapped. “Soften the front, add the pearls. Loosen it. Or do you want me mistaken for my governess?” The brush was lifted in silence, and her voice, when it next came, was lower. Not cold—but scorched, as if heat could no longer be hidden beneath charm. “She wears it like it was made for her. Like it knew her hand before it ever touched mine, as if I were the copy.”
Malrose said nothing, but silence had always been Marina’s most indulgent audience. “She should not be here,” Marina whispered, though the words trembled with something heavier than mere breath. They hung in the air like the smoke of burnt rosewood—slow, curling, and suffocating. “I poisoned her.” The confession was not screamed or hurled in madness or regret. But it was spoken softly, as if admitting it aloud would make it more justifiable, more rational, more… deserved.
And there it was—slipped into the open like a gem too rare for light. A secret uncoiled, not because it demanded attention, but because Marina could no longer bear the weight of its perfection pressed behind her teeth. Her anger curled at the edges of her ribs like incense smoke, rising slowly, with too much control. She felt it behind her eyes, beneath her nails, under the tight pearls clasped too neatly at her throat. The fury did not scream. It seeped—invisible, refined, trained to sit beside her like a lady-in-waiting.
Her breath had grown shallower. Her lips—once shaped like something out of court paintings—were now pressed into a line too pale to be soft. “I was to be Empress,” Marina murmured again, as though repetition might transfigure it into truth. Her voice was no louder than before, but its edges had sharpened—no longer softened silk, but embroidered steel. “Not merely considered, by alliances, by the way nobles plan children like campaigns. His Majesty was meant for me.” She felt her eyes narrow, pausing and biting her lip.
“Before the girl ever had a name,” she continued. “Before the court looked at her like a flower sprung from nowhere. A coldness threaded her tone now, too elegant to sound mad, but far too honed to sound sane. “She is nothing,” Marina hissed, rising slowly, though her voice never left its gentle rhythm. The brush had long since stopped. Her maid's hand trembled slightly, and she tried to disguise it by setting the brush aside in practiced silence. Marina watched her, the way a cat does a trapped bird. “Leave!” she said suddenly. “I’ll not have you looking at me like that. I don’t require your pity!”
Malrose gave a shallow curtsy, low and obedient, and slipped out of the tent without a word. The air seemed to thicken once she left, as if silence had pressed itself into the folds of Marina’s gown. She turned slowly toward the mirror again. Her own reflection met her with unblinking poise. “He was always mine,” she whispered. “And if they’ve forgotten that—then I’ll remind them.”
And then—before the thought could fully darken—there came a rustle just outside the tent’s thick linen walls. A respectful knock, voice, low and trained to bend at the syllables of nobility: “Your Highness.”
Marina turned, her silhouette stilling like silk stiffened by frost. Her voice, when it came, was low and smooth—an empress’s tone borrowed for the day. “Yes?”
The flap of the tent had only parted an inch before the knight bowed, one hand to his breastplate, the other resting on the hilt of his sword. He was Rendaldi—one of hers—not chosen for valor but for discretion, and above all, for loyalty to the house that bore her name. “Your Highness,” he said, his words careful as he knelt just beyond the threshold. “You have… an audience. Three members of the Emperor’s high council. They request your time.”
Instead, she stepped toward the silver-framed mirror, one hand gliding over the bodice of her rose-silk gown. Her corset creaked faintly beneath her touch. Her heartbeat drummed like a warning beneath the gemstones at her collarbone. Marina’s chin lifted. Her voice was regal, distant, laced in the pleasant venom of perfect civility. “They may wait.”
But before the knight could rise fully, her next words slipped out—quiet, curt, too refined to be called wrath, but unmistakable all the same. “Let them wait long enough to feel uncertain, and wonder if I will grant them the honor of my attention.” She moved towards her chair, slow and gliding. “Let them taste the silence I’ve been fed for weeks.” The guard didn’t dare reply, only nodded, backed out, and drew the curtain once more.
Her hands—so often expressive—remained limp in front of her. Her lips parted just slightly, as if to speak to no one, yet when a long moment passed, the scent of peonies in the washbowl began to sour. Marina closed her eyes, just once. Then opened them again, pale blue, glinting not with tears, but with strategy. “They come only now,” she murmured. “Rats, sniffing the tide.” Her words struck the canvas air like thrown pins. “They bring no answers. Only opportunity. The same way men do when the wind has changed and they wish to pretend they helped guide it.”
The jewels at her ears trembled as she tilted her head just enough to reframe her reflection. She swept a curl behind her ear, composed again, delicate again—but if anyone had been watching, they would’ve seen the teeth just behind the veil.
The next trumpet call echoed outside—another joust, another knight, where the crowd roared in sudden unison. Marina moved slowly, as though afraid to disrupt the air’s fragile tension. She sat once more at her small writing table, untouched parchment before her. It did not take long, for the faint clink of signet rings brushing against sword hilts as the councilmen bowed in turn.
Lord Akirus opened his lips to speak, his tone grave but unhurried, as if reciting a prayer in a foreign tongue. “Your Highness, you understand we come not to disturb, but to align.” Marina did not rise from her cushioned seat, nor incline her head. She allowed her silence to weigh against the moment like silk drenched in oil.
Lord Rendel took the opening. “This is not merely about the girl,” he said, folding his hands behind his back, his expression carved from patience and old disdain. “It is about what she symbolizes, what she threatens to unravel.”
“She does not rule,” Marina said, coolly. “She writes. Smiles. Follows. She mimics the figure of power without knowing what it costs.”
Lord Tolomy removed his gloves, finger by finger, as if peeling back civility itself. “The court no longer whispers, Your Highness. It declares. They call her the girl with the ring now —we know she no title, and yet already given a place.”
Lord Huron, quiet until now, let his voice settle low. “That ring… was last worn by his honorable mother. And now it adorns her tainted hand as if by birthright. We have not received a declaration nor conversed with His Majesty, no herald’s call—yet every noble in that arena looks at her as though the crown has spoken.”
Lord Akirus shifted, clasping his hands with measured restraint. “The ring speaks louder than titles, and has made her fact. And facts, as you well know, Your Highness, are harder to kill than rumors.”
Marina’s expression did not shift, but her fingers curled slightly into the folds of her gown. “And what is it you suggest?” she asked. “Do I fight the shadow with scandal? That I tear her from his arm in public?”
“Nothing so base,” Tolomy said, his smile devoid of warmth. “Scandal will only sweeten her. Since poison has already failed. We must choose something more… dignified.” A silence folded itself into the tent, thick as velvet and just as suffocating.
Yet Lord Tolomy shifted—his boot scraping faintly against the carpeted floor,hands clasped behind his back in a stance that suggested strategy, not surrender. “But, we must be careful. The last attempt—what we agreed upon—was not as clean as we believed. The court may have seen no trace, but… he has eyes beyond the court.”
“I am certain,” Marina answered, a brittle gleam of composure shining beneath her calm. “He would never allow her to fall under the court’s ridicule. Not yet, that is why we act now—before emotion becomes decree.”
Lord Akirus’s voice returned, colder than before. “Still, if we are exposed, we cannot risk another failure.” Marina turned slowly. Her pale gown glimmered faintly in the muted sunlight, the folds whispering like secrets behind her. “Then do not fail, Our next course of action my lords, let us make the court believe it was your idea. The Lords of Council, the protectors of lineage. Present an arrangement not as ambition—but as tradition, as your duty.”
It was Lord Huron who first broke the stillness, his fingers clasped by his sword in a posture as practiced as Marina’s smile. “We will carry it,” he said. “As counsel. As precedent. The Emperor may ignore murmurs, but not a motion carried by us, his Council and sanctioned by the Houses.”
Lord Rendel, always the tactician beneath brocade sleeves, spoke again. “The court must see it as stewardship,” he said, his tone quiet, clean. “Not sentiment and favor. A measure of state. A safeguard for the realm—signed, sealed, and offered not as suggestion, but stability.”
Lord Tolomy, lounging more than standing, added, “Especially with foreign eyes pressing inward. The nobles abroad will want strength and continuity, a name they recognize in treaty, not tale.”
“And not hers,” Huron muttered. “Not one whispered in silks and sympathy, with no house of noble blood behind it.”
Marina sat taller, spine aligned with the throne she had not yet touched. Her eyes were bright again. “Then plant it,” she said. “After it reaches his ears, plant it in salons. In the Lyverdan letters. In the councils and baronial halls. Let the court speak of it first. Let the people ask and remember why it hasn’t already been signed, it should feel inevitable.”
Before the lords could part, Lord Akirus lingered with a single, deliberate adjustment of his cuff. “One last measure,” he said. “It must reach His Majesty soon—formally. With our names attached. Presented not as plea, but as counsel. Our next imperial session will suffice.”
Marina’s expression didn’t shift—but her breath did. A thread of air caught in her throat, tight with the thrill of nearing victory. And with that, the lords swept from the tent—one after the other—like silk cloaks brushing over stone. They left behind only the scent of politics, heavy and perfumed, and the weight of something irreversible. “She may wear the ring,” Marina whispered, voice a lullaby made of daggers. “But I will wear the realm.” Then—quietly, perfectly—she stepped outside, just as the trumpets sang once more.
The thunder of hooves still lingered in the air when Jotaro stepped back into the quiet pavilion that bore the imperial crest. His joust had ended—cleanly, decisively. The second lance had struck true, and Sir Halric of House Dunmoor had yielded before the dust could settle. But Jotaro wore no pride on his face, only a calm that had learned to outlast applause.
His squire waited by the inner chamber with his cloak folded precisely, his imperial garb laid out in reverence. Only then did he redress in crimson, ivory, and sable. He lifted the mantle himself, adjusting the collar at his throat before fastening the crest at his shoulder. Outside, the stands roared for the next match, but his mind did not linger on pageantry.
He stepped out, descending the short stairs with the slow, inevitable gait of a sovereign, and his gaze lifted toward the east stands—the noble boxes, where ribbons and house colors fluttered like breathless gossip. Kalithea sat where he’d left her, sunlight caught in the curve of her hair, the red silk of her gown gathered like rose petals along the seat. She was smiling—demure, luminous—her hands folded around her booklet waiting.
She hadn’t seen him arrive, and for a moment, he allowed himself to watch her as others did. As someone not yet known to her. The way her expression remained call as she appeared to search, or the way she touched the edge of her booklet with a single finger before she could do anything. Even when Dame Adeline and Dame Erin lingered nearby—not like guards, but sentinels of something cherished.
Jotaro exhaled once, then crossed the path toward her box. He moved without entourage—no horns, no heralds—just the steady presence of the Emperor returned. The moment she noticed him, it was not with alarm, but with something gentler. Kalithea looked up, and the sunlight met her gaze, turning her amethyst irises into something that could never be painted—only felt. She opened her booklet slowly, still surrounded by her friends, and words appeared with her usual grace.
She turned it toward him, revealing the ink in her looping script, “You were extraordinary. Even the wind waited for your victory.” Jotaro’s gaze did not flicker in the face of praise. He took in her words as one might take in morning air—silently, with reverence. But beneath his stillness, something softened with a quiet drawn taut between them.
Then, at last, he leaned closer— not dramatically, but with a subtle grace that made the girl in front of him still just slightly. “Then let the wind carry this,” he murmured, his voice pitched low enough to belong only to her. “I raced only because you were watching.” Kalithea’s lashes lowered, and her inked hand stilled as if caught mid-bloom. She made no reply, but her next written line was one of the most delicate he had ever seen.
Before it could be read, a rustle of silk and perfume marked the return of her friends, the familiar hush of their laughter tumbling like petals down the row of velvet-lined seats.
“Oh, do forgive us, Kalithea,” Edwina murmured with the soft command of a noblewoman long accustomed to courtly grace. She lowered herself beside her, smoothing the folds of her silk skirts with a flick of her gloved wrist. “We were detained by a sea of sighs and overexcited metaphors. It seems every nobleman in the east wing has written a verse about His Majesty’s lance.”
“Some more tragic than poetic,” added Mirielle with a gentle titter, her laughter like bells chiming over fine crystal. “Lady Anselme likened his stance to a swan poised on a frozen lake. Her steward nearly wept.”
“Three of them tripped trying to glimpse him as he passed,” Anise said, eyes gleaming beneath the brim of her feathered bonnet. “And one duchess—Heaven help her—claimed she saw the shape of a star in the dust he left behind.”
“Stars are very fashionable this season,” Cecily offered serenely. “But so is understatement. Which is why Kalithea’s silence remains… unmatched.” Her cheeks were warmed by the sun, yes—but perhaps also by something else. Still, she smiled faintly, then dipped her pen again and continued as if unbothered by their feathered awe.
Kalithea’s ink swirled once more across the parchment. “It is difficult to describe what is sacred without unraveling it,” she wrote. “But your words make it gentler.” Kalithea replied with grace and easy manners, her friends seeing her ring sparkle as joy blossomed in their chest.
“My dear, you must know how their whispers are frantic,” Edwina added with a wry arch of her brow. “Some believe you’re the Emperor’s consort, others say you’re a temporary muse. But all agree on one thing, you wear it like it was always yours.”
Cecily turned her gaze briefly to Jotaro, her voice velvet-smooth. “Your Majesty we know it is true, and our flower has told us… may we ask?”
Jotaro, unmoved but attentive, answered without delay. “You may.” His voice was low but unhurried. “The ring was passed only to those meant to keep it. I will not take it back.” Kalithea bowed her head faintly, her heart stirred, not from the words alone—but from how gently they were spoken.
Anise gave a sigh that melted into her seat. “Oh, it’s too lovely. And everyone’s pretending they aren’t impressed—but they are. Even Lady Pryssel tried to eavesdrop near the terrace fountain.”
“And failed,” Cecily added, “because she’s never had the patience for grace.”
Edwina gave Kalithea’s hand a gentle squeeze. “I know the day has been long. And the match after yours was—well, not as poetic. Would you care to come with us, dearest? To the tea salon in the capital? The light is beautiful there just before sundown, and they’ve brought out the lavender shortcakes.”
Anise leaned toward her like a breeze. “We could steal a moment for ourselves. No ceremony. Just honeyed tea and windows open to the garden.”
Kalithea looked toward them—grateful, drawn—and then, instinctively, toward him. Not for permission, not even for reassurance, but because he was there. And her heart had long since learned to seek his presence before anything else. Her booklet remained untouched, yet the words pooled across the page. “May I?” she asked simply. “Not for permission… but because I wish you to know.”
Jotaro’s gaze met hers—a breath longer than courtly etiquette allowed. His answer came low, measured—tempered by duty, but gentled by her. “The jousting will end within the hour,” he said, his voice like dusk drawn through velvet. A pause, meant only for her. “Dame Adeline and Dame Erin will accompany you.” Then, with the faintest tilt of his head, he addressed the others with something close to grace.
The girls stood at once, polished as ever, but quietly thrilled—as if the wind itself had parted for their passage. “Come,” Edwina said, slipping her arm around Kalithea’s, her smile warm and wry. “We’ll sit beneath the long windows and pretend we belong in a painting.”
“We’ll sip fruit water and recount old legends,” added Anise, “except this time, the heroine wears ivory and carries no sword—only stillness.”
“Or,” said Mirielle with a dreamy lift of her brow, “we’ll simply let the afternoon pass without catching it. Let it breathe.”
Cecily glanced back toward Jotaro, her eyes half-lidded, her tone soft. “He’ll know where to find you,” she said. “And we’ll keep your place just as you left it. Nothing missing. Nothing disturbed.”
Kalithea lingered, then turned and lowered into a reverent curtsy. It was not made of courtly instruction but something older—quieter. Admiration shaped in breath, and her quiet love spilling through her. He stepped forward as she rose, enough to reach her hand. His finger closed around it, and brought it to his lips. “Go,” he said, voice quiet now, only for her. “The rest of this day belongs to you.” Then, after a pause that did not break the moment, only deepened it, “I will remain until it ends.” Another beat, with a steady gaze,“And I will find you before the sun slips.”
At that, Dame Adeline and Dame Erin approached without sound, their cloaks stirring faintly as they took their places behind Kalithea’s friends, pillars of vigilance, their presence unspoken but certain. And for the first time since taking the field, Jotaro let his shoulders lower—not in defeat, but in quiet release. A sovereign left behind, not abandoned.
The cheers of the tilt resumed, louder and more hollow than before. Another victor raised a lance, oblivious to the truth, that the most meaningful conquest of the day had already turned its back and walked away—with soft steps, a bowed head, and the sun braided into her hair.
Chapter 44: My final goodbye
Chapter Text
It has been given on my heart to first acknowledge who I follow. I follow Jesus Christ; the living God. Though my work is given through and through, I have chosen to give it all. I thank you strangers and friends for your support and love, your grave, and words of encouragement, from watching my horrible writing skills, to learning more and more. Through this work is unfinished and unforgettable I will tell you all the spoilers to not leave you wondering what could have been.
Marina and the council plotted, Kalithea is pregnant and her and her mans keep it a
Secret. Drama happens with her, Marina and the council which nearly causes their life, and Jotaro basically shuts it down and executed them, happy ending. Though writing is my joy, it’s time for me to take my skills elsewhere. I thank you all, and God bless you. God bless you all! Your very best and final goodbye— Mitsukisenpai3 💕💕💕❤️
What is more, I consider everything a loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, for whose sake I have lost all things. I consider them garbage, that I may gain Christ— philllipians 3:8
Pages Navigation
evulea on Chapter 1 Wed 14 Dec 2022 09:04PM UTC
Comment Actions
Mitsukisenpai3 (orphan_account) on Chapter 1 Wed 14 Dec 2022 09:07PM UTC
Comment Actions
Naddek (Guest) on Chapter 1 Wed 14 Dec 2022 10:39PM UTC
Comment Actions
Mitsukisenpai3 (orphan_account) on Chapter 1 Wed 14 Dec 2022 11:07PM UTC
Comment Actions
Naddek (Guest) on Chapter 1 Sun 25 May 2025 06:31AM UTC
Comment Actions
Mitsukisenpai3 (orphan_account) on Chapter 1 Sun 25 May 2025 07:21AM UTC
Comment Actions
Kithae_thae on Chapter 1 Mon 20 Mar 2023 03:05PM UTC
Comment Actions
Mitsukisenpai3 (orphan_account) on Chapter 1 Wed 22 Mar 2023 02:03AM UTC
Comment Actions
Jeonnomin on Chapter 1 Fri 09 May 2025 03:32PM UTC
Comment Actions
Mitsukisenpai3 (orphan_account) on Chapter 1 Fri 09 May 2025 05:39PM UTC
Comment Actions
Mitsukisenpai3 (orphan_account) on Chapter 1 Fri 09 May 2025 05:48PM UTC
Comment Actions
(Previous comment deleted.)
Mitsukisenpai3 (orphan_account) on Chapter 1 Mon 12 May 2025 11:55PM UTC
Comment Actions
Mitsukisenpai3 (orphan_account) on Chapter 1 Mon 12 May 2025 11:56PM UTC
Comment Actions
(Previous comment deleted.)
Mitsukisenpai3 (orphan_account) on Chapter 1 Tue 13 May 2025 03:25AM UTC
Comment Actions
Naddek (Guest) on Chapter 3 Tue 17 Jan 2023 10:51PM UTC
Comment Actions
Mitsukisenpai3 (orphan_account) on Chapter 3 Wed 18 Jan 2023 04:05AM UTC
Comment Actions
My melody (Guest) on Chapter 3 Thu 19 Jan 2023 06:08AM UTC
Comment Actions
My melody (Guest) on Chapter 3 Thu 19 Jan 2023 05:44AM UTC
Comment Actions
My melody (Guest) on Chapter 3 Thu 19 Jan 2023 07:42AM UTC
Comment Actions
Mitsukisenpai3 (orphan_account) on Chapter 3 Thu 19 Jan 2023 11:45AM UTC
Comment Actions
My melody (Guest) on Chapter 3 Fri 20 Jan 2023 02:24AM UTC
Comment Actions
Mitsukisenpai3 (orphan_account) on Chapter 3 Fri 20 Jan 2023 03:34AM UTC
Comment Actions
evulea on Chapter 3 Fri 20 Jan 2023 12:37PM UTC
Comment Actions
Mitsukisenpai3 (orphan_account) on Chapter 3 Fri 20 Jan 2023 05:44PM UTC
Comment Actions
Torey (Guest) on Chapter 4 Tue 07 Feb 2023 12:04AM UTC
Comment Actions
Mitsukisenpai3 (orphan_account) on Chapter 4 Wed 08 Feb 2023 12:06AM UTC
Comment Actions
Naddek on Chapter 5 Tue 28 Feb 2023 11:29PM UTC
Comment Actions
Mitsukisenpai3 (orphan_account) on Chapter 5 Wed 01 Mar 2023 12:44AM UTC
Comment Actions
My melody (Guest) on Chapter 5 Wed 08 Mar 2023 04:34AM UTC
Comment Actions
Mitsukisenpai3 (orphan_account) on Chapter 5 Wed 08 Mar 2023 05:25PM UTC
Comment Actions
Naddek on Chapter 6 Sat 08 Apr 2023 10:16PM UTC
Comment Actions
Mitsukisenpai3 (orphan_account) on Chapter 6 Sun 09 Apr 2023 06:02PM UTC
Comment Actions
Miss_Morningstar on Chapter 7 Sat 06 May 2023 09:24PM UTC
Comment Actions
Mitsukisenpai3 (orphan_account) on Chapter 7 Sun 07 May 2023 02:17AM UTC
Comment Actions
Naddek on Chapter 7 Sun 14 May 2023 05:41AM UTC
Comment Actions
Mitsukisenpai3 (orphan_account) on Chapter 7 Sun 14 May 2023 10:03PM UTC
Comment Actions
Miss_Morningstar on Chapter 8 Tue 23 May 2023 10:32PM UTC
Comment Actions
Mitsukisenpai3 (orphan_account) on Chapter 8 Wed 24 May 2023 05:46PM UTC
Comment Actions
Naddek on Chapter 9 Wed 14 Jun 2023 09:40PM UTC
Comment Actions
Mitsukisenpai3 (orphan_account) on Chapter 9 Thu 22 Jun 2023 02:27AM UTC
Comment Actions
Miss_Morningstar on Chapter 9 Thu 15 Jun 2023 12:12AM UTC
Comment Actions
Mitsukisenpai3 (orphan_account) on Chapter 9 Thu 22 Jun 2023 02:27AM UTC
Comment Actions
meowtaro_kujo on Chapter 9 Tue 18 Jul 2023 02:53PM UTC
Comment Actions
Mitsukisenpai3 (orphan_account) on Chapter 9 Thu 27 Jul 2023 04:07AM UTC
Comment Actions
Naddek on Chapter 10 Fri 28 Jul 2023 08:41PM UTC
Comment Actions
Mitsukisenpai3 (orphan_account) on Chapter 10 Sat 05 Aug 2023 05:24AM UTC
Comment Actions
Pages Navigation